Page 40 of Wed to the Highlander
“I will no’ lose you to a crumbling staircase,” he murmured.
“You already spanked me. Must you scold me, too?” Maggie said into the side of his neck.
“Aye, if it keeps you from places, you should no’ be,” he said, completely serious. “In fact, if you ever go near the north wing again, I’ll fetch thetawse.”
Her head snapped back, staring at him in alarm. “That split-tongued thick leather strap?”
“It will be a memorable Scottish lesson indeed.”
She grunted, indelicately. “You’re a barbarian.”
“You won’t be the first Englishwoman to call a Highlander that. Or arrogant, uncivilized, and exasperating.” He nuzzled her ear. “But you’re a naïve, reckless, headstrong sassenach—so we make a fine pair.”
“I wouldn’t say naïve,” she corrected him, not denying the rest.
“To our ways? I would. But I’m a good teacher and always up for more lessons.”
“Me and my tender backside can hardly wait.”
He chuckled, both hands cupping said body part and pulling her close. “Supper isn’t for another hour. Go to sleep,mo chridhe. I need my rest if I’m going to keep up with you.”
“Hmph,” she huffed, but snuggled closer, and soon her breathing evened out.
Duncan simply held her.
This was twice he’d found her near the north wing. The damn thing was like a loadstone drawing the curious and the bold. He didn’t want to crush her spirit with rules and restrictions—Maggie’s inquisitive nature was part of what he loved most about her. But he couldn’t be by her side every hour, watching her steps.
Maybe he should tear the wing and tower down. But that would mean dismantling the stone bit by bit, and demand untold hours of labor when the men were needed elsewhere. And approval from the Development Department in Edinburgh, thanks to the historical designation under the new law a decade earlier.
He sighed in frustration, causing Maggie to stir. But she settled again.
Even if he had the funds and manpower to do the repairs, it would take time. Years, maybe. In the meantime, how did he keep his wee wife and the others who lived in the High Glen safe?
Short of taking a tawse to all of them, he’d set more patrols, add more locks, post signs, and pray nothing else happened. And, when possible, stick close to home.
Chapter 11
After weeks of chaos, the days following her disastrous game of shinty brought unexpected peace. There were no new crises. No messengers with bad news. No fires, no feuds, no summons that pulled Duncan away. Instead, he was present—not just in proximity but truly there. He sat beside her at breakfast, sharing plans for the day, and again at supper, quietly speaking of the clan’s future. Twice, he found time for morning rides and kissed her breathless beneath the budding rowan trees.
At night, he worshipped her body slowly, until her breath hitched and her fingers clutched at his shoulders or twisted in his hair, loving her so thoroughly she forgot where she ended and he began. To her great relief, there were no whispers or shadows, and when she slept in her husband’s arms, no bad dreams.
She began to believe he was right. It was the drafty, creaky old castle all along.
The only imperfection in her otherwise perfect week was that Duncan was not an idle man. He kept busy during the day, and Maggie, used to staying active, grew restless. She wasn’t suited to embroidery or idle gossip, but she was the lady of the castle now and could at least try to belong to it.
So, she sought out Fiona, who suggested the candle room.
The heat from the low fires, the mingling scents of beeswax and bayberry, and the rhythmic motion of the work left Maggieflushed. She tied her hair back with a strip of muslin, rolled her sleeves to her elbows, and laughed with the village women as they dipped and hung the slowly thickening tapers.
Midway through the morning, she had the hang of it, one of the older women teasing that she’d at last found her calling—in wax. The others laughed good-naturedly, and the conversation flowed. Much of it was gossip, which made her feel as though she was back in Mayfair. But her own laughter suddenly dimmed. She swayed, a hand braced on the table, wax dripping onto the stone floor as her vision swam. Her skin went clammy, and her knees buckled just enough to set off a chorus of alarmed gasps.
Fiona caught her around the shoulders. “I’ve got you, my lady.”
She helped her to a chair as the others circled around her, asking questions.
“Are ye ill, lady?”
“What did ye eat for breakfast?”
