Page 26 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Duncan MacPherson had never been a man who accepted charity easily.

Pride was bred into his bones, stitched into every thread of his clan’s tartan.

Yet here he sat—in a velvet-lined private car his brother-in-law had arranged—surrounded by comforts he hadn’t paid for and couldn’t afford.

He’d sold off what wasn’t entailed from his Rothbury estates: horses, heirlooms, even the silver.

And still, the ledgers refused to balance, no matter how tightly he cinched the purse strings.

High Glen remained intact for now. But the ledgers were bleeding, and the land itself seemed to be slipping away beneath his feet. They had to hold on a few months longer then he could make everything right with their creditors and repay Andrew every penny.

Maggie lay curled beside him, her bonnet tipped low, fingers loosely entwined with his beneath the loosely woven wool blanket he’d covered her with. She’d been lively that morning, chatting with him and her mother until lunch, and only now had sleep claimed her.

He looked up as the dowager duchess took the seat across from them, her gloved hands folded over a slim, leather-bound volume.

Her gaze flicked to Maggie with the sharp, vigilant eye of a mother hawk.

But when she glanced his way, he caught something else—calculated concern, quiet dread, and perhaps a glimmer of doubt about the wisdom of this return.

Lord knows, he’d had more than a glimmer.

“I need to have a frank discussion with you, my lord,” she said, her voice low and serious.

“Why waste time with any other kind, Your Grace,” Duncan replied.

She hesitated then looked to Maggie, her expression softening before becoming resolute. “Don’t take offense, but I must ask plainly. Do you trust everyone residing under your roof—with your wife and child’s lives?”

The question should have caught him off guard, but it was one he’d asked himself countless times. Isla and Agnes came immediately to mind.

“Maggie has shared about our permanent guest and her champion, I take it,” he said cautiously.

Catherine nodded then tapped the book in her lap. The gilt title glinted faintly in the afternoon light: Compendium of Medicinal and Domestic Herbs . “I’ve had a suspicion for some time.”

Duncan raised a brow but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

She flipped the book open to a marked page and handed it to him.

The header read: Pennyroyal .

Its uses included digestive aid, skin treatment, insect repellant—and abortifacient.

As he continued scanning the page, the dowager summarized the important parts.

“The herb can be lethal in high doses. As it slowly kills you, it can cause nausea, vomiting, dizziness, weight loss, and hallucinations, to name a few.”

He looked up sharply. “You don’t think Maggie—”

“Never,” she affirmed decisively.

“Then…you’re suggesting someone…poisoned her?”

“I think that something doesn’t add up,” Catherine said carefully. “Maggie has never been a sickly girl. Never prone to nerves, not one to wilt. This”—she gestured toward the book she gripped—“would explain much, wouldn’t it?”

He pulled Maggie closer, his arm sliding around her shoulders. He needed her near, needed to feel her warmth and weight beside him. Safe. Alive.

His mother-in-law’s discerning gaze met his. “The only question left is who would do this? Who would do this—who hates or resents her, or perhaps you, enough to want rid of the child? And to forego the inheritance the child secures.”

His mind raced as he considered the possible culprits. Isla, with her erratic moods. Agnes, embittered since her laird husband’s death, her influence waning. Or someone else he never imagined—someone not obvious but cloaked in civility and shadows.

Catherine reclaimed the book from him and closed it with a snap. “With the slow dosing of the herb,” she murmured, “no one would suspect it was more than pregnancy sickness. It’s a cruel plan, but quite clever.”

“You mean diabolical,” he said hoarsely. The rage boiling inside him must have bled into Maggie; she stirred but didn’t wake. When he spoke again, it was softer, but with no less dread. “And I’m returning her tae that viper’s pit.”

“She will be well guarded, but we must be vigilant. Nothing she ingests will be prepared by other than a loyal hand—if I have to do it myself.”

The train’s wheels clacked beneath them, but in Duncan’s ears, the sound had turned to thunder—relentless, rising, deafening. He would find the villain. And they would pay—painfully.

He looked up, squinting against the flicker of afternoon light through the window as he met Catherine’s gaze. Her composure, her cunning to have figured this out, her willingness to travel north and endure the drafty halls of MacPherson Castle for his wife and child’s sake humbled him.

“I’m grateful you are accompanying us.”

“I wouldn’t miss the birth of my first grandson for anything.”

“You sound certain Maggie will have a son.”

Catherine shrugged, the gesture light, almost amused. “A mother knows.”

“Andrew and Cici’s bairn may arrive first.”

“Yes, but she’s carrying high and devouring confections as though they were going out of fashion. They will give me a granddaughter,” she said confidently. “And frankly, a little girl who wraps him around her finger is exactly what my sometimes-too-arrogant son deserves.”

Duncan smiled faintly. Having this woman as an ally eased the tension in him just enough to let the moment settle. Her children had inherited her strength, her intellect, her resolve. His thoughts drifted to the moment Andrew had pulled him aside at Sommerville House.

“If you fail her again,” he warned. “If anything happens to her or my mother—I will not forgive you, and I will never forget.”

It hadn’t been a threat but a promise of reckoning.

Catherine rose, laid a hand on his shoulder—reassuring, in yet another show of support. Then she returned to her seat and signaled the porter. She sipped her wine and stared out the window, her expression carved from granite.

Maggie shifted beside him, her fingers tightening around his.

He would protect her. Not just with guards and midwives or her formidable mama. But with every ounce of vigilance he possessed.

This time, he would not fail.

***

The carriage crested the final rise, wheels jostling over uneven earth where the old bridge had once stood.

The new stonework was sound enough, but Duncan noted a flaw in the arch—too shallow, not reinforced the way he would’ve done it.

Still, he hadn’t been here to oversee the rebuild, so he held his tongue.

As the castle came into view, Duncan assessed it with a builder’s eye and a brother’s skepticism.

The north tower showed fresh cracks near the parapet, and the rotting stairs had been removed—a good thing.

But the western wall bore new fortifications, heavier than needed, which he had vetoed before.

It was as if they expected a siege. The crest above the gate had been reworked—still MacPherson, but the stag now faced north, antlers sharpened—the replacement couldn’t have come cheap.

Lachlan hadn’t mentioned any of it in his letters. He could already feel the weight of unspoken expenditures.

Maggie shifted beside him, wincing slightly as she adjusted her posture.

Her belly was pronounced now, the curve unmistakable beneath her traveling cloak.

Duncan remembered his mother’s complaints—he’d been a large bairn, stubborn even in the womb.

He prayed his wee wife wouldn’t suffer the same.

It was another worry to add to the growing heap.

Across from them, Duchess Catherine peered out at the ancient stone edifice. She didn’t scoff or sigh—she simply took it in. Scotland was in her blood, diluted by Mayfair but not forgotten.

“Well,” she said at last, voice dry as a well-aged claret, “it’s still standing. That’s something.”

Maggie turned to Duncan and deadpanned, “You see now where I get it.”

He smiled faintly, but his grip on her hand tightened as the carriage rolled into the courtyard.

They were met with a flurry of movement—kin emerging from the great hall, boots crunching on gravel, voices raised in greeting.

Lachlan was first, his arms wide, his smile genuine.

MacLeish followed, more reserved but no less warm.

Behind them, a few of the tenants and house staff gathered, nodding respectfully, murmuring welcomes.

But it was Fiona who caught Duncan’s eye.

She didn’t wait for her turn. She moved quickly, intercepting him by the new raised garden beds.

“What’s planted here?” he asked, more from surprise at seeing something else new than true curiosity.

“Herbs for cooking and medicine that need protecting from deer and rabbits.”

“Hmm,” he grunted. It wasn’t a bad idea. And it couldn’t have cost much more than the lumber.

“Laird,” Fiona pressed with urgency for his attention. “She canna stay.”

He blinked, surprised. “Who? Maggie’s mother?”

“Nay,” she said impatiently. Her eyes flicked behind him then back. “We canna speak here.”

Duncan glanced around, spotting a merchant’s cart draped in canvas, parked near the old well.

“Come,” he said, and led her behind it, the fabric flapping faintly in the breeze. “Now. Explain who can’t stay—and why.”

“Isla,” Fiona whispered. “Since Maggie left fer London, she’s been…different. Not grievin’. Not melancholy. Manic.”

Duncan’s jaw flexed, rife with suspicion.

“She danced in the corridor, Duncan. Laughed as if Maggie’s leavin’ was a gift. Then, when word came you were bringin’ her back—she changed. Pacin’. Nervous-like. She’s waiting for somethin’. Or plannin’ it.”

“There won’t be any planning. She’s gone,” he said without hesitation.

Fiona caught her breath. “Truly? What about the Camerons?”