Page 25 of Wed to the Highlander
He also introduced her to the people, stopping in Kilbrae, the village nearest the castle. Thirty slate-roofed cottages clustered between towering slopes and the winding burn that fed Loch Ailsley. As they crossed the bridge on the outskirts of town, the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer rang out from the forge. There was a weaver, a cooper, a baker, and a pair of elderly sisters who sold herbs and gossip—in equal measure. The shops were modest but tidy, their windows filled with hand-knit woolens, carved trinkets, and the occasional jar of wild raspberry jam.
Maggie could tell after only minutes that the villagers were proud and practical, shaped by generations of Highland resilience. They were deferential to Duncan MacPherson—not out of fear or obligation but respect. He was their laird, yes, but also the man who remembered names, paid his tradesmen promptly, and once carried a wounded shepherd down from the ridge himself. They greeted him with nods and warm smiles and welcomed Maggie with cautious curiosity. Children waved from garden gates, and elders offered blessings for their marriage in Gaelic. Kilbrae was steady and loyal, and it had long since accepted the castle as its own.
He led her to lochs so still, the surface gleamed like black glass, wooded ridges furred with moss, and a fishing spot he called “holy ground.”
“I’d hide out as a lad,” he told her, helping her down from the saddle. “When my da or the tutor had a mind to lecture mesenseless. When I was older, I came here to think, and, more recently, to remember who I was before the title.”
“I’ve been here a short time, but already I’ve seen how everyone clamors for a piece of you.”
“Aye. Unfortunately, as we approach spring planting and building when the ground thaws, it will get worse.”
She glanced back at Duncan’s fishing hole, where the trees reaching out over the water were just beginning to bud. It brought back memories of when she was a girl, and he’d taught her to fish when her brothers couldn’t be bothered.
“Hopefully, when the inheritance comes through, you won’t need to come here to think quite as often.”
“Aye,” he said, not sounding confident that it would happen. He glanced her way with a hint of a smile. “Or, when I do, hopefully less alone.”
The notion of them whiling a summer day away while wetting a line, perhaps napping on the grassy bank, sharing kisses, and more warmed her long after they left.
As the days lengthened, the morning frosts became less frequent, and signs of spring dotted the landscape, Maggie found herself drawn to the wild beauty beyond the castle walls. Duncan joined her when he could, revealing more secrets of High Glen—some playful, some solemn, all unforgettable.
One sunny and mild afternoon, he brought her to a narrow cleft of stone. They tied the horses at a stand of birch and followed a narrow path slick with reindeer moss and spring runoff. As they climbed, Duncan helping her over several rough places, the roar of water grew loud enough to drown speech.
A waterfall cascaded from a high ridge. It struck the rocks below with relentless force, sending up a fine mist that clung to their hair and clothing.
“The Falls of Sorrow.” Duncan had come to stand behind her, arms loosely around her waist, his lips near her ear to beheard above the thunder. “Lovers would come here tae meet in secret.”
Intrigued, she turned slightly so she could see him. “The legend sounds romantic, not so much the name. Why sorrow?”
“The water runs warmer when hearts are broken.”
Her brows rose. “That’s not possible.”
“I’m telling you the legend, lass,” he said, so close his breath brushed her cheek. “Long ago, one of the lovers died. The other returned every day, grieving at the edge of the pool. Her tears fell into the water—and it warmed from her sorrow.”
Maggie looked back at the falls, tempted to see for herself. She eyed the rocks to get down to the pool, wet from mist and a bit treacherous. As if he read her thoughts, Duncan’s arms tightened around her.
Wisely, she let the urge for dangerous exploration pass and leaned back against him, closing her eyes.
“I can feel a stillness beneath the thunder,” she murmured. “As if something ancient lingers.”
She felt the weight of his gaze.
“Some places hold stories long after the people are gone.”
The Highlands, she was learning, held stories in every stone. Some whispered through water; others lingered in ruins. At the week’s end, he led her to another relic of the past—the Kirk of St. Brigid.
Half swallowed by earth, its stone walls leaned under the weight of centuries, tangled in ivy and thorns. The arch above the crumbling steps still held; remnants of stained glass spilled shards of color across the moss.
“’Twas built by the Catholics long before the Reformation,” Duncan said quietly. “The MacPhersons sheltered a priest here for years.”
It was a violent time. “Was it desecrated?” she inquired.
“Aye. The altar was smashed. Sacred artwork destroyed. It’s been abandoned since but never forgotten.”
She moved closer, trailing her fingers over the ancient stone. “It reminds me of the ruins at Arendale. The villagers won’t go near it after dark. A bride and groom from feuding families married there, only to die in a fire minutes later. It’s said they haunt the place still.”
“’Tis a tragic tale.”
