Page 13 of The Lady’s Guide to Being Snowbound with a Scottish Laird (The Lady’s Guide to Love #9)

Margaret rushed headlong 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 and pressed her back to the heavy oak. She squeezed shut her eyes, praying he’d leave her alone.

To her surprise he appeared to do just that, for there came no hammering behind her, nor any further call for her attention. Only when she surveyed the chamber did she gain some inkling why.

’Twas a nursery.

Two small beds stood at one end, and two cradles at the other, with a rocking chair between. The cots were already filled with blankets, the chair adorned with a plump cushion. Several sheepskins covered the floor, ready for tiny feet to walk upon.

The honeyed light of mid-morning sent slanting rays across the room, bringing her attention to the tapestries that covered the bare granite.

One was clearly Dunrannoch, standing proud, rising from a moorland scene of the heather in full bloom.

The next depicted a man and woman, finely dressed in Dalreagh tartan.

As she peered at the faces, her throat tightened, for ’twas certainly Finlay’s parents.

Magnus—who’d been like a second father to her—and Lorna, who cherished her as one of her own daughters.

Her gaze lit upon the third. Another couple, but younger this time, and there could be no mistaking who they were intended to be. A woman with coppered locks, and a man with soft eyes, his arm about his wife’s shoulder, looking at her with adoration.

Margaret had never seen the tapestries before, nor this room looking as it did now.

’Tis Finlay’s work.

She knew as surely as the longing inside her to see the room filled with children.

My own babies.

’Twas impossible not to imagine it.

A sleeping babe, nestled in those comforting blankets, becoming a bonny toddler, laughing as they were tossed in the air and caught again. Later, perhaps, they’d be snuggled on her knee in the chair, feeling safe as she sang a melody, knowing how dearly they were loved.

Finlay had made this room—for her, and the children they might have together.

Margaret rattled the door through which they’d entered from the courtyard the evening before. To her annoyance, it wouldn’t budge. Peering through a slit-window to the side, it appeared the blizzard had blown a high drift up against the threshold, and the night’s frost had iced the door shut.

Turning about, she headed for the kitchens. There, at least, she ought to be able to get out, for there was a southerly door leading directly into the walled gardens, which were used for growing herbs and vegetables.

’Twas both a blessing and a curse that she and Finlay were alone within the castle. Their proximity to one another was unbearable, but at least there was no one to witness it. She’d have hated the awkwardness of having to explain herself to any of the staff at this moment.

Bad enough that I’ll have to plead with Jamie to help me, while he’s likely wrapped warm by the fire with old Rabbie, and none too keen to come out.

She’d no thought now of bothering him about the carriage. A single horse would do—one who wouldn’t flinch from carrying her through the snow. The waymarkers along the track that connected Dunrannoch with Balmore were built to stand tall for a reason, remaining visible even after a fierce blizzard.

Entering Mistress Middymuckle’s domain, Margaret made her way around the huge wooden table, then came to an abrupt halt.

The tub was where Finlay had set it, filled with slightly steaming water and emitting the soft fragrance of heather.

A few dried sprays of the purple bloom floated on the surface.

He’s only done this to sweet talk me back into bed. Don’t fool yourself into thinking it signals more.

Hurrying to the outer door, she was thankful to find that it opened easily. A chill gust swept into the kitchen, bringing with it a flurry of flakes. From the pawprints across the crisp whiteness, she guessed Brucie had scampered out this way earlier.

Her breath carried in a visible plume, and the bite of the winter air stung her face. She tucked her hands beneath her arms, regretting that she hadn’t taken the time to search out some gloves.

Stepping out, she was struck by how brilliantly blue the sky had become. The sun was low, but its rays seared the coldness, making the snow sparkle as if countless diamonds had been scattered.

Diamonds—like the jewels Finlay had said he wished to lavish upon her, as if she gave a jot about that. Her tears came again, this time caught by the icy air and freezing on her lashes before they had a chance to fall.

Blindly she ventured further, following where she knew the path must lie, beneath the glistening snow, her skirts sweeping a trail behind. Reaching the very middle of the walled space, where stood a stone sundial, she paused.

She’d the strongest feeling of being watched, as if the castle itself was calling to her, telling her to gaze upon it, one last time.

Turning, she scanned the narrow windows and, counting them, deduced which belonged to the Laird’s chamber.

The curtain was still partly closed. Another three across and she guessed from the shape of the aperture that ’twas the window of the nursery.

Shielding her eyes, she fixed upon it, long and hard.

All that might have been…

The sun’s glint flashed from the panes, but then she saw him.

Finlay.

He was standing at the window of that room, looking down at her.

He’ll think I’m staring at him!

Aghast, she picked up her skirts and ran to the far side of the garden, to the small door embedded in the wall. Tugging on the heavy ring-pull she tried frantically to open it, but it was firmly stuck.

Nay! It can’t be!

She pushed the other way, in case her memory was failing her, but it made no difference.

Is the latch bolted?

There was a keyhole and presumably a key, though in whose possession she couldn’t say. She’d noticed no keys hanging in the kitchen. If they were kept locked away, no doubt Mistress Douglas had the charge of that.

As a child, she’d come and gone through this same door a hundred times and more, though always in the temperate seasons. It had never crossed her mind that it might be secured.

A gust of bitter wind blasted her cheek, and Margaret let go a sob.

Never had she felt so alone, and so confused. ’Twas as if the past was not her own, nor the dreams she’d once pinned her hopes upon.

She wanted to believe, so very much, that Finlay cared for her, but could she trust him to fulfil his promises? She’d spent the past year guarding herself against him, allowing no chink in the armor that protected her heart.

If he hurts me again, I don’t know how I’ll bear it.

Sinking to her knees, she pressed her forehead to the unmoving door. There was no escape—from this blasted garden, from the castle, or from her feelings.

And she had not the smallest notion how to remedy that.

Finlay hurriedly fastened the kilt about his lower half and dashed after her, only to skitter to a halt as she entered the nursery. Suddenly, he was unable to take another step, unable, hardly, to breathe.

What was she thinking? Surely, she’d see how serious he was, and how much the marriage meant to him.

How much she means to me.

Then he saw her leave, making for the stairwell, away from that room.

Away from all that I want to give her.

He couldn’t help himself, entering the nursery.

One last time, then it can be shut up.

I won’t come here again.

The way he felt now, he didn’t want to ever return to the moor. How could he? ’Twas the place he’d always imagined living with Margaret. Without her, what was there?

The staff would remain, of course, for it was their home as much as his; generations lived and worked at the castle, with as much right to its protection as any with Dalreagh blood.

Crossing to the window, he looked out, and glimpsed Margaret down below in the kitchen garden, her hair bright with the sun upon it, vivid against the blaze of white covering all.

His instinct was to run to her, to beg her to stay, to promise whatever she needed from him. But he knew it would be wrong. She’d made herself plain, that she wanted him to release her.

If you truly care for her, you’ll do it. Let her live the life she wants. You can’t keep her tied to you against her will, nor force her love.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t let her ride away.

Though the snow had ceased, ’twas mortal cold.

To allow her to cross the moors would be irresponsible.

He’d go down to the stables and stand guard over the horses until she relented.

Even Margaret wasn’t foolhardy enough to carry through her threat to begin walking.

They’d prepare one of the other rooms—his mother’s perhaps—and Mags might stay there if she couldn’t bear to lay eyes on him. Mistresses Douglas and Middymuckle would return soon, and other staff, he presumed, whose families resided within easy distance of the castle.

Margaret paused at the sundial.

Look back at me. Please.

He willed it with all his might.

If she turned back, there was a chance, wasn’t there?

To his joy, she did so, swinging about to scan the castle walls. The breeze whisked wisps of hair across her face. Despite a pinch of pink high in her cheeks, she was pale.

My Margaret. What have I done to you? Please, forgive me.

When her gaze found him, his heart leapt.

She stared fixedly, as if reaching out to him through her gaze, though he couldn’t tell what she wished to impart. Was she having second thoughts? Might she return?

The next moment she appeared to flinch and, as if running from the devil himself, made for the far door which connected the walled garden to the wider moor.

“Mags!” He banged upon the glass, but she made no sign of hearing him. All her focus was upon the door, from the way she was struggling.

Was it locked? If so, he thanked whoever had done so. She’d have no choice now but to re-enter the castle, and he would be waiting. He had to speak to her.

One last time.

To his horror she crumpled, sliding down, her skirts pooling in a sea of stormy blue. Her face was pressed to the oak and she was crying, he could tell.

My love!

The deepest part of him rose in anguish for her.

He’d done this. He was the cause of her pain, and ’twas up to him to put things right.

Though he wore naught but the hastily donned kilt and his rumpled shirt, he ran as swiftly as his legs would carry him.