Page 36 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

She looked up when Maggie approached, offering what fell well short of a smile. “He used to plant in spirals,” she murmured. “Said it made the herbs grow better.”

“It’s one of the few things that seems stuck in winter—other than you.”

“I think the winter may linger and meld into the next.”

“I hurt for you, Fiona. What can I do?”

“Unless you can make me stop feeling furious, guilty, alone, and confused at how it came to this, there is nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do.”

“What about a project to focus your mind on something different?”

She looked up, curious. That was progress.

“Our need for herbs didn’t end with the winter. The courtyard is so dreary. With the crumbling section coming down, let’s make it a place for gathering, for enjoyment, for healing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m envisioning a garden. There were some of the most spectacular ones in Mayfair. You could be surrounded by walls, and a city beyond, and never know it. What do you say?” she said. “Not just for wounds and fevers. For hearts, too.”

“You mean to keep the beds?”

“Yes, and to enhance them, adding a footpath and benches, rose bushes and lilac trees.” Maggie gripped her friend’s hand. “Will you help me?”

A breath caught in Fiona’s throat then released. “Aye, but it sounds expensive.”

“Haven’t you heard. The laird’s birthday is next week. He’ll be thirty, with his wife and heir by his side. We’ll be swimming in Great-grandfather Agnus’ coin. I plan to have a celebration that will leave the old manipulative laird spinning in his grave.”

This time, Fiona actually smiled.

“I’ll need your help with that, too. And Mrs. Craig’s.”

“We haven’t had an actual party at the castle in two years. You’ll get no problems from her.”

“Perfect.” Maggie linked arms with Fiona. “So, give me your thoughts on the garden. Just please… No wood betony, pennyroyal, or lavender.”

They walked the perimeter together, Maggie listening as Fiona named plants like old friends—yarrow for protection, chamomile for calm, thyme for strength.

She pointed out a spot for a trellis with climbing roses, and where trees might be best to grant afternoon shade, and benches for quiet reflection.

Later, before dinner, Maggie was called to the laird’s study. The door was open, and Duncan and MacLeish were bent over ledgers.

“Excuse me. I must be early. I’ll come back.” She turned to leave.

Duncan rose and stopped her. “No. You’re right on time. This involves you.”

He took her arm and escorted her to his chair behind the desk. “What’s this about?”

“Your account, my lady,” MacLeish explained.

“My account?”

“Aye. Your dower funds will be fully deposited by the end of the month. The laird advised about your plans for the garden, which is a pittance to the balance, and I wanted to discuss the other improvements you had in mind.”

“A pittance? But the cost estimate for the garden is pounds. That would cover wages for several servants for a year. Or could be reinvested in livestock or land. I was actually reconsidering the fountain, which would be lovely, but unnecessary.”

Duncan reached across her and opened another ledger, pointing to a sum at the bottom of the page. Maggie counted five digits and gasped, “It’s over ￡20,000!”

“As the man said, a pittance,” he said, amused.

“And remember, that isn’t the final sum,” MacLeish advised. “The bank in Edenborough had a limit to the amount that could be transferred. The remaining third is yet to be deposited.”

“What am I to do with all that money? I truly can’t think of anything I don’t have here.”

“That’s up to you, Maggie. The funds are yours.”

“But, it’s a fortune.”

“Then spend it on yourself, make a donation tae a charitable cause, pick up a hobby.”

“Duncan…”

MacLeish gathered his papers. “I’ll leave the two of you to discuss things. Nothing needs to be decided today. Until next Wednesday, laird,” he said with a bow.

Chuckling, Duncan placed a finger beneath her chin and closed her gaping mouth. “Your father and brothers never told you?”

“No, and I never asked, with a dowry supposed to go to my husband.”

“I never wanted it, and with the inheritance and clan business back on track, I don’t need it. I’ll be happy to provide counsel, but you make the decisions. I set it up with MacLeish and the bank so that your signature on any drafts will suffice.”

“That landed poorly, I imagine. I don’t know any women, other than widows, who handle their own funds. Even my mama…”

“It’s a tidy sum, but we’re not talking about the Sommerville dukedom, lass.” Still amused, he bent and kissed her.

When he would have pulled away, her fingers curled into his vest, keeping him there. “You’re a kind, honest, generous man, and I love you. I hope you know that.”

“I do, but that’s not to say I don’t enjoy hearing it.” Another kiss and another.

Utterly stunned by the generosity of her dowry, Maggie thought long and hard about how to use the money.

Duncan insisted on providing for her and Jamie—food, clothes, furnishings for their comfort.

The money wasn’t to be used for everyday expenditures.

So, she had to be creative, but also not wasteful.

The garden was something everyone would enjoy, and useful for cooking herbs and medicine, but she wanted to spend a bit of her money on something more impactful that would change the quality of people’s lives.

She was still pondering the possibilities in the tub that evening.

Steam hung thick in the chamber, curling around the sconces and veiling the stone walls in a sultry haze.

Maggie reclined against the high back of the copper tub, her limbs loose, skin flushed from the heat.

The water lapped gently around her, infused with rose oil and crushed juniper—earthy, floral, and just sharp enough to awaken the senses.

Suddenly, it came to her. “Duncan! I have it,” she called to him through the door.

He appeared, Jamie on his shoulder. “He’s asleep,” he mouthed. “Let me put him to bed, and I’ll join you.”

She exhaled slowly, letting the warmth seep into her bones, her eyes closed, her thoughts drifting. Then—movement. A shift in the air. The subtle creak of floorboards.

She cracked one eye open.

Duncan stood over her, naked and unapologetic, steam rising from his skin like mist off a loch. His gaze was molten, fixed on her with a hunger that made her breath catch.

“Slide forward,” he said, voice low and rough, a rasp that matched the rampant desire etched across his face.

She obeyed, slowly, deliberately, the water sloshing as she made room.

He stepped in behind her, the heat of him eclipsing the bath, the world, everything.

A groan rumbled in his chest as he sank into the water, legs outside of hers, his body pressing close, her backside nestled against the hard ridge of his arousal.

His hands found her hips beneath the surface, gliding over slick skin, reverent and possessive. He bent to kiss the curve of her neck, his breath hot against her ear.

“A bathhouse,” she murmured, voice thick with pleasure, picking up where they’d left off.

“What’s that?” he asked, lips trailing down her shoulder, more interested in her than any conversation.

“I want to commission a second, larger cistern and heating system,” she said, her words faltering as his fingers traced the underside of her breast.

“Mmm…” Duncan hummed, mouth grazing her collarbone. “That’s ambitious.”

“And necessary. Everyone here works hard. Why should the laird and lady be the only ones who get to indulge? We can build it into the new north wing. No more hauling and boiling water.”

His teeth grazed her skin, just enough to make her shiver. “If you’re trying to buy the clan’s love, it’s too late. They already adore you.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I’m as sure as the sun rises.” His voice was velvet and gravel. “Now, how about you show a bit o’ that love for your laird, before our wee lad, who’s always ravenous as a bear fresh from hibernation, wakes and demands tae eat again.”

Maggie turned with a splash, water cascading over the rim. She straddled him, her thighs bracketing his, bubbles sliding down her breasts in slow rivulets. His eyes followed their descent.

“He’ll be down for two hours at least,” she said, settling onto him with a wicked smile. “Can you keep up now that you’re an old man of thirty?”

His hands gripped her hips, lifting her with ease. His voice was a growl, low and certain, when he lowered her onto his shaft. “Watch me.”

She rocked against him, slow at first, teasing, her hands braced on his shoulders. Duncan’s breath hitched, his grip tightening as she rolled her hips, the water sloshing around them in lazy waves.

“You’re torturing me,” he groaned, head falling back against the rim.

“No, I’m testing. I’ve heard older men are easily overstimulated,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss the hollow of his throat.

His laugh was strangled, half pleasure, his hands sliding down to cup her bottom. “Never too old to teach a naughty lass a lesson.”

“Promises, promises.”

She rose up, letting him nearly slip free, then sank down again with a gasp that echoed off the stone. His hands slid to her waist, guiding her, grounding her, worshipping her.

“Maggie,” he rasped, voice raw. “You feel like heaven.”

She kissed him then—deep and claiming—her fingers tangling in his wet hair, her body moving with purpose now, chasing the edge. Duncan met her rhythm, his mouth trailing fire across her collarbone, her jaw, the curve of her breast.

The heat built between them, steam rising, breath mingling, the world narrowing to this moment—this union, this love, this sanctuary carved out of stone and water and years of longing.

When she shattered around him, he caught her cry with his mouth, swallowing it. He followed a heartbeat later, buried deep, his arms wrapped tight around her, as if he could hold her there forever.

They stayed just that way despite the water cooling around them and the candlelight flickering low.

“I love you,” she whispered against his ear.

“I ken that you do, mo chridhe ,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “But hearing it never gets old.”

She laughed softly, her cheek pressed to his. “Neither do you.”

“Liar,” he said, grinning. “But I accept your apology.”