Page 30 of Wed to the Highlander
She looked behind her and all around, turning full circle. Nothing, and no one was there.
Chalking it up to a draft, she walked to the windows at the end of the hall. No sunlight—only thick gray fog. From here, she could retrace her steps, descend the stone staircase, or follow another corridor stretching off to the left.
Not yet ready to retreat, she chose the corridor.
It was longer than the main hall below, and colder. At the far end stood a carved oak door, its surface etched with symbols. When she reached it, she realized they were runes. Unfortunately, she knew less about rune reading than she did about embroidery—or the blood-soaked traditions behind Scottish tapestries.
Maggie tried the latch. The door swung inward on an overwhelming wave of lavender.
Inside was a short hallway, and, immediately to the right, an open door. She peeked inside and saw what seemed to be a forgotten sitting room, cobwebbed yet curiously intact. A cracked mirror hung on the wall, and a cold grate sat beneath the dust-coated mantel. On it sat a miniature portrait of a willowy young woman with long, wavy red hair, holding a bundle of white heather tied with twine—identical to her charm.
The sight of it sent a shiver down her spine.
She turned to go, her skirts stirring the dust, and sneezed twice.
In the mirror, something flickered—a figure in white.
Whirling, her heart pounding, she saw only the empty, still room.
Another sneeze burst free. Maggie sniffed, a hand to her nose. “I can’t stay here,” she muttered. “Nor do I want to.”
She moved quickly to the door, but as she reached it, the flicker of white returned. Her own reflection distorted and ghostly in the cracked looking glass.
A shaky chuckle slipped out, more nerves than humor. “Get hold of yourself, Maggie.”
Still, when she stepped into the hallway, the whispering rose again. Faint. Fragmented. Rustling, like pages in a book.
She hurried out, closing the door behind her, and rushed back the way that she came. She was practically running whenshe turned the corner into the portrait hallway. With a thud and anoomphas the breath left her lungs, she collided with a tall, broad, fast-moving form. She couldn’t scream because she had no air, the impact as hard as hitting a brick wall.
“Maggie!” Duncan’s deep voice exclaimed as he caught her by the arms to keep her from falling back. “Are you all right, lass?”
“I’m fine. You…just knocked the wind…out of me a bit.”
He looked behind her. “What were you doing in this hallway?”
“The door was open, and I thought I smelled lavender.” It was true, if not precisely honest.
“Wait here,” he ordered, pausing long enough for her to nod in understanding.
He strode to the end and tried the handle. Firmly locked, it didn’t budge.
“But I was just in there,” she insisted.
“You shouldn’t be anywhere near here,” he said, quickly returning to her side. “That is the entrance to the north wing. It’s shuttered for a reason. I told you of the danger.”
Her skin still prickled as she looked around, squinting as sunlight glared in through the windows. Could the fog have suddenly lifted, and the door locked on its own, or was she losing her mind?
To Duncan, she said only, “I must have gotten turned around.”
“’Tis easy to do.” He looked at her bare feet. “I came to find you to break our fast before I have to leave for Inverness-shire.” He frowned suddenly. “Where are your slippers? You’re shivering.”
She was, but it wasn’t from the cold.
He took her arm. “Come, I’ll take you back to our room.”
As he led her away, she looked back, heart still racing. Whatever she’d seen—or imagined—would have to wait. Duncan was leaving again, and she wanted to soak up his calm, reassuring presence while she still could.
Chapter 9
