Page 75 of Wed to the Highlander
Duncan stayed close, keeping a watchful eye on her and Jamie while speaking with his men. She heard him say he didn’tcare what it cost or what the government wanted. The north wing and tower were coming down starting tomorrow.
“Even if I have tae tear it down myself,” he growled, “stone by stone and board by board.”
As she rocked Jamie gently, she rubbed his hair until it was dry and exchanged his damp swaddling for another. Her fingers brushed something tucked into the folds of his soft baby gown—a stick of some kind.
When she pulled it free and saw the sprig of white heather, she gasped.
It was the same charm left for her on her first night at High Glen, in the miniature she’d found in the north tower, that she’d discovered in her skirt pocket one day then carried for luck only to be misplaced during the chaos of motherhood.
Maggie buried her face in her son’s neck and inhaled his sweet scent. She wasn’t sure what forces had been at play tonight—God above, a ghostly guardian, or simply her husband’s keen foresight with a sturdy rope—but she whispered a heartfelt “thank you” to them all.
Hours later, when the castle had quieted,she found herself unable to sleep. Images of what had nearly been, of what she had almost lost, returned to her, unbidden and relentless. She stood at her bedroom window, rocking her sleeping baby in her arms, wondering if she would ever close her eyes again without seeing it. She had moved the cradle into the bedchamber with her and Duncan, not trusting Jamie out of her sight. Inside, she’d found another small bundle of white heather nestled atop his blanket.
She hadn’t put it there. But she was certain who had.
Anne MacPherson’s child had never been found. Perhaps, in saving Jamie, she had finally found peace.
Chapter 24
The morning after the storm dawned bright and clear, as if the night’s tragedy had been swept away. Yet the castle remained unnervingly still.
The shock of Isla’s violent death rippled through High Glen. Her fall echoed the fate of Anne MacPherson two centuries before—both women troubled, both lost to madness. Whispers stirred among villagers and merchants, and murmurs passed quietly through the clan. The women of the household moved softly through the corridors, as if fearing to disturb any unsettled spirits who still lingered.
Fiona stood at the edge of the courtyard, shawl pulled tight against the lingering chill, watching Duncan oversee the dismantling of the north wing. The men moved with grim purpose, boots crunching over frostbitten earth as they hauled timber and stone. The tower loomed above them, skeletal and defiant—but it would not stand much longer.
Duncan had made that clear.
She’d heard him say it—voice low, eyes dark—that he didn’t care about cost or council approval. The north wing and tower would come down, even if he had to tear them apart with his bare hands.
Maggie had said little. She kept Jamie close, her gaze distant, her voice barely above a whisper. Fiona brought hertea and oat cakes, but Maggie only murmured “thanks” and returned to rocking her son.
Fiona’s heart ached for her, unable to fathom the terror of nearly losing a child, of seeing him actually slip through her fingers. Of how the mistress would have shattered if the laird hadn’t caught Jamie in time. The thought alone made Fiona’s eyes sting with tears as she bowed her head and offered a quiet prayer for healing.
Just after the noon meal, the Camerons arrived.
The courtyard was slick with mud, the air heavy with smoke from the bonfire of rotting wood out back. Horses stamped and snorted, their breath misting in the cold. Ewen Cameron, the clan chieftain, dismounted stiffly and approached Duncan with a guarded expression. Behind him, a cart carrying a pine box stood ready to receive Isla’s body, to be returned to Tor Castle for burial.
Fiona stood at the top of the keep’s steps, arms folded, watching with quiet dread. The tension between the two lairds was palpable.
“She never was right in the head,” Ewen said. “But I dinna ken how bad it was.”
Duncan’s voice rang out across the courtyard. “Aye, you did. I warned you when I sent her back.” He stepped forward until only inches separated them. “Your problem, Cameron, as I’ve been telling you for months—when I’ve tried futilely to get you tae see what is best for both our clans—you do nae look beyond the tip of your nose.”
The courtyard stilled. Only the snort of the horses broke the silence.
Fiona held her breath. Duncan’s words were fighting words.
From the top of the stairs came the soft, burbling coo of a bairn. Every head turned.
Maggie had come outside and stood with Jamie nestled against her shoulder. Her eyes were clear, her voice steady. “Hasn’t there been enough conflict between the MacPhersons and Camerons?” she asked. “It’s past time to settle it—before someone else gets hurt. Or dead.”
Ewen looked up, studying her. “Yer wife and son, I take it?”
Duncan murmured, “Aye. I’ve been reminded recently, she’s the heart of our family.”
Ewen gave a slow nod. “Fer a sassenach, she’s got the spine of a Highlander.”
Duncan’s mouth quirked. “You should’ve seen her last night when her bairn was threatened.”
