Page 6 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Dawn seeped through the gauzy curtains in soft gray light.

Maggie stirred beneath the heavy woolen blankets, blinking blearily as she shook off the heaviness of sleep.

A cocoon of warmth enveloped her, clean linens, the faint tang of last night’s soap, and the unmistakable scent of Duncan: sun-warmed leather, pine, and something deeper, like the memory of a walk after a spring rain.

He lay beside her, one arm draped loosely around her waist, his breath slow and even.

His face was turned toward hers, close enough that she could trace the curve of his cheekbone with her gaze.

Even in sleep, he was arresting—lashes dark as soot against sun-bronzed skin, that familiar cleft in his chin, and dark hair tousled from the pillow, curling softly at the ends.

“Good morning, mo bhean ,” Duncan murmured, his voice thick with sleep and threaded with that low Highland burr that always made her chest tighten.

She flushed, caught in the act of admiring him. “That’s Gaelic. What does it mean?”

“My wife,” he answered huskily, shifting closer. His hand found her cheek, brushing aside a tangle of hair with the rough pad of his thumb. “I could get used tae waking like this. You beside me, hair tousled, lips softly parted, cheeks pink as blush roses.”

“You’re a poet in the mornings, I see.”

His raspy, “Nah,” washed over her, low and warm, as his thumb traced the curve of her cheek. “Just a husband enjoying his first dawn with his bonny bride.”

Her chest tightened. It wasn’t teasing. Not entirely.

Before she could respond, he propped himself on an elbow. “You’ve got thirty minutes before I come back to escort you down to breakfast. Use it wisely.”

“Only thirty—”

That wouldn’t be enough time to request heated water to wash, but he was already moving. Any argument slipped away, along with the blankets, revealing far more of him than she’d ever dared imagine.

Her gaze drifted over him as he strode across the room, bare as the day he was born, broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, the muscles of his back shifting with each step, and lower—taut buttocks and sinewy thighs.

“Merciful heavens,” she whispered, half horrified, half awed.

After tugging on his trousers and shirt, he sat to pull on his boots. Then he twisted and, with a wicked grin, kissed her parted lips. “Only twenty-five minutes left after your gawking. No more dawdling.”

The door shut behind him a moment later, leaving Maggie wide-eyed and very much awake.

***

The carriage rattled over cobblestones then settled into the smoother rhythm of country roads winding north. Maggie sat angled toward the window, chin propped on her gloved hand. The early morning frost had melted, but the air still bit—the gray clouds matching her mood.

Duncan reclined on the seat across from her, in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, the linen stretched taut over the muscles of his folded arms. She kept her gaze fixed on the hills beyond the window, feigning interest in the sweeping landscape.

It wasn’t easy with his unwavering regard—silent, unmoving, and completely fixated on her.

He was…immense. His thighs took up most of the space that wasn’t dominated by his broad shoulders.

His sandy-brown hair, streaked with russet, curled faintly where the dampness had touched it.

Though his neck and cheeks were smooth, a beard had begun to shadow his jaw since leaving London.

It lent him a wildness that suited his nature far better than the civility of Mayfair ever had.

He cleared his throat softly. “You’ve barely spoken since we left the inn.”

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, eyes still fixed on the window.

“Think aloud, then.” His voice was low, not unkind—but firm, unmistakable steel in his resolve. “We can’t go on in silence. Not if we’re going to make this work.”

She blinked at the glass. “What is this, then? A business arrangement? A truce?”

“It’s a marriage. And it will be a true one.”

That struck something deep in her chest. “Even if I’m not ready?”

“I’ll wait,” he assured her. “But I won’t walk on eggshells around you. Not when we’ve known each other practically our whole lives.”

That pulled a reluctant smile from her. “We’ve grown a lot since I was a girl of five and you a gangly youth of fifteen. Especially you. Do you realize how enormous you are now?”

He blinked. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”

“Yes. You tower over me. Your kin will too.” She folded her arms across her chest, chin tilting in quiet defiance. “What will they say when they see me?”

He didn’t hesitate. “They’ll say the laird married the loveliest woman in all of London.”

“And?”

“And they’ll watch you like hawks, wondering if you’re strong enough to thrive among wolves.”

She met his gaze squarely. “Am I?”

“You’re a MacPherson now. So, yes.”

She frowned, skeptical. “A new last name hardly factors.”

“You’ll fit in,” he said with quiet certainty.

“How long will that take, do you think? I won’t know a soul.”

“You’ll know the laird.” He leaned forward slightly. “It didn’t take him long to get to know you.”

Her stomach gave a traitorous flutter. She turned her head away to hide the color rising in her cheeks. “I may be small, but I’m not as fragile as I look.”

“I ken there’s an iron backbone behind all that silk,” he said without hesitation. “It will serve you well in the Highlands.”

She glanced at him, and something unspoken passed between them—warm and steady— the same as before. She longed for the easygoing manner they used to have. Could she trust it, though? And trust him?

She smoothed her gloves. The truth hovered at the back of her throat: that her heart had been his long before her name; that she had loved him, in her quiet way, for years.

The carriage hit a rut, jostling them both. She grabbed the window frame for balance. Duncan braced himself on the wall, but his eyes were on her, steady and watchful.

She shifted uncomfortably, and her gaze returned to the window. She wasn’t yet ready to bare her heart, if ever. He’d fooled her once, and she didn’t want to risk it again.

Outside, the trees began to thin. The distant rise of the Highlands broke through the fog like ancient sentinels.

He pointed out Loch Ericht, glinting near the western ridge of MacPherson land, and the towering peaks of Ben Alder, where—more than a century ago—chieftain Cluny MacPherson had hidden in a cave for nine years, evading the English after the Jacobite massacre at Culloden.

They were getting close.

Despite her Scottish roots, Maggie was a stranger in a strange land. And she wasn’t sure she was ready. Or, if she ever would be.