Two small beds stood at one end, and two cradles at the other, with a rocking chair between. The cots were already filled with blankets, thechair adorned with a plump cushion. Several sheepskins covered the floor, ready for tiny feet to walk upon.
The honeyed light of mid-morning sent slanting rays across the room, bringing her attention to the tapestries that covered the bare granite. One was clearly Dunrannoch, standing proud, rising from a moorland scene of the heather in full bloom. The next depicted a man and woman, finely dressed in Dalreagh tartan. As she peered at the faces, her throat tightened, for ’twas certainly Finlay’s parents. Magnus—who’d been like a second father to her—and Lorna, who cherished her as one of her own daughters.
Her gaze lit upon the third. Another couple, but younger this time, and there could be no mistaking who they were intended to be. A woman with coppered locks, and a man with soft eyes, his arm about his wife’s shoulder, looking at her with adoration.
Margaret had never seen the tapestries before, nor this room looking as it did now.
’Tis Finlay’s work.
She knew as surely as the longing inside her to see the room filled with children.
My own babies.
’Twas impossible not to imagine it.
A sleeping babe, nestled in those comforting blankets, becoming a bonny toddler, laughing as they were tossed in the air and caught again. Later, perhaps, they’d be snuggled on her knee in the chair, feeling safe as she sang a melody, knowing how dearly they were loved.
Finlay had made this room—for her, and the children they might have together.
Margaret rattledthe door through which they’d entered from the courtyard the evening before. To her annoyance, it wouldn’t budge. Peering through a slit-window to the side, it appeared the blizzard had blown a high drift up against the threshold, and the night’sfrost had iced the door shut.
Turning about, she headed for the kitchens. There, at least, she ought to be able to get out, for there was a southerly door leading directly into the walled gardens, which were used for growing herbs and vegetables.
’Twas both a blessing and a curse that she and Finlay were alone within the castle. Their proximity to one another was unbearable, but at least there was no one to witness it. She’d have hated the awkwardness of having to explain herself to any of the staff at this moment.
Bad enough that I’ll have to plead with Jamie to help me, while he’s likely wrapped warm by the fire with old Rabbie, and none too keen to come out.
She’d no thought now of bothering him about the carriage. A single horse would do—one who wouldn’t flinch from carrying her through the snow. The waymarkers along the track that connected Dunrannoch with Balmore were built to stand tall for a reason, remaining visible even after a fierce blizzard.
Entering Mistress Middymuckle’s domain, Margaret made her way around the huge wooden table, then came to an abrupt halt. The tub was where Finlay had set it, filled with slightly steaming water and emitting the soft fragrance of heather. A few dried sprays of the purple bloom floated on the surface.
He’s only done this to sweet talk me back into bed. Don’t fool yourself into thinking it signals more.
Hurrying to the outer door, she was thankful to find that it opened easily. A chill gust swept into the kitchen, bringing with it a flurry of flakes. From the pawprints across the crisp whiteness, she guessed Brucie had scampered out this way earlier.
Her breath carried in a visible plume, and the bite of the winter air stung her face. She tucked her hands beneath her arms, regretting that she hadn’t taken the time to search out some gloves.
Stepping out, she was struck by how brilliantly blue the sky had become. The sun was low, but itsrays seared the coldness, making the snow sparkle as if countless diamonds had been scattered.
Diamonds—like the jewels Finlay had said he wished to lavish upon her, as if she gave a jot about that. Her tears came again, this time caught by the icy air and freezing on her lashes before they had a chance to fall.
Blindly she ventured further, following where she knew the path must lie, beneath the glistening snow, her skirts sweeping a trail behind. Reaching the very middle of the walled space, where stood a stone sundial, she paused.
She’d the strongest feeling of being watched, as if the castle itself was calling to her, telling her to gaze upon it, one last time. Turning, she scanned the narrow windows and, counting them, deduced which belonged to the Laird’s chamber. The curtain was still partly closed. Another three across and she guessed from the shape of the aperture that ’twas the window of the nursery. Shielding her eyes, she fixed upon it, long and hard.
All that might have been…
The sun’s glint flashed from the panes, but then she saw him.
Finlay.
He was standing at the window of that room, looking down at her.
He’ll think I’m staring at him!
Aghast, she picked up her skirts and ran to the far side of the garden, to the small door embedded in the wall. Tugging on the heavy ring-pull she tried frantically to open it, but it was firmly stuck.
Nay! It can’t be!
