Page 28 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Snow blanketed the hills, turning High Glen into something out of a fairy tale. In Mayfair, Christmas would be in full swing, with evergreens in every parlor, mince pies and plum pudding, music and dancing from St. Nicholas Day to Twelfth Night.

Here, in the Highlands, it was practically nonexistent. Maggie hadn’t expected a spectacle but was heartily disappointed not to even have a Christmas tree. Her mama, who’d never spent a holiday away from Mayfair, was disheartened too.

“Yule celebrations were illegal for a time.” Duncan had explained when she inquired about it.

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Many clans feel the same. But things are changing.” He’d seen her crestfallen face and added, “You’re the lady here, Maggie. Celebrate as you wish.”

“I wouldn’t want to offend.”

“That won’t happen. Talk to MacLeish and Mrs. Craig. I’m sure a yule log and Christmas feast can be arranged and will be enjoyed by all.”

Maggie waddled down the corridor, one hand braced at her lower back, the other gripping Duncan’s arm.

It was Christmas Eve, and the baby was due any day now.

Her belly preceded her, and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen her feet, let alone put on her own boots.

At this point, she was convinced the bairn was practicing a Highland jig on her bladder.

“You’re grinning again,” she said, eyeing her husband as they reached the stairs.

“I’m just enjoying how my wife is glowing like a sunbeam.”

“You’re laughing because I’m nearly as wide as I am tall,” she huffed.

“I’d never laugh at you, mo nighean bhòidheach ,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Though I worry our larder will no’ last into the new year with your appetite.”

She elbowed him, and he grunted playfully. “So many have told me I’m eating for two, I’m simply embracing it. And you were the one who insisted I eat more bannocks. I’m merely being an obedient wife.”

“When was that single time? Remind me,” he teased, softening it with a wink.

As they entered the great hall, the scent of roasting goose and oat stuffing filled the air.

A giant yule log burned in the massive fireplace, and pine boughs draped with red ribbon and sprigs of winterberry adorned the long dining table as centerpieces.

Children ran circles around the trestle tables, cheeks flushed with excitement.

It wasn’t Mayfair, but it was warm, festive, and unmistakably hers.

“It turned out quite nice, don’t you think?”

“Aye, lass. It’s warm, festive, and not over the top. So we shouldn’t expect the bishops to be beating down our door, unless it’s to join us at the feast.”

“You’re in rare form tonight, laird.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? You’re happy and healthy, about to make me a da any day now. Calamity hasn’t struck in weeks. We have a tentative truce with the Camerons; you know whose absence casts less of a shadow. I can’t think of a better way of celebrating Christmas than being at peace.”

When the children saw her and Duncan, they made a mad dash for their places at the table.

“The laird and lady are here. Now we can eat!” Iona cheered.

“Black bun cake for me!” Peter shouted.

“Not until after the meal,” Fiona scolded then directed the placement of steaming platters with the precision of a general.

Two plump stuffed geese, carrots in a cider glaze, braised red cabbage, and clapshot—an Orkney dish of mashed potatoes and rutabaga, laden with butter and sprinkled with chives—lined the table.

Someone had made a mountain of shortbread, and whisky punch warmed in a kettle over the fire.

Maggie’s heart swelled. It wasn’t the Christmas she’d known—but it was one she’d remember.

The laughter came easily that evening. Duncan told stories of past gatherings, including the year Lachlan thought he’d caught a pudding thief.

With a victorious cry, he skewered a heaping forkful of the sweet, only to find a mouthful of haggis—his sworn childhood enemy.

One bite sent him bolting for his cider cup, sputtering curses between gulps while the family howled.

Fiona, buoyant from the spirit of the day—and perhaps a nip of whisky—confessed to nearly setting her hair on fire as a child during the ceilidh. Even the clan fiddler dusted off his strings and played a few reels that had Maggie tapping her foot beneath the table.

That night, when they were finally alone in their chamber, Duncan helped her undress, his fingers brushing over her hips and the full swell of her belly. Maggie’s breath caught. His touch was gentle, but distant. He’d been maddeningly chaste for the past several weeks.

“Do you know,” she said as he helped her into a warm flannel nightgown, “the midwife said making love could help bring on labor?”

“Did she now?” he said, voice gruff.

“Yes,” she breathed as she slid her arms around his neck, pressing her body—what she could of it other than belly—against his. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You know what I mean.” Her lips brushed his.

“I do, but I won’t risk you—or him. And I’ll no’ meet my son the first time halfway down the hall.”

“Duncan!” she gasped, half scandalized, half laughing.

He grinned then kissed her, slow and deep, full of promise and restraint. “Let’s get you into bed.”

She grunted. “I’m not yet ready, at least not to sleep,” she said pointedly.

“Shall I read to you, then?” he offered, holding firm.

“Yes,” she sighed. “I’d love to hear, ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas’? I know it’s a child’s poem, but it was a tradition at Sommerville. Papa read it every year. Then James. This year it would be Andrew.”

“I enjoyed it the few years I spent the holiday at Sommerville.”

Maggie twisted to look up at him. “That’s right. I’d forgotten. In fact, it’s hard for me to think of you as Andrew’s friend instead of my husband.”

Duncan settled her on the settee with a pillow for her back and one beneath her feet. He covered her in soft wool then retrieved a book from the cupboard against the wall.

She sat up straighter when she saw the cover. “Don’t say that you have it?”

“Aye. Your mother gave it tae me as a gift. To continue the tradition with our children.”

“She didn’t tell me.” Tears sprang to her eyes, and she sniffled. “That was so thoughtful of her.”

He sat down next to her; one arm went around her, long enough for his hand to curl possessively over her belly.

“’Tis a night of celebration, mo chridhe . Don’t cry , ” he murmured, the words low and tender.

“You know how weepy I am these days.” She dabbed her eyes with her sleeves. “And we’ve always been friends, Duncan. But that’s not very romantic for a wife and the mother of your child. Neither is ‘brown-haired girl,’ for that matter.”

“What are you talking about?”

“ Mo chridhe ,” she said, unable to wrap her tongue around the Gaelic. “My friend.”

His lips curved in amusement. “ Mo charaid ,” he said slowly, enunciating, “is my friend.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aye, I’ve been speaking Gaelic since I was a lad of two.” He chuckled. “All this time, you thought…”

Maggie wrinkled her nose at him. “Pardon me, but you’re usually saying it into my hair or my neck or growling it when you…well, you know.”

His laughter grew, warm and unguarded.

“What does it mean, then?” she asked, a little irritated.

“My heart.” He lifted her hand to his chest. “You are, have always been, and will always be my heart.”

Her lips parted. “Oh…” She felt suddenly foolish—and yet deeply moved.

His smile was tender as he leaned in and brushed her lips with his. “You can ask me anything, lass. When it comes to your atrocious Gaelic, you really should.”

“I’m learning,” she said, tilting her chin. “I know mo leannan is my sweetheart. From the beginning, that one has been mine.”

The rest of the night passed in quiet contentment. Duncan read the poem twice, Maggie’s head on his shoulder, the fire painting soft shadows over the room.

When a knock came at the door, Duncan rose reluctantly to answer it.

A footman bowed and handed him a sealed note. Duncan broke the wax, scanning the contents before his smile returned in full.

“It’s from Sommerville,” he said, glancing over at her. “Cici has delivered a healthy baby girl. Andrew says they are both doing well.”

Warmth bloomed in Maggie’s chest. “That’s the best gift of all.”

Duncan returned to her and cradled her in his arms once again. “It is, lass,” he murmured. “Until our own arrives.”

***

At dawn on the first day of the new year, Maggie’s water broke.

Duncan had never moved so fast in his life.

One moment, she was gripping his arm with a startled gasp; the next, he was out in the hall rousing the castle, barking orders to the footmen, sending for the midwife, Fiona, the village healer.

He didn’t have to send for Duchess Catherine, who was already rushing his way.

Within the hour, the chamber had transformed: basins of water steamed, clean linens were stacked at the ready, and the fire was stoked high.

Maggie, pale but composed, was breathing through the pain as she walked between her mother and Fiona.

“Shouldn’t she be in bed?” he asked, when she bent double at a longer, harsher pain.

“Walking helps the babe along,” the midwife reassured him.

He tried to stay. He wanted to stay. But the healer—stern and seasoned—shooed him out with a sharp gesture.

“She’s holding back for you,” she said. “Go. Let her do what she must.”

He protested, of course. But Fiona and the dowager backed her up. Maggie nodded, eyes tight with pain.

So he kissed her and left.

Now, he paced the corridor, a man possessed, boots echoing against the stone floor, hands clenched at his sides. Lachlan, father of three, had pressed a glass of whiskey into his hand.

“Drink,” he said. “It helps.”

“Nothing will until this is done,” Duncan muttered but drank anyway.

Hours passed. Snow piled against the windows. Servants came and went with fresh linens and towels. Duncan asked questions no one could answer. Most often, he demanded, “How much longer?” He cursed the healer’s silence—and prayed to gods he didn’t believe in.

And then—just after the tenth hour—a cry rang out.

Sharp. Lusty. Alive.

Duncan didn’t wait. He crashed through the chamber door without knocking, heart in his throat, eyes searching for her.

Maggie lay against the pillows, damp curls clinging to her forehead, her nightgown rumpled, her cheeks flushed with exhaustion. In her arms, swaddled in soft wool, was a squalling, ruddy-cheeked bairn with a shock of dark hair and lungs that could wake the glen.

Duncan stopped short, breath stolen.

Fiona stepped aside, smiling through tears. The midwife gave a nod of approval. The healer inched up next to him and laid her hand on his arm. “’Tis a braw lad, laird. Congratulations.”

Duncan crossed to the bed and dropped to his knees beside it.

Maggie looked at him, eyes glassy but radiant. “Are you all right?”

“You’re askin’ me that? Lass, you’re a wonder.”

“I thought we might name him after my brother and your father, who we lost last year,” she whispered hoarsely. “James Donal MacPherson.”

Duncan nodded, unable to speak. His throat burned. His eyes stung. He reached out, cradled his son’s tiny head, and pressed a kiss to Maggie’s damp brow.

“’Tis a fine name,” he managed.

He wrapped them both in his arms as the bells in the village chapel echoed across the snowy glen, heralding his son’s arrival.

And, for the moment, all was well.