Page 13 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

That very strange evening, and the even stranger morning that followed, signaled the end of their honeymoon. The reality of castle life—and of being married to a busy Highland laird—had begun to set in.

Duncan rose early each morning, the space beside her often empty when she woke.

Sometimes she roused as his boots thudded across the floor before the sun had cleared the ridge, catching only the faintest whiff of soap and leather as he shrugged into his coat and went down to meet the day’s problems.

There were many. A tainted-grain silo had spoiled feed for the cattle on the lower pastures.

The Camerons were pressing their advantage again, arguing over grazing rights along the western ridge.

A retaining wall had given way after all the rain, sending mud and water across the main road and injuring a passing farmer hauling feed in a donkey cart.

By the time Duncan returned each night, he was bone-tired, his broad shoulders sagging as he shed his coat. Maggie often woke to find him asleep in the chair by the hearth, boots still on, the scent of smoke clinging to his hair.

Left to her own devices, she tried to occupy herself by helping the women of the castle.

They were kindly accepting of her efforts, if not entirely trusting.

Fiona eased the way where she could—making introductions with a tone that implied the new mistress’ presence was both expected and welcome, translating the thicker brogues when she struggled to follow, redirecting muttered commentary with a well-placed question or a brisk change of subject.

Unfortunately, her ally couldn’t fix all of her challenges. Weaving proved an unmitigated disaster. The loom seemed to sense her novice hands and resented the intrusion. The threads tangled no matter how carefully she followed instructions.

“The lass weaves like she’s tying knots for a ship’s anchor,” one of the older women muttered.

Fiona’s voice was soft but firm. “She’s learning, same as any of us did.” As Isla and Agnes passed through, she added, just loud enough to carry, “And she’s here, tryin’ tae help, which is more than can be said for others.”

The women murmured their agreement, effectively muzzling her critic.

Maggie caught her eye and offered a subtle smile of thanks. Fiona returned it with the faintest nod, as if to say, you’re not alone here .

Soap-making went better, at least until a cauldron boiled over, filling the air with a heady cloud of steam.

By the end of the morning, she had two stacks of cakes for her efforts, one of pale pink with a subtle scent of roses, the other a tan that smelled of sandalwood for Duncan.

Proudly, she carried them back to their chamber as though they were precious treasures, though the day’s work had left her flushed, hair escaping in frizzed curls around her face.

The castle was never quiet. Messengers arrived daily.

Merchants passed through with their wares.

Tenant farmers came with grievances and requests for the laird.

A dozen staff moved through the halls. Not crisply liveried with polished credentials from Edinburgh but locals.

Maggie could tell by the calluses on their hands and the way their accents slipped when they thought no one was listening.

Duncan could have managed with fewer, but he kept them on, even in lean seasons because they depended on the castle for their livelihood.

The same was true of his kin. His brother’s family, several cousins and uncles, their wives and children filled the common areas with chatter and footsteps. The castle breathed with life, its corridors never truly still.

And yet, without Duncan, the hush deepened. The air felt colder. The laughter faded faster. And Maggie, though surrounded by people, felt alone.

He was the only one she actually knew, so she felt alone in a crowd, and the hush in the corridors was heavier, the air colder.

Now and then, when she thought herself alone, a whisper threaded through the silence—too faint to make out, too deliberate to be dismissed as wind.

The sound seemed to follow her into rooms she hadn’t entered before, curling just at the edge of hearing.

One afternoon, while putting clean laundry away in the dreaded wardrobe, which in the light of day looked completely harmless, she caught the faint scrape of footsteps in the hallway. She opened the door to find nothing but the long runner stretching into the shadows.

She told herself she was imagining it and sang loudly, a silly ditty she’d learned as a child, until she finished her task.

Duncan, for his part, tried to make amends for the forced distance between them.

He reached across the table, brushing his fingers lightly over hers.

“We’ll go to Edinburgh next week,” he promised, on a rare evening when he joined her for supper.

“There’s business I must see to in the city.

We’ll stay at an inn I know, visit the shops, perhaps even go to the theater. ”

Her heart leapt. The idea of the bustling city after weeks of damp stone and wary glances was a tonic. She began to plan what she might pack.

On the day of their planned departure, another disaster occurred in a long string of them plaguing the clan. This one impacted everyone in the High Glen—a peat fire, the source of their heating in the dead of winter.

By the time word reached the castle, smoke was curling above the storage yard. The men sprinted toward the blaze. Maggie was prepared to help, too, but Duncan ordered her to stay behind.

“I can lift a bucket of water,” she protested.

“Dinna argue wi’ me, woman.” His voice roughened, and his burr thickened with urgency. “Stay here, where ye’re safe and I’ve nae cause tae worry.”

She watched from the top of the hill with the other women— those too old, too frail, or in the family way—as the laird barked orders, forming a bucket line to douse the flames before they spread.

Fiona and several of the women she’d worked alongside while making soap and a mess of a loom worked shoulder to shoulder with their menfolk.

The fire was contained, but half the stack was lost, and the air carried the tang of scorched earth.

When he finally returned, it was long past dark.

Maggie woke to the sound of the door latch, the flicker of lamplight spilling across the chamber.

He stood there, hair damp with sweat, streaks of soot marking his jaw.

The acrid scent of smoke and burning peat clung to him like another layer of clothing.

“You should be asleep,” he said quietly, though there was a faint smile in his eyes.

“I could say the same for you. You look dead on your feet.” She slipped from the bed, took his coat from his shoulders, then pushed him gently but insistently toward a chair.

His boots, stiff with ash, the soles damp from the yard, were more of a challenge, but she managed without getting filthy, too.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Edinburgh is delayed.”

She set the boots by the hearth to dry. “Don’t apologize. You’re needed here.” Then, tilting her head, she asked, “Is it always this chaotic, or are we simply cursed with bad luck?”

“I dinna believe in luck—good or ill.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but something flickered behind his eyes.

“What do you believe?”

“That sometimes, mishaps are no’ mishaps.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “The Camerons could be keeping me occupied so they can keep grazing on our land without challenge. It’s not unlike them to try.”

Her brows drew together. “They’d actually start fires and starve the cattle over a dispute?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them. I’ll speak wi’ Lachlan in the morning. Double the watch.”

She combed his hair, long past due for a trim, out of his eyes. “Let’s hope this was the last of it.”

Duncan caught her hand, bringing it to his lips, kissing the back of it gently. “Aye,” he agreed, but the weighty tenor of his voice told her he wasn’t counting on hope alone.

He heaved a sigh and pushed to his feet. “I’m for bed before I canna get there under my own power.”

“You can’t come to bed that way!”

His brows rose. “What way?”

“Reeking of smoke and peat.” She wrinkled her nose. “You smell like a burnt pig sty.”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “Then, I suppose I’ll need to wash.”

“I suppose you will.”

He grabbed her hand. “Since I’m exhausted, you get to help.”

Wanting him aroma free, Maggie didn’t argue.

The water in the copper tub was tepid from her use.

He said it was fine. She fed fresh coals to the brazier to chase off the lingering chill and added more water.

As steam rose in the air, she was heartily glad for two things: the cistern heating system and that her bath earlier hadn’t depleted the water.

He stripped off his smoke-stained shirt and fitted trousers and lowered himself into the water with a groan that was half relief, half exhaustion.

Maggie knelt beside the tub, wringing out a cloth. “Better?”

“Aye.” He leaned back, eyes closing as she ran the cloth over his shoulders and down his arms. The soot streaked away, revealing skin flushed from the heat.

“I’m not a hothouse flower, Duncan. I could have helped.”

“Forgive me if I want my wife safe and not smelling of a sty.”

“I’m serious.”

He cracked open one eye. “Do you think I’m not? You’re the lady of the castle, and as long as there are able-bodied men around—”

“And women. Fiona and several others pitched in.”

“I’m not married to any of them. As long as there are men around to do the dangerous work, you’ll stay where it’s safe.”

“You and my brother are cut from the same cloth.”

“I respect yer brother, if you dinna know. Thank you for the compliment.”

“I meant, you’re both impossible.”

He grabbed her wet hand and brought it to his lips. “Stop fussin’, mo leannan . I’ve just come from battling a blaze.”

He was drained of energy and didn’t deserve her ire—not tonight, leastwise.