Page 14 of The Lady’s Guide to Being Snowbound with a Scottish Laird (The Lady’s Guide to Love #9)

“Magsie!” Falling at her feet, he took her hands. They were like ice, and her eyes drowsy. Her teeth chattered and her lips were bereft of color.

He scooped beneath her bottom, raising her up. She was too weak to clasp her arms about him, but it mattered not. He’d enough fire in him to withstand the cold, and enough strength to carry her ten times as far. The important thing was to get her inside.

Finlay settled her in an armchair he dragged through from the housekeeper’s room, close to the tub and stove.

Opening the cast iron door, he raked through the embers, letting a blast of heat touch her.

With more fuel added, he closed the door again, leaving the vent full open.

’Twas fortunate he’d lit the range earlier.

Fetching the rest of the milk from the pantry, he poured it into one of the smaller pans and set it on the stove top, to make another batch of cocoa.

Throughout, Margaret uttered nay a word; not when he rubbed her hands, not when he removed her boots, nor even when he peeled off her stockings to massage her feet. It took him back to the night before, when she’d made utmost objection to him taking such a liberty.

Now she was so quiet. Was she in shock?

She hadn’t been out so very long, but she’d been distraught. Could unhappiness rob someone of their will to speak?

He eased her feet into the water. It wasn’t as hot as it had been, but ‘twould still be a comfort. Then he pulled up a stool and lowered his own toes beneath the surface. They were fairly numb, but he wriggled them against Margaret’s nonetheless and thought he spied a glimmer of a smile.

Do it now, man! Tell her!

“I meant it when I said I love you, but I’ll do as you ask.” He gulped, feeling sick to his stomach. “Perhaps you may find what you seek with someone else. Someone you think more...more worthy.”

“If you can say that you don’t know me at all!” Her eyes were suddenly blazing again.

“Of course I do, Mags.” He replied softly.

“I know you better than I know anyone. You’ve a kind heart, wanting the best for others, though you don’t always see what’s best for yourself.

You’re outspoken and determined—tenacious when you care about something…

or someone. Except that, sometimes, you don’t know when to let go. ”

“What are you saying?” There was a slight tremble to her voice. “That you want me to let go of…us?”

The look upon her face, at once distraught and unbelieving, gave him a jolt of hope.

“How could that ever be? I’m too selfish to truly wish for that.” He drew a shaky breath. “It’s the past, Mags. That’s what we need to let go of. I behaved poorly but I need the chance to make it up to you.”

“And what happens, if it’s not enough?”

He could tell Margaret was trying to be brave, having this conversation they were both afraid of.

“You’ll always be enough for me. ’Tis myself who must work to earn your trust, to lead the way in building the life you deserve.

Clan gatherings, dancing, babies, growing old together.

I’m ready, and I want you to be ready too.

” His pulse was racing, picturing all that was in his mind.

If she walks away, I don’t know what I’ll do.

He’d breathe and walk, but it wouldn’t be living.

“The nursery, when did you arrange that?” She lifted one foot out of the water, looking at her toes.

“In the months leading up to the wedding.” He answered eagerly.

“Mistress Middymuckle’s brother, Tom, is a fine carpenter, and Mistress Douglas had all the women of the house making the tapestries, from the designs I drew up.

’Twas one of the reasons I wasn’t around as much as I should have been.

That, and repairs to the roof. I hadn’t realized what a state it had gotten into until my father passed away.

He should have asked me for the money, to make it good, but he was too proud, I think. ”

“Proud in the best way,” Margaret added.

He nodded. It was like her, to be defending his father, for she only wanted to see good in those she loved.

A pang of shame struck him again. How he must have broken her, for her to abandon her faith in him—the one she ought to have believed in most of all.

“If I make you happy, that would make him proudest of all.” Finlay reached for her fingers, twining them with his own. They were warmer now.

She gave his hand the gentlest squeeze. “You could. Make me happy, that is.”

“Mags!” His need for her welled up so strongly that he pulled her to him, kissing her with everything that was in his heart.

The fear he’d harbored melted away as she moved her mouth with his, yielding and sighing, placing her palms to his chest as he poured his emotions into the tender moment.

Desire leapt between them, but also love and joy.

There was no room for regret or bitterness.

“Finlay! The milk!” She sprung back at the hiss of the pan boiling over.

“Damnation!” He grabbed a cloth and moved the pan to the back plate of the stove, then began mopping at the mess.

“Mistress Middymuckle won’t be at all happy.” Margaret teased, then exclaimed, “Finlay! Your kilt!”

“What’s the bother? ’Twas only a singe, was it not? You said it might be repaired.” He craned round, trying to look.

“I’m sure it can. It’s just, from the way you’ve been sitting, it’s grown a wee bit worse.” She smothered her laughter.

Reaching back, he encountered the downy tuft of his arse cheek, sticking out through a portion of the tartan. He’d noticed a cruel draught upon his nethers when he’d dashed across the kitchen garden, but he’d had other things to think of at the time.

“Mayhap you’d count it among your first tasks, as Countess of Dunrannoch—mending your earl’s kilt.”

“Oh, aye?” She cocked her head to one side. “Or mayhap I like your kilt just how it is.” She gave a shriek as he swept her up again.

Finlay cared not for bare feet on the granite steps of the spiral leading up through the tower, nor for the state of his backside.

The only thing that mattered, from this day forward, was making sure his darling wife was entirely satisfied, and he’d an idea, at least for a goodly while, that ‘twould begin in the bedroom.