Page 5 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

“You’ve been very kind,” she told the maid with a faint smile. “But I can manage the rest on my own.”

The girl curtsied. “Of course, my lady. I’ll go check and see if your supper is ready.”

Once the door closed, Maggie exhaled.

Alone on her wedding night. How long would Duncan wait? He’d said it gently, but the clock was ticking.

She wasn’t na?ve. The terms of his inheritance were clear, and she’d heard enough hushed conversations between her brother and the solicitors. Duncan needed an heir. And soon.

The worst part was…she wasn’t angry anymore.

She was scared.

Because no matter how thoughtful he’d been—how careful, how steady—she didn’t know if she could give him what he needed before his patience ran out. Before hers did.

And if she failed him, what would that make her? A disappointment. A burden. A wife in name only.

A noise in the hallway had her tensing, but no one knocked.

Hurriedly, before supper arrived, she reached for the bar of soap provided by the inn.

It was grainy-looking, not the smooth-milled kind Duncan had bought.

She lifted the bar of soap to her nose and grimaced.

It smelled faintly of lye—sharp, sour, and nothing like the smooth-milled kind Duncan had bought.

“Aye, well,” Maggie muttered, scrubbing at her arms. “Bit off yer nose tae spite yer face, didn’t ya, lass?”

Her imitation of Duncan’s brogue was far from perfect, but the words rang true—and stung a little more than she expected.

***

The tavern was warm and low-lit, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and hops. Duncan sat in a quiet corner near the hearth, a tankard of ale in front of him and a dram of whiskey untouched beside it.

He stared into the amber depths, but the burn in his chest came neither from the fire nor the drink.

Upstairs, in the room he’d arranged with care, his wife lay alone.

It wasn’t how he’d imagined their first night together.

He hadn’t expected passion. Not after a ceremony rushed by scandal and a journey long enough to wring anyone dry. But he had hoped for something more than silence—more than the tight, wary look in her eyes when she’d whispered, “It’s too soon.”

Even by rail, the journey from London had been exhausting. She hadn’t eaten properly. Hadn’t slept. She’d said it gently, and he hadn’t argued.

He wouldn’t be the man who pressed his new bride into something she wasn’t ready to give.

Still, leaving her in that fire-warmed room—knowing she was finally his—had tested every ounce of his self-control.

He reached for the whiskey and drained it in a single swallow. It didn’t help.

He’d planned this journey to ease things for her—to keep her from the whispers in London, the cold stares of society. The private train car alone had cost more than he could justify with the state of the MacPherson accounts, but she’d needed comfort and privacy and to feel safe with him.

She hadn’t asked for any of it. But she’d accepted it, and he’d taken that as a small victory.

Still, she didn’t understand—not truly—why he’d really married her.

It hadn’t been for the fortune. Or the estate. Or even to meet the damned stipulations that hung over his thirtieth birthday like a noose.

A burst of laughter erupted from the far end of the tavern, followed by the scrape of a chair and the unmistakable stagger of boots on uneven floorboards.

Duncan didn’t look up until a man lurched past his table, swaying with the weight of drink and cheer.

His coat was damp, his cheeks ruddy, and his smile loose with ale.

He caught Duncan’s eye and raised his tankard in a sloppy salute. “To wives, eh?” he slurred. “May they be warm, willing, and no’ too quick to scold.”

Duncan’s jaw tightened. He gave a curt nod, saying nothing.

The man chuckled and moved on, weaving toward the bar with all the grace of a ship in a storm.

He stared into his empty glass, the echo of the toast ringing hollow.

Warm. Willing. Silent.

That wasn’t Maggie. And thank God for it.

She was fire and flint, pride and poetry. She’d never be easy. Never be simple.

But she was his. If only she believed it.

He leaned back in his chair, the tavern’s warmth suddenly stifling. The laughter, the clatter, the smell of ale—it all felt distant. He wasn’t meant to be here, drinking alone while his new bride lay upstairs, wondering if she was wanted.

She was so very wrong. He couldn’t imagine not wanting her.

He closed his eyes, a memory returning.

Her come-out ball.

She was nineteen, a year delayed by mourning her father.

The loss had left its mark in the subtle grace of her bearing, in the way she held her chin a little higher than the rest, as if daring the world to knock her down again.

She wasn’t just beautiful—she was radiant, grown.

A woman who’d faced grief and kept her fire.

She’d worn pale blue—a shade that brought out the clarity in her eyes and turned every head in the room. The diamonds in her dark hair sparkled like stars. And when she stepped onto the floor for the first time, admiring murmurs had rippled through the ballroom.

He’d claimed the first waltz, entering his name on her dance card before any other man could.

She’d accused Andrew of putting him up to it, which he’d adamantly denied.

But when he took her in his arms, she’d beamed up at him, curtsying afterward with that same wicked glint she’d given him since she was five.

He could have danced every set with her, but that would have been taken as a declaration. And it hadn’t been time.

Not yet.

So he’d stepped back, jaw clenched, watching one puffed-up peacock after another line up to take their turn.

He let her smile, laugh, and flirt, wondering if any of them truly saw her—as he did.

As more than Sommerville’s sister. If any of them knew she was bold beneath her polish, fierce behind her silken armor.

That first night, none would know she had a mind as quick as her tongue and a will of iron when she set her course.

And that sometimes, the way she looked at him—seeing everything—robbed him of breath.

He’d known it then. With aching certainty.

But he’d waited.

Until waiting threatened to cost too much—and the choice had finally, blessedly, become his.

Now she wore his ring, bore his name, and lay in his bed, yet still didn’t believe she was truly wanted.

And that wound cut deep.

Duncan scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t told her—not truly. Hadn’t made her see that this wasn’t convenience or duty or desperation.

It was love. He’d always loved her.

And, if he wasn’t careful, he might lose her—before he ever had her at all.