Page 65 of Wed to the Highlander
“About Isla, no. Agnes is welcome, as long as you take responsibility for her.”
No more words came before he stalked out.
***
Agnes remained, persuaded by Lachlan—for his sake, and for the grandchildren she doted on. Duncan and Lachlan didn’t speak for days. Others did, unfortunately.
The clan women—staunch, gruff, Highland-born—resented the growing influence of the “sassenachs.” The dowager duchess in particular. She was everywhere a guest should not be, the kitchen, for example, installing her own cook. And the midwife she brought had firm ideas.
Clashes occurred daily between the English and the Scots, as had been going on for centuries. Duncan, wearied by their simmering discontent, gathered the women in the great hall. He stood at the head of the long table, fists planted wide, gaze steady.
“There will be no more gossip. No muttering. No whispers behind closed doors,” he said, voice like iron. “Lady Maggie is my wife. Your mistress. She carries the heir and future of this clan. Her mother is here tae ensure she does no’ sicken again and will do everything possible, with my full-throated blessing, to see the bairn arrives healthy and strong. If you cannot respect that—if you cannot protect that—you are no clanswomen of mine.”
The silence that followed was total. Satisfied, for now, he left them to consider what he’d said.
Maggie sought him out in the library shortly after. Firelight danced across his profile as he stared into the hearth. His shoulders were bowed, his expression unreadable—except for the weariness, which she knew too well.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly from the doorway.
He turned, surprise softening his features. “For what?”
“For bringing this on,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the walls, the house, the weight of it all. “The conflict. The chaos. If I hadn’t come back—”
“Don’t,” he said, crossing to her in two strides. “You have no blame in this. You belong here. And anyone who cannot see that.” He trailed off, his jaw tight.
She reached for him, threading her fingers through his. His hand was warm, callused, steady. “You defended me.”
“I always will.”
Her throat tightened. “I just hate that it’s torn apart your fam—”
His mouth was on hers before she could finish, fierce and grounding. She melted into him, heart hammering against his chest as the tension of the past week dissolved between them.
He walked her back to the settee before the hearth, their lips never parting, and gently eased her down. But when he made to settle over her, he paused, uncertainty flickering in his gaze.
“I don’t want to hurt you. Or the bairn.”
Her brows lifted, lips curving with wicked amusement. With both hands on his chest, she pushed him onto his back and climbed astride him. “Then, I suppose I’ll have to be gentle with you.”
Shock flickered across his face, then his laughter rang out, rich and unguarded, for the first time in a long while. It warmed her more than the fire.
She shifted with practiced ease, skirts rustling around their hips, her hair tumbling loose as she leaned down to kiss him again—a strain with the babe between them. With rapidly rising heat, his hands mapped her fuller curves.
Maggie wanted no barriers between his hands and her skin and practically ripped open the buttons of her dress. He pushed up her chemise and caressed her belly. When he pushed it higher, her swollen breasts, more sensitive now, spilled into his palms. She gasped as his thumbs teased the peaks. The fire popped behind them, casting the room in a golden glow as he filled her deeply. They moved together slowly, carefully, but noless passionately. He whispered words in Gaelic she only half understood but wholly felt.
Love. Awe. Worship.
Maggie writhed above him, hands braced on his chest. With the babe between them, they forewent kisses, but his thumb found the pleasure point between her thighs. He teased it, his eyes never leaving hers, as their passion built and then exploded. She arched with a cry and trembled around him. His own control frayed with the sound of her pleasure, and when he finally came, it was with a groan pressed into the palm of her hand.
In the aftermath, they moved from the too-short, narrow settee. Duncan stretched out on the rug before the fire, arms around her as she reclined between his thighs. He kissed her temple and whispered, “Your brother once called you the heart of your family. I well understand what he meant because you have become the heart of mine, and the others are going to have to come to terms with that.”
Just as she had.
Let the clan whisper. Let the walls tremble. She was Maggie MacPherson now—and she would not be unmade.
Chapter 21
Snow blanketed the hills, turning High Glen into something out of a fairy tale. In Mayfair, Christmas would be in full swing, with evergreens in every parlor, mince pies and plum pudding, music and dancing from St. Nicholas Day to Twelfth Night.
