Page 50 of Wed to the Highlander
He stayed close when duties allowed, but Maggie couldn’t bear for him to see her this way—green around the edges, weak and weepy, undone by a scent or a wrong step. She banished him whenever her stomach rebelled, yet every night, no matter what had passed, he gathered her into his arms. Only then did she sleep without the dreams.
Because the dreams—the ones that tormented her—didn’t wait for nightfall.
They came during naps, in the gray hour before dawn. Once, having forgotten his hat, he’d returned to find her thrashing inbed, muttering about Anne MacPherson. He’d woken her, held her as she trembled, and demanded an explanation. She’d told him of whispers, footsteps, and unexplained cries.
And then she’d described the nightmares—always the same. She was alone in the north tower, chasing the sound of a child’s cries. The air was frigid, the stones slick with frozen mist. A shadow waited at the top of the stairs. No matter how fast she ran, she could never reach the door before it slammed. On the other side, a woman wept—until the screams began.
Her own screams often woke her. When they faded, she lay gasping, skin clammy, her heart pounding. It was after one such nightmare—in the light of day—that she’d had enough.
Duncan entered their chamber to escort her to supper and found her on her knees, shoving gowns into a valise.
He halted in the doorway. “What are you doing?”
“Packing,” she said without looking up.
He stepped forward. “Why, might I ask?”
“I want my mother. I want Cici. I want London, where I’m not freezing night and day. And I need you to take me there.”
“Maggie…”
“I mean it.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. When I do, it’s fitful—or the nightmares come. I feel like I’m losing my mind, Duncan. If you don’t take me away from here, now, I fear I might lose something more.”
Two strides carried him to her side. He gently pried the dress from her hands and cupped her face. He couldn’t deny what he saw: the shadows beneath her eyes, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the lifeless braid sliding over her shoulder.
Duncan had never seen a woman wither in pregnancy—most glowed. He was at a loss, except to give her what she asked for. Perhaps her mother and the comfort of London would draw her back from this relentless sickness and creeping melancholy.
“Mo leannan,” he murmured.
She must have expected him to refuse because her fingers curled into his plaid and her tone turned pleading. “This place weighs on me.” She leaned into his chest, trembling. “I want to be strong. I want to stay for you. But I’m not myself anymore.”
His arms tightened, his cheek resting on her hair. “Then I’ll do what I must to bring you back.”
“When can we leave?”
“I’ll send word to your brother that we’ll arrive in two weeks.”
Her shoulders slumped with disappointment. Two weeks of daily torment would be an eternity.
“I’ll need to make travel arrangements and settle a few matters first.”
Her fingers curled in his shirt as she remembered. “You were to leave for Edinburgh in the morning.”
Tenants waited. Rents needed negotiating. The council demanded decisions. So much on his shoulders—and now this. But the fear that the spark he loved in her was fading made her more important than all of it.
“I’ll send Lachlan. You’re my priority.”
“Thank you.” She sagged in relief, tears burning her lashes. “I’m sorry, I’m such a mess.”
“The bairn’s making it harder on you,” he said, lips against her temple as he stroked her hair gently. “But I’ll do all I can to help you through it,mo nighean bhòidheach.”
“What does that mean?”
“My brown-haired girl.”
Something flickered in her eyes before she closed them and rested her cheek against his chest. “Stay with me, Duncan. Everything seems worse when you’re not around.”
He held her tighter, wishing he could banish every shadow, every sickness, every fear. But, for now, he could stay.
