Page 9 of Snowbound Surrender

If she couldn’t forgive him, he didn’t know what he’d do, but no matter what happened, he’d always have her well-being at the forefront of his mind. He was summoning the courage to tell her so when, without warning, she stood, going to the window, pulling back the curtain.

Margaret remained there, staring out into the darkness of the courtyard. Fat flakes of snow were sticking to the corners of the panes. If it continued like this, there was no question of either of them leaving.

The clock on the mantel chimed ten, and she spoke over her shoulder. “We ought to sleep.”

Naturally she was tired. He felt drained himself, though it was Hogmanay night and Scots across the land would be celebrating into the wee hours. Whatever blood-family he had was elsewhere, either kicking up their heels at Castle Balmore, or farther afield. There were only girl siblings on his father’s side and most had been wed to families beyond the moor.

Conscience struck him—that it ought to be himself hosting a grand gathering. That was how it had been when his father lived, with Balmore and Dunrannoch alternating through the years, but Finlay had been more than happy to forfeit the honor.

Another thing I’ve failed at.

He had his business of course, but Margaret was right that he’d neglected the estate and the castle.

And neglected her.

“I’ll go up and get the fire going.”

As he turned to leave, she called out, “Do that, but I’d prefer to rest here through the night. I can sleep in this chair. Perhaps Brucie can keep me company.”

His chest tightened.

She doesn’t even trust me enough to share a mattress, as if I’d force her into anything she didn’t want.

“You should take the bed, and keep Brucie close, or if you wish, I could stay downstairs with you.”

She shook her head. “Nay. I’ll manage. There’s warmth in the hearth. I’ll likely only doze and can feed logs upon it through the night. You might bring down a pillow and a quilt from the bed?”

“Aye, I can do that.”

She’d already turned away, looking again into the swirling white.

With heavy heart, he slipped out.

Having takenMargaret the uppermost of the coverlets as well as the plumpest of the pillows, Finlay returned to the bedchamber.

Wedding garlands! Great swags of them, festooned with winter berries crimson and white, the greenery looped with satin sashes and goodness knew what! All about the frame of the bed, twining around the posts and between them.

They certainly hadn’t been here the last time he’d stayed. He supposed he had Alastair and Ailsa to thank for this bit of interference, instructing his housekeeper to make the room just as it had been the past Yuletide. Was Mistress Douglas in on the whole plan? If so, he could only imagine her glee, learning that a scheme was afoot to coax his bride to the castle.

’Twas humiliating.

Even more so since Mags won’t have me.

His pride had taken a beating the first time, but this would be worse.

And not just my pride, is it?

His heart had received a savaging too, for he’d assumed Margaret would stick by him no matter what.

Tugging at the beribboned ivy, he pinched off a leaf.

The irony was that all his ambitions were as much for her as himself. He’d wanted to give her everything she might desire. ’Twas how a man proved his love, wasn’t it?

None of that seemed important to Margaret. All she cared about was how he’d obtained the start-up capital, borrowing from her brother—as if that mattered!

All right… he knew why it mattered but, surely, she could let it go.

With a sigh, Finlay used the lantern’s flame to light the lamp at the side of the bed, then approached the hearth. Jamie had done well getting things ready, although the abundance of heather twigs in the grate was a trifle annoying. He’d spent the better part of the last three months in the soapworks, with nothing but the scent of heather under his nose, and now the room was to be filled with it too?