Page 56 of Wed to the Highlander
For the briefest moment, Isla’s gaze flickered—not to Fiona’s face but over her shoulder toward the empty hall—before she smiled. “Why, to fetch something to help me sleep, of course. Your mistress once spoke of a tisane she favored. I thought to try it.”
Fiona’s brows rose. “Did ye find it?”
“Aye,” Isla replied lightly, gliding past in a waft of perfume. “I believe it will do the trick.”
Fiona stared after her, the scent lingering long after she’d vanished around the corner. It was lavender, threaded with vanilla, and undercut by ambergris, the musk of it clinging to the air. It was sharp, cloying, and far too heavy for the hour. Not something she would have chosen herself. She wrinkled her nose—not something anyone should.
In the kitchen, the scent of baking bread was a welcome change. Mrs. Craig and two scullery maids were bent over their tasks.
“I passed Isla on the stairs just now.”
The cook straightened, wiping her hands. “Aye. She came for some of the mistress’ special tea blend—the one for settling the stomach and helping with sleep. We went to fetch it from the pantry, but it was gone, and when I returned, so was Isla.”
“Gone? She said she found it.”
“Did ye see her with it? We kept it in a large tin—” Mrs. Craig lifted her hands several inches apart.
Fiona frowned. “She wasn’t carrying anything when she left. Not so much as a handkerchief.”
The cook’s mouth twisted. “’Tis odd. It was hardly something she could have tucked in her skirt. Then again, it was Isla Cameron.”
Fiona didn’t answer, but unease prickled her skin. Isla looked fit as a fiddle, not suffering from a headache. And her suddenly showing interest in Maggie’s special blend of tea—much less fetching it from the kitchen herself—was unheard of. The woman never lifted a finger in her life unless it was to stir trouble.
The whole thing stank worse than a fishwife’s apron on market day and raised more questions than answers.
Chapter 18
The moment the door closed behind them, Duncan felt Maggie sag against his arm. She’d smiled through supper at Sommerville House, but Duncan knew the signs of fatigue—a distant look, a subtle slump, and the way her hand drifted to her belly as if to remind herself, and everyone else, she carried something precious.
“Upstairs,” he said quietly, steering her toward the staircase before she could protest. He didn’t keep a butler in town as most of the ton did, so he signaled a footman. “Tell Jeannie she won’t be needed tonight.”
“Very well, your lordship.”
“Why won’t I need her?” Maggie asked.
“After the clamor of your brother’s home, I’d prefer quiet—and the thought of tending to you myself appeals.”
“Do you have experience as a lady’s maid?” she asked, teasing to hide her blush.
“I think I can manage your laces.”
In their room, it wasn’t laces he faced but buttons—at least thirty of them trailing down her back. His fingers skimmed the warm line of her spine through her chemise as he undid them one by one, revealing her with the reverence of a gift slowly unwrapped.
He watched as she swept her hair forward and tipped her head to the side, the curve of her neck impossibly graceful, impossibly tempting.
Duncan surreptitiously adjusted the tightness in his trousers before he eased the gown down, the silk pooling at her feet. Her shift followed. He was prepared for the difficult part, having her gloriously naked in front of him, and quickly dropped her night rail over her head. It wasn’t much better than nothing. The fabric clinging to the new fullness of her breasts—the fullness that stirred him every time he caught sight of it.
When he stepped back, beyond the reach of temptation, he caught a hint of a frown before she sat at her dressing table and removed the pins from her hair. As she brushed it, the lamplight caught the caramel strands in the dark brown. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.
When she glanced at him in the mirror, her eyes lingered. “You’re pensive tonight. What’s on your mind?”
He didn’t say, “making love to my wife,” though that was the truth of it. Instead, he crossed to the valet stand and loosened his cravat, turning the focus to the letter from Lachlan. “I heard from my brother today.”
“Again? He writes you at least weekly.”
“He keeps me informed, and I appreciate it.”
Her brush stilled. “Was there bad news?”
