Page 16 of Snowbound Surrender

Nonetheless she could not control how she felt and, as he touched his mouth to her palm, a tremble moved through her.

Finlay’s kiss moved to her wrist, his tongue tasting her there. His lips continued to graze upward. At the inner crease of herelbow, his mouth pressed more urgently, before skimming over the insubstantial sleeve of the nightgown to the bare skin of her shoulder. She was dimly aware of his hands upon her waist, his touch warm through the diaphanous fabric.

His kiss never left her, his breath teasing her collarbone. Open-mouthed, he dragged upward with his teeth, the length of her neck. By all the saints and the Virgin Mary! She was going to faint if he carried on like this.

His kiss had reached her ear, drawing the lobe gently into his mouth, sucking upon it. She was overcome by the smell of him, so close. Sweat and desire, underpinned by heather, of course. Wherever Finlay went, there would always be heather.

Her fingers had worked into his hair and, as his kiss traversed her jaw, she parted her lips, ready to receive his passion full upon the mouth. ’Twas with spinning mind that she felt him ease back, his hands lifting from her body.

Margaret blinked, striving to right herself, to dispel the haze of heated need. Heavens only knew what she looked like. Several coils of hair had unwound, and her nightgown had drifted so low the merest tug would render her bare breasted.

“Is that all?” She attempted to sound aloof.

His laugh was rich as whisky spooned with honey. “I would kiss you here…” Presumptuously, his thumb brushed her lower lip. “But not until I’m certain of you kissing me back. Is that what you wish, my love? A kiss long and deep, without end, until we’re both full-sated and breathless?”

“What? Nay! Of course not.” She was fighting hard, trying to drag her thoughts from that blood-hot outcome.

“A rare pity.” He regarded her a moment before picking up the deck again and, from the top, dealt them both another five.

She’d quite forgotten the cards.

Another two sets, and I must win them both.

If she didn’t, the consequences would be dire.

CHAPTER 8

Four high rankingtrumps and a king of clubs!

With such cards losing was impossible, even with her opponent commencing. The set was swiftly played, and her victory confirmed. Finlay’s disappointment was palpable, while Margaret enjoyed a surge of triumph. Three tricks and she’d claim the final set!

Taking up the cards, she turned them toward herself and fanned them out. The wave of nausea was immediate. Not a single heart, and the rest low-ranking. She’d be lucky to claim a single trick, let alone three. Her only chance lay in her right to lay the first card. If Finlay was similarly devoid of trumps, there was the slimmest of chances…

She glanced up at him.

He was usually quite skilled at concealing the state of his hand; this time, his eyes betrayed him, glinting darkly.

Margaret’s stomach churned, but there was nothing to be gained in procrastination. Selecting her highest numbered card—a seven of spades—she placed it down.

The way Finlay’s lip curled! He was savoring the moment, no doubt, as he lay an eight of the same suit, taking the trick. The next was also his, as he placed an ace of diamonds.

Margaret reordered her cards, as if doing so might transform them.

This can’t be happening!

He had only to win again, and all would be lost. She might enforce their separation, refusing to live beneath his roof, but a divorce would never be possible unless ’twas at Finlay’s instigation. Alastair had assured her of that, while gently prompting that the best course of action was reconciliation.

He thought the rift could be fixed and, perhaps, for someone else, it would be possible, but she needed Finlay to have married her for the right reasons. She’d tried to forgive, to make herself believe these were unimportant details, but she couldn’t escape the facts.

Her mouth turned dry as Finlay laid the next card.

A heart.

’Twas as if her whole body were numb. Her cards fell. She didn’t need to say anything. They spoke for themselves.

“Magsie.” There was no gloating.

As he cupped her face, she was powerless to deny him. His hands moved to the nape of her neck, burying in her tumbled curls, and she squeezed shut her eyes—against the tears that threatened, against looking at him.