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

East Coast Main Line, Northbound

She’d promised herself it would be a cold day before she became Duncan MacPherson’s pawn. Scotland in winter had obliged.

The train rocked in a hypnotic rhythm as Lady Maggie, the newly minted Countess of Rothbury since nine o’clock that morning, gazed out the window. The constant swaying didn’t lull her to sleep, like her traveling companion, but deeper into melancholy.

The hills were lush and green and dotted with sheep.

They were still in the English countryside, not even close to the wilds of the Scottish Highlands.

And yet, she already felt too far from everything familiar.

From her mama, her brother, Andrew, her dearest friend Cici, and her freedom.

With each passing mile, she also left behind the dream she’d nurtured in secret for years, that Duncan MacPherson might one day love her.

But wishes were like dreams, for fools and children.

The screech of metal on metal echoed through the private car as the train navigated another curve.

Maggie, jostled so much since leaving London her teeth ached, braced herself with one hand on the seat and a foot on the opposite bench.

The hem of her skirt pooled over the toes of her brand-new husband’s polished leather boots.

Not that he noticed. He hadn’t moved since the last train change in Durham.

Duncan reclined across from her, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

A shaft of afternoon light spilled across his hair, burnishing the thick waves.

It wasn’t quite red, not blond or brown, either, but, depending on the light, a mix of all three.

Her fingers itched to see if it was as soft as it looked.

The cleft in his clean-shaven chin was on full display, a striking contrast to the beard he wore when returning from the Highlands to the supposed civility of Mayfair. At those times, she could never reconcile the polished earl with the kilted, bearded laird of Clan MacPherson.

At last, the train found a straightaway, and the jostling eased. Maggie resettled herself on the velvet seat. She glanced out at the undulating hillside, wondering when the interminable, dreadfully dull journey might end.

Maggie adjusted her skirts with more force than necessary, her wedding rings catching the light. One bore the MacPherson crest, a clear mark of possession, whether or not he meant it so. The other, an heirloom sapphire surrounded by matched diamonds, glittered coolly on her finger.

If she had any sense, she would have pawned them and caught the next train south.

She sighed, wishing she dared turn thought into action. But she wouldn’t, despite the fury simmering inside her and having no say in becoming the new Lady Rothbury.

Maggie glanced at Duncan again. He looked maddeningly peaceful, eyes shut, arms crossed over his chest like a man with no regrets. He didn’t snore— more’s the pity . It would’ve given her one more reason to loathe him.

She frowned, a flicker of shame chasing the harshness of her thoughts; loathe was a strong word. She had known him nearly all her life. Never could she hate him, but resentment came easily. How dare he leave her to stew in silence?

Granted, she’d barely spoken since the wedding vows, not a syllable since boarding the train, but still— The nerve of the man to act as if all of this wasn’t his fault!

“I’ve changed my mind,” she announced, loud enough to jolt him from his doze. If she couldn’t sleep, neither should he. “I’ve decided to become a nun. This sham of a marriage must be annulled.”

He didn’t so much as crack an eyelid as he drawled, “You’d set the abbey ablaze within the week.”

“At least the sisters wouldn’t drag me halfway to Scotland to preside over some moldy, crumbling pile of stone.”

That earned a quiet huff—almost a laugh. “Castle MacPherson is neither crumbling nor moldy. Though I’ll grant you—it’s ancient, as are most Highland relics.”

“Are you referring to yourself?” she asked sweetly. “You’ve a year yet before you’re thirty, and ancient. Which just leaves you desperate.”

His lashes snapped open. Those deep green eyes locked on hers, more sharp now than amused. “Back to that, are we, lass?”

She leaned forward. “Forgive me if I don’t feel particularly honored and cherished as a bride should. It’s challenging after being whisked into matrimony because the groom’s birthday loomed and his coffers were empty.”

“You’re forgetting the bit where you were compromised in your brother’s study and had to wed or face ruin.”

Heat flared in her cheeks. “You say that like I was the instigator when it was entirely your doing.”

He cocked a brow. “Was it? Or was it the duchess you were trying to outdrink and the cigars you filched from the duke’s desk drawer?”

Maggie narrowed her eyes at him. “Cici’s drinking was my dastardly brother’s fault. I’m lumping him in with you—arrogant, stubborn men who have more titles than empathy.”

“I dinna recall me or Andrew digging through the desk for imported brandy. Or lighting those overpriced cigars. Or resembling giggling madwomen while blowing smoke rings to the ceiling.”

She lifted her chin. “I was helping a friend blow off steam. You overreacted.”

“You impugned my impeccable lineage with rogues’ cant.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Maggie sniffed.

“I most certainly am not. You also called me a turd.”

“You were behaving like one,” she snapped, thereby destroying her denial.

A slow smile curved his lips. “Then I took you over my knee and reminded you of your manners. Suddenly, you weren’t so bold.”

Her face burned hotter. “You dared to take liberties with my person in the Sommerville study because you and the new duke are thick as thieves. I’ll never forgive either of you!”

His voice dropped, dark and teasing. “You will. Because you rather enjoyed it.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You moaned, Maggie—especially when I kissed you afterward.”

She shot to her feet with a sound that was half growl, half infuriated gasp, and strode toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from you!” she threw over her shoulder.

He caught her wrist. “Sit, lass. When the train rounds the next bend, you’ll pitch headfirst into something—and end up with more bruises.”

“I’d rather be black and blue from head to toe than endure another minute in your company.”

Unoffended, he pulled her toward him. “I’m sorry for teasing, Maggie. But you must admit, you make it easy.”

As apologies went, it was atrocious, especially accompanied by his heart-melting grin. She twisted her arm, trying to wrench free before he could work his wiles—but he held fast.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she whispered, on the verge of tears, which was uncharacteristic for her.

A pulse beat passed. Then another.

“I did,” Duncan finally replied, all playfulness gone. “I’ve waited years for you, Maggie.”

Her eyes lifted to find him watching—serious now, all traces of mischief vanished.

“I told both your brothers of my intentions and that I’d wait,” he admitted. “Let you have your season, your pretty dresses, the fetes and balls, a presentation to the queen. But when I learned what was at stake—what we stood to lose at MacPherson—I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Her spine stiffened. It always came back to the inheritance. “You compromised me to save your precious clan and castle.”

His jaw ticked. “I’d do it again. But don’t mistake that for indifference. I care for you—deeply.”

She swallowed hard, heart pounding. “I find it strange you never said so before. You never looked at me as anything but a sister, until a fortune and the salvation of all you hold dear were on the line. I’m not as gullible as you think I am, Duncan.”

With terrible timing, she yanked free just as the train entered a turn. She lost her balance and tumbled unceremoniously into the lap of her nemesis and new husband.

He caught her easily, turning her into his arms. One hand threaded into her hair; the other cupped her chin.

“You’re not gullible, Maggie. Just too damn stubborn to see what’s in front of you.” Then he kissed her.

She resisted—still hurt, still furious—but his tongue swept the seam of her lips, coaxing.

When she gasped for breath, he took full advantage, plunging inside, stealing what little air she had left.

It was better than the stolen kiss in the study and worlds away from the chaste brush of lips before the bishop.

Because she’d longed for this—longed for him—as long as she could remember, she yielded, succumbing to the taste of his mouth, his strong arms around her, and the heat of his body pressed to hers.

With passion she didn’t know existed, she kissed him back. Not because she trusted him. But because he stirred an ache in her like none of her other London suitors. Because when Duncan MacPherson’s lips touched hers, reason ceased to matter.

His lips gentled, the kiss softening into something almost reverent. When he finally drew away, his breath mingled with hers, gaze tracing her face as if memorizing it.

“You feel it too,” he murmured. “You always have.”

She wanted to deny it. To scoff and retreat behind the armor of indignation. But her lips were kiss-swollen, her pulse wild, and her voice—when it came—barely a whisper.

“It changes nothing.”

“It changes everything,” he insisted. “You’re mine, Maggie. Not because of a title or a ring. You’ve always been mine, mo chridhe .”

She shook her head, but the motion was weak, uncertain. “You married me for duty. For money. For expedience.”

“I wed you for love, lass,” he said, quiet but sure. “The rest came second.”

Her throat tightened. She turned away, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay. Her voice trembled with hurt. “If you wanted me to believe that, you should have said so before you ruined me.”

“Aye. That’s a mistake I’m regretting.”

The silence that followed was thick with all that still hung between them.

A knock on the door shattered it.