Page 72 of Wed to the Highlander
“I’m going to wash,” she told Lillie. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“Yes, lady. Is the fire bad? Did they rescue the horses?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out after I refresh myself.”
In the dressing room, she filled a basin of warm water and quickly washed away the stickiness from nursing and the meadow then slipped into a clean gown, one of the MacPherson plaid dresses she’d taken to wearing lately, for warmth and clan pride.
She ran a brush through her hair and grabbed her woolen shawl, calling softly through the nursery door she’d left ajar. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
There was no answer. She paused and turned.
Something felt…off.
“Lillie,” she called louder.
Still no reply.
She moved quickly through the dressing room and pulled the door open wider. Maggie gasped. The girl was slumped in the corner, unmoving. Blood trickled down her cheek from her temple. The cradle next to her was empty.
“No,” Maggie whispered. “No—no—no!”
She ran to the corridor, shouting. “Someone help! Lillie is hurt, and Jamie is gone!”
Footsteps thundered. Voices called out.
Maggie was torn between helping Lillie or going after her son. But where and who had taken him?
A flicker of white at the end of the corridor caught her eye. Peering closer in the dim hall, she realized it was a woman in flowing skirts, red hair streaming behind her. Not solid. Not quite real.
She knew in a flash who it was—Anne MacPherson.
Maggie’sstomach dropped, knees threatening to buckle as the apparition raised one hand, beckoning her forward.
A whisper brushed her ear, though the ghostly figure’s lips never moved.This way.
The young mother who’d locked herself in the north wing, convinced her husband meant her harm. Whose child had vanished. Whose diary had revealed a mind unraveling—but whose grief had never been laid to rest.
The whisper came again, more urgent.Hurry. If you are to save him.
Maggie didn’t think; she ran.
The lady in white floated ahead, turning left then right, down the tapestry hall. Lightning slashed the sky as Maggie reached the end and the high windows. She looked down the long hallway to the carved door with the runes, now standing open. It led to the north wing. To the place where the air felt colder. Where whispers and weeping clung to the stone. Where Anne had plunged to her death.
Willing to face down ghostly apparitions and the devil himself to save her son, Maggie dashed forward. At the threshold, she skidded to a stop. The floor was wet, the boards cracked and warped, some missing. Had it deteriorated so much in a year, or was her memory mistaken?
Duncan’s warning echoed;The roof leaks like a sieve, rotting the floor.
A thunderous boom shook the stone walls. When it faded, she heard crying.
Jamie.
Only seven weeks old, but she knew her baby’s cry.
She inched forward, keeping close to the walls, praying they were sturdier. She passed the dusty drawing room, dark as the storm raged. At the end of the hall, she followed the cries upa narrow staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Her lungs burned. She couldn’t see—until lightning flashed.
This level was worse. Much of the floor had collapsed, leaving a gaping hole.
Isla stood at the edge. Her hair was wild, her dress soaked and plastered to her body, eyes shining with something beyond reason.
