Page 49 of Wed to the Highlander
“Who doesn’t put much stock in Scottish lore?” she correctly concluded.
“I’m not sure I do either, but something is going on.”
Fiona’s troubled expression told Maggie she knew more.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Guests have reported worse than whispers and cold spots. Some hear a bairn crying. Others hear a woman sobbing. And some swear they’ve seen a lady in a long white gown wi’ flowing red hair wanderin’ the halls. The description fits Lady Anne.”
And the woman in the miniature she found in the north wing.
“How have I been here for weeks and not heard this?”
“The castle folk don’t speak of it for fear of invoking her spirit.”
“Yet you do,” Maggie pointed out.
A small smile graced her sister-in-law’s face as she offered an explanation. “I’m too busy during the day tae hear whisperin’, and at night I sleep like the dead.”
At Maggie’s sharp inhale, Fiona winced. “Aye, well… That was a poor choice of words.”
The drying linens flapped harder, the wind tugging at them with invisible fingers.
“Do you think it’s possible that a ghost walks these halls?” Maggie asked.
“Just because I’ve nae seen one does nae mean I dinna believe in unsettled spirits. And Anne would be that.” Fiona’s voice dropped. “You should make Duncan listen.”
“He thinks it’s the castle settling. But it isn’t just wind in the masonry and groaning floorboards. It’s voices and things moved when no one’s been in the room.” Maggie turned to face her head-on. “I keep thinking of Isla and her champion. They know the history. They could recreate Anne’s experiences.”
“To drive you mad?”
“Or back to England.” Maggie took a shaky breath. “Something else I find disturbing. Isla watches me.”
Fiona grunted. “I’d be more surprised if she didn’t. She watches everyone.”
“Duncan should send her away.”
“He can’t—not yet,” she stated grimly. “He’s tryin’ tae negotiate a truce between the clans. If the laird sends Isla back to her father now, the Camerons might claim insult. And then we’d have more than hauntings to deal wi’—we’d have blood.”
“So, I have to put up with her,” Maggie said, bitterness creeping in.
“We all do,” Fiona corrected gently. “To protect the peace.”
Maggie pressed a hand to her belly, the knots there now from uncertainty rather than sickness. “I need to decide what to do with what I know.”
Fiona held her gaze, steady and solemn. “Aye,” she murmured. “And right soon.”
Chapter 14
Morning sickness was a lie—the “morning” part, at least.
Maggie was sick at all hours: morning, midday, midnight. There wasn’t a time Duncan hadn’t seen her racing for the basin or bent double, clutching her belly. He’d sought remedies from anyone who might help. Several new mothers swore by ginger root. Mrs. Craig sprinkled peppermint leaves in her tea and sprinkled some beneath her pillow. The clan women—each with her own tale—offered advice with maddening confidence. Nothing worked.
He’d even summoned a physician from Inverness, who declared the pregnancy normal and prescribed rest, more food, and patience.
Patience.
Duncan half expected her to throw the chamber pot at him.
