The Devil of Clan Sinclair (22 page)

Hardly the behavior of a countess. She could almost hear the rumormongers whispering. “Have you heard? The Countess of Barrett was seen clambering down a cliff! Have you ever?”

Thank heavens she was far away from the drawing rooms of London. She could only imagine what would happen if they discovered the greater scandal.

“My dear, he isn’t Lawrence’s son, didn’t you know? Some Scot, I hear.”

That wasn’t going to happen. Somehow she would protect Elliot, even from his father if necessary.

She grabbed her skirts with one hand and picked her way across the sand. When she rounded an outcropping of rock, she almost sagged in relief, seeing the arched window of the grotto.

A few minutes later she was below the window, dismayed to realize it stretched a good distance above her. Even the large shelf of black stone that looked like a windowsill was out of her reach.

Turning back, she searched the ground for what she needed. At the narrowest part of the beach she finally located a rock large enough to stand on. The journey back to the window took several minutes because she had to stop, put the heavy rock down, rest, and a moment later pick it up again.

Placing the rock beneath the window, she stood on it and stretched her hand upward. The ledge was still several inches out of her grasp.

For the next few minutes she gathered up stones, setting them on the larger rock already below the window. One by one she added the smaller stones, each big enough to stand on. When she was finally done, she stood on the rock platform and could finally place her palm on the ledge.

She’d simply have to climb the rest of the way.

She glanced down at her silk skirt. In London, before leaving for Drumvagen, they’d only packed two dresses. She would have to sacrifice this one for a greater purpose—getting to her son.

Balancing on the pile of stones, she found a foothold on the stone wall and pulled herself up. Placing her foot in another gap, she repeated the movement, climbing an inch at a time.

She should have thought to wear gloves. Her palms were badly abraded and her knuckles scraped raw.

After reaching the ledge, she lay there, exhausted. The realization that she’d accomplished half her goal was enough to impel her to swing her legs over and slide down into the grotto.

Memories immediately swirled around her.

She’d never been able to forget the way Macrath made her feel. How could she? She’d experienced joy wrapped in laughter, wonder coupled with a passion so overwhelming it stripped from her the lessons she’d been taught on deportment and manners.

Here, in this spot, she’d been the instigator in their loving. She’d seduced him, not because Enid ordered it, but because she wanted him.

Her cheeks flushed.

Had Macrath been able to forget?

If so, how? Perhaps he would share the secret of his patchy memory with her, and she could banish him from her mind as well. She wouldn’t remember his kisses or his tenderness.

No, if she recalled anything, it should be that he’d stolen her child.

Chapter 24

H
ad the grotto always smelled of the sea? She hadn’t noticed it before, probably because Macrath had been with her. Now it was ripe with the odor of fish and stone baked by the sun.

Seabirds circled and screamed overhead. Did they announce the incoming tide or simply fuss at her for invading this space?

Light spilled into the grotto from the window and the hole in the rock ceiling. Once she got to the stairs, however, she’d be in shadow. By the time she ascended the rough-hewn steps, there would only be darkness.

She had always tried to keep her dislike of the dark a secret. Mrs. Silverton, a governess, had been amused by her fear, extinguishing lamps when she could and locking Virginia in dark rooms. Her father had taken umbrage at the woman’s disrespect—of him, not his child—and dismissed her, which is how Miss Flom, a genuinely kind person, had come into her life.

But having learned her lesson, from that day to this Virginia rarely spoke of her dislike to anyone.

The more people knew about you, the more weapons they had.

She inspected her dress. The fabric of her bodice and the front of her skirt was shredded where she’d slid across the stone. The hem of her skirt was coated with sand. Her hair was coming loose. Her shoes were filled with pebbles. Moisture was running down her back and beneath her arms.

She was not, however, about to quit.

At the base of the stairs she couldn’t help but remember the last time she’d come this way. Macrath had been beside her. He’d kissed her tenderly on this step and this one.

“Stay with me,” he’d said.

What had she said? Something, anything, hoping he wouldn’t pressure her.

A year and a few months had changed everything.

Would she do the same now? Would she come to Scotland with thoughts of deception and duplicity? The answer came so quickly it didn’t even require thought. Yes, if it meant, at the end of the regret and shame, she’d have Elliot.

Did that mean she was a vile person?

She would have to answer the question later. For now, the shadows at the top of the steps taunted her.

Why hadn’t she thought to bring the lamp from the cottage? Or matches, if nothing else? She’d tried to plan so well, but had forgotten about the darkness.

Standing at the base of the steps, she stared up, her left hand gripping her skirt, her right flat against a stone. If she meant to do this, she must do it now. Otherwise she might as well curl into a little ball on the sand and let the ocean come and get her.

The flagstone floor was uneven, canting toward the left, then the right. She pushed away the thought of spiders and pressed one hand against the wall for balance.

Her stomach was in knots at the first step and she was nauseous by the second. She heard a buzzing sound in her ears by the third, and stopped at the fourth, taking a deep breath. There was nothing there. Mrs. Silverton was long gone from her life, and there would be no cackling laughter or cruel words.

Elliot was at the top of the steps. So was Macrath. She wanted to hold her child and talk to Macrath. She couldn’t do either if she gave into fear.

Perhaps it would not be amiss to say a prayer. Or, if it would be unwise to call the Almighty’s attention to her, perhaps she could recite the Psalms, which she’d been required to memorize. No, that would only summon Mrs. Silverton from the mist of her past.

If she thought of anyone, let it be Macrath.

He had bought this house and stamped his personality on it. She couldn’t imagine Drumvagen belonging to anyone but Macrath.

There, she was nearly at the top and hardly trembling at all. The darkness was like a fog, however, enshrouding everything. The higher she advanced, the more it encompassed her, until she was certain she wouldn’t be able to see the door to the library, let alone be able to figure out how to open it.

Providence, luck, or the hand of a merciful God, who pitied her not for her sins but for her stupidity, led her to a latch. She gripped it tightly with her right hand and pulled down on it.

Nothing happened.

She turned the latch in the opposite direction. Again, nothing happened, not even a protest of hinges.

Disheartened, she leaned against the door, and it abruptly opened, so suddenly she almost fell.

She froze, hoping Macrath was not in the library. If he saw her first, he’d prevent her from seeing Elliot, she was certain of it.

After a moment she dared to move, to take three steps into the room, closing the entrance to the passage.

His scent, something reminiscent of sandalwood, hung in the air. On the desk were several loose pages. Was he working on designs for a new ice making machine?

She crept to the door, opening it slowly. Seeing a passing maid, she closed it swiftly. After a moment she opened the door again, waiting, breath drawn, for the girl to reach the end of the corridor. Once she was certain no one was in sight, she raced toward the staircase and up the steps, her heartbeat keeping pace with her fear.

No one stopped her.

No one shouted for her to be thrown out of Drumvagen.

On the second floor, she hesitated only a minute. Thanks to Hannah, she knew where the nursery was.

“It’s in a room between the suite you were in last year and his set of rooms, your ladyship. Elliot has a right little kingdom for himself there, with Mary and Agatha in the next room.”

At least Macrath had the foresight to steal a wet nurse along with her child.

She opened a door halfway down the hall, only to find it empty. Had Macrath moved her son to hide him?

Fear crouched inside her chest, cold and patient.

She calmed herself. She simply had the wrong room, that was all. The second door she tried was the right one.

Mary sat in an overstuffed chair, staring at a bit of needlework, her lips twisted in concentration. Beside her was a cradle.

“Your ladyship,” the girl said upon seeing her, standing and dropping the needlework to the floor.

“Is he all right?” Virginia asked, moving to the cradle.

Elliot lay on his back, asleep, his face turned away from the faint light from a curtained window. His fist was in his mouth, his eyelids twitching in baby dreams.

The world fell away. Fear had caught at her heart for weeks. As she stood beside the cradle, she was suffused with happiness and at peace for the first time.

Gently, with trembling fingers, she placed her hand on Elliot’s chest, just to feel his heartbeat. Just to know he was alive and well.

Had he suffered for their separation? Did he still remember her?

“Leave him,” Macrath said from behind her.

She didn’t move, her fingers remaining where they were.

Elliot blinked open his eyes and reached for her, the cry he uttered sweeping away any fear. She plucked him from the cradle and held him close, talking to him softly.

“There you are, my precious little darling,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you so.”

Slowly, she turned to face Macrath, recognizing the rage in his eyes.

The moment of reckoning was finally here. They stood silently looking at each other. Would he forgive her? Should she even try to plead her case?

What about the terror she’d felt on discovering Elliot was gone? Did he bear no responsibility for that?

“How could you take him from me? You had no right.”

“I had every right, or do you deny he’s my son?”

Beneath his rolling accent was anger, sharp and pitiless and not at all melodic.

She looked away, wishing he didn’t seem so large standing there. Or wasn’t as forbidding. His face was immobile, like he’d been hewn from rock.

She’d never been afraid of Macrath and she wasn’t now. Perhaps she was most afraid of saying the words aloud, of admitting to him what she’d done.

Patting Elliot on his back, she listened to the sweet sound of his babbling at her.

“Yes,” she said, the single word condemning her. “Yes, he’s your son.”

He didn’t speak, didn’t say a word. Instead, he stood there watching her like she was some loathsome creature that had crept across Drumvagen’s threshold.

“H
ow did you get here?” he asked.

“The grotto,” Virginia said, surprising him.

He frowned. “There’s no way to the grotto, unless you approach it by boat.”

She shook her head. “I took the path down to the beach.”

There was no path to the beach, only a channel of loose shale and stone carved out by the water when it rained. His chest tightened at the thought of her navigating that part of the cliff.

He pushed the thought away to investigate later. For now, there was a more important question.

“Have you come to say good-bye?”

She shook her head, attending to Alistair. She walked to the secretary, padded to act as his changing table, and lay him down on his back.

“Where are his nappies?” she asked.

Mary hastened to bring her one, but surprisingly, Virginia didn’t turn Alistair over to the girl. Instead, she changed his son, crooning to him all the while. Alistair looked blissfully happy and crooned right back to her.

Macrath glanced at Mary and nodded toward the door. She bobbed a curtsy and left the room as quickly as humanly possible.

Smart child.

“You’re adept at that,” he said.

“And why shouldn’t I be?” she asked. “He’s my son.”

“I didn’t think countesses bothered with their children,” he said.

“This one does.” She finished with the nappy, lifted Alistair into her arms and returned to one of the chairs beside the window.

“I nursed him until I became ill,” she said, smiling down into their son’s face.

Another surprise, that she would do such a thing.

“Say good-bye to him, Virginia.”

“How can you be so cruel? You were never cruel before, Macrath.” Her eyes were filled with sadness.

“You never gave me reason, Virginia.”

His son patted her face with his hands, much in the way Alistair did to him. Did he recognize his parents? Did he know his mother?

Her eyes swam with tears. He felt a curious tightening in his chest looking at her.

“I was just the rooster to your hen,” he said, a comment that had her blinking at him.

“What an interesting way to put it. I suppose you were.”

Not the response he expected.

“You cannot keep a child from his mother, Macrath.”

“You cannot keep a child from his father, Virginia.”

She looked away, facing the window. For a few moments she ignored him, speaking to their son in tones too low to be overheard. The gentleness of her movements didn’t need speech, however, nor the quick act of brushing her face with one hand.

He’d thought of her at Drumvagen, knowing they would weather anything together. She would bear his children who would inherit his empire. When they spoke of him, which they surely must do, they would also speak of his great love for an American woman.

Except, of course, none of it had happened.

Her hair, black as a crow’s belly, shone in the sun. Her eyes were such a pale blue they looked almost like clouds passing across a Scottish sky. Her face, oval and delicate, featured a nose at once aristocratic and pert, a mouth lush enough to fuel his dreams.

He didn’t want to remember her long, long legs or those magnificent breasts right at the moment. Not when he was thinking she was a selfish bitch.

She faced him, her eyes direct and unflinching, yet her shoulders were too straight, her posture too rigid for true composure.

Did she think he was unaware of her tears?

She should leave this moment. He would escort her to the door himself, summon her coachman and send her fleeing from his property. She would no longer be able to look at him with those soft eyes of hers and her mouth trembling.

He could easily hate her for what she did. Easily despise her for how conflicted he felt in her presence. No one else had the ability she did to turn his world upside down, then smile at him in apology.

“I was always so careful in telling you the truth when you did nothing but lie to me. Why did you do it?”

Her smile seemed forced as she turned Alistair in her arms, patted his hands together, and leaned her head against his.

He would damn well stand here until the North Sea turned to ice, but he was going to get an answer.

“Why did you take Elliot?”

“His name is Alistair,” he said. “My father’s name. Not Elliot, which is too English. He isn’t English, you know. He’s half American and half Scot.”

“The world doesn’t see it that way. He’s Lawrence’s child. He’s the eleventh Earl of Barrett.”

“Then the world needs to be corrected,” he said.

“And, in doing so, would you label your son a bastard?”

“I would label my son a Scot,” he said.

She frowned at him. “You once admitted you were stubborn. Do you take pride in it?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes widened.

“Did you expect me to lie to you?” he asked.

“I don’t know what to expect from you,” she said, and the words were said with such exasperation he suspected they were the truth.

“Don’t expect anything. Just leave.”