Page 3 of The Lady’s Guide to Being Snowbound with a Scottish Laird (The Lady’s Guide to Love #9)

Climbing down from the coach, Finlay looked up at the granite walls of his ancestral home, the towers stretching skyward, as gray as the leaden clouds. This past year, he’d made no more than a few fleeting trips.

He’d no desire to remain longer.

Not on his own.

The horses were stamping their hooves upon the cobbled courtyard, snorting and steaming against the chill.

“We should get out o’the weather, m’laird.” The driver jumped down beside him. “And the horses. They were standing a wee while for ye over at Balmore.”

The voice was that of young Jamie, his own stable lad.

“Not that I minded, o’course.” Jamie added hurriedly. “’Tis good to have ye back. We’ve all been awaiting…” He trailed off, no doubt seeing the look upon Finlay’s face.

“Hurry up! We need to leave before this snow gets any worse.” Margaret called around the corner of the door, before closing it again.

“Away back?” Jamie’s eyes widened.

“Aye.” Finlay blew on his hands, feeling woefully sorry for the lad. He could tell already ’twas a vain hope, for the flakes of snow were growing larger by the minute and the flurries coming faster. Moreover, the youth looked half-frozen. “Can we do it, do you think?”

’Twas plain what the answer should be, but Jamie was too afeared to countermand what his master appeared wishing to hear.

“Nay bother, laddie.” Finlay lowered his voice. “I won’t press you to it.”

Jamie let go a heavy breath.

“But what were you doing, driving out like this? Who summoned you?” Finlay rested a hand upon the young man’s shoulder. He’d a good idea, of course, but he had to hear it from the lad.

“’Twas the message as came from Castle Balmore.

Lady Ailsa did send it, Mistress Douglas said.

All the staff were free to away home, except for Mistress Middymuckle—who was to have plenty of victuals ready for yer return, and Mistress Douglas herself, as was to get yer chamber ready, just as it was last Yuletide, and old Rabbie, who was to drive the horses, to meet ye at Balmore. ”

“I see.” Finlay chewed over this new information. “And what about yourself Jamie? I didnae ken you could drive the horses—not that you did a bad job.”

“I’ve been learning, with supervision, o’course.” Jamie worried at his lip. “I only drove tonight as Rabbie has taken a cold. I set out the fires, aforehand—in the snug and in yer chamber, and then I drove the womenfolk o’er to the Douglas farm.”

“Good lad.” Finlay patted him on the back. What else was there to say? Under the circumstances, the boy had done well. He certainly didn’t deserve censure. The manner of how the occupants of the coach came to be within was none of his doing.

As for Alastair, that was another matter.

The crafty fox had taken pains to meet him in Glasgow two weeks ago, supposedly to inspect progress at the soapworks, where their joint venture was coming to fruition.

He’d insisted on driving him back to Balmore and playing host; now Finlay had a good idea why.

“For goodness sake!” Margaret hopped down from the coach, with Brucie padding behind her. “Don’t say anything. I heard every word.” Hugging her shawl close, she gave Finlay a withering look.

“Yer Ladyship!” Jamie blinked in surprise.

To the lad, she offered a more genial expression. “Good evening to you, Jamie. I take it you and Rabbie have plenty to eat yourselves?”

“Oh aye, m’lady. A mutton pie, a fat haggis wi’ a pile o’neeps, an’a wee clootie dumpling. ’Tis a feast. Mistress Middymuckle has been busy in the kitchen this week past.”

Margaret nodded. “And Rabbie is tucked up warm?”

“Aye, wi’a heap o’peat stacked high. He’s a wee bit peelie wally, but Mistress Douglas says he’ll be braw, as long as he stays inside.”

“Excellent! In which case…” she cast a fierce eye back to Finlay. “If we’re not going anywhere, for the love of Mary, get me inside!”

The Earl of Dunrannoch did not need to be twice prompted. Before she had a moment to protest, he scooped her up so that her slippered feet were hoisted high in the air, and he strode into the castle.

Two powerful arms embraced her securely, pulled into the warmth of one broad, manly chest. Margaret had forgotten how strong he was, and how it felt to be held like this. It made her feel fragile and vulnerable, as if she had no choice but to submit.

The flutter that seized her insides told her that she liked it—which was unfortunate, because her mind was made up.

She’d no intention of surrendering to Finlay Dalreagh.

“Put me down!” As soon as they were through the door, she thumped him.

It came as a bit of a shock that he did so without hesitation, though in such a way that she ended on her feet flushed and breathless from their close contact; his hand skimmed her back, then her bottom, before he released her.

Brucie, not far behind, gave himself a shake to throw off the snowflakes from his fur.

They were in the entrance hall, and ’twas deathly cold, encased as they were in several feet of stone walls. Silent too, and dark, though someone had left a lantern and matches close by. Finlay lit the wick and, by the soft glow, Margaret caught his expression—one she could not entirely fathom.

Uncertainty, or nervousness.

As if he has anything to be anxious about! Of the two of us, ’tis me, surely, who ought to feel unsettled.

From high upon the walls, an assortment of stag heads looked down, mounted between the usual weapons and banners.

She was very much aware that this was to have been her home.

Naturally she’d visited many times, for the friendships and fortunes of the Balmores and the Dalreaghs were inextricably entwined, by blood as well as proximity.

But this was her first time across the threshold as a bride.

“The snug, yes?” Turning away, she led them through a doorway to the left, for she knew the maze of rooms and passageways almost as well as those of Castle Balmore.

Entering, she set the lantern down upon a side table and made for the armchair closest to the hearth, leaving Finlay to light the kindling.

The room itself was cozily proportioned—of a size that would warm up once the fire was blazing.

There was only one window, reasonably narrow and hung with heavy curtains, while the walls and ceiling were covered entirely by oak paneling.

There were no paintings nor other decoration, though a rather tattered tapestry, depicting the castle itself, hung to one side of the door.

Bookshelves filled the far corner, with a desk and chair in front, while the hearth and twin armchairs took up most of the remaining space.

Brucie settled himself at Margaret’s feet, leaning into her leg, and she scratched behind his ear.

Both watched Finlay who was kneeling, blowing with pursed lips, helping the flame to catch.

It made her think of him blowing in a similar manner on her neck, then pressing his lips to her throat, then…

She pushed away that memory.

It really was cold, and her shawl was of no use at all, having gotten damp outside.

She threw it over the wing of the chair and took up a blanket, folded nearby.

Though somewhat scratchy, it was dry, at least. Her slippers, meanwhile, were sodden, having been intended for dancing rather than tramping about in the snow.

Margaret eased them off, wiggling her toes.

“Here, let me.” Finlay appeared next to her and, before she had the chance to protest, lifted one stockinged foot into his lap, warming it briskly.

She looked down at his bent head. ’Twas welcome; pleasurable, even. And yet, far too familiar. No matter that they were husband and wife, she’d made her feelings plain: that she wished to end the arrangement.

’Twas over before it had begun.

Almost.

In any case, he presumed too much.

“Your stockings are wet through.” He made the observation matter-of-factly, but his hands were suddenly under her skirt, skimming her calf, wrinkling down the silk from just above her knee. The garter remained where it was, holding up nothing at all.

“Stop that!” Margaret slapped his hand away.

With a sheepish look he sat back, holding both hands aloft. “I was only thinking you could get them dry. I wasn’t meaning...” He faltered under her glare. “I’ll go to the kitchen. See what’s there for us.”

“Aye. Do that,” she replied archly.

Only when he’d left the room did Margaret peel down each stocking, securing them beneath the mantle clock to dangle.

The fire was catching nicely, orange and crimson leaping high, the dry-stalked heather stacked within the kindling creating flares of color.

Thank goodness the wood was well-seasoned.

A little heat was coming, and the flames lit a small circle about the hearth.

Just as well, since Finlay had taken the lantern with him.

After a moment’s consideration, she reached beneath her skirts and untied the hoop, letting it drop and stepping out of it. She could do without that contraption.

Having put it out of sight behind the armchair, Margaret returned to the seat and tucked her feet beneath her. The blanket she wrapped tight around, and Brucie pressed close again. Laying his head on her lap, he looked up with eyes half-entreating, half-mournful.

“It’s his own fault.” With one finger, she stroked the fur of the deerhound’s long nose. “Your master has behaved badly, and he won’t gain back my favor until…”

Until when, exactly?

Was there anything he might do that would allow her to forgive him? She’d thought about it many times, and she still wasn’t sure. Even if he wanted to make amends, and she permitted him the chance, could they go back to the way they’d once been?

It will never be the same.

Margaret had adored him for as long as she could remember.

When she’d been too little to keep up with Finlay and Alastair, Finlay had been the one to lift her onto his shoulders.

Alastair would have left her behind, saying she was too young to join in their games.

Of course, soon enough she’d become too big for carrying, but he’d still looked out for her, making sure she was included.

Finlay had been often at Castle Balmore, sharing the tutor provided for Alastair, before the pair of them had gone away for schooling. By the time she was nine and he nearly fifteen, she’d decided he was the one she would marry. She was his little Magsie, after all.

At last, the summer she turned seventeen, Finlay had returned from his studies—and the way he’d looked at her, she’d felt certain he wanted her as much as she did him. A betrothal had been arranged for a wedding to take place when she turned one and twenty.

Never had she been happier, and for a time, Finlay had seemed that way too.

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.