Page 32 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

The morning after the storm dawned bright and clear, as if the night’s tragedy had been swept away. Yet the castle remained unnervingly still.

The shock of Isla’s violent death rippled through High Glen.

Her fall echoed the fate of Anne MacPherson two centuries before—both women troubled, both lost to madness.

Whispers stirred among villagers and merchants, and murmurs passed quietly through the clan.

The women of the household moved softly through the corridors, as if fearing to disturb any unsettled spirits who still lingered.

Fiona stood at the edge of the courtyard, shawl pulled tight against the lingering chill, watching Duncan oversee the dismantling of the north wing.

The men moved with grim purpose, boots crunching over frostbitten earth as they hauled timber and stone.

The tower loomed above them, skeletal and defiant—but it would not stand much longer.

Duncan had made that clear.

She’d heard him say it—voice low, eyes dark—that he didn’t care about cost or council approval. The north wing and tower would come down, even if he had to tear them apart with his bare hands.

Maggie had said little. She kept Jamie close, her gaze distant, her voice barely above a whisper. Fiona brought her tea and oat cakes, but Maggie only murmured “thanks” and returned to rocking her son.

Fiona’s heart ached for her, unable to fathom the terror of nearly losing a child, of seeing him actually slip through her fingers.

Of how the mistress would have shattered if the laird hadn’t caught Jamie in time.

The thought alone made Fiona’s eyes sting with tears as she bowed her head and offered a quiet prayer for healing.

Just after the noon meal, the Camerons arrived.

The courtyard was slick with mud, the air heavy with smoke from the bonfire of rotting wood out back.

Horses stamped and snorted, their breath misting in the cold.

Ewen Cameron, the clan chieftain, dismounted stiffly and approached Duncan with a guarded expression.

Behind him, a cart carrying a pine box stood ready to receive Isla’s body, to be returned to Tor Castle for burial.

Fiona stood at the top of the keep’s steps, arms folded, watching with quiet dread. The tension between the two lairds was palpable.

“She never was right in the head,” Ewen said. “But I dinna ken how bad it was.”

Duncan’s voice rang out across the courtyard.

“Aye, you did. I warned you when I sent her back.” He stepped forward until only inches separated them.

“Your problem, Cameron, as I’ve been telling you for months—when I’ve tried futilely to get you tae see what is best for both our clans—you do nae look beyond the tip of your nose. ”

The courtyard stilled. Only the snort of the horses broke the silence.

Fiona held her breath. Duncan’s words were fighting words.

From the top of the stairs came the soft, burbling coo of a bairn. Every head turned.

Maggie had come outside and stood with Jamie nestled against her shoulder. Her eyes were clear, her voice steady. “Hasn’t there been enough conflict between the MacPhersons and Camerons?” she asked. “It’s past time to settle it—before someone else gets hurt. Or dead.”

Ewen looked up, studying her. “Yer wife and son, I take it?”

Duncan murmured, “Aye. I’ve been reminded recently, she’s the heart of our family.”

Ewen gave a slow nod. “Fer a sassenach, she’s got the spine of a Highlander.”

Duncan’s mouth quirked. “You should’ve seen her last night when her bairn was threatened.”

Ewen’s gaze lingered on Maggie then dropped to the pine box. He sighed, the years of feuding and other pine boxes clearly weighing on him.

“I’m filled with grief and regret,” he said quietly. “For what she did and for what we failed to prevent. Please accept my apology, on behalf of every Cameron.”

Duncan nodded once. “I accept. And my wife is right. It’s past time to settle our differences. What about the terms?”

Ewen looked him in the eye, unblinking for a moment then extended his hand. “Agreed.”

Duncan clasped it, firm and final.

The clans were finally at peace.

As the Camerons turned to leave, the pine box secured to the back of a cart, Maggie pressed her lips to Jamie’s brow and whispered something Fiona couldn’t hear.

But she saw the look in Duncan’s eyes as he climbed the steps to join them—relief, pride, and something deeper. Conviction. That whatever challenge the MacPhersons faced next, they’d face together.

***

Fiona steadied herself with a hand on the wall as she climbed the steps from the cellar.

It wouldn’t do to fall, not with the bairn only a few weeks away.

In her other hand, she carried a bottle of ginger wine—the special blend, boiled, not fermented—that she could enjoy while everyone else had their beer and whiskey.

She sure missed relaxing with a dram in front of the fire at the end of a long day.

On the way back to the main hall, she passed the entry to the west wing. Once reserved for honored guests, Isla had claimed it long ago. No one else had wished to sleep within reach of a madwoman, and so it had remained hers—until now. The wing stood deserted, its silence heavy.

She should gather the women and have it scrubbed from top to bottom. Heaven knew they needed the space. But not yet.

She had turned to go when a sound drifted from the corridor. Faint. Fragile.

Was that…weeping?

She had come to live at the High Glen seven years ago. Long enough to know the stories. Long enough to wonder if, one day, she might encounter the red-haired lady herself.

With her heart thudding, she moved slowly down the hall.

The door to Isla’s chamber stood ajar, and she almost turned back.

Instead, she held her breath and pushed it wider.

Inside, Agnes sat on the edge of the bed, tears on her cheeks.

It took her aback, having never seen her mother-in-law cry, even when she buried her husband.

She was surrounded by the scattered contents of emptied drawers.

Her shoulders shook with quiet sobs, though she wiped at her face quickly when she saw Fiona.

“Sorry tae disturb. I’ll leave ye alone to grieve.”

“No. Stay,” she called, surprising Fiona.

Agnes had come to accept her in time, but she wasn’t what she’d call friendly. More tolerant than warm, she showed affection only toward Lachlan and their three lads.

“I am alone now. ’Tis why I’m sittin’ in here weeping.”

“That’s not true. You have family.”

“Aye, but I’m the only Cameron in a house full of MacPhersons.” She eyed her swollen belly. “Soon to be one more. I best start makin’ my peace with it.”

“The laird offered you a place with your clan.”

Fiona’s observation got a reaction.

“Is that what ye want? To be well rid of me?”

“Oh no! I dinna mean that at all. Truly.” Seeking a safer subject, Fiona looked around. “I thought you cleaned Isla’s room out months ago.”

“I meant to, but dinna, hoping she might come back,” Agnes muttered, tossing aside a crumpled kerchief. “D’ye ken she never let me in here? Not once, all these years.”

“You took care of her. Defended her, even though she was troubled. I’m sure she knew you loved her.”

“The lass was the spittin’ image of her mother, my twin sister, Alma. How could I nae?”

Och, a twin. That explained her devotion to her niece. Fiona was astounded by what she’d learned in five minutes about a woman she’d known for seven years.

Fiona stepped inside, offering hesitantly, unsure how Agnes would take it. “I could help going through everything.”

“Aye,” she said, surprising her again. “I thought tae find things to remember her by.”

“Where shall I start?”

Agnes waved her hand. “Anywhere you please.”

Fiona tossed a pillow for her knees onto the floor in front of a half-open trunk with garments spilling out.

When she raised the lid fully, the scent of lavender overwhelmed her.

She coughed, cleared her throat, and began sorting through dresses.

They were all either the green Isla favored or in the Cameron plaid.

Shoes to match, and a few trinkets, which she passed to Agnes.

Tucked in the corner, she found a tin. She lifted it and pried open the lid. It was filled with dried herbs. Holding it to her nose, her brows pinched at the pungent odor.

She turned to Agnes. “Do ye have more light?”

The older woman lit a lamp and brought it closer. “What is it?”

Fiona spread some of the leaves on her palm. “Tea and herbs,” she said, sifting through them. “Chamomile, and…” She looked up at her mother-in-law in dawning horror. “Pennyroyal.”

Agnes grabbed her hand and drew it near for a better look. “That is no’ pennyroyal.” She stuck her pinky in it and took a small taste. “As I thought. It’s wood betony for headaches. Isla complained of them often.”

As she had the day Fiona encountered her near the kitchens. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“Aye. They look and smell alike, which is why they’re mistaken for each other, often with dire results.”

Fiona sat back on her heels, her thoughts racing. “It makes perfect sense. She was probably beside herself when it dinna work.”

Agnes frowned. “What are ye saying?”

“What would happen if someone ingested too much wood betony over time?”

“I’m no healer, but I’d guess they’d become terribly ill.”

“How so?”

“Stomach upset, dizziness, and fallin’ off.”

“The same as Maggie,” she whispered.

“I wish ye’d stop mutterin’ and explain,” Agnes grumbled.

“The mistress’ special tea was stored in a tin like this one. Isla found that out somehow and tampered with it, using what she thought was pennyroyal tae make Lady Maggie miscarry.”

The older woman shook her head. “I dinna think Isla was capable—”