Page 11 of Snowbound Surrender

He frowned, looking uncertain, then raked his hand through his hair. He’d taken off his jacket, she noticed, though his waistcoat remained, and he’d unbuttoned the top of his shirt, revealing a dusting of light brown chest hair.

It suited him, being less formal. It made her think of the days when he’d time to spare, and they would lay upon the heather in the sunshine, looking up at the boundless sky. His shirtsleeves had oft been rolled up, back then.

She fought to steady her well of emotion. “You know what it means, to hear them. You might be… You might be in danger!”

“Nay, lass. There were no pipes. Could be you dreamt them. Were you dozing before the fire?”

“I’m sure I wasn’t.” The springs of the armchair had poked her in unmentionable places and she’d been cold, even with the quilt Finlay had brought her. She’d been wondering whether she’d be better off lying on the floor with Brucie, wrapping the coverlet around them both, when the deerhound had pricked up his ears and let out a howl.

“’Twas terrifying. Those long, plaintive moans travelling through the very walls of the castle, as if the dead had returned to wail and groan. I did wonder at the melody being so rambling, the notes more discordant than melodious, but perhaps ’tis what happens, the older a ghost becomes.”

Finlay seemed about to say something, then bit it back. Brucie had followed them upstairs, dragging the quilt between his jaws, and was sitting upon it now beside his master. Quizzically, he looked from Finlay to Margaret and back again, as if attempting to understand what was passing between them.

“I believe you.” Finlay took her hand, and the wedding band on his finger caught her eye. “I’ve never heard the ghostly pipes myself, but it could be they only appear to those close to the doomed man, rather than to the victim himself. ’Tis a sign, Magsie. Even Camdyn must know how much you mean to me.”

And how much I care for you.

She was still wearing her wedding ring too.

Like Finlay, she didn’t consider herself one for old wives’ tales. Theirs was an age of science, and yet, where had the story of the curse come from? All things had a grain of truth, even if they became distorted with time.

“You’ll stay with me, Mags?” Finlay rubbed his thumb across her fingers. “Not just for your own comfort but for mine? Seeing you like this, I must admit, I’m shaken.”

His eyes met hers, and there was something there that drew her in.

“Of course. Only…I’m unsure of the wisdom of us sharing a bed. ’Twould be a temptation, and things are complicated between us…”

“You’re right, as always.” Finlay nodded earnestly. “Even with the pillows separating us, I might roll toward you in the night. A man isn’t always aware of his body at such times. I might think I was in the midst of some wonderful dream, holding you close again. I would ne’er force myself upon you but, in my sleep, my yearning body might have other ideas. Think of the shock, waking to the weight of me above you! Before either of us are aware of what we’re doing, I’d be thrusting, my hands reaching beneath to lift you to my strokes. Even if you whimpered and pushed against me, my sleeping mind might construe that as your enthusiasm for the coupling, spurring me to bury myself even deeper. ‘Twould be a terrible thing!”

“Yes, most terrible!” The words came out as barely a whisper. She was intensely aware of how close he was, his elbows brushing the side of her legs, and his hands so very warm. Moreover, her mind was filled with lusty images.

“I’ll sleep in the chair by the fire.” Finlay stood, breaking contact with her, stepping back.

She swayed slightly, unsure of what had just come over her.

“But let’s first get you out of that damp gown and under the covers. I found some linens in the trunk.” He cleared his throat. “A nightgown, I’m certain. Here, I’ll…”

He went to the foot of the bed and rummaged in a chest, pulling out something in white cambric with a deal of lace aboutthe neck, scooped low. The sleeves were of half-length and similarly embellished.

Taking it from him, she wondered at the delicacy of the lacework.

One of his mother’s?

She couldn’t imagine it. The garment looked unworn, but the room had belonged to his parents not so long ago. It was possible some things had been left.

Only now did she register how the bed was decorated.

It surely didn’t look like this all the time. Someone had gone to great trouble, dressing it in fresh Yuletide foliage and working through the ribbons very prettily.

It was just as she’d expect a bed to look for the occasion of…a wedding!

WhathadAilsa written to Mistress Douglas, to make her think this was appropriate? Her sister-in-law must have been planning this for weeks, and goodness knew what the servants at Dunrannoch made of it all—first thinking she would be coming here as lady of the house, then being told not, and now being convinced that all was well, and she and Finlay would be setting up home together.

Finlay must be to blame, at least in part!

Ailsa and Alastair would never have carried out such machinations without Finlay spurring them on…would they?

Margaret didn’t know what to believe any more, and ’twas exhausting.