Page 11 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

“Here?”

“Now,” he murmured, and kissed her again.

As he drew her down with him, the scent of spring curled around them—earthy, floral, the windswept scent of his skin.

She protested weakly against his mouth. “Someone might see.”

“No one’s out here.”

“But what if—”

His lips claimed hers, silencing the doubt. He unfastened buttons and ties as she tugged off his coat and made quick work of his linen shirt. Her hands glided up his bared chest while he traced her curves as the breeze swirled her loosened hair around her shoulders.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You overshadow the first blooms of spring.”

He laid her back in the wildflowers and kissed his way down the curve of her throat, the hollow of her collarbone, the rise of her breast.

Her breath hitched. “Duncan…”

“I’m here,” he whispered hoarsely as he sipped a nipple into his mouth.

She arched toward him, fingers trembling as they sank into his hair. “I want you, now.”

He pushed her skirt up as she frantically pulled on his belt.

“No need,” he said, as he rucked his kilt up and freed himself.

Their bodies met in a slow, aching rhythm—no rush, no urgency.

The grass cradled them, the sky above them watched without judgment, and Maggie felt herself unraveling, blooming, soaring.

He groaned her name, and she clung to him as the world narrowed to touch and breath and the sound of their pleasure.

Afterward, her breathing still rapid, Maggie lay back against the soft crush of fragrant grass and primrose, her hair tangled with petals, a smile on her lips. Duncan propped himself on one elbow beside her, one knee cocked skyward, his eyes gleaming with mischief and a good deal of satisfaction.

“That kilt might not be proper,” she murmured, tracing a lazy finger along his bare thigh, “but I have to admit—it’s mighty convenient on an afternoon picnic.”

Duncan grinned, unabashed. “At any time, lass. Why do ya think men insist women wear skirts?”

She snorted, half scandalized, half delighted. “You’re irredeemable. A shameless Highlander with no drawers to speak of.”

“Untrue,” he said, looking around, “I’ve left my linen breeks around here somewhere.”

She laughed, delighted.

He leaned down for another kiss, stopping a breath away. “But they’re no’ half as shameless, or excitin’, as tumbling you in a field of wildflowers.”

His lips brushed hers, voice thick with emotion. “I love you, Maggie. And I always will.”

She stared up at him, lips trembling. She’d dreamed of hearing those words from him, and now she dared to believe. Primrose and narcissus would remind her of this moment.

“Oh, Duncan, I—”

Loud squawking and a sudden flurry of wings stopped her words as at least a dozen blackbirds burst from a nearby grove of aspen. Duncan stood, scanning the meadow and the tree line beyond.

“What is it?” Maggie asked, tugging her navy riding habit back into place.

“Nothing I can see.”

Her heart thudded. “What if someone was watching?”

Duncan’s jaw clenched. “No one has business out here.”

He finished dressing quickly and helped her do the same. As they mounted up, he gave the woods one final look, his expression unreadable.

Maggie glared at the grove, too, as annoyed as she was disappointed. She would have declared her love as he did with her if the screeching birds—or whatever had disturbed them—hadn’t stolen her moment and ruined her near perfect day.

***

The ride back was quiet—not strained but reflective. The sky had shifted to silver behind the hills; darker clouds gathering over the distant peaks. A cool wind swept down the glen, carrying the same sweetness as the flowers she held in her lap.

When they reached the courtyard, Duncan dismounted and came around to help her down.

“You haven’t said anything since we left the clearing,” he said as her boots touched the stone.

She looked up. “Neither have you. I’m unable to shake the feeling we were intruded upon.”

“It was likely a squirrel, but it startled you.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “I did nae like that.”

Despite her unease, his touch warmed her, causing a fluttering low in her belly. She nuzzled her face into his hand as she leaned in to him.

Thunder rolled in the distance.

“We should get inside.” He tossed the reins to a waiting stable hand and whisked her inside as the first drops of rain fell.

Staff were lighting sconces and building up the fire in the great hall when they rushed inside in a rush of blowing wind, already damp and chilled.

Her grip on the wildflowers she still held tightened as they climbed the stairs to their chamber.

Duncan pushed the door open and let her enter first. Their room was cold, the fire nearly out, and she shivered.

He mistook it for something else. “No one could have followed us that far. Not without my knowing.”

“I’m chilled. The weather changed so quickly.”

“Aye. It’s still March.” He crossed to the hearth and stirred the embers, adding peat and logs. His movements were jerky instead of fluid and graceful, speaking to his agitation.

“I’m being foolish—and paranoid.”

He replaced the poker and returned to her, cupping her cheek. “You’re not foolish, lass. It was a private moment worth guarding. We’ll be more careful next time.”

She knew he meant it to reassure, but the words felt hollow. More careful. As if joy and passion required permission now.

When she shivered again, he pulled her damp cloak from her shoulders and swept a plaid from the bed. Once he had her bundled in it, he offered, “A wee dram of whiskey? It will warm your blood.”

“No, thank you. The fire and the plaid have me warm enough.”

While he poured himself a whiskey, she crossed to the window and looked out. The dark sky reflected in the glass like an omen. She could still feel the grass beneath her back, the sun on her face…and the chill that followed when the birds had taken flight.

“I’ve never felt it before,” she murmured.

Duncan looked up. “Felt what?”

She turned toward him, brow furrowed. “That moment. When everything feels perfect. And then—” She hesitated. “Intrusive eyes.”

He set the glass on the mantel and gathered her in his arms, plaid and all, resting his chin atop her head. “Maybe the hills just wanted a peek,” he said, gently teasing. “We did make a rather indecent display.”

That earned a laugh, small and startled. She leaned her cheek against his chest. He felt solid and safe, and she snuggled closer.

“Nothing will touch you here. Not now. Not ever,” he vowed.

She wished she could believe that.

“We should go down for supper. If I’m late, they hold it for me. And you don’t want to be around Lachlan, or any of the men, when their dinner is delayed.”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“You can have a glass of wine, which might trigger your appetite, or, at the very least, keep your husband company.”

“All right, but let me fix my hair first. When it gets damp, the curl is unmanageable.”

He wound a finger in a springy curl. “I like it this way.”

“You’re besotted after an afternoon of…amorous congress…in a field wearing a kilt.”

His green eyes twinkled as he grinned. “Guilty as charged.”

She ran a brush through her hair, though the mirror insisted it made the curls worse, then took his hand and went down to supper—zero appetite.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the laird’s plans for a quiet dinner went awry.

A message arrived from a tenant whose dispute with his neighbor had escalated beyond heated words. Lachlan went with him, the two of them disappearing into the cold Highland night.

Maggie dined with Fiona and a handful of the household, their conversation pleasant enough, though her thoughts kept drifting to where Duncan might be and when he’d return. By the time she excused herself to their chamber, the castle was unnervingly quiet.

The clock on the mantel struck eleven. She stood at the window in her nightgown and robe, arms folded, watching the mist roll down from the hills. The hearth had burned low, the bed behind her cold and far too large.

She turned from the window, snuffed a candle, and reached for the poker—then froze.

Over the barest crackle of ash, she heard a creak.

She spun, the heavy iron rod falling to the floor in a clatter.

The carved oak wardrobe stood with its left door wider than she remembered.

Candle in hand, she stepped closer, the flame shivering as a faint draft curled from inside. “Hello?” she whispered.

Nothing.

She yanked the door open and stepped back, heart pounding. Only folded shirts, tartan wraps, and Duncan’s boots.

Except—the air prickled against her skin, cold and wrong, as if she’d stepped into a patch of fog. The candle’s flame leaned sharply, as though pulled by an unseen breath.

Whispers stirred—so faint they might have been memory, so close they brushed the back of her neck.

Maggie spun again, facing the empty room.

“This isn’t happening,” she muttered.

She’d read tales of spirits slipping through cracks in the world—doors left ajar, windows unlatched, shadows, and whispers.

But that was fiction. Perhaps this had to do with the legends she’d heard in the past week, visiting the waterfall and the ruins, and the overall mystery of the Highlands.

Besides, this was Duncan’s room. Their room. Surely, no ghost would dare.

Still, she wasn’t about to sleep with the wardrobe doors open. She slammed them both using the sash of her robe to keep them shut, awkwardly, one-handed, the other still clutching the candle.

With the doors secured, she stepped back and exhaled slowly—already feeling foolish.

A subtle click and slow creak made her scream a moment later.

“Maggie?” Duncan said from the doorway, looking wind-chilled and tired and, now, alarmed. His gaze darted around the room searching out a threat. “What is it?”

“I thought… I heard…” She looked back at the wardrobe, doors still closed tight. “I must have been mistaken,” she concluded, her voice thin and shaky.

He crossed the room in three strides, pulling her close. She pressed her face to his coat, fists curling into his coat, breathing leather and the sharp chill of the outdoors.

“I’m here, lass. At night, the noises in this ancient place can taunt the staunchest of souls.”

“That must be it.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Tae bed with you. I’ll wash up and join you in a moment.”

She nodded and turned to do just that but froze in her tracks. The sash tie lay on the floor, and the left-hand door stood ajar again. She hadn’t imagined that a possibility after tying them shut.

She started to say something, but Duncan jerked both doors open and hung his coat on a hook. Nothing amiss. Everything normal.

At the bed, she slipped out of her robe. When she watched it slither to the floor, the fabric slick and shiny, the same as the sash, she huffed a laugh at her overactive imagination.

She waited in bed while Duncan washed up.

Instead of horses, he smelled of soap when he slid in beside her.

In seconds, it seemed, his deep and even breathing stirred her hair and she knew that he slept—snuggled up to her back, his palm cupping her breast, his favorite sleeping position.

Maggie’s hand found his, fingers curling, holding on tight, grounding herself in something real.

But the room felt charged, and sleep would not come easily.