Page 28 of Wed to the Highlander
“No, thank you. The fire and the plaid have me warm enough.”
While he poured himself a whiskey, she crossed to the window and looked out. The dark sky reflected in the glass like an omen. She could still feel the grass beneath her back, the sun on her face…and the chill that followed when the birds had taken flight.
“I’ve never felt it before,” she murmured.
Duncan looked up. “Felt what?”
She turned toward him, brow furrowed. “That moment. When everything feels perfect. And then—” She hesitated. “Intrusive eyes.”
He set the glass on the mantel and gathered her in his arms, plaid and all, resting his chin atop her head. “Maybe the hills just wanted a peek,” he said, gently teasing. “We did make a rather indecent display.”
That earned a laugh, small and startled. She leaned her cheek against his chest. He felt solid and safe, and she snuggled closer.
“Nothing will touch you here. Not now. Not ever,” he vowed.
She wished she could believe that.
“We should go down for supper. If I’m late, they hold it for me. And you don’t want to be around Lachlan, or any of the men, when their dinner is delayed.”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“You can have a glass of wine, which might trigger your appetite, or, at the very least, keep your husband company.”
“All right, but let me fix my hair first. When it gets damp, the curl is unmanageable.”
He wound a finger in a springy curl. “I like it this way.”
“You’re besotted after an afternoon of…amorous congress…in a field wearing a kilt.”
His green eyes twinkled as he grinned. “Guilty as charged.”
She ran a brush through her hair, though the mirror insisted it made the curls worse, then took his hand and went down to supper—zero appetite.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the laird’s plans for a quiet dinner went awry.
A message arrived from a tenant whose dispute with his neighbor had escalated beyond heated words. Lachlan went with him, the two of them disappearing into the cold Highland night.
Maggie dined with Fiona and a handful of the household, their conversation pleasant enough, though her thoughts kept drifting to where Duncan might be and when he’d return. Bythe time she excused herself to their chamber, the castle was unnervingly quiet.
The clock on the mantel struck eleven. She stood at the window in her nightgown and robe, arms folded, watching the mist roll down from the hills. The hearth had burned low, the bed behind her cold and far too large.
She turned from the window, snuffed a candle, and reached for the poker—then froze.
Over the barest crackle of ash, she heard a creak.
She spun, the heavy iron rod falling to the floor in a clatter.
The carved oak wardrobe stood with its left door wider than she remembered.
Candle in hand, she stepped closer, the flame shivering as a faint draft curled from inside. “Hello?” she whispered.
Nothing.
She yanked the door open and stepped back, heart pounding. Only folded shirts, tartan wraps, and Duncan’s boots.
Except—the air prickled against her skin, cold and wrong, as if she’d stepped into a patch of fog. The candle’s flame leaned sharply, as though pulled by an unseen breath.
Whispers stirred—so faint they might have been memory, so close they brushed the back of her neck.
