Page 18 of Wed to the Highlander
“I’ll have your attention,” he said, his voice calm but clear, commanding without raising it.
The low murmur of conversation ceased.
“There’s little I need to say that hasn’t already been whispered across the glen, shouted down from the hills, or carried on gossiping winds from Edinburgh to Inverness.”
A few chuckles rumbled through the room.
He continued, glancing down at her with a gentle smile. “Please welcome the Countess of Rothbury. Daughter of the 7thDuke of Sommerville and sister to the new duke, but more importantly to all gathered here, the lady of High Glen, and Mistress of Castle MacPherson.”
Maggie blinked, startled, even as Duncan lifted his goblet higher.
“She’s traveled far, endured more than you know, and stands beside me now not just because of vows and contracts, but because she has the fire to match this land, and the strength to hold it. I ask you now to raise a glass…” He met her gaze, eyes gleaming. “Tae Lady Maggie,mo bhean.”
There was a pause—half a beat too long.
Then came the chorus.
“Tae the Lady!”
“Fàilte, a’ bhean uasal!”
When she looked up at him in question over the Gaelic, he bent slightly and interpreted, “Welcome, noble lady.”
Glasses were raised, mostly of whisky and ale, a few of wine, and the room rang with the sound of tankards clinking. There were wishes of good health and longevity, and a few hearty slaps on the table—but it was a measured reaction. That for a stranger, as they wondered if she would last.
Even Isla raised her dram glass, although she did it without smiling.
Only Agnes spoke her mind.
“Could the laird truly no’ find a Scot’s lass tae wed?” she muttered. “Best to keep to the glens rather than let sassenach blood seep in and rot through to the roots.”
The hush that followed was brief, but noticeable.
Maggie turned toward her, calm and poised. “But he did, madam.”
Agnes blinked. “Pardon?”
“I’m only half sassenach,” Maggie said lightly. “My mother is of Clan Hamilton. Lowland-born, but Scottish to the bone.”
The older woman looked down her pointed nose and said with a sniff, “Lowland is near enough to English for my tastes.”
“Not to my mother,” Maggie returned, her voice pleasant. “She swaddled me in Hamilton tartan and fed me bannocks and rumbledethumps before I could walk. My lullabies were Highland, even if my Gaelic is lacking.”
A ripple of laughter broke out. Fiona grinned. One of the older men offered a grunt of approval.
Duncan leaned close and spoke low. “You’ve just outdueled my father’s second wife, and we’ve not even had soup yet.”
“Do I get a prize?”
He brushed her hand beneath the table. “You’ve already got it,” he stated with a wink.
Maggie arched a brow, a retort forming. She could have challenged the arrogance—lord knew the man had it in spades—but she chose the high road. She turned to her wine instead, hiding a reluctant smile.
Dinner arrived, roasted venison with rosemary, oatcakes, turnips, and carrots spiced with something unfamiliar. Duncan poured her wine then refilled his own glass.
She sat straight-backed as a bowl of soup was placed in front of her.
“Cullen skink,” the serving girl said. “Smoked fish and potato.” She thanked them politely, unsure if her she could stomach the fare here.
