Page 51 of Wed to the Highlander
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The ground beneath Fiona’s boots was soaked from last night’s storm, each step marked by a soft squelch as water seeped up from the earth. She’d never known a spring so wet, cold, and unrelentingly dreary. It suited the mood inside the castle—and among the clan gathered to see off the laird and his lady.
Lady Maggie had never been a hardy woman, but when she first arrived in the High Glen, she’d carried herself with a quiet, unshakable strength. She had color in her cheeks, eyes bright with curiosity, and beneath her polished manners, Fiona had glimpsed a flicker of rebellion—a spark that gave her hope she was more than just another English lady of noble birth. In those early weeks, despite being a stranger among a close-knit clan wary of outsiders, she’d been kind, inquisitive about the people and their customs, and willing to give her new life a chance.
That hadn’t lasted long. The spark in her was gone.
Fiona looked on with concern as Maggie leaned heavily on Duncan’s arm, her skin with a worrisome pallor, steps slow and uncertain. Descending the front stairs seemed to drain her. It was like watching a candle gutter in its final breath.
“I’ve nae seen her in a fortnight,” Lachlan murmured, appearing beside her without notice. “If I didn’t ken it was Duncan’s bride, I wouldn’t recognize her.”
“It’s little wonder,” Fiona replied quietly. “She’s barely kept anything down these past few weeks. I fear for the bairn.”
Her husband slipped an arm around her, and she leaned in to his side as they watched Duncan assist his lady into the carriage.
“Easy now,” he murmured, steadying Maggie with one hand at her elbow, the other guiding her gently at the waist.
Before ducking inside, Maggie glanced back at the castle. To most, the wan curve of her lips might have looked brave. But Fiona, who knew her better, saw something else—relief.
The lady looked up as if something caught her eye. Fiona did as well. Isla stood at an upper window, half-hidden behind the curtain, watching. Her eyes on Maggie, she raised a hand in a slow, deliberate wave and smiled. There was no warmth in it, more so she was taunting her.
One of the horses stamped and snorted restlessly, drawing Fiona’s attention back to the departing laird and lady. The driver quickly had the beast under control for another member of the traveling party to board. Jeannie McKay, cloaked and bonneted, climbed into the carriage. Duncan had insisted she accompany them to London, both for Maggie’s fondness for the girl and the practical need for someone to tend her in her weakened state. Fiona agreed—and was quietly thrilled for Jeannie, who was eager to see the world beyond the Glen.
The laird gave a distracted wave before climbing in himself. As soon as the footman shut the door, the driver snapped the reins, and the wheels groaned into motion.
“She’s better off in London,” Fiona murmured as the carriage rolled down the muddy drive.
“Aye,” Lachlan grunted. “There are doctors aplenty there, and for certain, the Highlands have done her no favors. Do you think it’s only the bairn troubling her?”
“No. But I canna say more. She asked me to keep her confidence.”
“From your husband?” he asked, sounding offended.
Fiona glanced at him, impatient. “What does that matter? A confidence is a confidence, is it nae?”
“I’m in charge in Duncan’s absence. If you know something, Fiona MacPherson, best you tell me.”
She sighed. “Verra well. I suppose it will do no harm since she’s gone. She has been hearing and seeing things since nearly the day she arrived.”
“Ghosts? Please,” he scoffed, turning to climb the steps as the mist became a steady rain.
Fiona hurried after him. “Dinna mock, Lachlan. Since she found Anne MacPherson’s journal hidden behind the laird’s writing desk, it’s worsened—crying bairns, moving shadows, a fixation on the north tower. Anne was the same before she…”
At the top of the steps, her husband paused, allowing her to come up beside him. “So it’s true, then. This place…breaks them. Lady Anne. Isla. Now Duncan’s wife.”
Fiona leaned against him, heartbroken for the mistress. “Outsiders come here and fall to pieces. Whether it’s ghosts, grief, or madness—somethin’ grips them. And we stand idle.”
His arm came around her almost as an afterthought. “What would you have Duncan do? Close the castle? Bar women from outside the clan, even wives? Would you have him send Isla away? The Camerons are already grumbling over the least wee thing. Such an affront could fracture the truce.”
“I don’t ken the answer,” she whispered.
He gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Hopefully, the change will be good for the lass and the bairn.” He gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Now then, I’m fer breakfast. I’m half famished.”
He held the heavy oak-and-iron door for her, and when they stepped inside, it boomed shut behind them. Neither noticed. Not because it had done so multiple times a day every day for as long as they could remember, but because laughter rang down the corridor—bright, sharp, out of place for the heaviness of the morn.
Isla spun at the far end of the hall, arms outstretched, green skirts flaring. Her eyes sparkling with manic delight, fixed for a heartbeat on Fiona before she twirled again.
“Maybe,” Lachlan muttered for her ears only, “when I meet Laird Cameron next week on Duncan’s behalf, I’ll negotiate a percent decrease in the taxes if they take that one back.” With another glance at the woman who’d never been quite right in the head, he shuddered before striding toward the dining hall.
