Page 2 of The Lady’s Guide to Being Snowbound with a Scottish Laird (The Lady’s Guide to Love #9)

Beneath the crook of his arm, Finlay was vaguely aware of the great furry head of Brucie, his deerhound, who always slept beside him.

The familiar, slightly rough tongue gave his cheek a lick.

Finlay attempted to open his eyes, but the ache behind them was too awful; keeping them closed seemed preferable.

How much had he drunk? And when had he gone to bed? He couldn’t remember, but the mattress was a damned sight harder than he remembered, and the pillow must have slipped off somewhere.

He vaguely recalled Alastair taking him to see some new hunter he’d installed in the stables. After that, it was all a bit hazy. He’d had more than a few drams, steeling his courage to approach her—even before Alastair had him toasting that new stallion of his.

Enough to make him stumble and hit his head, or had he simply passed out? If so, then it must have taken a fair bit of effort for someone to get him up the stairs to the guest quarters of the castle. Finlay tried shifting position, but it was no better. Rather, the bed seemed to be moving.

With a groan, he squeezed his eyes closed all the more.

The best thing to do was to pretend none of it was happening. Another few hours of sleep and he might wake feeling more himself.

Sadly, the mattress continued to shoogle about. Not only that, but there was an insistent prodding at his leg. A lurch and a sharp pain above his ankle brought him alarmingly awake.

Finlay squinted in the gloom.

What in damnation!

This wasn’t his bedchamber.

He wasn’t even in the castle.

The weak cast of moonlight through the window revealed the confines of a coach, and the ‘bed’ he’d been lying upon was no more than the padded seat.

Running his hand over the leather, he recognized it as his own equipage.

Moreover, he wasn’t alone.

Brucie was there, right enough, panting excitedly and shoving his wet nose into Finlay’s hand.

And opposite…

He rubbed his eyes.

’Twas a woman, by the look of what she was wearing and the curve of her bosom, though she had something over her head. A pillowcase, was it?

As he was peering at her, one dainty foot shot out and caught him hard on the shin.

Devil’s Blood! The witch was attacking him!

Without further ado, he whipped off the hood. Her coppered curls were fluffed and half-fallen from their elaborate arrangement, her lips were curled in a snarl and her eyes were hard as flint: but this witch was, nonetheless, the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes upon.

’Twas his own, beautiful, Magsie.

Thanks be to all the sweet angels! He’d ceased his snoring and had woken up. ’Twas good to be able to see again—though it gave her not a whit of relief that the cur gawping back at her was none other than blasted Finlay Dalreagh, looking as if he’d fallen from the sky and had his brains shaken out.

She’d suspected as much when she’d felt that great hairy muzzle nudging at her knees. It had been a while since she’d seen his dog, but Brucie was unmistakable, and he clearly recognized her scent.

Now, if his master would but remove the cloth tied into her mouth, she’d be giving him an earful of what she thought. So far, the bampot was just sitting there, obliging her to stamp her foot on his.

Though she was wearing only her dancing slippers, the force of her sentiment did the trick. Uttering exactly the sort of oath she’d been thinking to herself since she’d been bundled up and deposited here so unceremoniously, he leant forward and tugged the handkerchief from between her lips.

“Magsie! What the—”

“Untie my wrists.”

He stared at her like an addlepate again, obliging her to lift her hands from her lap and wave them in front of him. His fingers were clumsy, but he managed it—no thanks to Brucie, who was pushing his snuffling nose into the thick of things.

“What happened?” Finlay rubbed at his head. “Was it you, Magsie, that brought me here? Did you—”

“You think I did this?”

Dear God! The man was stupid! Handsome, even in his disheveled state, but an eejit nonetheless.

“I stuffed the kerchief in my mouth, put that thing over my head and tied myself up? Sweet Mother of God! Is your head mince? And don’t be calling me Magsie. I’m Margaret to you.”

His expression turned from bewilderment to hurt, as if she’d struck some blow. He might have called her by the pet name since they were children, but he’d forfeited the right, and she’d no plan to forgive him.

Still, the way he was looking at her, she did feel a trifle sorry for him, though ’twas naught to do with the way his sandy hair had fallen over one eye in the way it often did when he was abstracted in thought.

“You were with Alastair, I take it?”

His brows rose. “How did you know that?”

“For the same reason that I know who put me here. ’Twas Ailsa.”

The cunning, two-faced cow!

“One minute she and I were having a cozy chat, the next, two of her maids appeared through the door and the three of them wrestled me to the ground, trussing me up, with no chance to call for help. Then some burly fellow put me over his shoulder and carried me to where the coach was waiting. Before she put the pillowcase over my head, Ailsa had the cheek to whisper in my ear that I’d be thanking her later!

Of course, you were already here, slumped on your side and dead to the world.

Not that I realized it was you at the time--not until Brucie began snuffling at my lap "

“So that’s it? ’Tis a rum way to carry on—and tying you up was a step too far, no doubt about it. But I still don’t…” Finlay stopped, craning his neck to the window. “Have you seen this?”

The expanse of the moor lay around them, laced in lightly falling snow.

’Twas fortunate the moon was bright, though half-shrouded by cloud.

The outer edge of the track was just visible, marked with the way-posts that kept travelers within bounds.

To stray would be dangerous indeed, for the moorland’s bog was treacherous, even when the frost was keen.

In her anger, she’d thought no further than how she’d give her sister-in-law a piece of her mind, playing such tricks. She’d assumed the coach was driving in circles about the castle, as some sort of jest at their expense.

Now she began to wonder.

How many times had her brother, and Ailsa too, begged her to put aside those feelings and make a reconciliation?

Did they think this was the answer, to have the coachman drive them out onto the moor somewhere, to have Finlay untie her, and that she’d be so grateful she’d fall into his arms?

As if what had driven them apart could be fixed so easily.

Except, now she thought of it, the landscape seemed familiar, with those jagged hills over to the west. She would swear…

“We can’t be!” She looked at Finlay in horror.

“I’m afraid so.” His shoulders sagged. “Whether we like it or no, we’re approaching Dunrannoch—and by the look of it, we’ll be spending the night.”