Page 87 of Wed to the Highlander

“He always has. A second to the MacPherson laird is tradition, especially when the laird’s brother is also his heir. I think it may be time for a change. A steward with authority to act in the laird’s stead when absent is the norm now.”

She inhaled and blew her breath out slowly. “I suppose we must. When do we go?”

He looked down at her, grinning. “You don’t sound excited to be going home.”

She hesitated. “High Glen feels like home now, but…it might be because it’s where you and Jamie are.”

He pulled her close, kissing her slow and deep, then whispered against her lips, “I’ll make the arrangements soon.We can’t stay in the Highlands forever. I promised your mother I’d bring back her grandson.”

“And you don’t want to cross the dowager.”

“I saw her in action, remember? I’m no’ that big of a fool.”

Epilogue

Mayfair, 1864 — Late June

The earl and countess of Rothbury caused quite a stir upon their return to London.

It had been more than a year since their hasty nuptials and quiet departure to the Highlands. Rumors had run rampant, whispers of a marriage born of necessity, a union forged to rescue a ruined reputation. Thetonhad expected further antics from the lady and more salacious scandal from the lord, and they waited with sharpened tongues and eager eyes.

But Maggie and Duncan made them wait until the final ball of the season.

When they were announced, arriving fashionably late, they descended the grand staircase with the ease of a couple long accustomed to admiration—and entirely indifferent to it. They were a striking pair: the lady, dark and petite, radiant in a gown that shimmered like starlight; the lord, rugged and fair, resplendent in formal attire, a splash of scarlet plaid in his breast pocket.

They mesmerized when they took to the floor and danced together.

Every. Single. Dance.

The scandalized matrons watched from the sidelines, fans fluttering like wings of restless birds, searching for fault and finding none. Their steps were flawless, their mannersimpeccable. But it was the way Duncan looked at his wife—as though she were spun sugar and sacred flame—that left the room breathless.

“I believe our work here is done,mo chridhe,” he murmured as the final waltz faded, his voice low and meant for her alone.

“I believe you’re right,mo ghrá,” Maggie replied, her smile soft and sure.

His smile deepened, touched anew each time she used the Gaelic endearment. She took his arm, and together, they headed for the exit.

“This was lovely,” Maggie sighed as they waited outside in the cooler air for their carriage. “I’ve grown to love the peace and quiet of High Glen, but I miss the dancing.”

Duncan leaned in, his lips nearly brushing her ear. “We don’t need a ballroom crowded with people to do that. We can continue our dances at home—in private.”

She arched a brow, knowing full well he didn’t mean reels and waltzes.

***

Maggie lay curled against Duncan on the plush rug in their bedroom, their skin warm from lovemaking—sensual, soul-stirring, perfect. Moonlight streamed through the French doors, thrown open to the summer breeze. His hand traced lazy patterns across her lower back, dipping now and again to skim the curve of her hip.

Outside, the gas lamps hissed, the crickets chirped, and the cicadas sang their loud, cyclic chorus. If she closed her eyes, she could believe she was back in High Glen, where the night came alive. Almost. Mayfair lacked the call of a tawny owl echoing across the moor, bats fluttering overhead, and the distant bleat of sheep tucked into the hillside croft.

“Do you ever regret marrying in haste and missing out on a proper courtship?” Maggie asked, her cheek resting over his heart.

“No,” Duncan said, not missing a beat to even think about it. “I have the life I always wanted.”

She tilted her head, caught his gaze, and smiled. “You’re not sorry? Not even a little?”

His arms tightened around her as he shook his head. “I’d do it all again. The scandal. The castle. The ghost. The chaos. Our son. Especially the part where I get to fall more deeply in love with you every day—over and over again.”

Maggie’s throat tightened. She rose onto one elbow and looked down at him, fingers brushing the scar on his collarbone—the mark left by the falling beam the night he saved Jamie.

“I would too,” she whispered. “Except for one thing—no ghosts. And no villains pretending to be ghosts.”

“No more ghosts,” he agreed, his fingers tangling in her hair and drawing her head down to his. His breath brushed warmly against her lips when he whispered, “Only the kind I can banish with a kiss.”

And he did.

Over and over again.