Page 5 of Snowbound Surrender

Brucie, not far behind, gave himself a shake to throw off the snowflakes from his fur.

They were in the entrance hall, and ’twas deathly cold, encased as they were in several feet of stone walls. Silent too, and dark, though someone had left a lantern and matches close by. Finlay lit the wick and, by the soft glow, Margaret caught his expression—one she could not entirely fathom.

Uncertainty, or nervousness.

As if he has anything to be anxious about! Of the two of us, ’tis me, surely, who ought to feel unsettled.

From high upon the walls, an assortment of stag heads looked down, mounted between the usual weapons and banners. She was very much aware that this was to have been her home. Naturally she’d visited many times, for the friendships and fortunes of the Balmores and the Dalreaghs were inextricably entwined, by blood as well as proximity. But this was her first time across the threshold as a bride.

“The snug, yes?” Turning away, she led them through a doorway to the left, for she knew the maze of rooms and passageways almost as well as those of Castle Balmore.Entering, she set the lantern down upon a side table and made for the armchair closest to the hearth, leaving Finlay to light the kindling.

The room itself was cozily proportioned—of a size that would warm up once the fire was blazing. There was only one window, reasonably narrow and hung with heavy curtains, while the walls and ceiling were covered entirely by oak paneling. There were no paintings nor other decoration, though a rather tattered tapestry, depicting the castle itself, hung to one side of the door. Bookshelves filled the far corner, with a desk and chair in front, while the hearth and twin armchairs took up most of the remaining space.

Brucie settled himself at Margaret’s feet, leaning into her leg, and she scratched behind his ear. Both watched Finlay who was kneeling, blowing with pursed lips, helping the flame to catch. It made her think of him blowing in a similar manner on her neck, then pressing his lips to her throat, then…

She pushed away that memory.

It really was cold, and her shawl was of no use at all, having gotten damp outside. She threw it over the wing of the chair and took up a blanket, folded nearby. Though somewhat scratchy, it was dry, at least. Her slippers, meanwhile, were sodden, having been intended for dancing rather than tramping about in the snow. Margaret eased them off, wiggling her toes.

“Here, let me.” Finlay appeared next to her and, before she had the chance to protest, lifted one stockinged foot into his lap, warming it briskly.

She looked down at his bent head. ’Twas welcome; pleasurable, even. And yet, far too familiar. No matter that they were husband and wife, she’d made her feelings plain: that she wished to end the arrangement.

’Twas over before it had begun.

Almost.

In any case, he presumed too much.

“Your stockings are wet through.” He made the observation matter-of-factly, but his hands were suddenly under her skirt, skimming her calf, wrinkling down the silk from just above her knee. The garter remained where it was, holding up nothing at all.

“Stop that!” Margaret slapped his hand away.

With a sheepish look he sat back, holding both hands aloft. “I was only thinking you could get them dry. I wasn’t meaning...” He faltered under her glare. “I’ll go to the kitchen. See what’s there for us.”

“Aye. Do that,” she replied archly.

Only when he’d left the room did Margaret peel down each stocking, securing them beneath the mantle clock to dangle. The fire was catching nicely, orange and crimson leaping high, the dry-stalked heather stacked within the kindling creating flares of color. Thank goodness the wood was well-seasoned. A little heat was coming, and the flames lit a small circle about the hearth. Just as well, since Finlay had taken the lantern with him.

After a moment’s consideration, she reached beneath her skirts and untied the hoop, letting it drop and stepping out of it. She could do without that contraption.

Having put it out of sight behind the armchair, Margaret returned to the seat and tucked her feet beneath her. The blanket she wrapped tight around, and Brucie pressed close again. Laying his head on her lap, he looked up with eyes half-entreating, half-mournful.

“It’s his own fault.” With one finger, she stroked the fur of the deerhound’s long nose. “Your master has behaved badly, and he won’t gain back my favor until…”

Until when, exactly?

Was there anything he might do that would allow her to forgive him? She’d thought about it many times, and she still wasn’t sure. Even if he wanted to make amends, and she permitted him the chance, could they go back to the way they’d once been?

It will never be the same.

Margaret had adored him for as long as she could remember. When she’d been too little to keep up with Finlay and Alastair, Finlay had been the one to lift her onto his shoulders. Alastair would have left her behind, saying she was too young to join in their games. Of course, soon enough she’d become too big for carrying, but he’d still looked out for her, making sure she was included.

Finlay had been often at Castle Balmore, sharing the tutor provided for Alastair, before the pair of them had gone away for schooling. By the time she was nine and he nearly fifteen, she’d decided he was the one she would marry. She was his little Magsie, after all.

At last, the summer she turned seventeen, Finlay had returned from his studies—and the way he’d looked at her, she’d felt certain he wanted her as much as she did him. A betrothal had been arranged for a wedding to take place when she turned one and twenty.

Never had she been happier, and for a time, Finlay had seemed that way too.