Page 5 of The Lady’s Guide to Being Snowbound with a Scottish Laird (The Lady’s Guide to Love #9)

“How about I spin a tale to take our minds off the…ah…current situation.” Finlay ventured a smile. “To keep us amused.”

The set of her chin had him doubting himself, but he was determined to lighten the mood. “How about the story of Flora and Ragnall? Of how poor Flora’s father was murdered in his bed and the young lass ran away to escape being wed to a man she believed had no true regard for her?”

Margaret raised an eyebrow.

“Well, she also thought her betrothed was the murderer…” Finlay rubbed at his chin, a little unsure of the details.

Margaret sighed deeply. “And she returned in the guise of a dairymaid, intending to exact her revenge. Honestly, Finlay, I grew up listening to that particular story—and gruesome it is, though Flora remained strong-hearted through and through. Even when she was abducted by her foul stepbrother and afeared for her life, she was brave. Then Ragnall stormed the keep and saved her from certain death.”

“Exactly!” Finlay slapped his thigh. “He proved himself to her—that he wasn’t the villain she’d taken him for, and they enjoyed a long and happy marriage thereafter. You see how it is! When two people are destined to be together, they shouldn’t let anything come between them.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “I don’t think this kidnapping is in quite the same league, do you?

Unless you’re intending to imprison me in one of the towers and torture me until I submit to your will.

In which case, I’ll be waiting for a sword-wielding warrior to come and lop off your head, or push you from the parapets, or shoot you with his crossbow.

All would suffice.” At last she gave him the smile he’d been waiting for, and her eyes twinkled with genuine merriment.

“You’re perfectly right, Finlay. Thinking about that has cheered me up no end. ”

I suppose I asked for that.

If you went back far enough both he and Margaret were descended from the great chieftain Ragnall and his feisty bride, Flora, whose hair was said to be rich as autumn bracken on the hillside, sparked with flames from a blazing fire—with a temperament to match.

Looking at Margaret, ’twas easy to imagine how she was related to the legendary matriarch of the clan.

As for the castles of Balmore and Dunrannoch, they’d passed through various branches of the family over the centuries, but the history of the two went hand in hand.

Marriage between Finlay and Margaret brought the two under one house again and, if they were blessed with sons, perhaps the boys would take the twin lairdships—since Alastair and Ailsa had yet to bear any children at all, despite almost a decade of being wed.

Best not to bring that up. Knowing Margaret, she’ll construe it as yet another reason for me making her my bride that has naught to do with love.

There was no doubt the match was beneficial, but he’d asked for her hand because there was no other woman on Earth—and he’d met quite a few—with whom he could imagine spending his life.

Naturally there had been nothing romantic between them at first, for they were both children, and she so much younger. All that had changed when she’d entered womanhood. Then his heart had told him unequivocally that she was the one.

“Any more legends of bygone days you wish to regale me with?” Margaret asked mischievously.

“That of the headless warrior who stalks the roof of the East Tower, or the sorry tale of the chambermaid who runs sobbing through the Minstrel’s Gallery?

Or perhaps you want to summon old Camdyn Dalreagh, that he might play his ghostly bagpipes?

Remind me, Finlay, what is it they foretell?

The untimely death of whoever heads the clan, isn’t it? Or something about heirs?”

She was definitely making fun at his expense. Strangely, he didn’t mind. To see her laughing made it entirely worthwhile.

“Don’t tell me you believe in the curse?” He pulled a face. “My father was well into his fifties when he passed, and my grandfather reached two and eighty. I’d hardly call that untimely. As for myself, I’m in excellent health!”

“Still, perhaps ’tis just as well things haven’t worked out between us.

I don’t think I could face the worry of waking in the night, thinking I might be hearing bagpipes wailing, even if ’twas only the wind whistling about.

” Margaret looked thoughtful. “The castle does have a grisly history. I know at least four stories of lovelorn females tossing themselves from the towers, and the dungeons don’t bear thinking about.

Who knows how many skeletons are holed up in the walls.

Balmore has its fair share of horrible history, but nothing like Dunrannoch.

I suppose that’s due to it being the oldest of the castles on the moor. ”

“True enough, and it’s little changed since the violent days of the first clan chief—the Wolf of Dunrannoch—more than eight hundred years ago.

’Tis little wonder there are so many unquiet spirits.

” He didn’t think of himself as superstitious, but he’d spent enough years within the castle walls to know that such a place held onto the past in ways which could not be fathomed.

If he couldn’t persuade Margaret to remain with him, he wouldn’t be able to face living here alone—and there would be no other bride. Their marriage would join the other ghosts.

As if sensing his mood, she shivered, and he had the strongest urge to cross the space between them, to wrap her in his arms and tell her that nothing bad would happen, as long as he was there.

He meant it.

He’d mis-stepped, and gone about things in the wrong way, keeping more from Margaret than he should have. He understood that, and he regretted it.

If she couldn’t forgive him, he didn’t know what he’d do, but no matter what happened, he’d always have her well-being at the forefront of his mind. He was summoning the courage to tell her so when, without warning, she stood, going to the window, pulling back the curtain.

Margaret remained there, staring out into the darkness of the courtyard. Fat flakes of snow were sticking to the corners of the panes. If it continued like this, there was no question of either of them leaving.

The clock on the mantel chimed ten, and she spoke over her shoulder. “We ought to sleep.”

Naturally she was tired. He felt drained himself, though it was Hogmanay night and Scots across the land would be celebrating into the wee hours.

Whatever blood-family he had was elsewhere, either kicking up their heels at Castle Balmore, or farther afield.

There were only girl siblings on his father’s side and most had been wed to families beyond the moor.

Conscience struck him—that it ought to be himself hosting a grand gathering. That was how it had been when his father lived, with Balmore and Dunrannoch alternating through the years, but Finlay had been more than happy to forfeit the honor.

Another thing I’ve failed at.

He had his business of course, but Margaret was right that he’d neglected the estate and the castle.

And neglected her.

“I’ll go up and get the fire going.”

As he turned to leave, she called out, “Do that, but I’d prefer to rest here through the night. I can sleep in this chair. Perhaps Brucie can keep me company.”

His chest tightened.

She doesn’t even trust me enough to share a mattress, as if I’d force her into anything she didn’t want.

“You should take the bed, and keep Brucie close, or if you wish, I could stay downstairs with you.”

She shook her head. “Nay. I’ll manage. There’s warmth in the hearth. I’ll likely only doze and can feed logs upon it through the night. You might bring down a pillow and a quilt from the bed?”

“Aye, I can do that.”

She’d already turned away, looking again into the swirling white.

With heavy heart, he slipped out.

Having taken Margaret the uppermost of the coverlets as well as the plumpest of the pillows, Finlay returned to the bedchamber.

Wedding garlands! Great swags of them, festooned with winter berries crimson and white, the greenery looped with satin sashes and goodness knew what! All about the frame of the bed, twining around the posts and between them.

They certainly hadn’t been here the last time he’d stayed.

He supposed he had Alastair and Ailsa to thank for this bit of interference, instructing his housekeeper to make the room just as it had been the past Yuletide.

Was Mistress Douglas in on the whole plan?

If so, he could only imagine her glee, learning that a scheme was afoot to coax his bride to the castle.

’Twas humiliating.

Even more so since Mags won’t have me.

His pride had taken a beating the first time, but this would be worse.

And not just my pride, is it?

His heart had received a savaging too, for he’d assumed Margaret would stick by him no matter what.

Tugging at the beribboned ivy, he pinched off a leaf.

The irony was that all his ambitions were as much for her as himself. He’d wanted to give her everything she might desire. ’Twas how a man proved his love, wasn’t it?

None of that seemed important to Margaret. All she cared about was how he’d obtained the start-up capital, borrowing from her brother—as if that mattered!

All right… he knew why it mattered but, surely, she could let it go.

With a sigh, Finlay used the lantern’s flame to light the lamp at the side of the bed, then approached the hearth.

Jamie had done well getting things ready, although the abundance of heather twigs in the grate was a trifle annoying.

He’d spent the better part of the last three months in the soapworks, with nothing but the scent of heather under his nose, and now the room was to be filled with it too?

Gads! I’m turning into a miserable old bastard!

Yanking off the jabot from about his neck, he tossed it onto a nearby chair.

And who still wears those bits of frilly lace at their neck, I’d like to know?

Certainly no one at Castle Balmore, but his mother had always liked seeing his father in the fashion and had sent him this frothy confection as a festive gift. As such, he’d felt obliged to add it to his costume.

With the upper buttons of his shirt open, he bent to remove the flashes from his socks, and slid out the sgian dubh, casting the blade onto the dressing table.

Finlay looked again at the bed, where his warm bride should be waiting, willing and eager—not perched in some armchair downstairs on her lonesome.

Shrugging off his jacket, he was about to sling it aside, then thought better of it.

’Twas his only formal doublet, and the chair was likely covered in dog hair.

Instead he opened the grand cabinet standing tall beside the door, thinking to place it there, and encountered another disturbing sight.

Within hung an array of sumptuous gowns and cloaks, while the shelf above was ranged with dainty footwear in every color imaginable.

Finlay groaned.

’Twas the wedding trousseau he’d purchased more than a year ago, as a surprise for Margaret when she came to live at Dunrannoch.

Mistress Douglas had put the things away in storage elsewhere but now here they were, returned to the wardrobe in the Laird and Lady’s bedchamber, his own clothing relegated to one end.

Another thought occurred to him and, opening the trunk at the foot of the bed, he saw he was correct.

Falling to his knees, he placed his hand upon the delicate linens neatly folded there: nightgowns and camisoles, petticoats and bloomers, and who knew what else.

He’d visited Glasgow’s foremost women’s outfitter for the purpose, though he’d left the details of what was required entirely to them—for what did he know of female underthings?

He slammed the chest shut.

What had once been in there? Not clothing.

His father had used it for an assortment of odd possessions which his mother had oft complained about—things passed on from father to son through the ages, which the late Laird had liked to keep close.

Mistress Douglas must have relocated them elsewhere, which was all to the good, except hadn’t there been a set of…

Inspiration sparked in Finlay’s mind.

Aye! A set of bagpipes, worn thin but mayhap still working. His father had taken them out on occasion and played a faltering tune. He’d shown Finlay what was required to get a melody from the instrument.

Where were they now?

Dropping down, he looked under the bed, but there was naught to be seen. There was no other place in the room the things might be and, putting himself in his housekeeper’s mind, ’twas far more likely she’d have hidden them away somewhere else.

If he recalled rightly there was a storage room not far along. He’d wager a good bottle of malt it was where Mistress Douglas had stashed the contents of the trunk.

It took no time at all to find the place. ’Twas unlocked and, though the room was crammed with cases and chests of all sizes, the pipes were sure enough sitting atop a pile close by the door.

The bag had seen better days. The Dalreagh tartan was still distinctive, but age and dust had muted the vibrant russet wool, cross-patterned with shades of green.

The instrument looked like some forlorn, overfed spider—fat in the body and with an odd number of legs, poking out at awkward angles.

Three stiff wooden rods rose from the top, one longer than the other two, as well as the blowpipe.

Returning to the bedchamber, Finlay tucked the instrument beneath his left arm, settled the long pipes over his shoulder, and placed his fingers on the chanter below.

As he filled the bag with air, it began to wheeze.

Then, with the last solid exhalation, the pipes sprang to life, letting out an anguished whine.

With his fingers half-remembering some pattern of old, and his lungs replenishing the bag, a disconsolate strain emerged. Camdyn Dalreagh would be turning in his grave, and a host of other piping ancestors besides, but the cacophony was made with intent.

He’d barely gotten into his stride before another shrill, agonizing sound pierced the air. Rounding off the final notes, Finlay closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, then bundled the pipes beneath the bed.

’Twas time to rescue the maiden.