Page 7 of The Lady’s Guide to Being Snowbound with a Scottish Laird (The Lady’s Guide to Love #9)

Margaret stared up at the bed’s canopy.

The room was dark, lit only by the glow of the fire. Finlay was sitting close to the hearth, about which he’d placed the guard.

They’d have no more flying sparks, at least.

She’d been tired before but, in the way of such things, she was now wide awake. ’Twas impossible to sleep, knowing he was in the room. It didn’t help, listening to the wind whistling around the tower, no doubt blowing the snow in great drifts, making the route back to Balmore even more treacherous.

Brucie was snoring loudly, but she discerned no such slumbering noises from the Laird of Dunrannoch. No doubt, the chair was too disagreeable for him to find proper rest.

Margaret could almost feel sorry for him—especially in the wake of his kilt catching fire. Not that it hadn’t been funny, to a degree, but she was aware the kilt and sporran were heirlooms, having been worn by his father for special occasions.

Finlay’s mother had told her about that, and how happy she’d been to see Finlay wearing them at his wedding; how delighted she was, altogether, to see her only son marrying Margaret.

Lorna had said a great many things, in the emotion of the day, of how she thought of her as a true daughter and had every faith she’d make Finlay a devoted and loving wife.

Margaret didn’t like to think back on what happened thereafter, when she’d discovered the arrangement Finlay had made with her brother, and the vast sum he’d persuaded Alastair to invest. Of course Alastair was a grown man, and more than capable of making his own decisions, but Margaret couldn’t put aside the conviction that taking her to wife had fitted far too conveniently with Finlay’s plans.

How much easier to convince a man to put funds into your business when you’re wedded to his sister!

At first, she’d been so angry she’d barely trusted herself to appear in public. Instead, she’d locked herself in the chamber that had been hers at Balmore since she was a girl, and firmly refused to see anyone, least of all her weasel of a husband.

Only after several hours did she permit Ailsa entry, bringing food that Margaret had no appetite to eat. Later still, she’d allowed Lorna to visit.

If there was one thing Margaret wasn’t proud of, it was how she’d let down Lorna.

’Twas testament to the older woman’s good nature that she’d insisted they remain congenial, regardless of any ill-feeling between Margaret and Finlay.

Moreover, she’d supported Margaret in her decision to go to Edinburgh, to take some time in gathering her thoughts, and had given Margaret charge of Dalreagh Press, for which she would be eternally thankful.

She was well aware that Lorna kept alive a belief that the two of them would be reconciled. However, Margaret couldn’t go back to being the girl Finlay had married—the young woman who adored him unconditionally, believing they were soulmates destined for one another.

She’d always been of an independent mind, but the past year had taught her a great deal, and she was fiercely proud of her achievements.

Now being a businesswoman herself, she actually understood a little of what had motivated Finlay to act as he had.

There was something all-consuming about putting one’s energy and creativity into growing something that wouldn’t exist, but for your efforts.

Not that Dalreagh Press didn’t have good foundations, but she was bringing it properly into the nineteenth century, expanding its inventory, making it stronger, ensuring that it would continue to thrive.

If their roles had been reversed, would she have married someone with an eye to accessing essential funds?

Don’t be ridiculous! I married Finlay for love, and that would have been true whether he’d been a blacksmith or a farmer or a carpenter, or any number of things.

Margaret heaved a sigh.

Except that he isn’t, and had he been I’d unlikely be in the position of taking over the running of a prestigious publishing house.

The irony wasn’t lost upon her.

Finlay could easily make an argument for her benefitting from the marriage as much as he, just in slightly different ways.

“Are you awake, Magsie?” A half-whisper carried over from where Finlay sat.

She lay still, uncertain of whether she wished to answer him.

“I’ve a feeling you are.” His whisper was a bit louder this time.

She heard him shifting position.

“I keep turning it over in my mind. Perhaps you were right about the curse. If you hadn’t been here, Magsie, I might have been burnt alive.”

“Hardly!” She made a scoffing sound. “You’d only to roll to the floor and ‘twould have been put out easily. A fuss over nothing!”

This time, he was the one who didn’t reply.

Relenting a little, she said in a softer tone, “Still, I’m sorry about the kilt. We might be able to hide the singed length, sewing the pieces either side into a new pleat, to cover it over. I’ll take a look in the morning… or Mistress Douglas will do it for you, no doubt.”

“I expect she will,” he answered quietly. “What keeps yourself awake, Mags? Are you not comfortable?”

“I’m fine. It’s just… there must be a lot of heather in this mattress. The fragrance is distracting.”

In truth, she rather liked the scent. She’d had one similar until a few years ago—with heather mixed into the wool, though it had been old enough that the bouquet was no longer pungent.

Ailsa had set about having new mattresses installed as soon as she’d come to Balmore—the sort with springs inside.

It occurred to her that she ought to add a chapter on it, to The Lady’s Guide to All Things Useful.

There were so many ways heather could treat ailments— from creating a brew for the easing of anxiety, to making a salve for rheumatism.

’Twas said to remedy both coughs and digestive problems. There were also those who claimed bedsport as a balm for almost everything.

She wasn’t entirely sure she agreed, but perhaps that warranted a chapter too.

“Aye, the mattress is the old-fashioned sort,” Finlay replied. “Though don’t worry. It’s nae seen anyone else sleep on it. My mother had it made up especially, to mark our wedding.”

Margaret bit her lip at that tart reminder.

“You’re surely cold,” Finlay went on. “Why not let me come over, just for a few minutes, to warm you up?”

“That won’t be necessary.” She knew exactly what he was about, and if she let him under the sheets, there would be only one outcome.

Regardless of how she felt about the marriage, the lure of snuggling into his body heat would be more than she could resist. As for Finlay, he’d see it as invitation to a whole lot more.

There was an awkward silence, during which the big clock in the hallway downstairs chimed eleven.

“How about a game of cards then?” Finlay said cheerfully.

“Cards? Have you lost your senses?”

“A game of Maw, like we used to play. You remember, Magsie?”

“You can’t be serious? At this time of night?”

The excitement in his voice was palpable. “There’s likely a pack in the bedside. I keep some handy, in case I can’t sleep. Solitaire ye ken.”

He was padding across the floor. She heard a match strike and the lantern on the other side of the bed flared to life. Finlay began rifling through the drawer with one hand, the other holding up the blanket he’d wrapped around his waist, in lieu of the damaged kilt.

The mattress dipped as he sat down, looking at her expectantly. “Just for a wee while, then I’ll stop bothering you.”

Ha!

She knew full well Finlay would keep on at her until she gave in. Better to do so now and get it over with. Besides which, she’d always enjoyed the game. ‘Twould teach him a lesson to have her take him down a peg or two.

When she nodded, Finlay eased himself over, setting the cards between them.

“We’ll have a wager, shall we? To make it more interesting.” He began shuffling.

“I thought the idea was to tire us out, not whip us into a frenzy of card excitement.” Margaret surveyed him warily.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He grinned. “Besides, if all you’re wanting is to sleep, I know one surefire way to help that along.”

“Beast!” She punched his arm.

“I cannae help it.” The mischief danced in his eyes. “’Tis being with you. It brings out the animal in me.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Enough of that talk. We’ll play three sets. Hearts for trumps and aces high. Best of five hands wins the set, and whoever takes two of the sets is outright winner. Then, the lamp goes out!”

“Whatever you like, Magsie. Let no one say I can’t obey a woman’s command.” He wiggled his brows suggestively.

To her chagrin, her heartbeat was gathering pace.

Really! Are you so starved for male attention this is all that’s required?

“What are our stakes?” He paused in the shuffling, gazing at her intently.

Glancing down, she saw the sheets had slipped. There was naught covering her generous bosom but the flimsy nightgown.

Hastily, she pulled the covers higher.

Keep a hold of yourself! If you decide to bed him, ’twill be on your terms, just remember!

“What do you suggest?” She kept her eyes lowered, not daring to look at him directly.

“A kiss for each trick I win, and a forfeit of my choosing if I claim overall victory.”

“Nay!” she laughed nervously.

’Twas outrageous! He might easily claim ten kisses, or more… and, knowing Finlay, those kisses would not be upon her hand—not even upon her lips, if he thought her willing. As to an open-ended forfeit, she wasn’t so lust-addled she’d agree to that.

“Nay?” He cocked his head to one side. “Then what, lass? The cards may be in your favor. Is there naught you’d ask of me? I’m at your service.”

Again, she caught that familiar flash of arrogance.

Give Finlay Dalreagh an inch and he’ll take several miles.

“For each set I lose, I’ll grant a kiss. Claim the whole game and I may kiss you back.”

“There’s a challenge I’m willing to accept.” Finlay’s lips curled lazily. “And if you triumph, Mistress Dalreagh? What shall be your pleasure?”