Page 1 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Swaying unsteadily, Maggie stifled a hiccup as her brother marched past—her partner-in-mischief slung like a sack over his shoulder. Cici swept her hair aside and looked up, wide-eyed but unafraid. She had no need to be—they loved one another deeply, even if they were often at odds.

Behind them, her brother’s best friend for as long as she could remember looked on, far too amused for Maggie’s liking.

“I’m taking my wife to her room, Duncan.” Andrew didn’t break stride as he sailed through the door with a squirming Cici. “See that Maggie gets to hers and stays there. I’ll deal with her in the morning.”

The door slammed behind the duke and duchess, leaving Maggie alone with Lord Rothbury.

Snow clung to his dark coat, melting into shadowy patches, the scent of cold air clinging to him. He looked at her the way a general might study a captured battlefield—calculating, inevitable.

“I suppose you’ll be escorting me to my room now,” she said, smoothing her skirts and angling for the door.

“Aye,” he drawled, stepping neatly into her path. “But we’ve a few matters tae discuss first.”

His tone was mild, his Scots burr as rich as ever, green eyes glinting with mirth that made her bristle. The scene he’d just witnessed—two refined young ladies of the ton swilling brandy and smoking cigars in the middle of the afternoon—had clearly entertained him.

Indulging him, given their long-standing acquaintance (more so his friendship with Andrew, with her an occasional hanger-on), she folded her arms and cooed, “Do tell.”

He began to circle the desk, slow and deliberate, forcing her to keep him in sight. “First—your behavior.” He shook his head in mock regret. “No’ befitting of a well-bred lady.”

Her chin lifted. “You’re Andrew’s friend, not my brother. What gives you the right to lecture me?”

He didn’t answer, simply took another measured step closer. She backed up, keeping pace.

“Second, your da passed, and you needed time tae grieve, as I did for mine. I gave us both that. Then you entered the marriage mart. I indulged you, thought you should have your gowns, your balls, your fêtes like other young ladies of the ton.”

“How benevolent of you,” she remarked dryly.

He came closer still, backing her up nearly to the mantel. “I’m done standing by. It’s time we wed—”

Her laugh was sharp. “Is this your idea of a proposal? You’ve been breathing too much of that thin Highland air.”

“You’ll be breathing it soon enough,” he pressed, unruffled. “I turn thirty next year, and time is of the essence.”

Suspicion prickled. “Why is that, exactly?”

For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face—a flash of a man who’d made a tactical error.

“What are you up to, Duncan?”

When he remained silent, she considered the facts.

With his father’s passing, he’d inherited a vast estate, thousands of acres, hundreds of tenant farms, and was now the chieftain of the MacPherson clan.

Since then, he’d been in Scotland more than London, and the gossip sheets made free with tales of his moldering castle, problem-ridden lands, and dwindling coffers.

She put two and two together and got a six-foot-four, sixteen-and-a-half-stone rat.

“You need my dowry,” she accused.

“That isn’t the case, lass. Listen—”

“No. I’ve heard enough. You’re no different than the other social-climbing fortune hunters who’ve sniffed around me this Season.”

“Who’s been sniffin’?” he demanded.

“That doesn’t matter. They failed to land their heiress, and so will you.”

One dark brow arched. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she replied with exaggerated sweetness. “You can take your offensive proposal and stick it where the sun will never shine. Right up your Scottish—”

“Mind your tongue,” he reproved, cutting her off smoothly. “I’ll give you the world if I can, Maggie, but I’ll no’ tolerate disrespect from my wife.”

“Since I’d sooner wed the village dung collector than let you put your greedy Highland hands on me, respect—or lack thereof—won’t be a problem.”

She swept toward the door but made it no more than two steps before those same Highland hands closed around her waist and hauled her off her feet.

“What are you doing?” Maggie gasped, wriggling in his hold.

“What has been a long time coming,” he drawled, carrying her to the settee as though she weighed nothing.

She yelped as the room tipped, and she found herself facedown over his lap.

“You wouldn’t dare!” she sputtered.

“Watch me.” Her skirts and petticoats were flipped up, and before she could kick free, he tugged on the ribbon of her drawers and slid them to her knees, the cool air biting at newly bared skin.

“Stop this minute. If Andrew finds out you’ve taken liberties, he’ll force us to wed.”

“Will he now?” he asked, his tone making it clear he’d planned for precisely that.

His hand smoothed over her, warm and broad, before delivering a sharp smack that cracked through the paneled room.

“You…you…barbarian!” Maggie squealed in helpless outrage, heat blooming where he’d struck.

“Not something I haven’t heard before,” he murmured, two more stinging swats landing on each cheek.

“Stop this at once!” she ordered as if by some stretch of the imagination he might listen.

“I’ll stop when I’ve made my point.” Another swat then another, deliberate and slow. They continued while he lectured. “You’re mine, Maggie. Tae wed, tae protect, and to skelp should you get flown on brandy in the middle of the day. You just don’t ken it yet.”

“I ken that I will never marry an arrogant Scottish laird like you,” she declared, breathless and furious.

“We’ll see.” He punctuated his response with one last stinging swat before setting her on her feet.

She yanked her drawers into place and smoothed her skirts with shaking hands. “Prepare to be disappointed, my lord.”

He rose to his full, imposing height, looking far too satisfied. “Oh, lass…disappointment’s never been in my plans where you’re concerned.”

Before she could retort, he was on her—his arms wrapping around her with a possessive certainty, lips hot and firm as they claimed hers.

Maggie gasped, hands braced against his chest, mind a tangle of fury and disbelief. This was madness. He was arrogant, insufferable, impossible. And yet—his mouth was warm, demanding, and achingly familiar because she’d dreamed of this moment far longer than her pride would admit.

She should push him away. She meant to. But when his tongue swept inside and his body pressed to hers, something inside her unraveled.

Her resistance faltered then melted entirely.

Her arms crept up around his neck, fingers threading through the thick hair at his nape, anchoring herself to the man who had haunted her girlhood dreams and stolen into her grown-up longing.

Her world tilted, and she felt every inch of him, every heartbeat, every unspoken promise in the way he kissed her as if he already knew she was his.

And then, too soon, he tore his mouth from hers.

“I’ll do many things,” he said, voice rough with restraint, “but I will nae precipitate our wedding vows. It will happen soon, though, lass. So, prepare.”

“I won’t,” she insisted, breathless and dizzy. “But you should prepare to wait at the altar—for eternity.”

“After that kiss, do you really think the choice is up tae either of us?”

He set her away then took her hand. “Before this goes any further—and before the prime minister arrives—I’ll see you tae your room.”

“Prime minister?”

“Aye, which is why Andrew was so incensed tae find both of you blootered.”

“I’m completely sober. Perhaps I’ll stay and enlist Scorpion Stanley’s help getting you to see reason.”

He only grunted as he opened the door and guided her down the hall. “Since you won’t be seeing him to make your case, that’s doubtful.”

They passed through the foyer and had started up the stairs just as the doorbell rang.

“Ah! There he is now.” She yanked free of his hold and began to descend.

Duncan, however, took a page from her brother’s book and flipped her over his shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time, getting her out of sight before their important guest was admitted.

She pounded on his back with her fists until he clapped his big paw-like hand over her tender behind.

“Your tactics for persuasion are sadly lacking,” she fumed.

At her door—somehow knowing which it was—he let her slide down the length of his long body.

“I think they’re quite effective. You’re delivered tae your room and, come morning, we’ll be betrothed.”

“You must be deaf as well as daft. For the last time, I’ll never agree.”

He cupped her chin for a gentler kiss. “I’ll join you for breakfast, and we can work out the details of our nuptials.”

As he turned away, she stomped her foot. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”

“You’ll always have my ear, lass. When you say something worth listening to.

” At the top of the stairs, he shot her a devilish grin.

“Rest well, mo chridhe. ” His velvety Scot’s burr stirred her nearly as much as his kisses, before he disappeared down the stairs—leaving her fuming, aching, and far from restful.

Beyond frustrated, Maggie slammed her door and leaned back against it.

The sob she’d been holding in escaped. She’d dreamed for years that Duncan might return her feelings, and of one day becoming his wife.

Now the day was here, and it felt nothing like the dream.

She faced a marriage built not on love, but necessity, as a mere pawn in his political and financial game.

To her empty room, she avowed, “It will be a very cold day before I become your chess piece, Duncan MacPherson.”