Page 8 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Maggie waited the hour Duncan had given her, and then fifteen minutes more. Restless, anxious, and famished after picking at her food for two days, she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and descended the stairs to find the dining room herself.

It would have been hard to miss.

The great hall was no mere dining room. A massive hearth dominated the far wall, the mouth of it tall enough for Maggie to have stood inside it without ducking.

Vaulted stone arches soared overhead, their beams blackened by centuries of peat and wood smoke.

In days of old, a long table flanked by benches would have stretched the length of the hall.

This one was half that size with no raised dais for the laird.

The benches were replaced by high-backed tapestried chairs, which were padded.

That suited Maggie fine after bumping and jolting in her day’s ride from Edinburgh.

Feminine touches softened the room: linens on the table, a thick rug beneath it, and vases of greenery. Spring flowers wouldn’t bloom here for weeks, but someone had brought the outside in.

She’d never seen a dining room so large. It was already full of people milling around, raising a tankard, laughing, and chatting. None of whom she knew. It was a sea of faces boldly glancing her way, measuring her worth.

Most wore plaid of some kind, the MacPherson red, blue, and gold predominant. Maggie had dressed carefully—an emerald gown trimmed in black velvet, chosen for its modesty and elegance. Her hair was braided into a crown; her mother’s thistle brooch fastened at her shoulder.

Unsure of the customs, she approached the only person at the table so far: an older woman with high, sharp cheekbones and a narrow-eyed stare.

“Might I join you?” she asked politely.

“If ye must. Only keep the chatter light. That sassenach twang cuts like a rusty blade. Too much of it gives me a headache.”

Maggie blinked. She’d never been insulted so thoroughly in so few sentences.

“I suppose I’ll have to get used to it,” the older woman muttered. “Since yer the laird’s bride. Sit.”

She hesitated, not sure if she wanted to anymore.

“I won’t bite,” the woman insisted.

“Don’t believe her,” a red-haired serving girl chimed in, setting down a platter of roasted venison. “That’s Agnes, the late laird’s second wife. Her tongue’s saber-sharp and known to leave scars.”

“Go on with ye, Jeannie McKay, or I’ll see tae dustin’ your skirts wi’ your arse in the air like I used to when ye were wee.”

Unfazed, Jeannie grinned and sauntered off.

Before she could say anything or run for the lowlands and the English border, the entire room shifted.

Duncan strode in. No longer the polished English lord—he was the laird.

His MacPherson tartan was draped proudly across his chest, belted tightly at the waist with a silver buckle engraved in Gaelic.

The white shirt beneath it was loose, half laced, revealing the lines of his collarbone and the promise of muscle beneath linen.

His boots reached to his knees, the pleats of his kilt swaying with every step—solid, commanding as the castle itself.

Silence fell.

And Maggie’s heart did a flip.

This man was her husband, but tonight, he resembled a legend.

He came to her side and bent low, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Lady MacPherson,” he said, voice deep, eyes glinting. “I’ve been away for some time and was delayed by kin with pressing matters. Had I been on time, you would have known your place is next to me.”

Maggie’s stomach tightened with awe and something darker.

..fear? Hunger? She should be worried, should resist, but she followed him as he led her to the seat to the right of his at the head of the table.

Despite being dazzled by her laird husband, she was acutely aware of every gaze in the room, especially Agnes MacPherson.

Her lips twisted, giving her entire face a hawkish appearance and making Maggie feel as though the old woman was sizing her up, like prey.

Across from her sat Isla Cameron, resplendent in a tartan dress with a silver brooch pinned at her chest. The corner of her mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

Both women’s judgment slid over her with a chill, and she trembled.

“Are you well, lass?” Duncan asked quietly as he held her chair.

She nodded, striving to regain the poise drilled into her since a child. “Yes, my lord. It’s just been a very long two days.”

“Agreed,” he said, eyes searching hers. With a faint smile, he let it go. “We never used to stand on ceremony, Maggie. ’Tis Duncan, as always.”

Rather than sitting, he raised his goblet and addressed the hall.

“I’ll have your attention,” he said, his voice calm but clear, commanding without raising it.

The low murmur of conversation ceased.

“There’s little I need to say that hasn’t already been whispered across the glen, shouted down from the hills, or carried on gossiping winds from Edinburgh to Inverness.”

A few chuckles rumbled through the room.

He continued, glancing down at her with a gentle smile. “Please welcome the Countess of Rothbury. Daughter of the 7 th Duke of Sommerville and sister to the new duke, but more importantly to all gathered here, the lady of High Glen, and Mistress of Castle MacPherson.”

Maggie blinked, startled, even as Duncan lifted his goblet higher.

“She’s traveled far, endured more than you know, and stands beside me now not just because of vows and contracts, but because she has the fire to match this land, and the strength to hold it. I ask you now to raise a glass…” He met her gaze, eyes gleaming. “Tae Lady Maggie, mo bhean .”

There was a pause—half a beat too long.

Then came the chorus.

“Tae the Lady!”

“Fàilte, a’ bhean uasal!”

When she looked up at him in question over the Gaelic, he bent slightly and interpreted, “Welcome, noble lady.”

Glasses were raised, mostly of whisky and ale, a few of wine, and the room rang with the sound of tankards clinking. There were wishes of good health and longevity, and a few hearty slaps on the table—but it was a measured reaction. That for a stranger, as they wondered if she would last.

Even Isla raised her dram glass, although she did it without smiling.

Only Agnes spoke her mind.

“Could the laird truly no’ find a Scot’s lass tae wed?” she muttered. “Best to keep to the glens rather than let sassenach blood seep in and rot through to the roots.”

The hush that followed was brief, but noticeable.

Maggie turned toward her, calm and poised. “But he did, madam.”

Agnes blinked. “Pardon?”

“I’m only half sassenach,” Maggie said lightly. “My mother is of Clan Hamilton. Lowland-born, but Scottish to the bone.”

The older woman looked down her pointed nose and said with a sniff, “Lowland is near enough to English for my tastes.”

“Not to my mother,” Maggie returned, her voice pleasant. “She swaddled me in Hamilton tartan and fed me bannocks and rumbledethumps before I could walk. My lullabies were Highland, even if my Gaelic is lacking.”

A ripple of laughter broke out. Fiona grinned. One of the older men offered a grunt of approval.

Duncan leaned close and spoke low. “You’ve just outdueled my father’s second wife, and we’ve not even had soup yet.”

“Do I get a prize?”

He brushed her hand beneath the table. “You’ve already got it,” he stated with a wink.

Maggie arched a brow, a retort forming. She could have challenged the arrogance—lord knew the man had it in spades—but she chose the high road. She turned to her wine instead, hiding a reluctant smile.

Dinner arrived, roasted venison with rosemary, oatcakes, turnips, and carrots spiced with something unfamiliar. Duncan poured her wine then refilled his own glass.

She sat straight-backed as a bowl of soup was placed in front of her.

“Cullen skink,” the serving girl said. “Smoked fish and potato.” She thanked them politely, unsure if her she could stomach the fare here.

From across the table, Isla Cameron lifted her goblet and tilted her head. Her eyes didn’t flicker when they met Maggie’s—they simply held.

“Surely, it’s yer duty to try the soup, lady. It’s said to be good for fertility,” Isla said, her tone smooth as cream but eyes cold as loch water.

Maggie blinked. The implication that was her sole duty, and the reason she was here, was sharp and unwelcome even if it was true. To the clan, she had one duty: bear the heir within a year.

Duncan stiffened beside her, shooting Isla a quelling look. “If it’s no’ to your tastes, there are plenty of other dishes,” he said plainly.

As the platters were passed down the table, Fiona, seated across from her, asked, “Lady Maggie, have you met my husband, Lachlan?”

She glanced at the man beside her and to Duncan’s left. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, angular features, much like his mother. Except for broad shoulders, he bore no resemblance to his older brother.

“To the lady of the castle,” Lachlan said with a smile, offering a toast of his own. “May she find the Highlands warmer than expected.”

“My brother’s a charmer,” Duncan murmured. “Mind the twinkle in his eye.”

“I’m learning to steel myself against roguish appeal,” Maggie replied, returning the toast all the same.

Lachlan leaned back in his chair. “Forgive me for being plain, Countess, but when we heard Duncan had secured such a fine, noble bride, we weren’t sure you’d come.”

“Why is that?” she asked evenly.

“Well,” he said with a glance at his brother, “some folk thought he might leave it too late. And by the terms left behind, time was short.”

A flicker of irritation passed across Duncan’s brow. “Like everyone else in this hall, she knows about the bequest, Lachlan. Think you I wouldn’t tell her?”

“Not all of it, though. How did this unusual provision come about?” Maggie asked. “Such stipulations could shake up the foundation of a clan, couldn’t they?”

Duncan reached for his glass but didn’t drink. “Angus MacPherson—my grandfather, two lairds before me—enjoyed intrigue.”

“He was an annoying jokester,” Agnes spat. “Unbecoming of a laird.”

There were murmurs, some in favor of the old laird, some disapproving.

“He left behind a sizeable private fortune,” Duncan explained. “Most didn’t know it existed.”

“Not even your father?” she asked.

“Especially not my father,” he said grimly. “The two of them were at odds for years. Angus kept the money quiet. In his will, he said he would pass it on to the next heir to High Glen, excluding our da, provided he met the conditions.”

“Marriage by the age of thirty and a child,” Maggie said slowly.

“Legitimate child,” Duncan clarified. “Since he was not.”

Her eyes widened.

“If not,” Lachlan added, “the inheritance passes to the next eligible kin. A married man with a bairn already, which would be me.”

Maggie glanced sharply toward him. “How…convenient.”

Lachlan smiled wider. “Isn’t it just?”

“I have no intention of failing the terms,” Duncan said, his gaze steady.

“Best you eat hearty, then,” Fiona interjected, passing the platter of meat.

Maggie looked between the brothers.

“So you stood to lose everything if you hadn’t married me,” she said softly.

“No,” Duncan replied. “I would’ve lost Angus’ fortune. The estate would’ve survived, but barely. After years of drought, flood, fires, and long-needed repairs, the coffers are nearly empty. The inheritance can restore what was lost and protect those who depend on us.”

“How did he amass this secret fortune?” she asked.

“Shipping and whiskey,” Duncan stated.

“Mostly shipping whiskey,” his brother quipped.

“Without anyone knowing? How is that possible?”

“’Twas easy for a selfish, greedy trickster,” Agnes snapped. “We scraped by for years while he hoarded his gold like a dragon.”

“He was eccentric,” Lachlan offered.

“He was a bloody bastard,” she hissed, “in more ways than one.”

“That is enough family intrigue and name-calling for one meal,” Duncan stated, putting an end to it.

Silence reigned as the kinsmen tucked into their dinner, except for Isla, who silently sipped her wine with an amused expression.

Maggie sat back, feeling the weight of the new information settle in. This wasn’t only a marriage. It was a mission to rescue Duncan’s birthright and survival for his people. And for her, it was a matrimonial trap.

“Why choose me as your savior?” Maggie asked quietly.

Duncan’s expression gentled. “We’ve discussed this. I married you not to meet a deadline, but because I wanted to secure the future. Of the clan, but more so for us. And I’d do it again. Even without the coin.”

The tension in the room dissipated slowly. Eating, laughter, and conversation resumed. Lachlan lifted his glass once more, this time to the fire. Agnes quit the table without another word. Isla’s smile never quite returned, and she also left the hall, minutes later.

Duncan squeezed her hand under the table then served himself another helping of venison before placing a generous portion of cured ham on her empty plate.

“Eat,” he urged. “Your brother threatened me with bodily harm if I did no’ take care of you.” That sounded like Andrew, even with his best friend, and she would wager he wasn’t kidding.

Without the two caustic women present, she managed to eat a slice of cured ham and two tasty bannocks.

Conversation buzzed around her in murmurs and Gaelic phrases Maggie couldn’t follow. Duncan leaned in occasionally to translate.

At one point, Maggie reached for her cup and noticed a small bundle of dried white heather wrapped with twine at its base. She lifted the bundle and caught a hint of thyme—earthy, old, and oddly familiar.

“’Tis a charm,” Duncan said quietly.

She looked up at him. “Did you put it there?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“It could be anyone. Folks here haven’t let go of the old ways. You’ll find charms, talismans, and potions abound. They’re harmless.”

Isla and Agnes weren’t welcoming her with open arms. She couldn’t imagine either of them giving her something for good. So what did it mean?

Fiona, watching her, smiled gently. “White heather is considered lucky. Someone is wishing ye well.”

That ruled out the two women, at least.

She tucked it into her pocket, unsure if discarding it would be testing the spirits or self-preservation.

Dinner continued. Toasts were made. Duncan answered questions about his travels, estate plans, and grazing rights.

Maggie sat, nodded, smiled, and endured.

But she couldn’t shake the chill that curled beneath her ribs. Something seemed off. And it wasn’t just a spiteful woman in green plaid or a bitter old matriarch clinging to power—it was something deeper.