Page 22 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Duncan’s townhouse in Mayfair wasn’t anything like a centuries-old castle and didn’t rise to the elegance of Sommerville House.

It was comfortable, stylish, and blessedly peaceful, tucked discreetly along a quiet street several blocks from bustling Grosvenor Square.

Through the open window, the mild spring breeze carried the scent of fresh bread from the corner bakery and cherry blossoms in full bloom.

Inside, polished mahogany gleamed, thick carpets muffled footsteps, and tall windows let in the sun instead of the gloom she’d left behind in High Glen.

Maggie sat curled on a velvet chaise in the drawing room, wrapped in one of Duncan’s plaids, the faint scent of him—cedar and sandalwood—woven into the wool.

That morning, Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper, had pressed a breakfast tray on her: a silver pot of tea and a currant scone still warm from the oven. Maggie had nibbled politely, her appetite still not what it once was, but at least she kept down what she ate.

The bell rang well before the calling hour, its chime echoing through the quiet townhouse. A moment later, familiar voices spilled into the entry, bright with anticipation.

Cici entered first, eyes alight with joy—until she saw her, and her smile faltered. Unlike Maggie, pregnancy suited her; her cheeks were flushed with health, her figure rounded in a way that made her look vibrant.

She was struck by the irony, remembering the night at the opera when a push on the stairs had stolen Cici’s first child.

Now, here she stood, carrying again, strong and sure on her feet—while Maggie felt the burden of every step.

They were only weeks apart in their confinements, yet her own reflection showed hollows where her sister-in-law glowed.

Behind her came their mother, the Dowager Duchess, whose posture stiffened at the sight of her. Andrew lingered in the doorway, expression unreadable, though the set of his jaw betrayed him.

Maggie pushed herself upright, determined to greet them properly, but the moment she stood, the room tipped sideways. She caught the edge of the chaise with one hand, the other pressing to her brow.

“Oh, Maggie,” Cici breathed, hurrying forward. Her arms gently enfolded her, careful not to squeeze too tightly, like she was china rather than flesh and bone. “You’re as pale as the curtains.”

“I’m all right,” she replied with a practiced smile, willing her knees to hold. “Truly. Just tired. The Highlands can be…taxing.”

Her mother moved closer, her legendary composure cracking, eyes worried. “You’ve lost so much weight. Have you been ill?”

“Not ill, per se,” Maggie replied, one hand drifting protectively to her abdomen. “Duncan and I are expecting.”

Gasps broke the air—soft, joyous, overlapping.

Cici laughed through a sob and hugged her again. Then she relinquished her position to Maggie’s mother, who framed her face with gentle hands, searching her expression for signs of health, of hope.

“Oh, my darling girl,” Duchess Catherine whispered. “A baby. You must take every care.”

“I’m trying,” Maggie murmured. “But these early weeks haven’t been easy.”

“Where is he?” Andrew’s words landed with the force of a verdict. “Where is your husband?”

“I’m here,” Duncan said from behind him.

Before Maggie could speak or explain about what she knew was her shocking appearance, Andrew seized his arm, steering him toward the corridor with a grip that brooked no refusal.

“We need to talk. Now.”

“Andrew,” Cici called after them, but the door to Duncan’s study had already shut with a bang.

***

Andrew didn’t waste time. After the windowpanes on the opposite wall ceased rattling, he turned on Duncan, his words measured, but the fury beneath them was unmistakable. “What the hell happened to her?”

“She’s with child. Due around Christmas.”

“I heard.” Andrew advanced a step. “Cici is due at the same time—and she’s glowing. But Maggie is gaunt and frail.”

Duncan kept his stance, though Andrew’s barely contained fury had a way of making lesser men shift their weight. “She’s been unwell.”

“Unwell?” Andrew took another step closer, fists clenched at his sides. “I barely recognized my own sister.”

Duncan’s jaw flexed. “In addition to sickness from the bairn, she misses London. Her mother. You.”

“This is more than homesickness,” Andrew snapped. “She’s thinner than I’ve ever seen her, and there was a look in her eyes—like the light’s gone out.”

“She’s exhausted,” he said tightly. “She hasn’t been sleeping.”

“Why?”

A muscle worked in Duncan’s cheek. “You’ve been tae Castle MacPherson. There are drafts and creaking, bumps in the night. It can seem eerie if you’re not used tae it. Then there are the stories—”

“Ghost stories,” Andrew scoffed.

“Legends, which have grown over the years—” Duncan stopped himself. “When you’re not rested and feeling poorly, the mind can play tricks.”

Andrew shook his head, disbelief hardening his features. “I entrusted her to you. And you bring her back like this?”

“I didn’t sit idle,” Duncan bit out. “I brought in a physician, asked the women for remedies, tried everything I knew. She’s not herself—I ken that. I thought time would help. I was wrong.”

Andrew’s expression cooled, but the edge in his voice remained.

“After James died, I was drowning in responsibilities—Parliament duties, a dozen estates to manage, a dukedom dropped in my lap without warning. And in the middle of it all, a new wife. I nearly lost her,” he said at length, his voice ragged with emotion.

“We did lose our child because I was too mired in estate business to notice the threat to her. Don’t make my mistake. ”

The words struck deep. Not accusation but lived truth.

“Something needs to change, Duncan,” his friend, her brother, said, not as a request but a demand.

Duncan’s gaze didn’t waver. “I ken that. Which is why I brought her home the moment she asked.”

“You should have brought her sooner,” Andrew said, not yielding an inch. “Before it got this bad.”

“Leaving the clan without its laird in the midst of a string of calamities and strained peace? I made the best choice I could—until her health outweighed all else.”

His eyes narrowed. “God help you if London doesn’t fix this.”

Even the almighty couldn’t help him if it didn’t, and the worst happened. But, tired of being berated as if he were an underling, Duke or no’, he shot back. “What will you do? Challenge me over my wife and unborn bairn?”

“It would ease my conscience for having trusted you,” Andrew replied.

His best friend, for nearly his entire life, had lost faith in him. That stung, but it didn’t hurt as much as the guilt that consumed him every time he looked at Maggie.

The door opened and she appeared, framed in the threshold, draped in a MacPherson plaid.

“Stop fighting,” she insisted, her hand drifting to the slight swell of her belly. “It’s not Duncan’s fault. This little one is to blame,” she added with the faintest, weary smile.

Andrew moved as if to go to her, but Duncan was already there, his arms sliding around her.

“You should be resting,” he murmured, keeping his tone light even as he felt the fine tremor in her frame.

“I’m sick to death of resting, and of feeling sick,” she said, leaning in to him. “How do women endure this more than once?”

“You won’t have to,” Duncan vowed. “I won’t put you through this again.”

Her gaze flicked up to his, a pale shadow of her usual spark.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, laird. I’m feeling better already. I think I just needed to come home.”

He held her close, but didn’t comment, aware of Andrew’s eyes on them both. The unspoken truth twisted in his chest. He had hoped the Highlands would become her home. Her refuge. Her future.

But he had failed her in that, too.