Page 1 of Wed to the Highlander
Prologue
Swaying unsteadily, Maggie stifled a hiccup as her brother marched past—her partner-in-mischief slung like a sack over his shoulder. Cici swept her hair aside and looked up, wide-eyed but unafraid. She had no need to be—they loved one another deeply, even if they were often at odds.
Behind them, her brother’s best friend for as long as she could remember looked on, far too amused for Maggie’s liking.
“I’m taking my wife to her room, Duncan.” Andrew didn’t break stride as he sailed through the door with a squirming Cici. “See that Maggie gets to hers and stays there. I’ll deal with her in the morning.”
The door slammed behind the duke and duchess, leaving Maggie alone with Lord Rothbury.
Snow clung to his dark coat, melting into shadowy patches, the scent of cold air clinging to him. He looked at her the way a general might study a captured battlefield—calculating, inevitable.
“I suppose you’ll be escorting me to my room now,” she said, smoothing her skirts and angling for the door.
“Aye,” he drawled, stepping neatly into her path. “But we’ve a few matters tae discuss first.”
His tone was mild, his Scots burr as rich as ever, green eyes glinting with mirth that made her bristle. The scene he’d just witnessed—two refined young ladies of the ton swilling brandyand smoking cigars in the middle of the afternoon—had clearly entertained him.
Indulging him, given their long-standing acquaintance (more so his friendship with Andrew, with her an occasional hanger-on), she folded her arms and cooed, “Do tell.”
He began to circle the desk, slow and deliberate, forcing her to keep him in sight. “First—your behavior.” He shook his head in mock regret. “No’ befitting of a well-bred lady.”
Her chin lifted. “You’re Andrew’s friend, not my brother. What gives you the right to lecture me?”
He didn’t answer, simply took another measured step closer. She backed up, keeping pace.
“Second, your da passed, and you needed time tae grieve, as I did for mine. I gave us both that. Then you entered the marriage mart. I indulged you, thought you should have your gowns, your balls, your fêtes like other young ladies of the ton.”
“How benevolent of you,” she remarked dryly.
He came closer still, backing her up nearly to the mantel. “I’m done standing by. It’s time we wed—”
Her laugh was sharp. “Is this your idea of a proposal? You’ve been breathing too much of that thin Highland air.”
“You’ll be breathing it soon enough,” he pressed, unruffled. “I turn thirty next year, and time is of the essence.”
Suspicion prickled. “Why is that, exactly?”
For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face—a flash of a man who’d made a tactical error.
“What are you up to, Duncan?”
When he remained silent, she considered the facts. With his father’s passing, he’d inherited a vast estate, thousands of acres, hundreds of tenant farms, and was now the chieftain of the MacPherson clan. Since then, he’d been in Scotland more than London, and the gossip sheets made free with tales of his moldering castle, problem-ridden lands, and dwindling coffers.
She put two and two together and got a six-foot-four, sixteen-and-a-half-stone rat.
“You need my dowry,” she accused.
“That isn’t the case, lass. Listen—”
“No. I’ve heard enough. You’re no different than the other social-climbing fortune hunters who’ve sniffed around me this Season.”
“Who’s been sniffin’?” he demanded.
“That doesn’t matter. They failed to land their heiress, and so will you.”
One dark brow arched. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” she replied with exaggerated sweetness. “You can take your offensive proposal and stick it where the sun will never shine. Right up your Scottish—”
