Page 3 of Snowbound Surrender

’Twas his own, beautiful, Magsie.

Thanks beto all the sweet angels! He’d ceased his snoring and had woken up. ’Twas good to be able to see again—though it gave her not a whit of relief that the cur gawping back at her was none other than blasted Finlay Dalreagh, looking as if he’d fallen from the sky and had his brains shaken out.

She’d suspected as much when she’d felt that great hairy muzzle nudging at her knees. It had been a while since she’d seen his dog, but Brucie was unmistakable, and he clearly recognized her scent.

Now, if his master would but remove the cloth tied into her mouth, she’d be giving him an earful of what she thought. So far, the bampot was just sitting there, obliging her to stamp her foot on his.

Though she was wearing only her dancing slippers, the force of her sentiment did the trick. Uttering exactly the sort of oath she’d been thinking to herself since she’d been bundled up and deposited here so unceremoniously, he leant forward and tugged the handkerchief from between her lips.

“Magsie! What the?—”

“Untie my wrists.”

He stared at her like an addlepate again, obliging her to lift her hands from her lap and wave them in front of him. His fingers were clumsy, but he managed it—no thanks to Brucie, who was pushing his snuffling nose into the thick of things.

“What happened?” Finlay rubbed at his head. “Was it you, Magsie, that brought me here? Did you?—”

“You think I did this?”

Dear God! The man was stupid! Handsome, even in his disheveled state, but an eejit nonetheless.

“I stuffed the kerchief in my mouth, put that thing over my head and tied myself up? Sweet Mother of God! Is your head mince? And don’t be calling me Magsie. I’m Margaret to you.”

His expression turned from bewilderment to hurt, as if she’d struck some blow. He might have called her by the pet name since they were children, but he’d forfeited the right, and she’d no plan to forgive him.

Still, the way he was looking at her, she did feel a trifle sorry for him, though ’twas naught to do with the way his sandy hair had fallen over one eye in the way it often did when he was abstracted in thought.

“You were with Alastair, I take it?”

His brows rose. “How did you know that?”

“For the same reason that I know who put me here. ’Twas Ailsa.”

The cunning, two-faced cow!

“One minute she and I were having a cozy chat, the next, two of her maids appeared through the door and the three of them wrestled me to the ground, trussing me up, with no chance to call for help. Then some burly fellow put me over his shoulder and carried me to where the coach was waiting. Before she put the pillowcase over my head, Ailsa had the cheek to whisper in my ear that I’d be thanking her later! Of course, you were already here, slumped on your side and dead to the world. Not that I realized it was you at the time--not until Brucie began snuffling at my lap "

“So that’s it? ’Tis a rum way to carry on—and tying you up was a step too far, no doubt about it. But I still don’t…” Finlay stopped, craning his neck to the window. “Have you seen this?”

The expanse of the moor lay around them, laced in lightly falling snow. ’Twas fortunate the moon was bright, though half-shrouded by cloud. The outer edge of the track was just visible, marked with the way-posts that kept travelers within bounds. To stray would be dangerous indeed, for the moorland’s bog was treacherous, even when the frost was keen.

In her anger, she’d thought no further than how she’d give her sister-in-law a piece of her mind, playing such tricks. She’d assumed the coach was driving in circles about the castle, as some sort of jest at their expense.

Now she began to wonder.

How many times had her brother, and Ailsa too, begged her to put aside those feelings and make a reconciliation? Did they think this was the answer, to have the coachman drive them out onto the moor somewhere, to have Finlay untie her, and that she’d be so grateful she’d fall into his arms? As if what had driven them apart could be fixed so easily.

Except, now she thought of it, the landscape seemed familiar, with those jagged hills over to the west. She would swear…

“We can’t be!” She looked at Finlay in horror.

“I’m afraid so.” His shoulders sagged. “Whether we like it or no, we’re approaching Dunrannoch—and by the look of it, we’ll be spending the night.”

CHAPTER 3

Climbing down from the coach,Finlay looked up at the granite walls of his ancestral home, the towers stretching skyward, as gray as the leaden clouds. This past year, he’d made no more than a few fleeting trips.

He’d no desire to remain longer.