The Devil of Clan Sinclair (24 page)

Why hadn’t she had the courage to dismiss this arrogant boor a few months earlier? Because she’d been afraid he would tell someone what he knew. Wasn’t it strange how things could change in the interim? Her perspective was different. Life was different without her darling Eudora.

“We have to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said.

Nothing was the same as it had been, and he didn’t seem to realize it. She barely ate or slept. She rarely spoke. The pain at the back of her throat felt like her unshed tears had turned to acid.

She wasn’t hungry; she didn’t feel pain. She couldn’t hear or see. She was enveloped in a black cloud.

His face altered. Gone was the perennial affable servant. In its place was a scowling man with brown eyes flashing fury. His hands balled into fists as he strode toward the chair where she sat.

At another time, he would have frightened her.

She touched the locket at the base of her throat. Inside was a lock of Eudora’s hair. The locket had become a talisman, a way of enduring one moment to the next.

She’d discovered something odd about grief. Grief was different depending on the person being mourned. She’d never thought about it before and now she couldn’t think of anything else.

Her husband’s death was unexpected, yet she’d mourned him with the devotion of a wife married twenty years. She anticipated Lawrence’s death from the moment he’d been born with bluish lips. She’d watched him grow more frail with each passing year and worried about his death so much that his eventual demise had been almost a relief, God help her.

Eudora’s death, however, had been shocking and unreal, the loss still twisting inside her like a knife wielded by God.

Her darling daughter was gone. The lovely child with her husky laughter would never tease her once more. Eudora, with her love of shopping, would never again be fascinated by the scents and spices imported from around the world. Eudora would have liked to travel. She would have written letters from the places she was visiting, sprinkling each with anecdotes about people she’d met.

Eudora couldn’t be dead and yet she was. Enid dreamed of her when she finally slept, and when she awoke it was with tears on her lashes and a heaviness in her chest.

No, she didn’t want to talk to Paul Henderson. Nothing he had to say would interest her.

“Virginia’s been gone three weeks,” Paul said. “You need to summon her home.”

Even before Eudora’s death, she would’ve taken umbrage to his tone. Now his words flailed her like a whip.

“How dare you speak to me in such a way?”

“I dare a great deal, Countess, since you’ve refused to leave your room. Don’t you care about your household?”

No, she didn’t. Nor did she care that she didn’t care.

“Virginia needs to return to London.”

“Are you dictating to me now?”

She leaned back in the chair and regarded him with steady eyes. He had threatened her a few months earlier. At the time, she’d thought it was simple greed, a case of him taking advantage of a situation he could manipulate to his benefit. Now, watching him, she was not so sure. There was a light in Paul’s eyes she should have noticed. A ferocity to his expression she should have seen before now.

“Where the Countess of Barrett is, or what she does, is none of your concern.”

He strode forward, putting his hands on either arm of her chair, trapping her. Leaning forward, he breathed into her face, his lips twisted in a cruel smile.

“If you don’t summon her home, Countess, I’ll be forced to tell the truth about Lawrence’s heir. Tell me, does being thrown into the street appeal to you?”

Once, his threats might have mattered. How foolish of him not to realize everything had changed.

She was calm and strangely at peace when she smiled at him. “Do your worst, Henderson,” she said, reaching up and patting him on the cheek. “I find I simply do not care.”

Chapter 26

Drumvagen, Scotland

September, 1870

A
week passed. A week of harmony, at least on the surface. Every morning, Virginia left the cottage for Drumvagen, returning only at the gloaming, as the Scots called it. Except for those times when he visited Elliot when she was there, she didn’t see Macrath. They didn’t converse. He didn’t threaten, and she didn’t try to convince him of anything.

He spent a lot of time in the nursery, however, and that was disconcerting.

When he smiled at her, she forgot what she was saying, her words stumbling to a halt. She stared at him and he looked oddly pleased, leaving her wishing he hadn’t come to see Elliot.

“He loves the boy,” Agatha said one day after Macrath left.

“That he does,” Mary added. “Elliot smiles in a certain way when his father comes to tuck him in at night.”

Anyone who saw them together could tell Macrath adored Elliot. He wasn’t afraid to lift him from his cradle, carry him from place to place, and even play horse with him. His knee was the steed and Elliot squealed in delight when Macrath bounced him up and down.

Each time he placed Elliot back in the cradle, he said, “God be with you.” She’d always look away and pretend she wasn’t affected by his soft-voiced blessing.

Once, she glanced back to find Macrath watching her. At times like that she could almost convince herself he was feeling amiable about her.

Perhaps he would allow her to leave. If she worded her request in exactly the right way, he might see the reason in her argument.

Was she being naive to even think such a thing?

He didn’t, however, bring up her leaving Drumvagen again. Nor did she, unwilling to face the impenetrable wall of Macrath’s determination. The situation could not continue to exist as it was. Macrath was not the type of man to simply acquiesce to circumstances.

He manipulated them.

She returned to the cottage, annoyed that Macrath was able to bid Elliot good-night. He wasn’t living in a cottage on the moor. He was only a few steps away from the nursery. He could straighten the covers, say a prayer over his child, and ensure he was ready for sleep.

Hannah wasn’t in the cottage, and Virginia wondered if she’d walked to the village. Life in their small cottage was occasionally boring. Macrath employed a large staff at Drumvagen, easily fifty people, most of whom were men who lived in the village and didn’t try to hide their appreciation of her maid.

Hannah didn’t seem adverse to being noticed by the Scots, either. She’d yet to see one in a kilt, but Hannah said they wore them in the village.

What was it about Scottish men? Perhaps it was their way of speaking, the rolling lilt of their voice sounding like warm cream.

When Macrath talked, she wanted to close her eyes and simply listen. He could be reading an atlas and make it sound delicious.

Or maybe it was the twinkle in his eyes. Did all Scottish men have it, or was it simply Macrath?

What woman could resist him?

She must.

After checking the stove to ensure the fire was still banked, she put on the kettle and returned to the table.

The cottage had changed from two weeks ago. She’d returned one day to find boards had been laid over the dirt floor and rugs atop them that had to be worth more than the whole cottage. There was china, too, easily the equal of what she’d used in London, and crystal that she thought better than Enid’s.

Macrath was evidently determined to be a good host.

When the kettle started hissing, she moved it to a cool spot on the stove, poured the boiling water into the teapot and stood waiting for the tea to steep.

From her spot by the stove she could see a hint of one of Drumvagen’s towers. The air was different at gloaming, diffuse and almost hazy, like nature couldn’t bear the thought of night and submitted to it by degrees.

She felt the same tonight. Darkness was coming and with it loneliness.

Her son was safe, feted, and adored. His father was a man of principle, ambition, and wealth. If those were the only issues she had to deal with, life would be easy indeed.

A wagon lumbered down the road, but rather than passing the cottage, it stopped in front of it.

Curious, she craned her neck to see if it was one of Macrath’s men bringing supplies. Earlier that day they’d come with firewood, food, and two blankets, explaining the early autumn winds could be fierce.

The first inkling she had that something was wrong was Hannah storming into the cottage. The maid’s lips were pursed, her eyes narrowed, and she halted in front of Virginia and folded her arms in a pugnacious stance. Her cheeks were bright red, and if that wasn’t an inclination something was amiss, Hosking following on her heels certainly was.

“How nice to see you, Hosking,” Virginia said, feeling the first tinge of anxiety. According to Hannah, her coachman had found occupation in Macrath’s stables, caring for their horses and performing any other chores he might find.

Hosking nodded, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but there. Hannah nudged him, and he removed his hat, ducking his head.

Yes, something was definitely wrong. Otherwise, Hosking wouldn’t have avoided her eyes.

She turned to Hannah, but before she could ask her what was happening, two other men entered the cottage.

Her anxiety mushroomed into panic.

Macrath was sending her packing. He wasn’t going to let her take Elliot back to London. He wasn’t going to listen to reason.

Would she ever be able to see her son again?

“Tell me,” she said, waiting for the words.

Please God, please God, please God, let me find some way to stay here. Let me be able to convince him to let me stay. Or take Elliot back to London. Please don’t let him banish me.

“The high and mighty Sinclair, the devil himself, wants you out of here,” Hannah said.

She wasn’t leaving Drumvagen without her son. She wasn’t going back to England alone. She had to think of something to convince Macrath to let her stay.

“We’re to bring all your things, and mine, to Drumvagen.”

The words didn’t make sense. She stared at Hannah, her heart beating so fiercely she could feel the pulse in the back of her throat.

“To Drumvagen? He’s not sending us back to England?”

Hannah’s eyes lost some of their heat. “No, your ladyship. He’s all for us moving to the house.”

“Is he?”

The surge of relief dizzied her. She sat at the small table, her fingers splayed across the wood. “Is he?” she repeated, staring down at its scarred surface.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath.

“If you give him any trouble, Hosking is to carry you bodily back to Drumvagen. That’s what he said. Otherwise, the devil himself will come and get you.”

Opening her eyes, she said, “Will he?”

She couldn’t live at Drumvagen. The realization collided with her earlier envy. Nothing made any sense, let alone her chaotic thoughts. She couldn’t be close to Macrath.

She would want to touch him. Worse, she’d want him to touch her.

Rather than simply bearing his presence in the nursery, she’d see him in the hall, perhaps at meals. She’d smell the sandalwood perfuming his clothes, hear his voice, his laughter.

No, she couldn’t live at Drumvagen. How foolish could he be?

Didn’t he feel the attraction between them? What if he didn’t? What if he felt nothing for her?

She covered her face in her hands. She couldn’t even think about living at Drumvagen. Besides, who was he to say where she lived? As long as he allowed her to see Elliot every day, the cottage would be fine for her needs.

Being so close to Macrath, seeing him constantly, would not be a good idea. Surely, he could see that? Or perhaps he didn’t have the same reaction to her presence as she did to his. Perhaps he didn’t remember the last time she was at Drumvagen. No, she was definitely not going to recall those memories, and living at Drumvagen would make it more difficult to keep them at bay. She was only human, and regrettably weak where Macrath was concerned.

Standing, she brushed down her skirt, straightened her shoulders, and addressed all of them.

“I will talk to him myself,” she said. Turning to the two Drumvagen men, she added, “Nothing is to be moved until I return. I’ll go resolve this misunderstanding.”

“Our orders are to take your things to Drumvagen,” one of the men said.

Were all Scots incredibly bullheaded?

“I don’t care what your orders are,” she said, “nothing’s to be moved until I return.”

The man didn’t answer. Nor did he nod. Instead, he simply stood there with a bored, almost dismissive look while his companion looked the same.

She glanced at Hosking and Hannah. “Stay here until I come back,” she said.

Hosking nodded. Hannah turned and glared at the two men as if daring them to move a muscle.

She left the cottage, heading for Drumvagen and another battle.

N
ight would be on them soon, but Macrath wanted to finish up the support for the massive flywheel before they quit.

“We need to ensure the flange is bolted down,” he said.

Jack nodded, intent on his task.

On the voyage from Australia he’d thought about a new design, one using rapidly expanding ammonia as a coolant. To do so, the ice machine would have to be larger. The frame of this machine, mounted on a brick base, was constructed of timbers. Once the equipment was installed, they’d cover the whole of it with a thin membrane of metal.

Because of its size, they had to construct the frame in the building he’d erected for it. The roof was tall enough to accommodate the main flywheel mounted on the outside of the machine to control the flow of ammonia.

The system of pulleys and gears was essential to the success of the new design, and for that he trusted Jack. Sam, on the other hand, had hands the size of hams, and with as much dexterity. He was an organizational genius, however. If they needed a part shipped from Edinburgh or London, Sam got it on time. He was also good at documenting everything they were doing.

Macrath considered their mistakes more important than their successes. He learned more from them. Errors were valuable. He just didn’t want to repeat the same ones over and over again.

He wasn’t going to repeat the same mistakes with Virginia, either.

He wasn’t going to allow her to take Alistair from Drumvagen. Alistair was developing his own character. The boy laughed and clapped his hands when he made a face. When Macrath spoke Gaelic, it seemed to amuse his son.

He’d commissioned a few toys from one of the men in the village who was talented in woodworking. A wagon, a fire truck like those seen in Edinburgh, and a boat waited on the windowsill for Alistair to be old enough to play with them. Brianag had created a soft little doll she called a rabbit. At first he’d frowned at the object, uncertain whether it was masculine enough for his son. Alistair had stripped him of all criticism when he reached for it, clutching it to his chest with acquisitive glee.

From the time he was a young boy and realized people were different, Macrath had been suffused with a need to rise above his circumstances. He’d always wanted to be one of the wealthy ones. He wanted to own one of the black lacquered carriages carried by four matched horses. He wanted to wear fine clothes that had never been splattered by mud. He wanted to be able to buy anything he wished and to ensure his family never lacked for anything.

He never again wanted to see Ceana’s face when another little girl had a new doll, or hear Mairi announce she didn’t need any new dresses. Or worry about the cost of charity when Mairi had taken in their cousin. One more mouth to feed had seemed an insurmountable burden at the time.

He’d never craved respect from others as much as he’d wanted freedom, and early on he’d realized that money meant he could do what he wished on his own timetable. He would be beholden to no one. Nor would he have to explain himself.

The desire to achieve had been a drug to him, one dictating his life. He’d focused on only two things in the last decade: his ice machine and his family. The success of the former had allowed him to provide for his sisters and his cousin. Making a fortune had changed his life. Taking Ceana to London for her season had led him to Virginia, the one person to whom he’d gladly explain himself.

Now he felt another emotion, one as powerful as his need to be successful. He wanted to protect, to create as perfect world for Virginia and his son as he could imagine. He never wanted Virginia to be afraid again. If she disliked the ocean, he’d build another house, one farther inland.

He wanted Alistair to always feel safe, to never worry about where his next meal was to come from, or how he would support himself.

Life was not without risks and tribulations. He wanted Alistair to be challenged and learn from his successes and his failures. But Macrath wanted him to do so with a firm foundation, the knowledge that he would always have a home, his father would always believe in him, and he could achieve what he wanted as long as he had an idea and the will to accomplish it.