Page 7 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Maggie leaned against the carriage window, watching pine forests crowd the hills, their branches tangled and dark. The peaks beyond looked ancient and jagged—less welcoming than the gentle slopes she’d passed south of the border.

The last leg of their journey wasn’t long; it only felt that way.

The coach jolted over ruts and uneven stone. The narrow, winding road to MacPherson Castle was no better.

Duncan’s voice cut through the quiet. “Around the next turn, you’ll see our home.”

More nervous than excited, Maggie craned her neck to see.

Then it came into view—a fortress carved from stone.

Arched windows stared down like judgmental eyes, and a high tower jutted upward, its peak swallowed in the fog.

The white water of the river alongside the road echoed off the rock, adding to the overwhelming sense that this place was built to endure—weather, war, and time.

The carriage came to a halt in a wide courtyard framed by high walls and slate roofs. More than a dozen onlookers flanked the stone steps. Servants and clansfolk alike had gathered to get a glimpse of the new Lady MacPherson.

Duncan stepped out first.

While she felt frazzled and rumpled, he was immaculate—an English lord incarnate. Slate-gray coat, tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders and trim waist. Crisp white cravat. Gloves. Polished boots.

Everything about him said Mayfair, not moorland. Maggie had seen him in this mode before, the man who navigated ballrooms and could exchange witty barbs with matrons twice his age.

But as he helped her down, his hand tightened subtly around hers, his voice dropping.

“Prepare yourself. The Highlands speak differently.”

She nodded, spine straightening, and faced the small crowd. The few murmured phrases, “ Hoo’s yersel the nicht ?” and “ Fàilte, mistress. Lang may yer lum reek ,” were greetings, she assumed, from the nods and bobs.

An older man stepped forward and bowed formally. “ Guid e’en tae ye , Lady MacPherson.”

She glanced at Duncan, uncertain. “I don’t know much Gaelic. Do any of them speak English?”

He chuckled. “That was English, Maggie.”

“ Lang may yer lum reek is English?”

“Long may your chimney smoke,” he translated.

She looked at him to see if he was jesting.

“It’s a wish for prosperity. As good as saying , may your home always be warm and full of life.”

“That’s lovely, but are you sure I haven’t wandered into a Waverly novel by Sir Walter Scott?”

“Dinna fash, lass. Ye’ll ken the way o’ it soon enou’, mo leannan .”

“Don’t you start, too, Duncan MacPherson,” she hissed just for him through a plastered-on smile.

He grinned while patting her hand. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

Most of the clan watched her—not with hostility but with the cautious detachment reserved for someone who might pass through their halls but not stay.

Among them was a tall, willowy woman wrapped in a green tartan with navy and dark red stripes. Her face held no warmth. Her eyes didn’t blink. The greeting she offered Maggie was a nod so slight, it might have been a twitch.

Maggie leaned toward Duncan. “Who is that?”

His gaze went directly to her, which was telling. “Isla Cameron,” he said, adding no further details. “Should you like to see your new home and rest before supper?”

Something in his tone made Maggie tuck that name away, but she was eager to see the castle, gripping his arm tighter as he escorted her up the wide stone steps.

The massive iron-bound doors creaked open, revealing a vaulted entryway lit by glass-paned sconces that cast a golden glow on the polished flagstones beneath their feet.

The scent that met her was not of mildew and age—but something far more inviting: roasted meat, baked bread, and a hint of rosemary.

Dinner was being prepared, and the warmth drifting in the corridors from the kitchens was an unexpected welcome.

It was still a castle—ancient, thick-walled, and drafty—but the signs of modernization were visible: clean floors, brass fixtures, fresh paint here and there, and rugs laid down to soften footfalls and ward off the Highland chill.

Duncan kept her close, nodding to the handful of figures that emerged from shadowed hallways and side doors. He offered names as they passed—Mrs. Duff the housekeeper, a kitchen maid called Brigid, the steward, MacLeish—but there were too many, and her nerves too frayed, to hold them all.

“They don’t expect you to remember just yet,” Duncan assured her. “You’ll meet them again—when you’re not hungry and tired after a long journey.”

She nodded mutely, welcoming the reassurance of his steady hand on her back. The space wasn’t ample; it was vast. She predicted the times she’d get lost before learning her way would number in the twenties, if not thirties. The eyes that followed her—though respectful—were wary, not warm.

At the foot of the main staircase, two auburn-haired children crouched near the bottom step, tossing pebbles and snatching them in midair.

“Is that a game?” Maggie asked.

“Aye. We called it knucklebones when I was a lad, but then we played it with sheep bones instead of stones.”

“Gads,” she exclaimed under her breath.

A woman appeared, speaking rapid Gaelic as she corralled the children and dipped a curtsey to Duncan. He nodded in return before leading Maggie upstairs.

The smooth oak banister was another nod to the 19 th century.

Above, an iron chandelier flickered with oil flames rather than gas, however.

They did the job, though, illuminating the entry, the stairs, and the upper landing.

The second-floor hallway was long and tall, with homey touches—a vase of winter holly, a ticking longcase clock, and a plush runner from end to end.

She was relieved, half expecting herb-scented rushes to line the floors.

Duncan paused before a heavy door of oiled wood.

“Our chambers,” he said, opening it without ceremony. “We’ll share them.”

He didn’t say it as a command, but it wasn’t a question either.

Maggie lifted her chin. “We will?”

“Aye.” He turned to meet her gaze. “This is your home now. And I am your husband.”

From the firmness of his comment, Maggie suspected that the forever he wouldn’t wait was up tonight.

He held the door for her, and she brushed by him. The laird’s chamber was roomy and stately, if not luxurious. A four-poster bed stood at its center, draped in a soft woolen plaid—scarlet threaded through with navy and gold.

“Red for courage,” Duncan explained, coming up beside her. “Blue for loyalty. And gold—well, that’s just to catch your eye.”

“Mmm,” she answered noncommittally as she wandered the room, taking in the thick rugs that softened the floor, a carved wardrobe as wide as it was tall, a writing desk that looked like it was as old as the castle itself, but sturdy and well preserved, and a massive stone hearth.

The outermost wall was entirely draped in a tapestry—a pastoral scene stitched in earth tones and faded crimson, beneath a summer sky.

“It’s beautiful.” She lightly ran her fingers over the stitching, admiring the skill involved in making something so large.

“And a bit old-fashioned,” Duncan said as he removed his gloves and coat. “But it holds back the draft better than stone.”

A table and chairs sat near the hearth, a carafe of red wine and two glasses already waiting. Books lined the shelves of a low cabinet beside the fireplace, and her trunks had been brought up and arranged near a screen in the corner.

To the right, a second door stood open, revealing a combination dressing and bathing room—simple but functional.

A large copper tub had already been placed on the tiled floor near a warming brazier.

Wall-mounted oil lamps bracketed a mirrored washstand.

Beside that was another door to what she assumed was the privy closet.

It was not Mayfair. There were no crystal chandeliers, no silk wall hangings, or gold-leaf flourishes. But it was comfortable.

“A maid will be up soon to assist you.” Duncan opened one of the trunks and pulled something from it.

She nodded again, still absorbing the shift in setting, the sheer weight of being here, and of being Lady MacPherson .

“I’ll return in an hour to escort you to dinner.” He crossed the room and handed her a familiar box wrapped in satin ribbon. “I meant to give you this at the inn.”

She untied the ribbon and opened the lid to the French soaps the maid at the Edinburgh Inn had gushed over . The delicate scents filled the air like perfume.

“They’re lovely. Thank you.”

He lifted one—a pink rose carved into a delicate bloom — and brought it to his nose.

“I bought them at a Parisienne street market. The rose reminded me of you.”

Her breath hitched slightly. She remembered him traveling to Paris over a year ago. Had he known of the inheritance then? If not, the gift became more meaningful.

“The choice of scent is yours.” He laid the rose soap in her palm and curled her fingers around it. “But I’d enjoy having my rose-scented bride seated beside me at dinner tonight.”

Before she could respond, he tipped up her chin with one finger and kissed her.

It wasn’t a chaste peck. It was heat, tongue, and promise. She gripped the lapels of his waistcoat without thinking, matching his hunger with a soft sound of surrender. When he finally drew back, her lips tingled, and her knees quavered.

“An hour,” he repeated, his gaze lingering on her mouth.

Then he was gone.

She stared wistfully after him for a moment, wishing things could have begun for them differently. An old Scottish proverb her mother always quoted came to mind—if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” she called.

A young woman entered, perhaps five or six years older than Maggie, with thick black hair braided neatly down her back and vivid blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face. Pretty, but not in the polished Mayfair way—hers was a natural kind of beauty born of fresh air and sunshine.

“I’m tae help you wi’ a bath, my lady.”

Maggie withheld a sigh of relief that she spoke recognizable English. “I don’t think there’s time to haul water. Supper is in an hour.”

“No’ to worry...”

She entered the bathing room and, a moment later, Maggie heard running water. She followed, surprised to see steam curling toward the ceiling as the tub filled from a pipe in the wall.

“You’ve got running hot water!” she exclaimed.

“Aye,” the woman said, clearly amused. “It surprises most who arrive expectin’ wooden tubs and kettle hauls.”

“How?” she asked, watching the tub fill, as pleased as she was fascinated.

“We’ve a large cistern in the east wing,” Fiona explained as she moved around the room, laying out towels. “Fires heat the water as it runs through the pipes. Not endless, mind ye, but enough for the lady o’ the castle to enjoy a hot bath when she fancies it.”

Maggie blinked again, smiling. “That’s…wonderfully civilized.”

“Don’t let the stone and tartans fool ye. We’re no’ complete savages.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean to imply that you were,” Maggie rushed to say, appalled she’d caused offense.

“Dinna fash. ’Twas a jest. I’m known for that.”

“What’s your name?”

“Fiona.”

Maggie’s brows lifted. “The laird’s brother’s wife is Fiona. Are you—”

“I am one and the same, my lady,” she replied with an easy laugh. “Though Fiona MacPherson feels a bit grander than I’m used to. My family didn’t come from wealth or title.”

“But your current family does. You shouldn’t be waiting on me.”

“Why ever not?” she asked as she picked up the soap box Duncan had left. “There wasn’t time to assign someone, yet, and it’s a hectic time of day.”

She sniffed the rose-carved cake then wordlessly held it up for her approval. When Maggie nodded, she added a few drops of the same scented oil to the bathwater.

“Besides,” Fiona went on, as if there hadn’t been a pause. “You should have the chance to choose your own maid, not have one foisted on you. And it gives us a bit o’ time to talk.” She glanced back at her, suddenly uncertain. “Unless you’d prefer quiet after your journey?”

Maggie shook her head. “No, please stay. I can manage on my own, but…it would be lovely to have someone besides Duncan to talk to. We’ve spent two full days together, and I think we’ve exhausted every possible argument.”

Fiona chuckled. “Aye, well. That’s marriage.”

Maggie slipped behind the screen to remove her gown. “This has been rather overwhelming. New husband. New title. New home. New everything.”

“It’s the same for all women.” Fiona turned her back so Maggie could slip into the water. “But it’s easier when you’ve someone tae ask the quiet questions.”

Once submerged in the blissfully hot water, Maggie let out a sigh of relief. Steam curled around her shoulders as she leaned back, the tension of the journey finally beginning to ease from her bones.

Fiona settled into a chair in the corner, tucking her feet beneath her.

“I have some experience tryin’ to find my place in this clan.

The MacPherson women will warm to you, but it might take time.

They’re wary by nature—Highland hills breed Highland pride.

But they respect strength. A sense of humor helps, too.

And if you’ve a knack for mending or butter-making, they’ll have you round for black tea and bannocks in no time. ”

Maggie smiled faintly. “I’ll brush up on my stitching, then.”

She tilted her head, offering a different tack. “Or just let them see you care. That goes further than perfect seams.”

Maggie was quiet for a moment. “Thank you for your kind advice. I was starting to feel like a guest in my own life.”

Fiona’s expression softened. “Ye canna be a guest here. Ye’re the lady o’ the castle. And soon enough, they’ll see that too.”