Page 30 of Snowbound Surrender
There was another too, that summoned her attention—on the importance of never giving up hope, even when we think the thing most precious to us is lost. For, as the Scots do say,whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye.
The dream you’re chasing might just be chasing you too.
EPILOGUE
August, 1862
’Twas a bright,cloudless day as the Earl of Dunrannoch and his countess rode out, past grazing sheep and a modest herd of Highland cattle, taking the track that led away from the flat of the moors, into the gently rising hills. The heather was especially fine this year, resplendent in deep pink and purple, the flower heads lush and fragrant, filling the air with their unmistakable scent.
Coming to a place where the peat thinned, and the granite bedrock jutted craggy, Finlay pulled his stallion to a stop and dismounted. Approaching his wife’s filly, he slipped her foot from the stirrup, then reached up to catch her at the waist.
Elegantly, she slid down into his arms and stayed there, enjoying the closeness of his body to hers.
The castle was clearly visible from their viewpoint, rising tall from the expanse of Rannoch Moor, its towers and the great archway with its iron gate, leading to the courtyard within the fortress walls. The kitchen garden too could be seen, with several of the household busy among its rows, tending thebounty there, and the fruit trees and bushes that ranged the south-facing wall.
Harvesting had begun, not just for the heather clipped from the hills but for the gooseberries and apples in their orchard, and the late root vegetables, ready for packing away for the frozen months. ’Twas hard to imagine hard winter upon the moor when the sun shone so brightly, and all about was bathed in warmth.
A small number of crofters’ homes dotted the landscape— families who lived upon their own smallholdings but were protected by the generous arm of the Dalreagh clan. ’Twas they upon whom Finlay relied, to help him cut the heather, and transport it.
“You’re away to Glasgow on the morrow?” Margaret asked.
“Aye, with the first batch of heather, but I shan’t be long. You’re welcome to join me, if you’ve a mind,” he answered hopefully.
“Not this time.” Margaret placed her hand upon his chest. “Brodie still has a claggy nose, and is teething besides, so he wants me more than any other. I’d bring him along, but he’d not make a companionable third for the journey.”
“Right enough,” Finlay conceded.
He was a doting father, and eager for his wee son to grow big enough to take out and about upon the moor, but it took his mother’s patience to endure the noise of a babe with both a cold and his toothy-pegs pushing through.
“In any case, I’ve plenty to keep me busy,” Margaret went on. “Not least some correspondence with the printers. The last two novels we published are selling well, so larger runs need to be organized, and we’ve illustrations to finalize for the special edition ofThe Lady’s Guide to All Things Useful.”
Stroking her hair, Finlay rubbed his nose to hers. “A thing of beauty it’ll be. You’ll reserve a few for me to give as gifts for thewomenfolk of those with whom we’re doing business? I want them to know how clever my wife is, and how proud I am.”
Margaret blushed with pleasure. Finlay never did stint in his praise, and in his support of her authority over Dalreagh Press, but it still warmed her heart to hear him say the words.
“We’re binding in blue leather, as always,” she went on, enjoying speaking of the project. “And with the usual gold embossed lettering. Blackwells has ordered two hundred copies and promised to display them prominently, and I believe Jenners will take fifty to start with, and more, closer to the festive season. I suggested to them that they wouldn’t want to be missing out, with Blackwells making such a feature of the book.”
“Well played, Magsie.” Finlay gave her one of his winks.
“I always did like playing games.” Margaret replied with a soft smile.
“That you did, and we can play one now, lass, if you’re in the mood to oblige your husband.” Finlay slid his hands down to her bottom, giving a possessive squeeze.
“Do I know the rules?” she asked, rather breathlessly.
“There’s only one.” He brushed his mouth to hers, enticing her to open for him. “For the next goodly while, I’m in charge, so you’ll obey when I lay you down on this heather and remind you of how wee Brodie came to be.”
Hearing him speak so, Margaret’s heart beat a faster rhythm, and she more than willingly did as he commanded. ’Twas a game she knew well and one in which they both were very much winners. A sharp-witted businesswoman she might be, but she was an even shrewder wife. As her husband made good on his promise, she closed her eyes in happiness and succumbed to the pleasure of being loved by the Laird of Dunrannoch.
