Page 17 of Wed to the Highlander
Chapter 5
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.
