Page 19 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Maggie jolted upright, stomach roiling—no time for thought, only motion. She flung back the covers and bolted behind the folding screen, reaching the privy pot just as the first wave hit.

Seconds later, Duncan’s bare feet thudded softly against the floor. He knelt beside her, gathering her hair in one hand, his other palm moving in slow circles over her back.

She shook her head, waving him away as her stomach clenched again. “Please…just—go.”

He hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave her, but finally rose and stepped away.

After several minutes of gasping and shuddering, her stomach finally empty, she pushed up on shaky legs and rinsed her mouth at the basin. Back in bed, she sank into the cool pillow, grateful Duncan was gone. Eyes closed, she focused on slow, steady breaths until the nausea eased.

The door whispered open and shut. The mattress dipped with a familiar weight.

“Fiona is sending up tea and dry toast,” Duncan said softly. “She says it should help.”

Maggie forced her eyes open. He sat near, his hand resting lightly on the coverlet, studying her with the uneasy look of a man out of his depth. That made two of them.

The faint scent of his sandalwood soap—one she’d made only two days ago—clung to him. Most days, she would breathe it in. Today, it turned her stomach.

“It’s the bairn, isn’t it?” he asked.

She swallowed, willing the queasiness away. “I imagine so. If I can lie still a little longer, it might pass.”

“I pray so,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

His concern was evident, but any movement, no matter how slight, made the nausea worse. She clenched her jaw, bracing herself against another revolt.

“I’ll leave you to rest.” His fingers brushed the damp hair from her temple. “The masons are waiting for me to walk the east wall—there’s been a leak since the last storm. But I’ll be back to check on you.”

She offered a faint smile. “Thank you,” she whispered, grateful he understood she wanted to be alone in her misery. “Most women go through this. It’s a rite of passage, I suppose.”

“I’ve heard expectant mothers often get sick in the morning,” he said, brow creasing, “but I didn’t realize it could be so debilitating. I’ll go hurry Fiona along.”

He left quietly, and she drifted into a light doze—until a maid arrived with tea and dry toast. One sip, one bite, and her stomach lurched. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she bolted for the chamber pot again.

By late morning, she felt well enough to rise. Hungry but cautious, she made her way downstairs, hoping to find something light—honeyed porridge or plain cheese—anything not steeped in fat or spice.

She’d forgotten it was herb day. Dried sage, thyme, and lavender lay in fragrant piles on the table.

The women worked with quiet focus—grinding leaves, filling jars, tying bundles with twine.

The combined scent hit her all at once. With one hand against the doorframe holding her upright, her stomach gave a warning lurch.

Fiona glanced up from her task, a sprig of lavender still in her hand. “My lady?”

Maggie pressed her lips together. She didn’t dare answer, not without unpleasant consequences.

Fiona rushed over, taking her elbow. “Och, poor lass! The bairn’s givin’ you a rough go. Let’s get you into the fresh air.”

She helped her out the side door and onto the stone stoop. The rain had stopped, the wind fresh and cool against her heated skin. Maggie closed her eyes and let it wash over her.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped. “It just…hit me.”

“Dinna fash,” Fiona said, pressing a cool hand to Maggie’s brow. “I thought I’d puke up my boots with my boys. ’Twas gone in four months though.”

Maggie groaned, leaning against the only true friend she’d found in High Glen besides Duncan. “I’ll die.”

“Not on my watch,” Fiona said briskly, giving her arm a reassuring pat. “Still feelin’ ill?”

“Only when I move…or breathe.”

Fiona’s brows rose. “How long has this been goin’ on?”

“This morning was the first,” Maggie admitted. “Hopefully, the last.”

“The laird looked near frantic when he sought me out,” Fiona said with a small smile. “He’s over the moon about an heir.”

Maggie’s gaze drifted toward the mist-shrouded hills. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she murmured. Being the hope of a clan felt heavier than any sickness.

Fiona blinked. “Afraid?”

She shook her head, gaze shifting to the fluttering linens drying on the line then changed the subject. “Can I ask you something?”

“Aye.”

“Why is Isla living at High Glen?”

Fiona hesitated. “Perhaps you should ask the laird.”

“I’m asking you,” Maggie pressed, “because I trust you to tell me the truth. She has some hold on Duncan, or the MacPhersons, doesn’t she?”

Fiona’s mouth tightened. “Isla was promised tae the laird, unofficially, long ago. Their fathers had hopes for peace between the clans. Duncan was too young tae have a say, and when Isla’s…condition became clear, the match was dropped.”

“Condition?”

“She’s…no’ right in the head. It’s no’ always plain, unless you speak wi’ her long…or an episode strikes.”

“Why didn’t she leave?”

“Agnes wouldn’t allow it,” she said flatly. “She’s always protected her.”

“Why is that?”

“Because she’s a Cameron, too. Duncan’s father tried what he planned for his heir first, but here we are decades later, still at odds.”

“So the MacPhersons were stuck with the enemy in their midst?”

“Most see them as a nuisance more than a danger. Agnes is Lachlan’s mother, after all. But dinna think she’s loyal tae anyone but her son—and Isla. It’s blood first wi’ her.”

“Neither has been especially kind to me.”

“They would nae be—or tae any bride Duncan brought home. They’d see her as a usurper of Isla’s rightful place. Though no one expected the laird tae wed into madness—especially after goin’ through it once before.”

Maggie’s head snapped around. “Once before?”

“Duncan’s great-great-grandfather’s first wife was quite mad. He didn’t find out until months into the marriage, when she was already with child.”

“You’re speaking of Anne MacPherson?” Maggie asked to clarify.

It was Fiona’s turn to look at her sharply. “Someone told you about her?”

“She did. I found her journal hidden in my room.”

Fiona’s jaw dropped before she whispered, “I thought that was naught but a myth.”

“It’s very real. I read it yesterday. She was clearly terrified of someone named Cairn.”

“Cairn MacPherson, her laird husband,” Fiona supplied. “As the story goes, she thought he was trying tae kill her and locked herself and the bairn in the north tower.”

“What happened then?”

“I…uh…thought ye read the journal.”

“Her entries became almost unintelligible and then abruptly stopped.”

“I should nae be the one tellin’ you if Duncan hasna. But I can tell yer frightened.” She hesitated almost too long before stating, “Anne fell tae her death from the top of the tower.”

Maggie gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. “Did she jump?”

“No one can say for sure, but that has long been suspected. Cairn was despondent. He blamed himself for no’ protectin’ her and the bairn.”

“What happened to the child?”

“They searched for him, but he was never found.”

“That’s heartbreaking.”

“Aye.”

A hush settled between them as the wind blew leaves across the yard and sent ripples across the puddles left by the storm.

“Are there secret rooms in the castle?”

“Of course. There are passageways behind the walls and a postern gate, too. They were used to escape if the castle came under siege. Why?”

Maggie shrugged as if it was neither here nor there. “Are they common knowledge?”

“To those livin’ here for any length of time.”

She hadn’t inspected the room thoroughly. It was narrow and could be a wide part of a passageway. Maggie didn’t want to think of someone lurking behind the wall or listening at the door—especially when she was alone with Duncan.

Next, she asked her most burning question. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Fiona met her gaze. “I believe grief clings to a place.”

“You sound like my mother,” she said quietly. “Have you experienced anything odd in the castle?”

“Never in my seven years here. But visitors often tell stories.”

“Of whispers and shadows?”

“You’ve seen something,” Fiona concluded.

Maggie nodded. “I’ve felt cold spots and heard things.”

“Have you told the laird?”

“Yes, but he’s a practical, educated man—”

“Who doesn’t put much stock in Scottish lore?” she correctly concluded.

“I’m not sure I do either, but something is going on.”

Fiona’s troubled expression told Maggie she knew more.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Guests have reported worse than whispers and cold spots. Some hear a bairn crying. Others hear a woman sobbing. And some swear they’ve seen a lady in a long white gown wi’ flowing red hair wanderin’ the halls. The description fits Lady Anne.”

And the woman in the miniature she found in the north wing.

“How have I been here for weeks and not heard this?”

“The castle folk don’t speak of it for fear of invoking her spirit.”

“Yet you do,” Maggie pointed out.

A small smile graced her sister-in-law’s face as she offered an explanation. “I’m too busy during the day tae hear whisperin’, and at night I sleep like the dead.”

At Maggie’s sharp inhale, Fiona winced. “Aye, well… That was a poor choice of words.”

The drying linens flapped harder, the wind tugging at them with invisible fingers.

“Do you think it’s possible that a ghost walks these halls?” Maggie asked.

“Just because I’ve nae seen one does nae mean I dinna believe in unsettled spirits. And Anne would be that.” Fiona’s voice dropped. “You should make Duncan listen.”

“He thinks it’s the castle settling. But it isn’t just wind in the masonry and groaning floorboards.

It’s voices and things moved when no one’s been in the room.

” Maggie turned to face her head-on. “I keep thinking of Isla and her champion. They know the history. They could recreate Anne’s experiences. ”

“To drive you mad?”

“Or back to England.” Maggie took a shaky breath. “Something else I find disturbing. Isla watches me.”

Fiona grunted. “I’d be more surprised if she didn’t. She watches everyone.”

“Duncan should send her away.”

“He can’t—not yet,” she stated grimly. “He’s tryin’ tae negotiate a truce between the clans. If the laird sends Isla back to her father now, the Camerons might claim insult. And then we’d have more than hauntings to deal wi’—we’d have blood.”

“So, I have to put up with her,” Maggie said, bitterness creeping in.

“We all do,” Fiona corrected gently. “To protect the peace.”

Maggie pressed a hand to her belly, the knots there now from uncertainty rather than sickness. “I need to decide what to do with what I know.”

Fiona held her gaze, steady and solemn. “Aye,” she murmured. “And right soon.”