Page 15 of Wed to the Highlander
He didn’t say it as a command, but it wasn’t a question either.
Maggie lifted her chin. “We will?”
“Aye.” He turned to meet her gaze. “This is your home now. And I am your husband.”
From the firmness of his comment, Maggie suspected that theforeverhe wouldn’t wait was up tonight.
He held the door for her, and she brushed by him. The laird’s chamber was roomy and stately, if not luxurious. A four-poster bed stood at its center, draped in a soft woolen plaid—scarlet threaded through with navy and gold.
“Red for courage,” Duncan explained, coming up beside her. “Blue for loyalty. And gold—well, that’s just to catch your eye.”
“Mmm,” she answered noncommittally as she wandered the room, taking in the thick rugs that softened the floor, a carved wardrobe as wide as it was tall, a writing desk that looked like it was as old as the castle itself, but sturdy and well preserved, and a massive stone hearth.
The outermost wall was entirely draped in a tapestry—a pastoral scene stitched in earth tones and faded crimson, beneath a summer sky.
“It’s beautiful.” She lightly ran her fingers over the stitching, admiring the skill involved in making something so large.
“And a bit old-fashioned,” Duncan said as he removed his gloves and coat. “But it holds back the draft better than stone.”
A table and chairs sat near the hearth, a carafe of red wine and two glasses already waiting. Books lined the shelves of a low cabinet beside the fireplace, and her trunks had been brought up and arranged near a screen in the corner.
To the right, a second door stood open, revealing a combination dressing and bathing room—simple but functional. A large copper tub had already been placed on the tiled floor near a warming brazier. Wall-mounted oil lamps bracketed a mirrored washstand. Beside that was another door to what she assumed was the privy closet.
It was not Mayfair. There were no crystal chandeliers, no silk wall hangings, or gold-leaf flourishes. But it was comfortable.
“A maid will be up soon to assist you.” Duncan opened one of the trunks and pulled something from it.
She nodded again, still absorbing the shift in setting, the sheer weight of being here, and of beingLady MacPherson.
“I’ll return in an hour to escort you to dinner.” He crossed the room and handed her a familiar box wrapped in satin ribbon. “I meant to give you this at the inn.”
She untied the ribbon and opened the lid to the French soaps the maid at the Edinburgh Inn had gushed over.The delicate scents filled the air like perfume.
“They’re lovely. Thank you.”
He lifted one—a pink rose carved into a delicate bloom—and brought it to his nose.
“I bought them at a Parisienne street market. The rose reminded me of you.”
Her breath hitched slightly. She remembered him traveling to Paris over a year ago. Had he known of the inheritance then? If not, the gift became more meaningful.
“The choice of scent is yours.” He laid the rose soap in her palm and curled her fingers around it. “But I’d enjoy having my rose-scented bride seated beside me at dinner tonight.”
Before she could respond, he tipped up her chin with one finger and kissed her.
It wasn’t a chaste peck. It was heat, tongue, and promise. She gripped the lapels of his waistcoat without thinking, matching his hunger with a soft sound of surrender. When he finally drew back, her lips tingled, and her knees quavered.
“An hour,” he repeated, his gaze lingering on her mouth.
Then he was gone.
She stared wistfully after him for a moment, wishing things could have begun for them differently. An old Scottish proverb her mother always quoted came to mind—if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she called.
A young woman entered, perhaps five or six years older than Maggie, with thick black hair braided neatly down her back and vivid blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face. Pretty, but not in the polished Mayfair way—hers was a natural kind of beauty born of fresh air and sunshine.
