Page 6 of The Lady’s Guide to Being Snowbound with a Scottish Laird (The Lady’s Guide to Love #9)
Sitting by the fire, Margaret’s thoughts were entirely of him. She’d been strong for so long, telling herself she didn’t need him or any man. She’d lost faith in everything he’d promised, but a few hours in his company and she was a wreck, her feelings running away from her reason.
Then the awful noise began, she screamed, and with all promptness, Finlay burst through the door. The next she knew, he was carrying her up the stairs and, of course, she could guess where he was taking her.
Seating her upon the bed, he knelt at her feet. “Tell me, lass. What scared you?”
“Bagpipes, Finlay! Surely you heard!”
He frowned, looking uncertain, then raked his hand through his hair. He’d taken off his jacket, she noticed, though his waistcoat remained, and he’d unbuttoned the top of his shirt, revealing a dusting of light brown chest hair.
It suited him, being less formal. It made her think of the days when he’d time to spare, and they would lay upon the heather in the sunshine, looking up at the boundless sky. His shirtsleeves had oft been rolled up, back then.
She fought to steady her well of emotion. “You know what it means, to hear them. You might be… You might be in danger!”
“Nay, lass. There were no pipes. Could be you dreamt them. Were you dozing before the fire?”
“I’m sure I wasn’t.” The springs of the armchair had poked her in unmentionable places and she’d been cold, even with the quilt Finlay had brought her.
She’d been wondering whether she’d be better off lying on the floor with Brucie, wrapping the coverlet around them both, when the deerhound had pricked up his ears and let out a howl.
“’Twas terrifying. Those long, plaintive moans travelling through the very walls of the castle, as if the dead had returned to wail and groan. I did wonder at the melody being so rambling, the notes more discordant than melodious, but perhaps ’tis what happens, the older a ghost becomes.”
Finlay seemed about to say something, then bit it back. Brucie had followed them upstairs, dragging the quilt between his jaws, and was sitting upon it now beside his master. Quizzically, he looked from Finlay to Margaret and back again, as if attempting to understand what was passing between them.
“I believe you.” Finlay took her hand, and the wedding band on his finger caught her eye.
“I’ve never heard the ghostly pipes myself, but it could be they only appear to those close to the doomed man, rather than to the victim himself.
’Tis a sign, Magsie. Even Camdyn must know how much you mean to me. ”
And how much I care for you.
She was still wearing her wedding ring too.
Like Finlay, she didn’t consider herself one for old wives’ tales. Theirs was an age of science, and yet, where had the story of the curse come from? All things had a grain of truth, even if they became distorted with time.
“You’ll stay with me, Mags?” Finlay rubbed his thumb across her fingers. “Not just for your own comfort but for mine? Seeing you like this, I must admit, I’m shaken.”
His eyes met hers, and there was something there that drew her in.
“Of course. Only…I’m unsure of the wisdom of us sharing a bed. ’Twould be a temptation, and things are complicated between us…”
“You’re right, as always.” Finlay nodded earnestly.
“Even with the pillows separating us, I might roll toward you in the night. A man isn’t always aware of his body at such times.
I might think I was in the midst of some wonderful dream, holding you close again.
I would ne’er force myself upon you but, in my sleep, my yearning body might have other ideas.
Think of the shock, waking to the weight of me above you!
Before either of us are aware of what we’re doing, I’d be thrusting, my hands reaching beneath to lift you to my strokes.
Even if you whimpered and pushed against me, my sleeping mind might construe that as your enthusiasm for the coupling, spurring me to bury myself even deeper. ‘Twould be a terrible thing!”
“Yes, most terrible!” The words came out as barely a whisper. She was intensely aware of how close he was, his elbows brushing the side of her legs, and his hands so very warm. Moreover, her mind was filled with lusty images.
“I’ll sleep in the chair by the fire.” Finlay stood, breaking contact with her, stepping back.
She swayed slightly, unsure of what had just come over her.
“But let’s first get you out of that damp gown and under the covers. I found some linens in the trunk.” He cleared his throat. “A nightgown, I’m certain. Here, I’ll…”
He went to the foot of the bed and rummaged in a chest, pulling out something in white cambric with a deal of lace about the neck, scooped low. The sleeves were of half-length and similarly embellished.
Taking it from him, she wondered at the delicacy of the lacework.
One of his mother’s?
She couldn’t imagine it. The garment looked unworn, but the room had belonged to his parents not so long ago. It was possible some things had been left.
Only now did she register how the bed was decorated.
It surely didn’t look like this all the time. Someone had gone to great trouble, dressing it in fresh Yuletide foliage and working through the ribbons very prettily.
It was just as she’d expect a bed to look for the occasion of…a wedding!
What had Ailsa written to Mistress Douglas, to make her think this was appropriate?
Her sister-in-law must have been planning this for weeks, and goodness knew what the servants at Dunrannoch made of it all—first thinking she would be coming here as lady of the house, then being told not, and now being convinced that all was well, and she and Finlay would be setting up home together.
Finlay must be to blame, at least in part!
Ailsa and Alastair would never have carried out such machinations without Finlay spurring them on…would they?
Margaret didn’t know what to believe any more, and ’twas exhausting.
“I’m sorry about all this…” Finlay gestured to the garlands swathing the bed. “I swear, ’tis naught of my making. I would never—”
“Don’t trouble yourself. Just unfasten the buttons at the back of my gown. I wish to think of nothing more until the morrow.” She turned, trying to ignore the brush of his fingers as he worked at the tiny fastenings.
After some minutes of him fumbling, she suggested he search the drawers of the dressing table for something to aid him. To her relief, a button hook was there, allowing him to make better progress. Still, he was laboriously slow and, all the while, she was aware of his breath upon her neck.
Mayhap ’twas her imagination but she thought it grew louder the longer he was about the task, especially when she asked him to untie the top laces of her corset and loosen them.
At last Finlay was done and retreated to the other side of the room.
Quickly, she shimmied out of the gown. The corset was now loose enough that she was able to twist it round, continuing the loosening of the laces herself, until it could be drawn over her head.
She then donned the nightshift and removed her petticoats, bloomers and camisole from beneath the safety of its covering before throwing back the covers.
Sliding in, she uttered a most unladylike exclamation as she encountered cold sheets.
“No warming pan, I’m afraid.” Finlay glanced back.
“’Tis not so bad.” If she said it firmly enough, she might believe it.
From the hearth, there was a spitting sizzle.
“These logs!” Finlay shook his head. “I fear they’re not so well seasoned as the ones in the snug. Too much sap still in the wood.”
As if in response to the remark the fire gave another crack, shooting a shower of sparks upon the rug. Muttering darkly, Finlay stamped his foot in several places, squashing the glowing pieces.
“Finlay! Your sporran!” Margaret bolted upright.
He spun about, turning his back as a second barrage of embers flew out, landing on the rear pleats of his kilt.
In a trice, Margaret had leapt from the bed. Without thinking, she began beating the folds with her hands, slapping his backside.
“Don’t tell me my bahookie is burning!” He twisted about, trying to see.
“Hold still, ye eejit!” Grabbing hold of the waistband, she smacked some more, then took the opportunity to swipe at the sporran.
“Gad’s teeth, woman! Watch my valuables!” Finlay hopped to the left, trying to get away from her, while puffing madly upon the smoldering sporran. Made from the mane of his late father’s favorite hunter, the thing dangled low like an old man’s beard, and flames were licking upward from the bottom.
Grabbing a cushion from the fireside chair, Margaret walloped it again, as hard as she could. Finlay spluttered, dancing about. Brucie, clearly wanting to join in with the excitement, jumped up, shoving two great paws into Finlay’s groin.
“Get it off! Quickly!” Margaret shrieked.
There was no time for the individual buckles fastening the sporran in place. Ripping at the side fastening, Finlay threw off the kilt entirely then stomped upon it.
“My goodness!” Margaret blinked rapidly, presented with two pale globes (well-muscled) perched atop quite spectacular thighs (moderately hairy).
As he turned about, her eyes widened. The front of his shirt did not quite cover the thickness protruding from between his legs.
Of course she’d seen it before—and not just on their wedding night, exactly a year ago—but it had been a while.
She’d forgotten how impressive it was. Moreover, the longer she looked upon it, she was certain it was getting bigger or, at least, pointing at a different angle than it had been.
Rather than attempting to cover his person, Finlay folded his arms, which only made the shirt ride up more. Despite the debacle with the kilt, he looked nauseatingly pleased with himself and was clearly unharmed.
“Are you checking it’s still there, lass? Come closer if you like. I’ve nae objection to you making a thorough inspection.”
Urgh! And to think I was worried about him.
The loathsome lout!
Sending him what she hoped was her most withering look, Margaret returned to the bed, pulling the covers up high. “As you’re sleeping in the chair, you’d best be putting that back on, unless you want chilblains on your nether regions!”
From the corner of her eye she watched him go to retrieve the kilt, only to begin cursing again. Brucie had ripped the sporran from its fastenings and was shaking it most thoroughly, growling and drooling.
With a wide, panting smile, he dropped it at his master’s feet.