Page 53 of Wed to the Highlander
Now, here she was, escaping what was supposed to be her home, a haven, a refuge, not whispers, shadows, and fear. Curled against his side was the fading echo of the woman who once stood toe-to-toe with him, eyes blazing, and called him a turd—in terms far more eloquent. A lady who had once walked into White’s demanding whiskey with the poise and boldness of a queen.
As if sensing his thoughts were of her, she sighed and nestled closer. His gentle kiss to the top of her head settled her again.
By early evening, they would be in London. Tomorrow, her family would descend. She’d have her mother and Cici fussing over her, which he welcomed, and she would protest. Beingsurrounded by familiarity, by warmth and light, would perhaps bring his fiery lass back to herself.
God, he hoped so.
If it took a dozen physicians and a house full of Sommervilles, he would make it happen.
His beloved Highlands had already claimed so much.He’d be damned if it claimed the woman he loved—or the spark of life growing inside her—too.
Chapter 16
Duncan’s townhouse in Mayfair wasn’t anything like a centuries-old castle and didn’t rise to the elegance of Sommerville House. It was comfortable, stylish, and blessedly peaceful, tucked discreetly along a quiet street several blocks from bustling Grosvenor Square. Through the open window, the mild spring breeze carried the scent of fresh bread from the corner bakery and cherry blossoms in full bloom.
Inside, polished mahogany gleamed, thick carpets muffled footsteps, and tall windows let in the sun instead of the gloom she’d left behind in High Glen. Maggie sat curled on a velvet chaise in the drawing room, wrapped in one of Duncan’s plaids, the faint scent of him—cedar and sandalwood—woven into the wool.
That morning, Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper, had pressed a breakfast tray on her: a silver pot of tea and a currant scone still warm from the oven. Maggie had nibbled politely, her appetite still not what it once was, but at least she kept down what she ate.
The bell rang well before the calling hour, its chime echoing through the quiet townhouse. A moment later, familiar voices spilled into the entry, bright with anticipation.
Cici entered first, eyes alight with joy—until she saw her, and her smile faltered. Unlike Maggie, pregnancy suited her; hercheeks were flushed with health, her figure rounded in a way that made her look vibrant.
She was struck by the irony, remembering the night at the opera when a push on the stairs had stolen Cici’s first child. Now, here she stood, carrying again, strong and sure on her feet—while Maggie felt the burden of every step. They were only weeks apart in their confinements, yet her own reflection showed hollows where her sister-in-law glowed.
Behind her came their mother, the Dowager Duchess, whose posture stiffened at the sight of her. Andrew lingered in the doorway, expression unreadable, though the set of his jaw betrayed him.
Maggie pushed herself upright, determined to greet them properly, but the moment she stood, the room tipped sideways. She caught the edge of the chaise with one hand, the other pressing to her brow.
“Oh, Maggie,” Cici breathed, hurrying forward. Her arms gently enfolded her, careful not to squeeze too tightly, like she was china rather than flesh and bone. “You’re as pale as the curtains.”
“I’m all right,” she replied with a practiced smile, willing her knees to hold. “Truly. Just tired. The Highlands can be…taxing.”
Her mother moved closer, her legendary composure cracking, eyes worried. “You’ve lost so much weight. Have you been ill?”
“Not ill, per se,” Maggie replied, one hand drifting protectively to her abdomen. “Duncan and I are expecting.”
Gasps broke the air—soft, joyous, overlapping.
Cici laughed through a sob and hugged her again. Then she relinquished her position to Maggie’s mother, who framed her face with gentle hands, searching her expression for signs of health, of hope.
“Oh, my darling girl,” Duchess Catherine whispered. “A baby. You must take every care.”
“I’m trying,” Maggie murmured. “But these early weeks haven’t been easy.”
“Where is he?” Andrew’swords landed with the force of a verdict. “Where is your husband?”
“I’m here,” Duncan said from behind him.
Before Maggie could speak or explain about what she knew was her shocking appearance, Andrew seized his arm, steering him toward the corridor with a grip that brooked no refusal.
“We need to talk. Now.”
“Andrew,” Cici called after them, but the door to Duncan’s study had already shut with a bang.
***
Andrew didn’t waste time. After the windowpanes on the opposite wall ceased rattling, he turned on Duncan, his words measured, but the fury beneath them was unmistakable. “What the hell happened to her?”
