Page 13 of Snowbound Surrender

Margaret staredup at the bed’s canopy.

The room was dark, lit only by the glow of the fire. Finlay was sitting close to the hearth, about which he’d placed the guard.

They’d have no more flying sparks, at least.

She’d been tired before but, in the way of such things, she was now wide awake. ’Twas impossible to sleep, knowinghewas in the room. It didn’t help, listening to the wind whistling around the tower, no doubt blowing the snow in great drifts, making the route back to Balmore even more treacherous.

Brucie was snoring loudly, but she discerned no such slumbering noises from the Laird of Dunrannoch. No doubt, the chair was too disagreeable for him to find proper rest.

Margaret could almost feel sorry for him—especially in the wake of his kilt catching fire. Not that it hadn’t been funny, to a degree, but she was aware the kilt and sporran were heirlooms, having been worn by his father for special occasions.

Finlay’s mother had told her about that, and how happy she’d been to see Finlay wearing them at his wedding; how delighted she was, altogether, to see her only son marrying Margaret. Lorna had said a great many things, in the emotionof the day, of how she thought of her as a true daughter and had every faith she’d make Finlay a devoted and loving wife.

Margaret didn’t like to think back on what happened thereafter, when she’d discovered the arrangement Finlay had made with her brother, and the vast sum he’d persuaded Alastair to invest. Of course Alastair was a grown man, and more than capable of making his own decisions, but Margaret couldn’t put aside the conviction that taking her to wife had fitted far too conveniently with Finlay’s plans.

How much easier to convince a man to put funds into your business when you’re wedded to his sister!

At first, she’d been so angry she’d barely trusted herself to appear in public. Instead, she’d locked herself in the chamber that had been hers at Balmore since she was a girl, and firmly refused to see anyone, least of all her weasel of a husband.

Only after several hours did she permit Ailsa entry, bringing food that Margaret had no appetite to eat. Later still, she’d allowed Lorna to visit.

If there was one thing Margaret wasn’t proud of, it was how she’d let down Lorna. ’Twas testament to the older woman’s good nature that she’d insisted they remain congenial, regardless of any ill-feeling between Margaret and Finlay. Moreover, she’d supported Margaret in her decision to go to Edinburgh, to take some time in gathering her thoughts, and had given Margaret charge of Dalreagh Press, for which she would be eternally thankful.

She was well aware that Lorna kept alive a belief that the two of them would be reconciled. However, Margaret couldn’t go back to being the girl Finlay had married—the young woman who adored him unconditionally, believing they were soulmates destined for one another.

She’d always been of an independent mind, but the past year had taught her a great deal, and she was fiercely proud of herachievements. Now being a businesswoman herself, she actually understood a little of what had motivated Finlay to act as he had. There was something all-consuming about putting one’s energy and creativity into growing something that wouldn’t exist, but for your efforts.

Not that Dalreagh Press didn’t have good foundations, but she was bringing it properly into the nineteenth century, expanding its inventory, making it stronger, ensuring that it would continue to thrive. If their roles had been reversed, wouldshehave married someone with an eye to accessing essential funds?

Don’t be ridiculous! I married Finlay for love, and that would have been true whether he’d been a blacksmith or a farmer or a carpenter, or any number of things.

Margaret heaved a sigh.

Except that he isn’t, and had he been I’d unlikely be in the position of taking over the running of a prestigious publishing house.

The irony wasn’t lost upon her.

Finlay could easily make an argument for her benefitting from the marriage as much as he, just in slightly different ways.

“Are you awake, Magsie?” A half-whisper carried over from where Finlay sat.

She lay still, uncertain of whether she wished to answer him.

“I’ve a feeling you are.” His whisper was a bit louder this time.

She heard him shifting position.

“I keep turning it over in my mind. Perhaps you were right about the curse. If you hadn’t been here, Magsie, I might have been burnt alive.”

“Hardly!” She made a scoffing sound. “You’d only to roll to the floor and ‘twould have been put out easily. A fuss over nothing!”

This time, he was the one who didn’t reply.

Relenting a little, she said in a softer tone, “Still, I’m sorry about the kilt. We might be able to hide the singed length, sewing the pieces either side into a new pleat, to cover it over. I’ll take a look in the morning… or Mistress Douglas will do it for you, no doubt.”

“I expect she will,” he answered quietly. “What keeps yourself awake, Mags? Are you not comfortable?”

“I’m fine. It’s just… there must be a lot of heather in this mattress. The fragrance is distracting.”