Page 4 of The Lady’s Guide to Being Snowbound with a Scottish Laird (The Lady’s Guide to Love #9)

So much for getting back into Magsie’s good books!

Dolefully, Finlay made his way to the kitchens. Here they were, stuck in the castle that was rightfully their marital home, and she could hardly look at him without snarling.

She’d a list of grievances as long as a mid-winter night, and every right to be peeved, but he’d been sure he could win her round. Instead, he was making a right bull’s pizzle out of things.

The move with her stocking had clearly been a bit on the hasty side, which he’d have realized if he hadn’t still been half-sozzled on Alastair’s free-flowing whisky.

Women liked to be made to feel special, looked after and protected.

They didn’t need a man’s hand shoved up their skirts at the first opportunity.

Likely the lass was hungry, too, which never did make things easier.

He’d been watching her over at Balmore, and she’d eaten barely two bites during the feasting.

Well, that was something he could put right—thanks to good Mistress Middymuckle and her skills with the oven.

His cook had left a tray all set for carrying, with a variety of dainties set upon it.

No blood puddings or piles of turnips for the Laird and his bride.

There was a jug of ale close by but Finlay decided to leave that be.

Instead, he poured himself a tankard of water and chugged that down, eager to clear his head.

As for Lady Margaret, she’d heat up all the better with a nip of sweet brandy in her, and that was already in the cabinet of his desk, back in the snug.

Aye! He wasn’t beaten yet. The prize was worth the questing, and Finlay Dalreagh was not a man to give up on what he’d set his mind to. Margaret and he belonged together, and he was determined to make her believe it.

“A touch more of the brandy, Magsie?” Finlay watched keenly as Margaret tucked into the last of the frill-edged tarts, filled with sweet apple.

She made no protest as he filled her glass.

“Less of this calling me Magsie, if you please.” Fastidiously, Margaret licked her fingers. “And I hope you’ll be giving some of that goose to Brucie. ’Tis cruel for you to be eating your fill and him waiting so patiently.”

The deerhound was indeed sitting to attention, though averting his eyes from the food passing from plate to lips, so as not to appear too bold.

There was no doubt in Finlay’s mind that the dog would have eaten more than his due while lying by the fire in the Balmore kitchens.

However, ‘twould put Margaret in a better mood if she were agreed with.

Reluctantly, Finlay tore in half one of the goose and bramble pasties. There were but six to share and he’d already eaten two. Brucie took the morsel deftly, gobbling it down in two gulps. His eyes swiveled hopefully to the remainder, which he duly received, his master being a soft touch.

Rising to put another log on the fire, Finlay cast a glance at the dangling stockings. Funny how such garments looked significantly more alluring with a shapely leg inside them.

“Dinna touch them!” Margaret spoke sharply, but he was already feeling them at the toe. Thanks to the fire, the fine silk had almost dried.

“’Tis nae bother, and if you’re needing assistance in putting them back on…?” He couldn’t resist a grin, passing them to her, but only received one of her scowls as she laid them over the side of the armchair.

“I’ve more than a few bones to pick with you Finlay Dalreagh, and I’d thank you to keep your hands to yourself while I tell you what’s on my mind.”

He gave an inward sigh. ’Twas evidently too soon for his jokes—even with the lass full of pastry, and fine brandy washing it down.

Making himself comfortable, he cut a slice of cheese.

“And close your knees! I’ve nae wish to be looking at…that, every time I raise my head.”

Finlay was bemused a moment, until the flush on her cheeks made him realize what the lass must be eyeballing.

He was wearing the kilt, of course, as he always did when back on the moor, and without anything beneath. ’Twas the traditional way, letting the family jewels hang free for a bit of air. It took all his self-control to avoid making another jest, though several responses were on his tongue.

“First of all, this castle is a disgrace!” Margaret folded her arms. “I know perfectly well ’tis not the fault of Mistress Douglas, for her housekeeping is exemplary, but I peeked into the rooms along this passageway while you were fetching supper, and all the furniture is covered by sheets.

They look as if no one has been into them for weeks. ”

More like months.

Finlay kept that to himself. She didn’t need to know how little time he’d spent here since…well, since she’d refused to come back here with him.

“And it didn’t pass me by that young Jamie mentioned having your bedchamber made ready.” She was getting in her stride now. “I suppose that means none of the guest rooms has bedding laid out, nor has seen the warmth of a fire for goodness knows how long.”

Right again.

Since Finlay had given up properly residing here himself, he’d hardly had call to think about guests. Those rooms had been locked up since his father’s passing.

“’Tis no wonder your mother prefers staying with friends in Oban.”

Finlay felt the jab. ’Twas the one part of abandoning Dunrannoch that pierced his conscience.

His mother had taken his father’s death hard, and ’twas only natural for her to seek a change of scene to restore her spirits.

Indeed, he’d encouraged it. But he’d also done naught to encourage her back.

Naturally, he’d assured her she was welcome to remain when he brought Margaret as the new countess.

The two got along well, and the castle was large enough for privacy, but nothing had panned out the way he’d thought it would.

How could it, when the woman who’d vowed to stand beside him through all weathers had repudiated him the morning after their marriage?

Not that she hadn’t her reasons. Nevertheless…

What was he left with now?

A fortress of stone, colder than the sharpest winter wind—a place even his mother had abandoned.

“She turned over Dalreagh Press to me, before leaving. You know, do you?” Margaret eyed him beadily.

“Aye, she told me.” He approved of the decision.

The enterprise had been theirs for generations, always with the understanding that it was passed down through the women of the family.

It published a quaint little handbook and had been doing well with other titles since acquiring its own printing press over in Edinburgh.

“We’re currently revising the text for The Lady’s Guide to All Things Useful for a whole new run, to appeal to the modern woman.” Margaret sat up a little straighter. “As well as taking on the rights to four novels by women authors.”

Finlay nodded. “You’re doing well, lass. I knew you would. And I know how satisfying it is, seeing a business flourish. We’re now producing our own heather teas and lotions and such, besides the original soaps.”

In a relatively short time, Dunrannoch Fine Soaps had grown to a thriving concern, with their range extending far beyond the honey and heather bars they’d begun by selling.

The moorland and hills across the Dunrannoch Estate provided perfect conditions for several varieties of heather, with very little intervention beyond being careful where the livestock grazed.

“I’ve seen the advertisements.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I never questioned your ability to make a go of things, only your methods of attaining funds.”

Her eyes flashed. ’Twas an argument they’d exhausted, and she was iron-set on believing the worst of him.

In all honesty, he didn’t know how to go about remedying that.

There was no denying he couldn’t have gotten as far as he had without the generous loan bestowed by Margaret’s brother—but the money had nothing to do with his decision to wed.

He’d started off by simply selling the harvested heather sprigs to one of the big Glasgow breweries for a seasonal ale, then to the yarn works for the dyeing process, but it had been Alastair’s funds which had enabled the establishment of his own business.

Margaret had it in her head that he’d only married her for the money her brother could provide, but that was nonsense. Besides which, he’d repaid the initial loan—and Alastair was now reaping the benefits of the longer-term arrangement.

Everyone was happy.

Except for the one person whose wellbeing he most sought.

“I suppose I can thank you for this predicament, stuck here for who knows how long.” Margaret was glowering at him again.

Even so, he could barely keep his eyes off her. It had been far too long since he’d been in her company, and here she was, looking like some faerie queen in that diaphanous bit of nothing, with her fox-red hair all wild and the flush of temper in her cheeks.

He’d hoped the supper would put her in a better mood, but it appeared not. Finlay decided it probably wasn’t the moment to mention that the piece of weaving she’d tucked round herself had last seen service as a dog bed. It would explain why Brucie was all over Magsie, near climbing upon her lap.

“Come now. You can’t blame me for that. I was abducted, the same as yourself,” Finlay protested.

“Ha!” Margaret continued glaring. “Even if ’tis true, the whole thing is likely some connivance brought on by whatever you’ve been saying to my brother. You’ve given him the notion that we might reconcile, and it’s resulted in this harebrained plot.”

She had a point. By the look of it, Alastair had been scheming for a while, and Ailsa with him—though the blizzard seemed opportune.

“They’re misguided, perhaps,” Finlay conceded, “but they only want the best for you. For us! They surely only want us to talk.”

“If we’re to talk of anything, ’twill be how we go about dissolving this farce of a marriage.” Her answer came quick as a shot. “I travelled to Balmore purely on the understanding you weren’t invited.”

Finlay winced. One thing about Margaret: she didn’t mince her words. Nonetheless, she was right. They’d both been played.

And I only came because I hoped you would be there.

“’Twas a last-minute decision,” he mumbled. “You know I’m not one for all the noise and excitement of large gatherings, all that twirling and whatnot.”

“You were having a high old time of it for a man who doesn’t like dancing.”

“Come now, Mags. I can’t help it if women throw themselves at me. I could hardly refuse to partner them!”

From the look on her face, Finlay surmised he might do well to change the subject.