She pushed the other way, in case her memory was failing her, but it made no difference.
Is the latch bolted?
There was a keyhole and presumably a key, though in whose possession she couldn’t say. She’d noticed no keys hanging in the kitchen. If they were kept locked away, no doubt Mistress Douglas had the charge of that.
As a child, she’d come and gone through this samedoor a hundred times and more, though always in the temperate seasons. It had never crossed her mind that it might be secured.
A gust of bitter wind blasted her cheek, and Margaret let go a sob.
Never had she felt so alone, and so confused. ’Twas as if the past was not her own, nor the dreams she’d once pinned her hopes upon.
She wanted to believe, so very much, that Finlay cared for her, but could she trust him to fulfil his promises? She’d spent the past year guarding herself against him, allowing no chink in the armor that protected her heart.
If he hurts me again, I don’t know how I’ll bear it.
Sinking to her knees, she pressed her forehead to the unmoving door. There was no escape—from this blasted garden, from the castle, or from her feelings.
And she had not the smallest notion how to remedy that.
Finlay hurriedly fastenedthe kilt about his lower half and dashed after her, only to skitter to a halt as she entered the nursery. Suddenly, he was unable to take another step, unable, hardly, to breathe.
What was she thinking? Surely, she’d see how serious he was, and how much the marriage meant to him.
How much she means to me.
Then he saw her leave, making for the stairwell, away from that room.
Away from all that I want to give her.
He couldn’t help himself, entering the nursery.
One last time, then it can be shut up.
I won’t come here again.
The way he felt now, he didn’t want to ever return to the moor. How could he? ’Twas the place he’d always imagined living with Margaret. Without her, what was there?
The staff would remain, of course, for it was their homeas much as his; generations lived and worked at the castle, with as much right to its protection as any with Dalreagh blood.
Crossing to the window, he looked out, and glimpsed Margaret down below in the kitchen garden, her hair bright with the sun upon it, vivid against the blaze of white covering all.
His instinct was to run to her, to beg her to stay, to promise whatever she needed from him. But he knew it would be wrong. She’d made herself plain, that she wanted him to release her.
If you truly care for her, you’ll do it. Let her live the life she wants. You can’t keep her tied to you against her will, nor force her love.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t let her ride away. Though the snow had ceased, ’twas mortal cold. To allow her to cross the moors would be irresponsible. He’d go down to the stables and stand guard over the horses until she relented. Even Margaret wasn’t foolhardy enough to carry through her threat to begin walking.
They’d prepare one of the other rooms—his mother’s perhaps—and Mags might stay there if she couldn’t bear to lay eyes on him. Mistresses Douglas and Middymuckle would return soon, and other staff, he presumed, whose families resided within easy distance of the castle.
Margaret paused at the sundial.
Look back at me. Please.
He willed it with all his might.
If she turned back, there was a chance, wasn’t there?
To his joy, she did so, swinging about to scan the castle walls. The breeze whisked wisps of hair across her face. Despite a pinch of pink high in her cheeks, she was pale.
