CHAPTER 1
Castle Balmore, Rannoch Moor
Hogmanay Night, 1860
The Great Hallof Castle Balmore was radiant with candlelight, its magnificent hearth ablaze. Garlands of greenery and bright winter berries hung wall to wall, and the lively rhythm of ten fiddles had the dancers whirling. ’Twas exactly as a Hogmanay celebration should be, with the ale and whisky flowing. Everyone was enjoying themselves, laughing and smiling, looking as if they hadn’t a care in the world.
Everyone except Margaret, who washiding behind a high-backed chair. She liked a gathering as much as any young Scotswoman, and was a fine dancer herself, but this evening she was not in the mood; or at least, the mood had been taken from her, as soon as she sawhimarrive.
Leading the reel was her brother, the Laird of Balmore, his arm linked through that of his wife and, right alongside, was the one man Margaret had sworn she would never again suffer to be in the same room with.
As the fiddlers sped their pace, the man in question took hold of his partner, spinning her cross-armed, then the pair set off after the Laird, side-skipping down the avenue of couples. As he galloped past his kilt swung high, baring not just his knees but an indecent stretch of well-muscled, lightly-haired thigh.
Really! ’Tis insupportable! Having to watch him cavorting about!
Margaret looked despondently into her empty cup. Like most of the ladies, she was drinkingthe honeyed apple punch, though she’d added a glug of pure malt when last she’d gone to refill her vessel. She was tempted to do the same again. Though not one for regularly imbibing spirits, she needed something to help her through this ordeal of an evening, but she could hardly move from where she hid without being noticed.
To her relief, the reel was coming to an end. With bows and curtseys done, the couples were drifting off in search of refreshment. Now was her chance. Amid the crowd, she might make her escape away from the festivities altogether, and into the library that doubled as her brother’s snug.
Leaving behind the hubbub, away from the heated bodies and the Great Hall’s fire, Margaret shivered at the chill of the passageway. Having grown up within the castle, she knew the wisdom of wool-spun attire—and effective undergarments besides—but her vanity had gotten the better of her. She hadn’t been able to resist the wide-yoked design in gold satin with a gauzy organza overlay. As to her sleeves, they were but awisp of puffed fabric. The flimsy ensemble was hardly elevated in its warming properties by the light silk shawl tucked about her—beautiful though it was. ’Twas not of the current city fashion, for she’d had the dress made to wear with only a modest hoop. Women upon the moor were more practical, and to manage the fast-moving steps of the country reels would be impossible with the wide skirts being worn in Edinburgh.
Not that she’d managed a single dance—thanks to the presence of a certain someone!
To her relief, upon entering the library she found a small fire crackling. No doubt her brother intended to slip away here himself at intervals through the evening. Though he always did his duty, he was a quiet soul at heart. Without bothering to light either lamp or candle, she went directly to the cabinet in which he kept his best whisky and was about to pour herself a very generous dram when the creak of the door made her whirl about.
’Tis Alastair most likely but, perhaps…
“Here you are!” Ailsa stepped inside. Seeingthe decanter in Margaret’s hand, her eyebrows shot up, but she made no comment other than to say, ‘I’ll take one of those’.
She didn’t look in the least bit cold, wearing an ensemble of dark blue velvet with the Balmore tartan looped over one shoulder, the sash secured diagonally at her hip. Taking the glass from Margaret, she inhaled the aroma, and took a seat.
“You promised me he wasn’t coming!” Margaret threw herself into the other chair by the fire. “If I’d known otherwise, I wouldn’t have?—”
“Exactly.” Ailsa interrupted. “You wouldn’t have come, and we very much wanted you here, Mags.”
She was clearly after something. Ailsa only used pet names when she was trying to get her own way. Margaret liked her sister-in-law very much, but there was one subject she had no wish to converse upon with her.
“That dress is charming on you.” Ailsa changed the subject, which was another of her tricks. “And I do like the way you’ve pinned your curls, with that bit of ribbon wrapped through. Very Greek, or should thatbe Romanesque?” Sitting back, she took a sip of her drink.
“It’s how they’re doing it now—in Town.” Margaret shrugged.
“Well, it suits you, and the color—so pretty with your hair. I’m sure you turn heads… up in Town. Is that why you’ve not come to see us lately? Lining up your next beau? Some handsome young man to warm your big, lonely bed?” Ailsa’s eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m still a married woman, even if…”
“Yes, yes.” Ailsa cut in. “Even if you don’t act like one, abandoning your darling earl barely a day after the vows. I can't understand what could be so bad. He returned your dowry and placed it in your own name, so you’ve been able to invest it and so forth, living most comfortably as far as I can see. I always thought that was decent of him.”
Margaret studied her lap.
Ailsa went on, “You know I’m on your sideMags, but I do feel sorry for him. What was it really? Was he soveryawful between the sheets?”
“Nothing of the sort! You know perfectly well why I’m cross with him and?—”
“Not still, surely?” Ailsa jumped in again. “The money Alastair invested was a purely financial arrangement. Time to forgive the poor man, don’t you think? Give Finlay a chance to make it up to you. You’ve made him suffer.”
Not nearly enough.
“Whatever you’re going to do, I’d decide quickly,” Ailsa added. “A year is a long time. He’s a red-blooded male, with a title, an estate, and sound business investments. Other women are sniffing about.”
