Page 4 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

The carriage rolled to a stop with a groan of tired wheels and horses breathing heavy from the long climb into the city. Rain sheeted down in cold, relentless streams, blurring the lanternlight outside the narrow windows and streaking the glass with rivulets that ran like tears.

Maggie stirred from her stiff-backed slump, blinking as the door opened and a gust of cold air swept inside.

“We’re here,” Duncan said, already stepping out into the rain.

A moment later, he appeared at the door again, his dark coat already beaded with moisture. One gloved hand reached for her.

She hesitated only a second before placing her hand in his and letting him guide her down the slick step.

The air was damp and biting, the cobbled street glistening underfoot. Somewhere nearby, a tavern bell clanged, and a cart rolled past, splashing through a puddle. Maggie’s slippered feet skidded on a patch of wet stone, and she stumbled, the ground rising quickly toward her.

Duncan caught her with a firm arm around her waist. “Easy, lass.”

She straightened, resisting the closeness but too cold and bone-tired to argue. Her head ached. Her stomach was queasy with exhaustion, and her entire body buzzed with the leftover tension of trains, carriages, and one-too-many goodbyes.

The inn before them was narrow and tucked beneath the shadow of an iron streetlamp. Not flashy but warm-looking. A carved wooden sign above the door swung in the wind, proclaiming it the Rose & Thistle.

He guided her up the few steps and inside, shielding her from the wind with the sweep of his coat.

The entry was dim and quiet. A fireplace crackled at the far end of the modest receiving room, and two velvet chairs sat near the hearth. There was no marble or gilding. No Mayfair-style pomp. Only clean floors, slightly worn rugs, and the smell of firewood and beeswax polish.

Maggie blinked at the change in temperature and atmosphere. A young maid curtsied as they entered, her eyes darting with recognition. Duncan stepped forward to speak with the innkeeper behind the desk.

“MacPherson,” he stated simply. “Your best room, as arranged.”

“Aye, laird. We’ve been expecting ye,” the innkeeper said as he plucked a brass key from its hook. “We’ll have water heated and sent up with a maid, as you requested. Yer supper can be brought to the room in the meantime, if that suits.”

Maggie barely heard the rest. She was too busy watching Duncan handle the arrangements—the suite, the maid, supper. Everything was seamless and well thought out.

Perhaps it was.

She welcomed the comfort, but, for an impromptu marriage, it bore the unsettling precision of a plan long in motion.

He turned back to her with the key in hand. “Come, mo leannan . Let’s get you warm.”

The endearment was soft and unfamiliar, but it slid through her like silk. Her heart fluttered—foolishly—and she cursed it at once.

They followed the innkeeper up the steep stairs, single file as they were too narrow to walk side by side. Maggie was acutely aware of Duncan climbing steadily behind her.

Her hand trembled as it skimmed the polished rail. She was married. By law, she was his. And every step brought her closer to the bed where she might be expected to prove it.

By the flicker of a lamp, the man led them to a room at the end of the hall. Inside, a fire danced in the hearth, and a roomy copper tub sat waiting. And the bed…the bed dominated the room—large, inviting, and utterly terrifying.

“Dinna hesitate to call on me if there’s anything else ye need.” The innkeeper gave a quick bow then closed the door behind him, leaving silence and firelight in his wake.

Maggie glanced around the room without a word, her hands clasped tight before her. She couldn’t stop shivering—not from the Highland chill but from bone-deep fatigue. And uncertainty.

Duncan moved past her with his usual quiet confidence, removing his gloves and coat. He rolled his shoulders as though shaking off the journey then glanced at her.

“You look done in, lass.”

She smoothed her hair, which had to be an utter mess, and gave a wan smile. “Ten hours on a train and two more in a carriage—I must look like I’ve been dragged through the brambles.”

His lips twitched. “You’re lovely, as always. But I’m sure you could use a fire and a dram—or maybe just a warm bed.”

“A dram won’t be nearly enough, tonight, I fear,” she said then winced. She hadn’t meant to sound so bleak. Or to suggest she needed fortification to face him . But perhaps she did. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. It wasn’t intended as a slight.”

“It came out honest,” he replied, not seeming offended. “Come sit by the fire. You’re trembling.”

She hesitated. Then, limbs heavy with fatigue, she realized denying herself comfort was only punishing herself.

With a sigh, she lowered herself onto the bench before the hearth.

The heat was welcome, but the silence that followed was not.

It settled between them like fog—thick, awkward, and unfamiliar.

Before all of this, they’d been easy together.

Comfortable. She used to know what to say, how to sit beside him without feeling as though she might shatter.

Now, with Duncan so close and the bed looming—turned down and inviting—she didn’t look at it. She couldn’t. Not when she wasn’t sure what he wanted—or worse, what he didn’t.

He leaned against the mantel, watching her. Not with desire but something quieter. Familiar. Unsettling.

“This has been a trying day,” he said, at last, fatigue threading through his voice.

“More like a trying week,” Maggie murmured, trying an understatement.

“I won’t ask anything of you tonight. You need rest. From here, we travel by carriage, starting first thing in the morning.”

She looked down, torn between gratitude and guilt. “This is our wedding night, and I know what that usually entails, but… It’s all happening so fast. I’m not ready.”

Duncan crossed to her and knelt. His hands bracketed her knees on the bench, but he didn’t touch her. His presence alone made the air feel heavier.

“I ken this has been difficult, lass.”

He wasn’t offended. Not frustrated. If anything, he looked…relieved.

That hurt more than anger would have.

She blinked hard, throat tight, and reached up to unfasten the first button of her jacket. “Could you see about the water?”

As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door. He rose immediately to answer it.

“Duncan?”

He turned, his hand on the knob.

She hesitated then said softly, “Thank you for understanding.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but his voice was calm. “I meant what I said, Maggie. I’ll give you time.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

But then he added, “Just not forever.”

She looked up, startled, but there was no threat in his expression. Only honesty. He wasn’t rushing her, but he wasn’t pretending either. This was reality and hers to face. Also, a reminder even Duncan MacPherson’s patience had its limits.

She nodded again, lips pressed together.

He lingered for just a second longer, as if he might say more, but instead opened the door and waited while the maid entered, followed by six stout men.

Two carried their bags from the coach, and the other four held a large bucket in each hand—steam rising from most of them.

When they left, Duncan followed them out, the door closing quietly behind him.

“I’m Nora, my lady,” the maid said with a bob then laid out towels and soap.

“Could you help with the buttons up the back of my gown. Then lay out a nightgown?”

The girl was efficient, and soon Maggie sank into the tub, sighing as the heat surrounded her.

“Which bag holds your nightgowns, my lady?”

“I’m not sure. You’ll have to look through them all.”

As Nora busied herself unpacking, she slid deeper into the water, closing her eyes, letting the warmth soothe her sore muscles and frayed nerves.

“Oh, my!” the maid suddenly gasped. “I’ve never seen such fine fabric. Soft and rich, like butter, it is.”

Maggie opened one eye and, through the curls of steam, saw her holding up an ivory nightgown trimmed in the palest blue ribbon. “Where did you find that?” she asked, more sharply than intended, startling the maid.

“I’m s-sorry, ma’am. It was lying atop the first bag I opened. I’ll put it back.”

“No, Nora. Excuse me for snapping. I’m tired, and surprised. I’ve never seen that before.”

She held up a small wooden box tied with a satin bow. “This was under it.” The young woman inhaled. “It smells of roses.”

“Bring it over, please.”

Eagerly, the maid rushed over. When she pulled the ribbon and lifted the lid, she let out another delighted sound.

“Scented soaps, my lady! French, I’d wager.

There’s lavender and rose and bergamot. Laird MacPherson is thoughtful, isn’t he?

Oh, look!” She held up a small pink glass bottle.

“There’s bath oil, too. Shall I add some? ”

Maggie picked up one of the soaps and inhaled the delicate rose scent. It was a small thing. A gesture. But it was intimate. Personal. The sort of gift a man might give a woman he meant to seduce—or cherish.

She replaced the soap in the box. “Not tonight. Please put it all back then check the dark blue valises. There’s a warmer nightgown packed in them somewhere.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said, sounding as disappointed as she looked.

From a true husband, such a gift on her wedding night would make any bride giddy. But that wasn’t her and Duncan, and tonight wasn’t that night. She’d wait until he gave them to her himself.

Once Nora had packed everything away, she located her nightgown, made of the softest muslin with lace trim at the collar and wrists.

Her mother had ordered it, part of her last-minute trousseau, along with several warm gowns.

Maggie had refused to take part, unwilling to lend credence to their hasty union—a farce that served only his convenience.