Page 13 of Wed to the Highlander
“And?”
“And they’ll watch you like hawks, wondering if you’re strong enough to thrive among wolves.”
She met his gaze squarely. “Am I?”
“You’re a MacPherson now. So, yes.”
She frowned, skeptical. “A new last name hardly factors.”
“You’ll fit in,” he said with quiet certainty.
“How long will that take, do you think? I won’t know a soul.”
“You’ll know the laird.” He leaned forward slightly. “It didn’t take him long to get to know you.”
Her stomach gave a traitorous flutter. She turned her head away to hide the color rising in her cheeks. “I may be small, but I’m not as fragile as I look.”
“I ken there’s an iron backbone behind all that silk,” he said without hesitation. “It will serve you well in the Highlands.”
She glanced at him, and something unspoken passed between them—warm and steady— the same as before. She longed for the easygoing manner they used to have. Could she trust it, though? And trust him?
She smoothed her gloves. The truth hovered at the back of her throat: that her heart had been his long before her name; that she had loved him, in her quiet way, for years.
The carriage hit a rut, jostling them both. She grabbed the window frame for balance. Duncan braced himself on the wall, but his eyes were on her, steady and watchful.
She shifted uncomfortably, and her gaze returned to the window. She wasn’t yet ready to bare her heart, if ever. He’d fooled her once, and she didn’t want to risk it again.
Outside, the trees began to thin. The distant rise of the Highlands broke through the fog like ancient sentinels. He pointed out Loch Ericht, glinting near the western ridge of MacPherson land, and the towering peaks of Ben Alder, where—more than a century ago—chieftain Cluny MacPherson hadhidden in a cave for nine years, evading the English after the Jacobite massacre at Culloden.
They were getting close.
Despite her Scottish roots, Maggie was a stranger in a strange land. And she wasn’t sure she was ready. Or, if she ever would be.
Chapter 4
Maggie leaned against the carriage window, watching pine forests crowd the hills, their branches tangled and dark. The peaks beyond looked ancient and jagged—less welcoming than the gentle slopes she’d passed south of the border.
The last leg of their journey wasn’t long; it only felt that way.
The coach jolted over ruts and uneven stone. The narrow, winding road to MacPherson Castle was no better.
Duncan’s voice cut through the quiet. “Around the next turn, you’ll see our home.”
More nervous than excited, Maggie craned her neck to see.
Then it came into view—a fortress carved from stone. Arched windows stared down like judgmental eyes, and a high tower jutted upward, its peak swallowed in the fog. The white water of the river alongside the road echoed off the rock, adding to the overwhelming sense that this place was built to endure—weather, war, and time.
The carriage came to a halt in a wide courtyard framed by high walls and slate roofs. More than a dozen onlookers flanked the stone steps. Servants and clansfolk alike had gathered to get a glimpse of the new Lady MacPherson.
Duncan stepped out first.
While she felt frazzled and rumpled, he was immaculate—an English lord incarnate. Slate-gray coat, tailored perfectly tohis broad shoulders and trim waist. Crisp white cravat. Gloves. Polished boots.
Everything about him said Mayfair, not moorland. Maggie had seen him in this mode before, the man who navigated ballrooms and could exchange witty barbs with matrons twice his age.
But as he helped her down, his hand tightened subtly around hers, his voice dropping.
“Prepare yourself. The Highlands speak differently.”
