The Devil of Clan Sinclair (27 page)

“She’s very intimidating, but no more so than you.” She moved her feet over so he could put his foot up on the stool. He nudged her foot playfully, then rested his shoe next to hers.

He raised one eyebrow.

“You’re very forbidding when you wish to be, Macrath Sinclair. You stand just so with your legs braced apart, and when you look at someone, it’s like you’re trying to see all the way inside them.”

He grinned at her. “I had no idea you noted my appearance with such interest, your ladyship.”

She glanced away.

Macrath stood and pulled her to her feet. He walked to the bookcase and pulled on the sconce, pulling the bookcase away from the wall.

“I’ve a yen to see the grotto,” he said, his smile boyish and without shame. “Can I lure you to my lair?”

Holding out his hand, he smiled at her.

The last thing she needed to do was go to the grotto with Macrath. He’d be able to easily seduce her then. She’d might even seduce him first. No, the very idea was foolish.

She took a step back, shaking her head.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice low.

She was prevented from answering by Hannah’s appearance.

The maid halted at the doorway. “A secret passage, sir?”

Macrath glanced from her to Hannah, evidently understanding the moment had passed. Or perhaps it had never truly come.

“Yes,” he said, closing the bookcase door. Giving Virginia a rueful smile, he bent and kissed her on the cheek.

“I’m to tell you the package has arrived, sir,” Hannah said, placing the tray on the table between the two chairs with great concentration. She gave the task more attention than it required, meaning she felt as embarrassed at interrupting them as Virginia.

She’d almost gone to the grotto with Macrath. Surely she shouldn’t be feeling so excited.

Without another word, Macrath left the room.

She and Hannah looked at each other.

“A package?”

The maid nodded. “Brianag was most determined I should say package. Not crate or present.”

The mystery deepened when Macrath and Jack reappeared a few moments later, the two of them carrying a large wooden crate. She smiled at the young man, but his attention was on Hannah. Macrath called him back to the task, and Jack helped set the box down on one side of the library.

When they were done, he stood there smiling at Hannah, who smiled back.

Virginia bit back her sigh.

“I have a present for you,” Macrath said after Hannah and Jack left the room. “I remembered how much you like to read broadsides.”

“I could tell you it was to educate my mind,” she said. “But you and I know such is not always the case.”

“You were interested in the Atlantic cable.”

She nodded. “I’m afraid that was the exception to the rule. I was fascinated with the most gruesome stories.”

“Then you will love these,” he said, using a small iron bar to open the top of the crate. “I had my sister send the last few months of broadsides.”

She went to the corner, peering inside the crate. There, stacked in neat little bundles, were all sorts of broadsides and what her father would’ve called scandal sheets.

Macrath had done this for her.

“I always wondered,” she said, picking up one of the stacks, “if the reason my father refused to consider you as a suitor was because you owned a newspaper.”

“I take it he was not in favor of them.”

“He was excoriated by reporters. When he became interested in politics, they held him to account more strictly than he’d expected. They were always asking questions, and he was always trying to avoid them.”

“He was the only man I was willing to beg.”

She glanced at him, feeling her chest tighten.

“I never got the chance,” he said.

She looked away, occupying herself by trying to untie the rope binding one bundle. She didn’t want to weep today. She didn’t want to think of the girl she’d been a few years ago. Had it only been a few years? Why, then, did it feel like a lifetime?

“Perhaps if he’d agreed and you and I had married,” she said, “we would have become disinterested with each other.”

“I can’t imagine that happening, can you?”

“It isn’t wise to want to change the past.”

“No,” he said, “but perhaps wishes can change the future.”

She looked over at him. He was smiling at her, his gaze intent.

Their time was coming to an end. Surely he knew it as well.

Her absence from London could be explained by the fact she was recuperating from smallpox. But if she were gone too many more weeks, people would start to wonder, to speculate among themselves. Even as reclusive as she’d been, she was still the Countess of Barrett and people talked.

She wasn’t concerned as much about society as she was Lawrence’s cousin. He would not hesitate to question her remaining in Scotland. Perhaps he’d even demand to see Elliot.

“Thank you,” she said. “For the broadsides.”

He nodded, placing his hand atop hers.

“Virginia—” he began.

She shook her head, so close to tears at the moment that she wouldn’t be able to remain composed, regardless of what he said.

She stood on her tiptoes, kissed him softly on the cheek, then turned and left the room before he could stop her.

Chapter 29

V
irginia returned from the nursery to find another gift in her sitting room.

Not content with giving her a crate of broadsides, Macrath had sent her a shawl yesterday, along with a note saying he’d purchased it from a woman in Kinloch Village renowned for her skill with the soft wool from Drumvagen sheep. The day before that it was a bouquet of heather and other late summer flowers, bunched together with pine sprigs and oak leaves.
To remind you of Drumvagen Woods,
he’d written.

This gift, however, was a rolled paper, tied with a simple string.

“Was there a note?” she asked.

Hannah sat in the chair beside the window, intent on adding white cuffs and collars to all Virginia’s mourning dresses. She bit off the thread with her teeth and shook her head.

Slowly, Virginia unrolled the paper to find it was a design. She traced the lines, realizing it was a plan for something at Drumvagen, to be built directly behind the house.

“It’s for the rose garden,” Hannah said, startling her. The maid had come to stand beside her and was peering at the plans.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

Hannah’s cheeks grew pink. “Someone told me,” she said.

“A rose garden?”

“Macrath knows you like roses,” Hannah said.

They were standing in a room specifically decorated with her in mind. Roses were prolific in the upholstery fabric, not to mention the potpourri scenting the air.

He’d gone too far. Entirely too far. He couldn’t keep doing such things, reducing her almost to tears with a simple gesture.

She rolled up the plans and tied them with the string, leaving them on the round table in the middle of the room.

Instead of returning to the nursery, she headed for the stairs.

The last two nights had been fitful ones, with Elliot waking every hour. She’d been desperate to calm him but nothing had worked. Not a warm bath or walking him, or even singing to him.

Brianag had been summoned by either Mary or Agatha, she wasn’t sure which. The housekeeper had taken one look at her son, nodded with a jerk of her chin and pronounced the child needing a teethin’ bannock. An hour later Brianag returned, producing a biscuit in the shape of a ring. When Virginia started to ask about it, Brianag placed her finger on her lips and shook her head.

The four of them watched as Elliot reached out, grabbed the ring and started to gnaw on it. When it was broken, Brianag gave her a piece, then shared the other pieces with Mary and Agatha. They all ate their pieces under Brianag’s watchful eye. The taste reminded Virginia of oatmeal cooked too long.

“He’ll sleep now,” Brianag said, watching as Elliot gummed the last of the treat. “The bannock takes away the pain of teething.”

To Virginia’s surprise, Elliot did sleep, which was why, rather than returning to the nursery, she escaped outside for a little fresh air and solitude.

Drumvagen was unique, being sandwiched between the coast, a river, and woodland. She’d made it as far as the river, but this time she climbed to the top of the hill, standing on its crest and surveying the view framed by tall sycamores.

From there she could see Kinloch Village and its houses clinging like baby possums to the hills overlooking the harbor.

Below was the river, stretching wide and blue, undulating through the glen. At the base of the hill was a gate leading to an arched stone bridge weathered green and gray.

The storm of the night before had washed the world clean. Sunlight shone like lace through the emerald leaves, danced along the river, and glimmered on the ocean waves.

For years she’d lived in a city, missing the land and forest around Cliff House. As a child she heard the sigh of the wind through the branches at night. During the day she went into the woods and sat silent, listening to the life around her. At times she’d even escaped from her governesses, pretending not to hear their annoyed calling.

How had she tolerated London all this time?

The bridge appeared to have been carved from one large piece of stone. She strolled across, hesitating at the arched top, staring down into the rushing waters below. What an enchanting place this was. What a glorious kingdom Macrath was creating.

Elliot was part of his family, and yet he was—as far as the world was concerned—the eleventh Earl of Barrett, with all its rights and privileges.

He’d be schooled in how to behave, how to act in every situation. He’d memorize ranks, learn Lawrence’s family history, become the head of the family. One day he’d be compelled to marry, just as Lawrence had, to protect a title.

Elliot was only an infant, but she could almost see him in the various stages of his life. A boy, educated by a tutor who was a great deal kinder than any of her governesses had been. Later, he’d go away to school, to Lawrence’s alma mater. How would she bear the separation? He’d be tall, with black hair and blue eyes, and all the girls would look at him when he entered a room.

He’d never know anything of Scotland.

He’d be as regimented as she’d been in England, without ever having experienced the freedom of being unnoticed at Cliff House.

He’d never know his father was a unique man, one who’d created his own life rather than being handed a title he inherited. He’d never know he was the scion of a clan, the heir to an empire, one crafted from intelligence, determination, and a little luck.

He’d never realize his father’s eyes lit up on seeing him, that Macrath often held Elliot in his arms, staring down into his face with wonder.

Perhaps she could find a way to bring him back to Scotland periodically.

Macrath would never agree to losing his son for any length of time.

She turned back to Drumvagen, the beautiful day doing nothing for her sudden disheartened mood. As she walked, she glimpsed a flash of white through the trees. Curious, she followed the sight.

The sounds of birds faded, but other noises took their place: her soft footfalls, the crunch of leaves blanketing the ground. Beneath the leaves was moist earth, the scent of it heavy in the air. Mushrooms clung to the trunks of the lichen-draped trees.

The air grew cooler, the light more filtered.

Suddenly, she was in a clearing. A gazebo stood there, painted white with delicate frescoes carved on its sides, a bronze statue of a stag mounted atop its cupola.

She could imagine such a lovely structure at Cliff House, or even a park in London, but not here in the Scottish countryside, surrounded by towering trees and the silence of Drumvagen Wood.

Was it used for hunting? Or simply to lure a forest visitor to rest and reflect on the surrounding beauty?

She climbed the three steps and perched on one of the cunning ledges built into the structure. Here was the perfect place for contemplation and reverie. Here she could sit and wonder at the complications of her life, most of them caused by her own actions.

She was the architect of her own misery.

She heard a rustling sound, almost like something walking through the thick undergrowth of leaves.

Standing, she waited, and when Macrath appeared, she almost laughed.

“I thought you a stag,” she said, “and I was right.”

“Were you, now?” he asked, smiling at her. “You found the gazebo.”

“Did you build it?” she asked.

“No, it was one of the few structures finished before the owner abandoned Drumvagen.”

“Was it always called Drumvagen or did you rename it like you did your ship?” she asked, sitting again.

“The name is several centuries old, I understand.” He took the steps, looking around him.

“Are you taking a break from your work?”

He sat beside her.

“I was,” he said. “We had a small issue with the flywheel. I thought it was going to come off and roll right into the ocean.”

She reached out and touched his arm, stroking the fabric of his shirt, feeling the muscles beneath.

“You will be careful, won’t you?”

He studied her, his look so strange she wondered if she’d done something wrong.

“I can’t remember the last time someone worried about me.”

“Surely that’s not true. What about your sisters? I know Ceana was very concerned about your voyage to Australia.”

He smiled. “It’s a different kind of concern,” he said. “With Mairi, it’s her unquenchable need to run my life. In Ceana’s case, she’s always been a mother hen.” He smiled. “She’ll make a wonderful mother.”

The most recent letter from Ceana had come with the news she’d given birth to a healthy baby girl. Elliot had a cousin, one he could never recognize.

“Perhaps my worry is warranted,” she said, forcing her thoughts away from their dilemma. “The first time I came to Drumvagen, there were puffs of smoke coming from the cottage.”

“It wasn’t intentional,” he said with a smile. “Why are you here? Are you communing with the badgers and the foxes?”

“Actually, I haven’t seen any animals. I should like to see a fox, I think. We used to have foxes near Cliff House. I don’t believe I’ve ever been close to a badger, though.”

“That’s a good thing,” he said, stretching out his legs. “They’re not at all sociable, especially when they feel cornered.”

“Like Brianag.”

His laughter caused some nearby birds to suddenly abandon their perch and fly skyward.

“Do I have problems in my household?”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “I’m a guest. I wouldn’t dare to offer a suggestion or a criticism.”

He looked away to where the forest deepened in color until it was nearly a solid wall of emerald green.

“You know that you, above all other people, have the power to say anything. Or do anything,” he added.

She didn’t want the power. She didn’t, above all, deserve it.

“Have I ever told you how much I love your voice?” She looked at him, holding his intent gaze. “It’s your Scottish accent.”

His smile dawned slowly, became a wondrous thing lighting something inside her.

“Sic as ye gie, sic wull ye get.”

She frowned. “What did you just say?”

“It’s the dialect around here,” he said. “I’m still learning it, good Edinburgh lad as I am. I said you only get out of life what you put in, one of Brianag’s homilies. And there’s always ‘muckle wad aye hae mair.’ Those who have a lot always want more. I hear that one a great deal.”

“Say something else,” she said, smiling.

“I could speak the Gaelic, but I’ll tell you things I learned in Edinburgh,” he said. “I was a precocious youngster.”

“I can imagine the girls discovered you early,” she said.

Would he have noticed her if she had grown up in Edinburgh with him? Would they have been fast friends? Would she have believed in him? She thought the answer was yes to all those questions.

“I learned, too, ‘Never marry for money. You can borrow it cheaper.’ ”

“Wise advice,” she said as he leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

She should stop him now. They should be reasonable about this. They shouldn’t be kissing, especially when he had a teasing look in his eye.

She placed her hands on either side of his face. “Macrath,” she said. Just his name, but it was warning enough.

He placed his hands atop hers and smiled down at her.

At that moment she knew she was lost.

“ ‘They talk of my drinking but never my thirst.’ ”

Like she thirsted for him? No, she wouldn’t say such a thing aloud.

“ ‘Be slow in choosing a friend, but slower in changing him,’ ” he said, unfastening the top button of her bodice.

She slapped his hand. “Macrath Sinclair, we’re in the middle of the woods.”

“Ah, but we’re in the middle of the woods alone,” he said. “ ‘Fools look to tomorrow. Wise men use today.’ ”

“Still, is it entirely proper?”

He tipped his head back and laughed.

She was too aware of him, each separate nerve and muscle attuned to his presence. Her skin was tight. Her heart beat so rapidly it felt like a drum inside her chest. Her palms dampened while her mouth was too dry. She wanted to weep while she danced for joy, and wasn’t that ridiculous?

She was going to catch fire if he kept looking at her. He crooked a finger and she leaned toward him, surrendering her mouth to his. He kissed her slowly. Extending his tongue, he touched the tip of hers then withdrew, teasing her, taking her breath and causing her heart to race.

The warmth inside her suddenly swelled, becoming a tide of need.

“ ‘Willful waste makes woeful want.’ ”

“We shouldn’t be wasteful,” she said, barely able to speak.

A noise startled her. She froze, her hands on his shoulders. “What was that?”

“A fox or badger,” he said, trailing kisses down her throat.

She pulled back. It wasn’t a fox or a badger. Instead, it had sounded like footsteps on leaves.

She pressed her hand against his chest.

“Would you like me to go see?” he asked. “Just to reassure you?”

She nodded. “It’s probably not necessary,” she said, feeling foolish.

He smoothed his knuckles over her cheek. “I don’t want you worried,” he said.

He bent and kissed the tip of her nose.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.