Page 18 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Maggie sat on the edge of the bed, shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, watching Duncan pull on his boots.

“Maybe you should stay in bed today,” he said, his tone edged with concern.

“Yesterday’s dizziness has passed. Now that I know the cause, I’ll be more careful.”

“I’m putting Fiona in charge of you while I’m gone. She has three bairns and will know what to watch for.”

“I don’t need a keeper, Duncan.”

“This from the woman I had to drag out from under a collapsing pile of moldering timber.” He suddenly sat down hard beside her.

Alarm flared. “What is it? Are you ill?”

“Aye,” he whispered, looking a bit green. “I just realized I skelped my pregnant wife.”

She blinked then laughed softly. Only Duncan would worry about a spanking after a near-death rescue. “You didn’t know, and I’m fine. No harm, no foul.”

“I’m glad for that. And for your forgiving nature.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek then rose to leave. “I have a meeting with the Camerons. I suspect they’ll balk at my proposal and dig in their heels.”

Isla’s kin. She swallowed her instinct to ask if she’d be present and instead voiced the question that had been on her mind for weeks. “Your clans are barely civil. Why is a Cameron living here?”

“That’s a long tale, and it deserves more time than I have this morning.” He bent and took her lips this time—long, lingering, wonderful. “Rest. Take care of our future. I’ll see you tonight.”

Her fingers caught his hand. “I hate that you have to go.”

Duncan turned back. “You said you were fine.”

She hesitated.

“What’s plaguing you, lass?”

She couldn’t just blurt out that his home might be haunted, so she tempered her response. “I don’t feel at ease unless you are here. There are peculiarities and rooms that feel…wrong.”

His eyes narrowed. “Wrong how?”

“They’re cold when they shouldn’t be. Sometimes I feel someone with me when I’m alone—but when I turn, no one’s there. There are shadows, and I hear things. Whispers sometimes.”

He sat beside her again, speaking gently. “The castle is centuries old, Maggie. Stone settles, wind slips through cracks. You wouldn’t be the first tae experience something strange. And the folk here, they love to tell their stories. They cling to this place like ivy.”

“I’m not imagining this.”

He took her hands, brushing her knuckles with quiet care. “I’m not saying you are. Only that sometimes, what feels unearthly is rooted in the ordinary.”

She bit her lip. Could it really be wind and stone and superstition? She didn’t think so. But Duncan had lived here all his life, and he wasn’t mocking her—just trying to make sense of it.

“Maybe you need something to keep your mind busy. Fiona would welcome your company. With the bairn to consider, I’m sure she’d find gentler tasks that suit you.”

“I think I’ve already tried and failed at most of those.”

“Talk to her anyway. She’s imaginative. Lachlan was lucky to find her.” He smiled, warm and teasing. “And if nothing else, let her show you the library. Just steer clear of the gothic novels.” He added with a wink, “And the brandy and cigars.”

“I’ll never live that down.”

“It’s doubtful, but neither will the duchess,” he said with a grin. “I should be home for supper.”

She nodded, hoping should would become reality. The noises muted when he was beside her.

Duncan kissed her again before he left, the rhythm of his boots on the stone floor that of a man used to leading men, not chasing shadows.

She listened to the fading echo, wishing she could believe in stone and wind alone.

***

True to his word, Duncan was home before dark. That night, Maggie slept soundly in his arms—no whispers, no dreams. He escorted her down to breakfast the next morning but didn’t linger—wedging meat between two thick slices of freshly baked bread.

“I’m sorry, I canna stay, lass. I’m meeting with MacLeish to discuss the spring planting and tenant accounts.”

She would miss his company, but as it turned out, she wasn’t lonely. News of her condition had traveled faster than a Highland gale. Everyone came up to congratulate her, and the women seemed determined to anticipate her every need—whether she wanted them to or not.

“I’ll be bringin’ ye warm milk with honey,” the kitchen maid announced, setting down a platter holding a mountain of bannocks. “’Tis good for the growin’ bairn’s bones.”

“None of that blue-veined cheese,” Mrs. Craig, the chief cook, declared, whisking the offending block away before Maggie could blink. “Mold can’t be wholesome fer anyone.”

When she passed old Ian, the gardener, in the hall, he pressed a pair of scratchy woolen socks into her palm.

“There be a chill in the breeze today. Ye’ll be takin’ an extra layer for ye’re boots if ye step outside,” he insisted. “We can’t have the savior of High Glen catchin’ her death.”

The Savior of High Glen. The phrase clung to her, heavier than the socks. It wasn’t just flattery—it was expectation, legacy, pressure.

It reminded her why she was here. What she’d almost forgotten. The babe was why they were all being so solicitous. She wasn’t just the laird’s wife now. She was the vessel of something larger than herself. Something they all had a stake in.

Even Fiona was more of a mother hen than usual.

“No lifting,” her sister-in-law ordered, taking the basket of linens out of her hands. “And no stairs unless necessary.”

“I’m expecting, not dying,” Maggie muttered under her breath, earning a consoling pat on the arm from one of the laundresses.

“Enjoy the pampering while you can, my lady,” she advised. “It dinna last after the bairn arrives.”

By midday, she’d received enough remedies, restrictions, and warnings to fill a midwife’s training manual. The attention—though well-meant—smothered far more than it soothed.

She might have taken a walk, but rain drummed on the roof and lashed against the windows, blurring the view of the hills. Instead, she excused herself and retreated upstairs.

Inside their bedchamber, welcome silence enfolded her. The fire was banked low, the air warm and still. Her gaze drifted to the bed, piled with soft wool quilts. It looked obscenely inviting.

“Maybe just for a moment,” she said, tossing her shawl on the back of a chair and kicking off her shoes. When she slid beneath the covers, she hugged Duncan’s pillow to her chest. Closing her eyes, breathing in the scent of sandalwood and safety, sleep quickly claimed her.

***

Thunder rumbled loudly. Maggie’s eyes flew open.

The chamber was dim, cast in the silver-gray gloom of an afternoon storm.

The fire had gone dark, and a chill laced the air—not the usual dampness of the stone walls and Highland weather but colder.

Unnatural. It raised gooseflesh on her arms and stood the hairs at her nape on end.

She sat up when a flash of lightning lit the room.

Though she was certain it had been closed before sleeping, the window hung ajar. Rain spattered the floor, and the curtains flapped in the wind. Shivering, Maggie slid from the bed and padded over in her stocking feet, fingers fumbling with the latch.

With the storm outside where it belonged, she turned back to the room.

Something was amiss. The quilts on the bed were bunched and twisted, as though she’d thrashed wildly in her sleep.

If she had dreamt, she didn’t remember. Stranger still, her shawl, which she’d tossed over the chair, now lay folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

Had someone come in?

She scanned the chamber.

The door was still locked from the inside, and nothing else seemed amiss, but the wrong feeling didn’t leave her. Neither did the chill.

She wrapped herself in one of Duncan’s tartans and walked the room looking for the source. At the writing desk, a steady waft of air brushed her ankles.

Frowning, Maggie crouched and peered beneath it. The back was solid, but she felt the rush of frigid air. She shoved the heavy desk aside; the legs scraped sharply against the floor. Behind it, she found a door. Only three feet high, it had no knob or handle. Just a seam.

“What in the world?” she whispered aloud, running her fingers along it.

She found a catch—small, metal, hidden.

Her hand trembled from more than the cold now. Did she really want to see what lay behind it, while alone?

Boldly, she pressed the metal catch, and the panel swung inward.

A blast of frosty air hit her as she stared into blackness.

Quickly, she retrieved an oil lamp. She crouched, lamp held forward, revealing a narrow room with a low ceiling. Cautiously, she entered and stood with only an inch to spare. Duncan would have to bend double.

There wasn’t much inside it: a stool, dusty candlesticks half burned, and a shallow shelf. Propped inside it was a leather-bound book, warped with age, its edges singed as if rescued from a fire.

Maggie opened to the first page.

At the top, written in a flowing script, was The Journal of Anne MacPherson . The date of the first entry startled her – June 1688 .

She angled the book closer to the lamp and began scanning the pages. It started out as a lady’s account of castle life—arriving as a bride, nervous and isolated, trying to make a new home among strangers. Four months in, Anne found herself with child.

“Dear heavens, I could have written this,” Maggie whispered.

From there, the entries darkened; even the handwriting changed.

Then came an entry that chilled her to the bone.

First, Cairn took my warmth, then my sleep, and my name. I was no longer Anne, but “woman” or “wife.” And this spirit cares for neither. Then, it took my child.

A shudder raced through Maggie so violently, she dropped the book. She turned to flee, forgetting to duck—and smacked her head against the low ceiling.

“Blood and thunder,” she muttered, using one of her brother’s favorite curses, and wincing when she touched the tender spot on her forehead.

As the pain ebbed, something else surged: bravery and determination. And a need to know more. Who was Cairn? What had happened to the child?

Another icy draft curled around her ankles and blasted up her skirt.

Why was she standing in a hidden room freezing, but more so tempting fate and whatever spirits might linger?

She should run. Leaving the disturbing and eerie secrets of the crumbling castle far behind. But she couldn’t—not without Duncan, especially while carrying his child.

With more care this time, she bent and picked up the journal. Clutching it in one hand and the lamp in the other, she exited the dank, dusty, confining room, shutting the door and pushing the heavy desk back into place.

She threw two more logs on the fire and pulled a chair close.

Maybe if she read on, the whispers and shadows would make sense.

Her short laugh echoed in the quiet. “Or maybe the blow to your head scrambled your brains.”

Hours passed as Maggie read by firelight—gleaning insight into the fragile mind of a woman slipping into despair.

Unseen presences. Wilted flowers left on her pillow.

Whispers that grew louder with each passing day.

There were mentions of thistle charms, cursed brooches, and isolation.

As the entries grew more erratic, the handwriting became nearly indecipherable.

The final entry came nine months after the first—almost to the day.

Maggie closed the journal and tried to make sense of it.

The woman had grieved the loss of a child.

Whether taken from her due to madness or lost to death, Maggie couldn’t tell.

She had an all-encompassing fear of whoever Cairn was.

A spirit? A husband? She had also become obsessed with the north tower.

The late afternoon shadows had grown long, and her stomach rumbled. Sliding the diary beneath the mattress, she rose to go to supper. But at the door, she stopped then rushed to the trinket box on the table by the bed and tucked the white heather charm she’d gotten the first night into her pocket.

What could it hurt? Besides, she needed good luck for two now.

She arrived at the bottom of the stairs just as Duncan returned. His hair was plastered to his head, and raindrops beaded on his shoulder. He looked tired, but he smiled as their eyes met.

“Have you eaten?”

“I was just on my way.”

“I’ll join you after I wash up. You can tell me about your day.”

She blanched. What was there to say? That she’d spent the afternoon reading a long-dead woman’s most intimate thoughts?

That she’d found a hidden room behind the writing desk and nearly knocked herself senseless when she tried to flee from it in terror?

And for a moment, she’d considered not stopping until she reached safe, unmysterious, normal Mayfair.

“Is something wrong?”

She didn’t want to lie. “Why do you ask?”

“You look unsettled.” His hand brushed her cheek. “And your skin is cold.”

First, it took my warmth…

“The castle always has a chill.”

“I’ll bring a plaid for your shoulders, mo bhean .” He kissed her forehead then took the steps two at a time.

She watched him go, her heart thudding—not with affection but with unease.

And my name.

He called her my wife, woman, when he was incensed with her, or lass, or by some other Gaelic word. Less and less Maggie. The castle folk called her mistress or my lady—never Lady Maggie.

She shook her head to clear it. Duncan wasn’t Cairn; he was caring, loving, and a friend since she was five. He was always so steady, so rational. She could already hear his response if she told him about Anne’s journal.

It’s just an old book written by a troubled woman. You’re letting your imagination run wild.

He wouldn’t mean to be condescending. He simply hadn’t witnessed what she had.

No one had. Would they think her mad, as they had Isla?

Or compare her to Anne MacPherson, whose descent into madness had been chronicled in her own hand two centuries earlier?

The thought chilled her. She’d tell Duncan—once she could make sense of it herself.

When she entered the dining hall and took her seat, she felt eyes upon her. She glanced up and met Isla’s gaze. The older woman’s smile was faint, polite—and chilling in its emptiness.

Maggie looked away, her appetite vanishing.

That night, when Duncan held her in his arms, she didn’t find the usual comfort or peace. She couldn’t wait too long to share what she’d found. One passage in particular kept her awake.

Anne hadn’t been believed either. Until it was too late.