Page 15 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

She set the needle and thread down, perhaps for the last time ever, and rose. “Excuse me, I need some fresh air,” she said to the other women.

They nodded, offering sympathetic smiles as she slipped from the room.

After a dozen finger pricks and a cloth speckled with tiny bloodstains, her fingers throbbed. Her embroidery was fit only for the rubbish bin. Her mother had tried for years to improve her skill with the needle and failed—why had she imagined today would be different?

Did she want it to be? Truly? It was mind-numbingly boring, but Duncan was off tending laird’s business, and she needed something to occupy her time.

Admittedly, she was homesick. She missed the rhythm of London life—the lectures, the laughter, the sense of belonging. Here, she was adrift. Mostly, she missed Cici, her mother, and Andrew.

She headed for the front door. A walk would do her good.

Since spring had arrived and Duncan’s duties had replaced the idyllic early days of their marriage, she’d spent many afternoons wandering the grounds, often returning to the quiet fishing spot.

If she were home, she’d be browsing the newest selections at Hatchards with Cici or preparing for a soirée. Here, there were none of those things.

The sound of children’s laughter drew her toward the side yard of the castle, where grass gave way to packed earth and loose stone. Rounding the corner, she paused.

Eight children—boys and girls ranging from seven to twelve—were playing a fast-paced game with sticks and a leather ball. Dust kicked up around their feet, and their shouts echoed off the stone walls.

During a lull in the action, a little girl noticed her and walked over. She introduced herself as Iona and begged her to join them. Before she knew it, they’d taught her the rules of shinty.

Since then, the afternoon had passed in a blur of sunshine and laughter.

Her dress was dirty. She’d lost half her pins, her hair falling in front of her face, and her braid loose down her back. But for the first time in days, she hadn’t felt lonely or thought about cold spots, mournful crying, and whispering in corridors.

Her braid whipped her in the face as she twisted and ducked out of the way of a leather ball hit hard her way.

Iona exclaimed with a lopsided grin, “You’re supposed to hit it, mistress. Not duck it!”

“It was coming at my head!” Maggie protested, breathless with laughter. “But I’ll do better next time.”

Instead of laughter and good-natured teasing, she heard only silence around her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked when she saw the other children’s dour expression.

“The game is over,” one boy said.

“Why? We’ve got at least an hour until supper.”

“No ball,” one grumbled.

“That was our last,” said another.

That was a shame because the leather ball was badly scratched and sadly misshapen. Still, she glanced around for it. “Where did it go?”

All of them pointed toward the castle. Maggie turned to look, her heart sinking at the sight of the rotting and warped wood of the back staircase of the shuttered north wing. At the base, half hidden in shadow behind crisscrossed planks, was a narrow crawlspace.

“It went under?” Maggie asked, receiving a chorus of nods. “We’ll just have to retrieve it,” she said with a forced sense of optimism.

No one answered.

Maggie moved closer, bent at the waist, and peered between the boards. The ball sat maybe three or four feet in—just out of arm’s reach. She glanced over her shoulder at the wide-eyed children.

“I think I can get it,” she said. “I’ll be in and out in a wink.”

She pried off a loose board—more easily than expected—and dropped to her hands and knees.

Thinking her mother would be appalled if she could see her now, she crawled in between two wooden posts, her skirts dragging in the dust. Cool air brushed her face, thick with the scent of old earth and damp wood.

Her fingers brushed grit and splinters as she moved slowly forward.

Only a handsbreadth more…

She stretched, fingertips grazing the leather. Just a bit farther—

“Got it,” she whispered, reeling the ball in just as a sob echoed through the darkness.

Maggie froze.

It was the same cry she’d heard before. Low. Guttural. Agonized.

She whipped her head around, heart hammering in her chest. A shadow shifted in front of her.

Her skin prickled. Every instinct screamed retreat.

But when she tried to back out, her skirt snagged on something sharp.

She yanked once, heard fabric rip. Uncaring, wanting only out, she tugged twice more. But there was no give.

Above her, wood creaked.

Another cry sounded. Different. Higher pitched, more frantic.

A waft of air stirred the dust.

Then dirt rained down as, with a louder creak, a board gave way.

Maggie ducked her head and closed her eyes. “Help! I’m stuck,” she cried out, frantically pulling on the remarkably sturdy cloth as another timber snapped loose.

“Fetch help!” she shouted, hoping beyond hope the children outside would hear her.

Suddenly, fingers banded her ankles and yanked hard.

She was dragged from the darkness, coughing, skirts torn, lungs aching. Sunlight and fresh air rushed to greet her—and so did her rescuer.

Duncan caught her under the arms and pulled her against him, one hand sliding up to cradle her dirt-streaked face.

“What in God’s name were you doing?” he rasped, voice tight with fear.

“I-I saw the ball,” she gasped. “I thought it would take a moment. Then I heard…”

She looked past his shoulder. The children stared, pale and trembling.

Duncan turned, jaw tight, as he addressed the lot of them. “You let her go under?”

No one answered. But their parents, alerted by the commotion, began to gather.

“She insisted,” Peter, the stablemaster’s son, finally put forward.

“And we wanted to keep playing,” another boy added.

“So you let her risk her life? Over a game?” Duncan barked. “She’s the lady of this house. And new to it. As her kinsmen, your job is to protect her.”

“My apologies, laird,” Nessa Howe, Peter’s mother, said as she gripped her son by the arm. “I’ll see this dinna happen again.”

Other parents murmured similarly. Then they grabbed their children, scolding them sharply as they dragged them off, most with promises of further retribution at home.

Iona looked as though she might cry.

Still kneeling, Duncan cupped Maggie’s shoulders, running his hands down her arms while scanning her for injury. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she whispered, “Just frightened.”

He exhaled through his nose then clasped her to his chest, arms enveloping her so tightly she found it hard to breathe again.

When she coughed weakly, he let her go. Rising, he pulled her up with him.

“Come,” he said quietly. “We’ll get you clean, then you’ll tell me exactly what happened.”

She nodded—but as he led her inside, she looked back one more time.

The crawl space was empty.

But the sob still echoed in her bones.

Someone had been crying. And Maggie feared they weren’t alone.

***

Their dressing room was warm and scented faintly of the sandalwood soap she’d made only days ago. Steam curled from the tub—someone had prepared it, anticipating the need.

Maggie sat perched on the stool beside it, dusty, skirt rent beyond repair, face and arms streaked with dirt. Duncan knelt at her feet, removing her boots with careful hands. His movements were clipped—tense—but never harsh.

“I can do it—”

“No.” He didn’t look up. “I will, so I can see with my own eyes you were nae harmed.”

He peeled away her stockings next, his jaw clenched as dirt hit the floor.

The torn overskirt came next, crumpled in his grip.

Her petticoat followed then her stays and bodice, each movement careful and rough at once.

When she stood in her shift, he whisked it over her head and helped her step into the tub with both hands on her waist, as if afraid she’d vanish in the steam.

Only when she’d settled did he speak again.

“What were you thinking?”

“I thought I’d be quick,” she said quietly. “And I didn’t want to disappoint the children.”

“The children,” he repeated flatly. “Who should’ve ended the game the moment that ball went under the stairs. You’re lucky the entire thing didn’t come down on your head.”

“I didn’t realize—”

“You did , Maggie.” His voice cracked. “I told you the north wing was unsafe. The tower, the steps, the crawl spaces. I made it very clear.”

She flinched, sinking deeper into the water.

He rose and began pacing, one hand fisting at his side. “Do you have any idea what went through my mind when I saw you buried in dirt. The boards fallen. Hearing your cries for help before I pulled you free.” He stopped and looked at her. “If I’d been ten seconds later—”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know what else to say, Duncan. Other than I’m sorry, and it will not happen again.”

He grunted and knelt beside the tub, reaching for the sponge. He washed her as she had him after the peat fire when he was covered in filth.

“When I pulled you out, you looked as though you’d seen a ghost.”

She swallowed then whispered, “Maybe I did.”

His hands stilled. “What was that?”

“I don’t know. I thought I heard sobbing. And I’m sure I saw something move. A shadow.”

“Likely a rabid rat.”

She hadn’t thought of that. Rabies was almost always fatal. The cure, which often failed, was even worse. She shivered.

“Maybe it was the children outside. And dust in my eyes,” she suggested, although she didn’t believe it.

“What were you doing in the yard in the first place?”

“Playing shinty.”

His eyes widened, incredulous.