Page 23 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Like London in the fullness of spring, Maggie bloomed.

The sickness that had plagued her for weeks had finally loosened its grip. Color returned to her cheeks, laughter to her lips, and her appetite revived—thank heavens.

Mayfair, too, had awakened. Lilacs perfumed the air, their clustered blooms softening the edges of the stone facades, and even the most reserved matrons dared to promenade in pastels.

Maggie took daily walks in the park accompanied by Duncan or another trusted staff member, hand-selected for their size and fierceness. Cici or the dowager often joined her, but Jeannie, her fiercely protective, self-appointed guard, was never far away, always vigilant and prepared.

He would catch himself watching his wife with Cici in the drawing room, or strolling in the walled garden out back. If he heard her laughter, he’d pause midstep just to listen. London was giving her what the Highlands could not: warmth, familiarity, light.

And he couldn’t ignore the truth. She was better here.

Two weeks after their return, Duncan sat at his desk in the lamplit study and wrote to Lachlan about his decision.

I hate to ask you to shoulder the burden, Brother. But with Maggie improving, it’s best if we remain in London until the bairn is born.

He blotted the ink, staring at the words. It read like duty but felt like desertion. A quiet forfeiture of a role he’d readied for and worn as a second skin since the cradle.

Folding the letter, he sealed it with wax and leaned back, eyes drifting to the street beyond the tall window.

The Highland clans had been battling for centuries. That would not change in less than a year’s time. For now, what Lachlan couldn’t handle would have to wait. His wife and child came first.

***

The corridor was quiet, save for the steady tick of the longcase clock. Fiona had been on her way to the kitchens when she noticed a thin strip of light spilling into the hall from the laird’s study.

She hesitated. Duncan had locked the room before leaving; it was rarely used in his absence.

Stepping closer, she found the door ajar. Lachlan sat at the great desk, a letter in his hand.

He looked up at her approach. “’Tis from Duncan,” he said, holding up the paper a moment before glancing down again. “The mistress is better. Much stronger.”

Relief loosened the tightness in Fiona’s chest. “Thank the saints. I’d begun tae think she’d never see the far side of the sickness.”

Lachlan’s response was a flat, “Aye.” His eyes scanned farther down the page. “He says they’re staying in London until the bairn is born.”

Fiona blinked. “He must still be concerned.”

“Or perhaps Lord Rothbury prefers it there. Either way”—Lachlan folded the letter with care—“it’s probably for the best. He needs to protect the heir and the inheritance. Besides, things have calmed since they left. No mysterious mishaps, and the Camerons are mindin’ themselves.”

She studied him, weighing his words. They were calculated more than caring, but then he’d spent little time with Lady Maggie. “You’ve done well keepin’ order.”

He gave a half smile, modest but satisfied. “Someone has tae lead while the laird’s away.”

Pride warmed her, though unease lingered. She loved her home, but calm was a rarity in the Highlands.

Fiona left him to his correspondence and continued toward the kitchens.

Halfway down the stairwell, a flash of green caught her eye. Isla was ascending from the servants’ level, a silk wrap thrown carelessly over her shoulders.

Fiona slowed. In all her years here, she could not recall Isla setting foot in the kitchens for any reason, much less in the middle of the afternoon. “What business have you below stairs?”

For the briefest moment, Isla’s gaze flickered—not to Fiona’s face but over her shoulder toward the empty hall—before she smiled. “Why, to fetch something to help me sleep, of course. Your mistress once spoke of a tisane she favored. I thought to try it.”

Fiona’s brows rose. “Did ye find it?”

“Aye,” Isla replied lightly, gliding past in a waft of perfume. “I believe it will do the trick.”

Fiona stared after her, the scent lingering long after she’d vanished around the corner.

It was lavender, threaded with vanilla, and undercut by ambergris, the musk of it clinging to the air.

It was sharp, cloying, and far too heavy for the hour.

Not something she would have chosen herself.

She wrinkled her nose—not something anyone should.

In the kitchen, the scent of baking bread was a welcome change. Mrs. Craig and two scullery maids were bent over their tasks.

“I passed Isla on the stairs just now.”

The cook straightened, wiping her hands. “Aye. She came for some of the mistress’ special tea blend—the one for settling the stomach and helping with sleep. We went to fetch it from the pantry, but it was gone, and when I returned, so was Isla.”

“Gone? She said she found it.”

“Did ye see her with it? We kept it in a large tin—” Mrs. Craig lifted her hands several inches apart.

Fiona frowned. “She wasn’t carrying anything when she left. Not so much as a handkerchief.”

The cook’s mouth twisted. “’Tis odd. It was hardly something she could have tucked in her skirt. Then again, it was Isla Cameron.”

Fiona didn’t answer, but unease prickled her skin.

Isla looked fit as a fiddle, not suffering from a headache.

And her suddenly showing interest in Maggie’s special blend of tea—much less fetching it from the kitchen herself—was unheard of.

The woman never lifted a finger in her life unless it was to stir trouble.

The whole thing stank worse than a fishwife’s apron on market day and raised more questions than answers.