Rules for a Proper Governess (22 page)

No, that was wrong. These letters were vague hints, allowing the receiver to read into them what he or she pleased. The words about Daisy, Sinclair’s wife, could mean anything from she’d been a murderer to she’d lied about where she’d gone to school. By all accounts, everyone in this house had loved Daisy, including Sinclair. He’d loved her desperately.

Bertie thought about the woman smiling out of the photos placed here and there around the house. Mrs. McBride didn’t look as though she’d been deceitful whatsoever. Bertie must be ten times as deceitful as
she’d
ever been. What was the writer getting at?

And why, if Sinclair claimed he’d given all the letters to Inspector Fellows, were these five hidden in the box?

Answer: He didn’t want Fellows to know about these particular ones.

Which made Bertie wonder—if the letters were lies, why did Sinclair fear others seeing them?

Too many questions, and Bertie might not like the answers. She folded the letters and slid them back into their envelopes, arranging them carefully in the box in the order she’d taken them out. Then she put the box back into the drawer, picked the locks closed, and left the study, her thoughts troubled.

Andrew recovered enough that, on the twenty-third of December, Sinclair decreed he was well enough to board the train for Scotland.

The train would leave from Euston station and travel all night, putting them in Edinburgh in the morning. From there, they’d take a smaller, slower train to the heart of the highlands and Castle Kilmorgan, arriving in time for the Christmas ball.

Last Christmas, Andrew had been a handful, setting the house into uproar. This year, his convalescence and Bertie’s presence might keep him calmer, Sinclair thought.
Might.

Sinclair booked first-class sleeping compartments—one for himself, one for the children, and one for Bertie. Macaulay and Aoife also traveled with them, leaving Mrs. Hill, Charlotte, and Peter to watch over the house. Their families were in London, and Sinclair never had the heart to take them away for Christmas.

“I have this all to myself?” Bertie asked in amazement as she turned in a circle in the cramped sleeping compartment.

“Best I could do on short notice,” Sinclair said. He’d had no need to accompany her, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. “If you need anything, ring for the conductor or ask Aoife or Macaulay.”

Bertie turned around again and faced Sinclair, her wide smile in place. Bertie had a new dress for traveling, gray with black piping and black cloth-covered buttons. A subdued garment, but one that looked smart and hugged her curves. Her gray hat’s brim turned up to reveal a black lining, and a feather curled from the crown. Eleanor had chosen the hat as a gift, having her favorite milliner make and deliver it. Bertie’s joy when she lifted it from of the box had been the same as that of a woman regarding a diamond tiara.

Remembering her delight—Bertie had jammed the hat straight on her head and twirled around with it, laughing—started to make him hard. Sinclair had donned a kilt for this trip to his homeland, and an arousal could be disastrous.

He made himself leave her and return to his compartment with Andrew and Cat, sitting down as the train jolted, getting ready for its long journey.

For her part, Bertie thought she’d never settle in. She’d never been out of London, let alone to Scotland, and anticipating seeing the countryside, from a luxurious train no less, had her in a right state. She was sorry they’d travel at night, but she’d make sure she saw something of Scotland before they shut themselves into the castle.

Aoife popped her head in while Bertie was exploring her compartment, saying that Mr. McBride expected her to join him and the children for supper. Bertie tore herself away from the shining inlay walls, the soft seats, and the amazing little closet that had a sink with running water, and followed Aoife down the narrow passage.

The main compartment Sinclair had taken was quite large. Two wide, velvet-upholstered seats faced each other, the windows had thick curtains pulled over them, and lamps softly lit the compartment. Their meal was delivered to a table in the middle of the compartment, served on china plates with silver cutlery.

“I think I could live forever on a train,” Bertie said, looking over the fish in sauce, crisp greens, and buttery potatoes.

“You’d soon grow tired of its rocking,” Sinclair said. He ate, but without the enthusiasm of Andrew. He was more like Cat, calmly putting the tasty food into his mouth as though it were nothing out of the ordinary.

“You do everything like that,” Bertie said. She hadn’t meant to voice the thought out loud, but the words slipped away before she could catch them. Sinclair looked up at her, his expression still, waiting for her to explain. Bertie drew a breath and said, “You have all these wonders, but you barely notice them. Everything is a delight—don’t you know that?”

Sinclair put down his fork and gazed across the little table at her, his gray eyes focused so sharply that Bertie moved a little in her seat. She knew she was being far too impertinent, but she always spoke as she found.

The waiter entering with the pudding ended the moment, and the meal resumed.

Sinclair said good night to his children after that and went off to the smoking car. He didn’t smoke, Bertie knew, but she assumed he’d drink brandy and speak with other men there.

Bertie got the children to bed. Aoife would sleep in the bunk opposite their two, watching over them, promising to call Bertie if she was needed. Bertie returned to her own cabin, interested to see that her seat had been turned into a small bed while she’d been having supper.

Now to discover if she could sleep on a train. Everything was so fascinating she might have trouble dropping off, in case she missed something. Sinclair had talked about the train’s rocking, but Bertie liked it. The train was like a live thing, clicking along the rails, humming to itself, the whistle’s shrill call blasting into the night.

Bertie tried to peer out into the darkness, but could see little beyond her own reflection. She had just dropped the curtain when her door snapped open behind her and Sinclair stepped inside.

He didn’t smell of smoke—he smelled like the night, as though he’d walked to the end of the train to watch the track unfold behind them. He said nothing, only gazed in silence at her, his hair glinting in the lamplight, his hands in gloves closing to fists.

“Teach me about the delights,” Sinclair said after a time, his voice low. “I can’t see the wonders anymore. Show me what you see, Bertie.
Please.
”

Bertie’s lips parted, her dark blue eyes taking him in. The top button of her bodice was undone, as though he’d interrupted her undressing. The thought of her in here alone, slowly unbuttoning and drawing off her clothes, was enough to kill him.

“I don’t see much different than you do,” Bertie answered, sounding nervous.

Sinclair shut the door behind him and locked it. “Yes, you do, or you would never have said that to me.”

“I was rude. My father once had a kind mistress, name of Sophie, who tried to teach me good manners, but I wasn’t always best at it.”

“I don’t give a damn about your manners.” Sinclair let the motion of the train ease him onto the edge of the bed, and he pulled Bertie to sit beside him. “Show me what you see.”

Bertie stared at him as though he’d run mad, and Sinclair likely had. He’d made his way to the back of the train, standing alone on the observation platform in the freezing cold, but it hadn’t cooled his need for her.

He realized tonight he’d been trying to hold on to his control and his life when it was nothing. His grief had made him into an automaton, going through the motions of living, stopping when there was nothing to do. If not for Andrew and Cat, he’d have told Macaulay long ago to prop him up in a square somewhere for pigeons to land on.

Sinclair had told Bertie that she was a flickering light in his life. Now he wanted her to fan that flicker and build it to a roaring blaze.

“What do you mean, what I see?” she asked him, mystified.

Sinclair waved his hand around the close room. “Show me anything.”

“Right.” Bertie continued to stare at him then she jolted herself and looked around. “Um.” She touched the wall next to her. “I think this is beautiful. All these little flowers made of tiny pieces of wood woven together. Took some skill to fashion that, and polish it all nice.”

Sinclair took in the marquetry. It was fine, with excellent workmanship, but it didn’t make him want to leap up and sing. “What else?”

“Well, the whole compartment. Everything exactly in its place, everything fitting together like a puzzle.”

True, but Sinclair had been on so many different trains, from elegant to indifferent to downright squalid. A train’s engineering might be precise, but he’d seen too much of it.

“What else?”

Bertie pursed her lips. “You’re a hard one to please. There’s this.” She took his hand, her touch firing his nerves, and drew her finger along his palm. “These gloves fit you perfectly, like a second skin. Your clothes are always well done. And there’s this.” Bertie released his hand to lift a fold of his plaid. “Never seen a man wearing a skirt before.”

Sinclair grew warm. “It’s a kilt.”

“Yeah.” Bertie’s smile went wicked. “And don’t it look fine on you?”

There it was—the delight snapping its way into him. Not from the manufactured things around them, from Bertie herself.

She rubbed the wool between her fingers, the warmth of her hand touching his bare knee.

“It’s McBride plaid,” Sinclair said, or thought he said. “The secret of the pattern was kept alive in our clan when traditional dress was banned after the ’45.”

“Bonnie Prince Charlie and the uprising,” Bertie said, looking triumphant. “I’ve been reading. Your family a part of that?”

“In the thick. My brother Patrick knows the stories. He’s the keeper of all things McBride.”

“Can’t wait to meet him.”

Sinclair thought about his rather dour older brother, but decided Patrick would like Bertie. She’d be interested in Patrick’s stories, listening with that wonder she was showing to Sinclair. Patrick would enjoy it.

Sinclair leaned closer. “What else?”

Bertie’s cheeks went pink. “You trying to make me spill all my secrets?”

“Yes, I am. What else do you find amazing?”

“You,” Bertie said, smiles gone, eyes quiet.

Sinclair stilled. “There’s not much amazing about me.”

“Mmm, I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would.”

Bertie cocked her head. “Are you trying to get me to flatter you?”

Sinclair closed his gloved hands over both her bare ones. “I want to feel again, Bertie. Help me to do that. You started. I want more.”

She looked uncertain. “But I don’t know how.”

“Yes, you do.” Sinclair released her, stripped off his gloves, and dropped them to the table. Then he reached for the black buttons of her bodice. “I want to see the wonder of
you
.”

Bertie’s lower lip shook once, but she reached out and pushed his coat open. “Two can play at that.”

Sinclair’s already awakened need jumped higher as he slid off his greatcoat and let Bertie help him out of his frock coat. His windblown cravat easily unwound under Bertie’s fingers. She popped the stud holding his collar and released the restricting band from Sinclair’s throat. Sinclair drew a relieved breath and returned to unbuttoning her bodice.

Joy raced back into Sinclair’s world as they undressed each other, fumbling at clasps, ties, and buttons, excitement making them clumsy. Not long later, Bertie sat on the bed in her combinations, while Sinclair was in nothing but his kilt.

He stood up and removed that, liking how Bertie’s gaze riveted to him as he unpinned and unwound the plaid.

“Blimey,” she said softly.

Sinclair spread the kilt on the bed with unsteady hands. Bertie didn’t take her gaze from him. The compartment’s lamplight hid nothing of his body, showing all his scars, the burn mark on his arm, and the fact that his cock was hard and lifting high.

The lamplight let him see Bertie as well, as he stripped off her combinations. She leaned back on the bunk, her breasts touched by the golden light, her nipples dark. Bertie’s hair, mussed by their playful undressing, trickled across her plump skin.

She was a pleasure to look at. Her belly was a little soft, her hips curving from her waist, the sweet curls between her legs as dark as the hair on her head.

A fine woman, bare for him, in this train rushing into the night. They might as well be entirely alone, he thought, at the same time they were surrounded by so many. Up and down the passage, the compartments were shut, hiding the secrets of those hurrying north for a Scottish Christmas.

Sinclair’s fanciful thoughts dissolved to nothing when Bertie reached up and closed her fingers around the tip of his cock.

Bertie liked the feel of his arousal, warm and soft, and at the same time, hard under her fingers.

How could Sinclair have thought
anything
in this compartment more interesting and wonderful than himself? He’d encouraged Bertie to sing the praises of the woodwork while
he
was in front of her, smelling of the night and his own intoxicating scent. The hunger in Sinclair’s eyes had nearly undone her.

As she squeezed his hardness, Sinclair’s large hands bunched into fists. He didn’t have the soft hands of a gentleman—he’d fought with these hands, sunburned them, worked them raw. Bertie contrasted that with the skin of his cock, which was hot and smooth, that part of him always hidden from the world.

Beautiful man—he was allowing
her
to see it, to stroke it. Sinclair didn’t touch Bertie, only let her explore him all the way up his shaft to the fascinating balls that fit into the cup of her hand.

People through the ages had come up with many terms for what she was touching. Funny ones, like
John Thomas
or
fishing rod
, but those crude phrases didn’t do Sinclair justice. His beautiful organ stretched toward her, the blunt tip bumping Bertie’s hand as she completed another stroke.

He let her touch a little longer before Sinclair pushed her questing fingers aside and dropped to his knees. He looked her over, his face softening, his voice going low. “How did I stumble upon something as beautiful as you?”

Bertie thrilled to be called so by him, but she only grinned. “
I
ran into you.” She ran her hand through his warm hair, burnished gold by the lamplight. “Remember?”

He smiled. Bertie loved his smiles and his laughter—she loved
him
.

And it will be the end of me
, a voice inside her said. Too late, much too late to stop now.

“I remember,” Sinclair said. “From then on, every bit of control I had in my life was gone.”

He bent to her and licked between her breasts, his close-cropped hair tickling her skin. He moved to her nipple, teeth brushing it before he drew it into his mouth.

Bertie’s breath caught as the tiny pain washed fire through her. Sinclair closed his eyes and began to suckle her, the same way he’d suckled her fingers in the darkness of his house. The heat inside her shot higher, as she wondered whether, when Sinclair had done that, he’d been imagining doing
this
. She shivered, giddy.

“Harder,” she whispered. Why did she want that? “Harder.”

Sinclair curled his tongue around her nipple, his lips tightening. His hands went to her waist, a beautiful man doing a beautiful thing. Bertie pressed him closer, wanting his mouth harder on her, needing it.
Don’t let me go.

Sinclair suckled a little longer then pulled away, a sinful glint in his eyes. Bertie’s breast felt raw, cold where the air touched the moisture left by his mouth.

Sinclair moved his hands to her knees and pushed them apart. Then he gently pressed her back into the cushions, hooked his hands around her thighs, and lowered himself between her legs. He licked over her opening once then fastened his mouth to it and began to suckle.

Bertie couldn’t stop her cry. Wild, hot sensations poured through her, the bright friction of his tongue on the most intimate part of her sending her deeper into the cushions. Bertie’s hips moved with his mouth’s working, her body instinctively responding.

The train curved hard to the right, the wheels squealing against the tracks. Sinclair put out his strong hand and steadied them both, then, without warning, he thrust his tongue deep into her.

The shrill peal of the train’s whistle drowned out Bertie’s scream. Sinclair raised his head, his eyes full of laughter. “The train wants to challenge us.”

Did it? Bertie pushed her hair from her eyes, her mind muzzy.

“We won’t let it win,” Sinclair said.

No? Sinclair stood up, lifting Bertie from the bunk. He set her on her feet, then sat down where she’d been, looking splendid, naked against the spread kilt. His cock, ramrod stiff, lifted straight out toward her. “Come here,” he said.

“Bit of a tight fit on that bunk,” Bertie answered breathlessly. “I was wondering how I’d squeeze in on me own.”

Sinclair’s smile went wide. “We’ll fit, lass, but it’s not for the prudish.” He seized Bertie by the hips and pulled her onto his lap, facing him. He arranged her so that her knees rested on either side of his thighs, spreading her legs wide.

Sinclair slid a few inches to the edge of the bunk, holding Bertie securely in his large hands. He eased her forward, onto him, the position sending his wonderful stiffness straight inside her. She was already wet and warm with her own moisture and that from his tongue, and he slid in with no impediment.

They were face to face, pressed as tightly to each other as two people could get. The arrangement put Bertie on level with him, where she could see his smile and look into his fine gray eyes.

The train straightened out and picked up speed, the acceleration pushing Bertie at Sinclair, and Sinclair at Bertie. He went deeper still, his smile vanishing. A fine ache rubbed her where they joined, his ministrations having made her swollen and hot, and now pleasured by the whole of him.

Sinclair thrust a little, his hips coming off the bunk. The rush of the train, and its unsteady speed moved Sinclair inside her, as though the train itself coaxed this coupling. They hit another bend, Sinclair holding Bertie firmly against the sway.

He got to his feet, Sinclair lifting her with him, her legs still around his hips. He turned around once with her in the tight compartment until the train bent the other way again. Sinclair gave up fighting the roll and ended up with Bertie’s back against the window.

The curtains bowed into the glass with her, the window cool through the fabric. Sinclair thrust hard, again and again, while Bertie held on to him, her head rocking against the window.