Page 35 of Wed to the Highlander
“My regrets,mo bhean,” Duncan murmured, distractedly. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
She looked after him, concerned as he followed the men out.
Maggie didn’t see him again until late that night.
In the hours between, she caught glimpses from a distance. At the well in the courtyard with Lachlan, his sleeves rolled and shirt open at the throat, chest damp with sweat from his labor. Stacking cut wood against the stable wall near as high as the roof. And later, speaking with a tenant in the shadow of the gatehouse, his expression unreadable. But she knew the overheard words at breakfast had unsettled him.
He worked as though sheer effort could quell the doubt, driving himself from one task to the next, but there was always another left to tend. She could not think what more he could do.He seemed to be everything to everyone—mediator, provider, protector—except perhaps to her, who must make do with the scraps of time that remained.
Those scraps were usually in the evenings, when he came to her, often doing more than holding her before sleep claimed him.
The rest of the hours were hers to fill as she could. And in them, she missed him.
Chapter 10
She set the needle and thread down, perhaps for the last time ever, and rose. “Excuse me, I need some fresh air,” she said to the other women.
They nodded, offering sympathetic smiles as she slipped from the room.
After a dozen finger pricks and a cloth speckled with tiny bloodstains, her fingers throbbed. Her embroidery was fit only for the rubbish bin. Her mother had tried for years to improve her skill with the needle and failed—why had she imagined today would be different?
Did she want it to be? Truly? It was mind-numbingly boring, but Duncan was off tending laird’s business, and she needed something to occupy her time.
Admittedly, she was homesick. She missed the rhythm of London life—the lectures, the laughter, the sense of belonging. Here, she was adrift. Mostly, she missed Cici, her mother, and Andrew.
She headed for the front door. A walk would do her good.
Since spring had arrived and Duncan’s duties had replaced the idyllic early days of their marriage, she’d spent many afternoons wandering the grounds, often returning to the quiet fishing spot. If she were home, she’d be browsing the newest selections at Hatchards with Cici or preparing for a soirée. Here, there were none of those things.
The sound of children’s laughter drew her toward the side yard of the castle, where grass gave way to packed earth and loose stone. Rounding the corner, she paused.
Eight children—boys and girls ranging from seven to twelve—were playing a fast-paced game with sticks and a leather ball. Dust kicked up around their feet, and their shouts echoed off the stone walls.
During a lull in the action, a little girl noticed her and walked over. She introduced herself as Iona and begged her to join them. Before she knew it, they’d taught her the rules of shinty.
Since then, the afternoon had passed in a blur of sunshine and laughter.
Her dress was dirty. She’d lost half her pins, her hair falling in front of her face, and her braid loose down her back. But for the first time in days, she hadn’t felt lonely or thought about cold spots, mournful crying, and whispering in corridors.
Her braid whipped her in the face as she twisted and ducked out of the way of a leather ball hit hard her way.
Iona exclaimed with a lopsided grin, “You’re supposed to hit it, mistress. Not duck it!”
“It was coming at my head!” Maggie protested, breathless with laughter. “But I’ll do better next time.”
Instead of laughter and good-natured teasing, she heard only silence around her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked when she saw the other children’s dour expression.
“The game is over,” one boy said.
“Why? We’ve got at least an hour until supper.”
“No ball,” one grumbled.
“That was our last,” said another.
That was a shame because the leather ball was badly scratched and sadly misshapen. Still, she glanced around for it. “Where did it go?”
