Page 29 of Wed to the Highlander
Maggie spun again, facing the empty room.
“This isn’t happening,” she muttered.
She’d read tales of spirits slipping through cracks in the world—doors left ajar, windows unlatched, shadows, and whispers. But that was fiction. Perhaps this had to do with the legends she’d heard in the past week, visiting the waterfall and the ruins, and the overall mystery of the Highlands. Besides, this was Duncan’s room. Their room. Surely, no ghost would dare.
Still, she wasn’t about to sleep with the wardrobe doors open. She slammed them both using the sash of her robe to keepthem shut, awkwardly, one-handed, the other still clutching the candle.
With the doors secured, she stepped back and exhaled slowly—already feeling foolish.
A subtle click and slow creak made her scream a moment later.
“Maggie?” Duncan said from the doorway, looking wind-chilled and tired and, now, alarmed. His gaze darted around the room searching out a threat. “What is it?”
“I thought… I heard…” She looked back at the wardrobe, doors still closed tight. “I must have been mistaken,” she concluded, her voice thin and shaky.
He crossed the room in three strides, pulling her close. She pressed her face to his coat, fists curling into his coat, breathing leather and the sharp chill of the outdoors.
“I’m here, lass. At night, the noises in this ancient place can taunt the staunchest of souls.”
“That must be it.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Tae bed with you. I’ll wash up and join you in a moment.”
She nodded and turned to do just that but froze in her tracks. The sash tie lay on the floor, and the left-hand door stood ajar again. She hadn’t imagined that a possibility after tying them shut.
She started to say something, but Duncan jerked both doors open and hung his coat on a hook. Nothing amiss. Everything normal.
At the bed, she slipped out of her robe. When she watched it slither to the floor, the fabric slick and shiny, the same as the sash, she huffed a laugh at her overactive imagination.
She waited in bed while Duncan washed up. Instead of horses, he smelled of soap when he slid in beside her. In seconds, it seemed, his deep and even breathing stirred her hairand she knew that he slept—snuggled up to her back, his palm cupping her breast, his favorite sleeping position. Maggie’s hand found his, fingers curling, holding on tight, grounding herself in something real. But the room felt charged, and sleep would not come easily.
Chapter 8
The light slanting through the narrow windows the next morning was bright and cheerful rather than gray with gloom. Nearby, birdsong echoed from across the moor. Trying to match their enthusiasm, she rose, determined to face the day with optimism.
Duncan had risen early. He’d kissed her temple and told her to rest when she stirred. Surprisingly, she’d fallen back to sleep. The few hours she’d had before that would have to suffice because she had things to do today, including searching out Fiona to help in her search for a lady’s maid. And she wasn’t entirely at ease with the furniture in their chamber.
“Speaking of which…”
She crossed to the wardrobe and threw both doors open, leaving them that way. As she searched through her stack of day dresses, she heard a thud outside in the corridor. Hoping it was a housemaid who could help her draw a bath, since she had yet to figure out how the magical cistern worked, she wrapped a soft woolen shawl around her shoulders and stepped into the hall. She looked both ways but saw nothing and no one.
There were no bellpulls in the castle. It was either hail a passing maid, or get dressed and go downstairs to find one. But she’d only have to undress again for a bath and then do it over again.
Despite the icy stone beneath her bare feet, she followed another thud and voices to the right. She turned down an offshoot hallway, calling, “Hello?” but received no answer.
Paintings and tapestries lined the walls—the latter faded but rich—all depicting MacPhersons through the centuries. Duncan hadn’t shown her this on the tour. For certain, she would have remembered because many of the big, strong MacPherson men resembled her husband. She trailed her fingers along the frayed edge of a floor-to-ceiling depiction of a stag crowned in laurels.
In her experience—limited to books and art exhibits—the stag symbolized nobility or authority, the laurels a mark of triumph in battle or some ancient contest. She stepped back for a better view, and that’s when she saw it: crimson thread stitched along the antlers, like droplets of blood. Worse, its eyes were stitched with silver that reflected the light, making it seem as if they followed her.
Tapestries of old often glorified turning points—victory over a sworn enemy, the rise to power. With the stag straddling the divide between a battlefield of fallen men and a castle celebration, this had been a brutal victory.
Her lips twisted in a grimace.
Why would anyone hang something so unsettling in their home? This would give her nightmares.
She walked past it quickly. “No wonder he didn’t show it to me.”
Toward the end of the hall, she stopped short as a whisper brushed the air. Not wind and not exactly voice.
