Page 46 of Wed to the Highlander
She shook her head to clear it. Duncan wasn’t Cairn; he was caring, loving, and a friend since she was five. He was always so steady, so rational. She could already hear his response if she told him about Anne’s journal.
It’s just an old book written by a troubled woman. You’re letting your imagination run wild.
He wouldn’t mean to be condescending. He simply hadn’t witnessed what she had. No one had. Would they think her mad, as they had Isla? Or compare her to Anne MacPherson, whose descent into madness had been chronicled in her own hand two centuries earlier? The thought chilled her. She’d tell Duncan—once she could make sense of it herself.
When she entered the dining hall and took her seat, she felt eyes upon her. She glanced up and met Isla’s gaze. The older woman’s smile was faint, polite—and chilling in its emptiness.
Maggie looked away, her appetite vanishing.
That night, when Duncan held her in his arms, she didn’t find the usual comfort or peace. She couldn’t wait too longto share what she’d found. One passage in particular kept her awake.
Anne hadn’t been believed either. Until it was too late.
Chapter 13
Maggie jolted upright, stomach roiling—no time for thought, only motion. She flung back the covers and bolted behind the folding screen, reaching the privy pot just as the first wave hit.
Seconds later, Duncan’s bare feet thudded softly against the floor. He knelt beside her, gathering her hair in one hand, his other palm moving in slow circles over her back.
She shook her head, waving him away as her stomach clenched again. “Please…just—go.”
He hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave her, but finally rose and stepped away.
After several minutes of gasping and shuddering, her stomach finally empty, she pushed up on shaky legs and rinsed her mouth at the basin. Back in bed, she sank into the cool pillow, grateful Duncan was gone. Eyes closed, she focused on slow, steady breaths until the nausea eased.
The door whispered open and shut. The mattress dipped with a familiar weight.
“Fiona is sending up tea and dry toast,” Duncan said softly. “She says it should help.”
Maggie forced her eyes open. He sat near, his hand resting lightly on the coverlet, studying her with the uneasy look of a man out of his depth. That made two of them.
The faint scent of his sandalwood soap—one she’d made only two days ago—clung to him. Most days, she would breathe it in. Today, it turned her stomach.
“It’s the bairn, isn’t it?” he asked.
She swallowed, willing the queasiness away. “I imagine so. If I can lie still a little longer, it might pass.”
“I pray so,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.
His concern was evident, but any movement, no matter how slight, made the nausea worse. She clenched her jaw, bracing herself against another revolt.
“I’ll leave you to rest.” His fingers brushed the damp hair from her temple. “The masons are waiting for me to walk the east wall—there’s been a leak since the last storm. But I’ll be back to check on you.”
She offered a faint smile. “Thank you,” she whispered, grateful he understood she wanted to be alone in her misery. “Most women go through this. It’s a rite of passage, I suppose.”
“I’ve heard expectant mothers often get sick in the morning,” he said, brow creasing, “but I didn’t realize it could be so debilitating. I’ll go hurry Fiona along.”
He left quietly, and she drifted into a light doze—until a maid arrived with tea and dry toast. One sip, one bite, and her stomach lurched. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she bolted for the chamber pot again.
By late morning, she felt well enough to rise. Hungry but cautious, she made her way downstairs, hoping to find something light—honeyed porridge or plain cheese—anything not steeped in fat or spice.
She’d forgotten it was herb day. Dried sage, thyme, and lavender lay in fragrant piles on the table. The women worked with quiet focus—grinding leaves, filling jars, tying bundles with twine. The combined scent hit her all at once. With one handagainst the doorframe holding her upright, her stomach gave a warning lurch.
Fiona glanced up from her task, a sprig of lavender still in her hand. “My lady?”
Maggie pressed her lips together. She didn’t dare answer, not without unpleasant consequences.
Fiona rushed over, taking her elbow. “Och, poor lass! The bairn’s givin’ you a rough go. Let’s get you into the fresh air.”
