Page 24 of Snowbound Surrender

“Might there be a cloak in here? Some old coat of yours would do, or your father’s? I don’t care, as long as it covers me up.” She began opening one of the doors, obliging him to race over and stand in front of it.

“No coats. Those are…in the boot-room, I should think, although I’ve a feeling my mother gave away most of my father’s things, and she was wearing her cape when she left for Oban.”

His mind was racing. Mags wouldn’t be able to leave if she had nothing appropriate to wear.

However, she was not to be deflected. Suddenly she was propelling him out of the way. Flinging the door wide, she gaped in disbelief. “What’s this?”

She fingered the thick red velvet of an evening gown, and one beside it in emerald. There was a costume of russet worstedwool, and a blue riding habit. Rifling through, she seemed stunned at the number of garments and the quality of the fabrics, some beaded, others embroidered. Most were heavy enough to provide the wearer with necessary warmth, but there were also some lighter gowns, in fluid silk, rustling taffeta and fine-woven cambric.

Gazing at the upper shelf of the wardrobe, she took in the selection of newly-tooled footwear: indoor slippers and kitten-heeled shoes, as well as soft-leather boots, clearly made to her size.

“They’re all for you, Mags—a marriage gift.” Finlay hastened to explain. “I hope they’ll serve. Of course, you must have whatever you wish made. There’s more, in the chest at the foot of the bed—chemises and such, all manner of underthings.”

He looked at her expectantly. Surely she would look more kindly on him, knowing how he’d considered her needs. He’d been remiss in not spending more time with her prior to the wedding, but she’d been constantly in his thoughts.

“All this?” She was frowning. “All this was here, last night, while I was sitting cold downstairs—with not so much as a dry pair of stockings to put on!”

“I could hardly…you must see, Mags. How would it have appeared? You’d have thought all the more that I’d something to do with bringing you here.”

“And of course, you didn’t!” She glowered at him. “That would require you being bothered to take action, which you clearly weren’t. It took a scheme—no doubt instigated by my sister-in-law—to bring about this farce!”

For a moment, Finlay thought she might slap him, so furious did she look, but her energy was diverted to pulling out the riding habit and some sturdy footwear.

The riding habit!

Margaret really was going to saddle up for Balmore. If he refused her a horse, she might attempt the distance on foot—bloody-minded as she was!

She went to the chest, tossing out an assortment of frilled apparel, and Brucie trotted over, sniffing at the pile, while she sat upon the lid.

“You don’t want...to bathe?” ’Twas a ridiculous question, but he could scarcely believe what was happening.

She refrained from answering, merely pausing from the rolling of a stocking to give him a withering look. Turning her back upon him, she threw off the nightgown, stepping into bloomers and petticoats, then donning a camisole and wide-sleeved shirt. The boots came next, while she could still bend easily. The skirt of the riding habit, she struggled with but eventually managed to fasten the waist. Contorting herself, she shrugged on the jacket.

At no point did she request his help, and he was not foolish enough to offer it. Only with the upper buttons of the jacket did she grow exasperated but, rather than ask his assistance, she left them undone, simply tying the matching cravat loosely at her throat.

He marveled at how very lovely she was in the dark blue costume, which set off the red tints in her hair. Though there was a brush upon the dressing table, she wasted no time in making use of it. Hastily, she brought her hair over her shoulder, plaiting its length before tucking it under the back of the cravat.

She cast one final look at the bed, where the sheets were still rumpled, then her eyes met his for the briefest of moments. He saw there an agony of feeling. If there was regret, it was buried beneath her sense of betrayal and disappointment.

Her voice was rough, as if she struggled against tears. “Don’t follow me.”

CHAPTER 12

Margaret rushedheadlong down the passageway, near tripping on the skirts of the riding habit.

She hated him!

Under other circumstances she would have been delighted at his having thought to furnish her with a wardrobe but, as ever, the gift was upon his terms. If she hadn’t insisted upon looking within the cabinet, who knows when he’d have bothered to tell her of its contents.

Once he’d kept me another day or two in his bed, for certain!

Was that all she was to him? An opportunity for an easy tumble? It had played at the back of her mind for far too long—that he’d been content to stay away from the moors, and far from herself, because he had other women to keep him amused. Women like those who’d flocked around to dance with him at the Hogmanay ceilidh!

“Mags!” His shout came.

Nay! I can’t speak to him!

In her long skirts, she had no hope of outrunning Finlay. Turning the handle of the nearest door, she dived inside andpressed her back to the heavy oak. She squeezed shut her eyes, praying he’d leave her alone.