Page 12 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

The light slanting through the narrow windows the next morning was bright and cheerful rather than gray with gloom. Nearby, birdsong echoed from across the moor. Trying to match their enthusiasm, she rose, determined to face the day with optimism.

Duncan had risen early. He’d kissed her temple and told her to rest when she stirred.

Surprisingly, she’d fallen back to sleep.

The few hours she’d had before that would have to suffice because she had things to do today, including searching out Fiona to help in her search for a lady’s maid.

And she wasn’t entirely at ease with the furniture in their chamber.

“Speaking of which…”

She crossed to the wardrobe and threw both doors open, leaving them that way.

As she searched through her stack of day dresses, she heard a thud outside in the corridor.

Hoping it was a housemaid who could help her draw a bath, since she had yet to figure out how the magical cistern worked, she wrapped a soft woolen shawl around her shoulders and stepped into the hall.

She looked both ways but saw nothing and no one.

There were no bellpulls in the castle. It was either hail a passing maid, or get dressed and go downstairs to find one. But she’d only have to undress again for a bath and then do it over again.

Despite the icy stone beneath her bare feet, she followed another thud and voices to the right. She turned down an offshoot hallway, calling, “Hello?” but received no answer.

Paintings and tapestries lined the walls—the latter faded but rich—all depicting MacPhersons through the centuries.

Duncan hadn’t shown her this on the tour.

For certain, she would have remembered because many of the big, strong MacPherson men resembled her husband.

She trailed her fingers along the frayed edge of a floor-to-ceiling depiction of a stag crowned in laurels.

In her experience—limited to books and art exhibits—the stag symbolized nobility or authority, the laurels a mark of triumph in battle or some ancient contest. She stepped back for a better view, and that’s when she saw it: crimson thread stitched along the antlers, like droplets of blood.

Worse, its eyes were stitched with silver that reflected the light, making it seem as if they followed her.

Tapestries of old often glorified turning points—victory over a sworn enemy, the rise to power. With the stag straddling the divide between a battlefield of fallen men and a castle celebration, this had been a brutal victory.

Her lips twisted in a grimace.

Why would anyone hang something so unsettling in their home? This would give her nightmares.

She walked past it quickly. “No wonder he didn’t show it to me.”

Toward the end of the hall, she stopped short as a whisper brushed the air. Not wind and not exactly voice.

She looked behind her and all around, turning full circle. Nothing, and no one was there.

Chalking it up to a draft, she walked to the windows at the end of the hall. No sunlight—only thick gray fog. From here, she could retrace her steps, descend the stone staircase, or follow another corridor stretching off to the left.

Not yet ready to retreat, she chose the corridor.

It was longer than the main hall below, and colder.

At the far end stood a carved oak door, its surface etched with symbols.

When she reached it, she realized they were runes.

Unfortunately, she knew less about rune reading than she did about embroidery—or the blood-soaked traditions behind Scottish tapestries.

Maggie tried the latch. The door swung inward on an overwhelming wave of lavender.

Inside was a short hallway, and, immediately to the right, an open door.

She peeked inside and saw what seemed to be a forgotten sitting room, cobwebbed yet curiously intact.

A cracked mirror hung on the wall, and a cold grate sat beneath the dust-coated mantel.

On it sat a miniature portrait of a willowy young woman with long, wavy red hair, holding a bundle of white heather tied with twine—identical to her charm.

The sight of it sent a shiver down her spine.

She turned to go, her skirts stirring the dust, and sneezed twice.

In the mirror, something flickered—a figure in white.

Whirling, her heart pounding, she saw only the empty, still room.

Another sneeze burst free. Maggie sniffed, a hand to her nose. “I can’t stay here,” she muttered. “Nor do I want to.”

She moved quickly to the door, but as she reached it, the flicker of white returned. Her own reflection distorted and ghostly in the cracked looking glass.

A shaky chuckle slipped out, more nerves than humor. “Get hold of yourself, Maggie.”

Still, when she stepped into the hallway, the whispering rose again. Faint. Fragmented. Rustling, like pages in a book.

She hurried out, closing the door behind her, and rushed back the way that she came.

She was practically running when she turned the corner into the portrait hallway.

With a thud and an oomph as the breath left her lungs, she collided with a tall, broad, fast-moving form.

She couldn’t scream because she had no air, the impact as hard as hitting a brick wall.

“Maggie!” Duncan’s deep voice exclaimed as he caught her by the arms to keep her from falling back. “Are you all right, lass?”

“I’m fine. You…just knocked the wind…out of me a bit.”

He looked behind her. “What were you doing in this hallway?”

“The door was open, and I thought I smelled lavender.” It was true, if not precisely honest.

“Wait here,” he ordered, pausing long enough for her to nod in understanding.

He strode to the end and tried the handle. Firmly locked, it didn’t budge.

“But I was just in there,” she insisted.

“You shouldn’t be anywhere near here,” he said, quickly returning to her side. “That is the entrance to the north wing. It’s shuttered for a reason. I told you of the danger.”

Her skin still prickled as she looked around, squinting as sunlight glared in through the windows. Could the fog have suddenly lifted, and the door locked on its own, or was she losing her mind?

To Duncan, she said only, “I must have gotten turned around.”

“’Tis easy to do.” He looked at her bare feet. “I came to find you to break our fast before I have to leave for Inverness-shire.” He frowned suddenly. “Where are your slippers? You’re shivering.”

She was, but it wasn’t from the cold.

He took her arm. “Come, I’ll take you back to our room.”

As he led her away, she looked back, heart still racing. Whatever she’d seen—or imagined—would have to wait. Duncan was leaving again, and she wanted to soak up his calm, reassuring presence while she still could.