Page 2 of Snowbound Surrender

Not nearly enough.

“Whatever you’re going to do, I’d decide quickly,” Ailsa added. “A year is a long time. He’s a red-blooded male, with a title, an estate, and sound business investments. Other women are sniffing about.”

“As if I care!” Margaret swigged back the contents of her glass.

If Finlay wanted to take up with someone else, so much the better. He might then agree to petition for their official separation, making her a free woman again.

It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

What she’d asked for, more than once—only to have him refuse to discuss the possibility.

She didn’t need Finlay, nor any man at all. Life was far simpler on her own, and she’d plenty to keep her busy, with the Dalreagh Press to manage.

As soon as the Hogmanay celebrations were done, she’d return to Edinburgh and, with any luck, never set eyes on her loathsome husband again!

CHAPTER 2

Beneath the crookof his arm, Finlay was vaguely aware of the great furry head of Brucie, his deerhound, who always slept beside him. The familiar, slightly rough tongue gave his cheek a lick. Finlay attempted to open his eyes, but the ache behind them was too awful; keeping them closed seemed preferable.

How much had he drunk? And when had he gone to bed? He couldn’t remember, but the mattress was a damned sight harder than he remembered, and the pillow must have slipped off somewhere.

He vaguely recalled Alastair taking him to see some new hunter he’d installed in the stables. After that, it was all a bit hazy. He’d had more than a few drams, steeling his courage to approachher—even before Alastair had him toasting that new stallion of his.

Enough to make him stumble and hit his head, or had he simply passed out? If so, then it must have taken a fair bit of effort for someone to get him up the stairs to the guest quarters of the castle. Finlay tried shifting position, but it was no better. Rather, the bed seemed to be moving.

With a groan, he squeezed his eyes closed all the more.

The best thing to do was to pretend none of it was happening. Another few hours of sleep and he might wake feeling more himself.

Sadly, the mattress continued to shoogle about. Not only that, but there was an insistent prodding at his leg. A lurch and a sharp pain above his ankle brought him alarmingly awake.

Finlay squinted in the gloom.

What in damnation!

This wasn’t his bedchamber.

He wasn’t even in the castle.

The weak cast of moonlight through the window revealed the confines of a coach, and the ‘bed’ he’d been lying upon was no more than the padded seat.

Running his hand over the leather, he recognized it as his own equipage.

Moreover, he wasn’t alone.

Brucie was there, right enough, panting excitedly and shoving his wet nose into Finlay’s hand.

And opposite…

He rubbed his eyes.

’Twas a woman, by the look of what she was wearing and the curve of her bosom, though she had something over her head. A pillowcase, was it?

As he was peering at her, one dainty foot shot out and caught him hard on the shin.

Devil’s Blood! The witch was attacking him!

Without further ado, he whipped off the hood. Her coppered curls were fluffed and half-fallen from their elaborate arrangement, her lips were curled in a snarl and her eyes were hard as flint: but this witch was, nonetheless, the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes upon.