She lifted the latch and pushed the door open, finding herself at the top of a short flight of stairs leading down into a thick blanket of snow. Above, the morning sun blazed in a robin’s-egg blue sky, setting the pure white field sparkling. The tang of pine reached her nostrils and the sound of birdsong filled the air.
As she stood there, the stable door opened. A couple emerged, a tall blond man with his arm wrapped protectively around the shoulders of a red-haired woman. With a start, Cecily recognized Lord Oakley and Fiona Chisholm, whose hair tumbled down around her shoulders and whose laugh tinkled in the air as she looked up at him with a teasing expression. Even at this distance, Cecily could discern the tenderness with which he returned her regard.
There wasn’t any possible way someone could misconstrue what Cecily was seeing. Blood rushed into her cheeks. The most disturbing thing was that she didn’t really feel shock . . . she felt jealousy.
She started to turn away, embarrassed at having unwillingly encroached upon their privacy. But Oakley spotted her and raised his hand in greeting. Without saying a word to Fiona, he bent down and swung her up into his arms. She gave a little shriek, but by then Oakley was already cleaving a path through the thigh-high snow, making his way toward the door where Cecily stood.
A moment later he was standing just below her, showing no inclination to put Fiona on her own feet. “Lady Cecily!” he said, with a broad smile of a sort she had never imagined seeing on the earl’s face.
“Lord Oakley.” She inclined her head, waiting for him to chastise her about her apparel. But it instantly became clear that he did not care, perhaps did not even notice, what she was wearing.
“Good morning, Lady Cecily,” Fiona said with a smile almost as large as Oakley’s. Then she turned and gave the man holding her an entirely unconvincing scowl. “Lord Oakley, will you please set me down?”
“Lady Cecily,” the earl said, setting Fiona on the step just below that on which Cecily was standing, “I would like you to be the first to know that Miss Fiona Chisholm had done me the great honor of agreeing to be my bride.”
He lifted Fiona’s hand and turned it over, bowing to press a swift kiss on the inside of her wrist. Fierce color flooded Fiona’s face, and Cecily caught the burning look she bent on Oakley’s white-gold head.
Due to some alchemy of the heart, Oakley must have sensed Fiona’s regard, for he looked up at her. Their gazes locked for a second, and then she leaned just slightly toward him. He was still standing thigh-high in snow, but he snatched her off the step in a rough embrace and . . .
Oh my!
Uncertain what to do, Cecily cleared her throat. No one paid her any mind. She cleared it again. Louder. Oakley lifted his head at that, his expression irritated. “If you are cold, Lady Cecily, may I suggest that you retire to the sitting room?”
“Byron,” Fiona murmured, “I confess that I am a bit chilled.”
That was all he needed to hear to pull her tightly against him and sweep her up the steps. Fiona had time only to give Cecily an apologetic glance before they were gone.
Amazed by this unexpected turn of events, Cecily picked her way down a narrow path along the castle walls where the snow had drifted back up on itself, forming a little corridor. Apparently, the castle was a veritable Cupid’s bower for lovers. Catriona and Bretton, Oakley and Fiona; why, she’d even seen Ferguson succumb to a romantic impulse and kiss Marilla Chisholm during their game of hide-and-seek.
The only one unaffected by all the carrying on was the famous rake himself, Robin, though she had to admit he’d not been entirely immune to the spell enveloping Finovair. He’d kissed Marilla or, she merely preferred to think, allowed Marilla to kiss him. And he had kissed her. Indeed, he had kissed her most thoroughly. It was just that he showed no signs of wishing to whisk her away to the stables, or sweep her up in his arms, or . . . or marry her.
She halted in her tracks, beset with frustration, and in doing so caught sight of a figure coming round the far end of the castle, heading for the stables. Her eyes widened. It was Robin. He glanced briefly in her direction, but did not pause. He’d apparently mistaken her for some poor stable lad his uncle had tricked out in antique finery in order to impress his guests.
Her gaze followed his progression, his greatcoat swinging from his broad shoulders, the high tops of his leather boots cutting through the snow, one gloved hand holding tight to the leather strap of the satchel slung over his shoulder . . . By God, he was leaving!
He couldn’t leave. How was she to convince him they must marry if he was somewhere else? She had to stop him. But by the time she waded through all that deep snow—which was probably up to her waist—he would be long gone out the stable door at the far end. And if she hailed him, he might not hear, or worse, hear and ignore her.
Frantically, she looked about before being struck by inspiration. Jaw set with determination, she scooped up twin handfuls of heavy moist snow, packing them tightly into a ball, ignoring the biting cold against her fingers. Veteran of hundreds of snowball fights with sharpshooting younger brothers, Cecily worked quickly but painstakingly, because a loose, ill-shaped snowball was an imprecise missile.
Finally, she was satisfied, and none too soon. Robin was almost to the stable doors. She had one chance to stop him.
Offering up a quick prayer, she stepped forward, cocked her arm, and let fly.
The snowball sailed true. Barely an arc altered its swift trajectory as it hurtled unerringly toward her proposed target in the middle of Robin’s back. Except . . . except it slammed into the back of Robin’s head instead and, with an audible thud, burst apart.
For an eerie second, Robin seemed to freeze in mid-stride. Then, slowly, as though time was unfolding in molasses, the satchel slipped from his shoulder, his knees buckled, and he fell face-first into the snow, disappearing from Cecily’s sight.
Her legs were moving before he hit the ground. She bowled into the deep drifts of snow, arms cartwheeling, certain that she had just killed the only man she would ever love.
Chapter 24
Cecily lurched across the snow-choked yard, finally managing to reach Robin. He lay motionless, facedown in the snow, one arm outstretched, the other crooked beneath his cheek. His sooty eyelashes lay thick against his cheeks. Not a breath stirred the snow near his lips.
She cried out as she struggled the last few feet to his side and was about to drop to her knees when a hand shot out, grabbed her leg, and jerked her off her feet. She landed on her stomach with a whoosh, something beneath the snow catching her full in the diaphragm, leaving her windless and dazed.
“Ha! You young limb of Satan! “ Robin shouted triumphantly, dragging her toward him by the ankle. “A few smacks to your arse will remind you of the penalties for such jokes. For God’s sake stop thrashing about and take your medicine like a man!”