Page 6 of Snowbound Surrender

Except that in a matter of weeks, he’d left again, evidently finding life more exciting any place but upon the moor. Letters arrived, stamped from Glasgow, full of his plans and the opportunities he saw before him.

His father had been alive then and had seemed content for Finlay to do as he liked. Meanwhile Margaret had languished at Balmore, wishing the days away, waiting for her own life to begin.

When Finlay came home at last, to attend his father’s funeral and take over the family seat, she’d believed all would be well. There was the wedding to plan, and a beautiful day it had been, followed by the most wonderful night. Only in the morning had she learnt the truth.

He was content to marry, but as for love…

Margaret bit back her tears.

All those years. All that waiting. And for what?

A man who couldn’t wait to get away from her.

CHAPTER 4

So much forgetting back into Magsie’s good books!

Dolefully, Finlay made his way to the kitchens. Here they were, stuck in the castle that was rightfully their marital home, and she could hardly look at him without snarling.

She’d a list of grievances as long as a mid-winter night, and every right to be peeved, but he’d been sure he could win her round. Instead, he was making a right bull’s pizzle out of things.

The move with her stocking had clearly been a bit on the hasty side, which he’d have realized if he hadn’t still been half-sozzled on Alastair’s free-flowing whisky.

Women liked to be made to feel special, looked after and protected. They didn’t need a man’s hand shoved up their skirts at the first opportunity. Likely the lass was hungry, too, which never did make things easier. He’d been watching her over at Balmore, and she’d eaten barely two bites during the feasting.

Well, that was something he could put right—thanks to good Mistress Middymuckle and her skills with the oven. His cook had left a tray all set for carrying, with a variety of dainties set upon it. No blood puddings or piles of turnips for the Laird and his bride. There was a jug of ale close by but Finlay decided to leave that be. Instead, he poured himself a tankard of waterand chugged that down, eager to clear his head. As for Lady Margaret, she’d heat up all the better with a nip of sweet brandy in her, and that was already in the cabinet of his desk, back in the snug.

Aye! He wasn’t beaten yet. The prize was worth the questing, and Finlay Dalreagh was not a man to give up on what he’d set his mind to. Margaret and he belonged together, and he was determined to make her believe it.

“A touchmore of the brandy, Magsie?” Finlay watched keenly as Margaret tucked into the last of the frill-edged tarts, filled with sweet apple.

She made no protest as he filled her glass.

“Less of this calling me Magsie, if you please.” Fastidiously, Margaret licked her fingers. “And I hope you’ll be giving some of that goose to Brucie. ’Tis cruel for you to be eating your fill and him waiting so patiently.”

The deerhound was indeed sitting to attention, though averting his eyes from the food passing from plate to lips, so as not to appear too bold. There was no doubt in Finlay’s mind that the dog would have eaten more than his due while lying by the fire in the Balmore kitchens. However, ‘twould put Margaret in a better mood if she were agreed with.

Reluctantly, Finlay tore in half one of the goose and bramble pasties. There were but six to share and he’d already eaten two. Brucie took the morsel deftly, gobbling it down in two gulps. His eyes swiveled hopefully to the remainder, which he duly received, his master being a soft touch.

Rising to put another log on the fire, Finlay cast a glance at the dangling stockings. Funny how such garments looked significantly more alluring with a shapely leg inside them.

“Dinna touch them!” Margaret spoke sharply, but he was already feeling them at the toe. Thanks to the fire, the fine silk had almost dried.

“’Tis nae bother, and if you’re needing assistance in putting them back on…?” He couldn’t resist a grin, passing them to her, but only received one of her scowls as she laid them over the side of the armchair.

“I’ve more than a few bones to pick with you Finlay Dalreagh, and I’d thank you to keep your hands to yourself while I tell you what’s on my mind.”

He gave an inward sigh. ’Twas evidently too soon for his jokes—even with the lass full of pastry, and fine brandy washing it down.

Making himself comfortable, he cut a slice of cheese.

“And close your knees! I’ve nae wish to be looking at…that, every time I raise my head.”

Finlay was bemused a moment, until the flush on her cheeks made him realize what the lass must be eyeballing.

He was wearing the kilt, of course, as he always did when back on the moor, and without anything beneath. ’Twas the traditional way, letting the family jewels hang free for a bit of air. It took all his self-control to avoid making another jest, though several responses were on his tongue.

“First of all, this castle is a disgrace!” Margaret folded her arms. “I know perfectly well ’tis not the fault of Mistress Douglas, for her housekeeping is exemplary, but I peeked into the rooms along this passageway while you were fetching supper, and all the furniture is covered by sheets. They look as if no one has been into them for weeks.”