The Devil of Clan Sinclair (5 page)

“Were you?”

She nodded.

“Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat night has flown.

Come into the garden, Maud,

I’m here at the gate alone.”

“Hardly proper reading for a young girl,” he said, smiling. “It’s been made into a song, you know.”

She shook her head, surprised. “No, I didn’t.”

He leaned close to her and began to sing the words softly.

His breath smelled of mint, brushing against her temple. He was entirely too close for propriety, but she didn’t move away, merely closed her eyes to savor his presence.

“Virginia,” he said softly.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to open her eyes.

“Have you never heard of Robert Burns?” he asked, replacing the volume of Tennyson poems. “A much better poet by far.”

Once again she shook her head.

He started searching the books. A moment later he found what he was looking for, and thumbed through the volume.

Unsmiling, he held the book out to her, pointing to a poem.

“You should read ‘A Red, Red Rose,’ ” he said.

She took the book from him.

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

O my Luve’s like the melodie

That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a’ the seas gang dry.

She glanced up at him, something sweet and hot racing through her body.

“Oh, Macrath.”

Here, where there was a hushed reverence for the written word, she felt the same for him. In his piercing blue eyes she saw a reflection of someone she’d never known herself to be, a woman who was captivating and fascinating and brave. Being loved by Macrath made everything possible, even her transformation.

She knew she shouldn’t put her hand on his chest. Nor should he wipe away a tear from her cheek with such tenderness.

“Miss Anderson.”

She didn’t want to turn and see Mrs. Haverstock. She didn’t want to answer any questions. Or try to explain something so private and perfect.

When the woman walked into her line of sight, she had no choice but to drop her hand and step away.

“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” she said. “I’ll make a point of reading Mr. Burns in the future.”

She nodded to him and turned away, when what she truly wanted was to have him enfold her in his arms.

“Until tonight,” he whispered.

It would have to be enough, but oh how could it be?

Drumvagen, Scotland

July, 1869

A
stranger had come to Drumvagen. A stranger in an ornate ebony carriage pulled by four of the finest horses he’d seen in a while.

Macrath strode down the road, wishing he didn’t smell of ammonia and the other chemicals in his laboratory. Jack and Sam broke away, heading for their own quarters to bathe and change. He would have liked to do the same, but the carriage was sitting in front of Drumvagen, the door being opened by a burly coachman.

He stopped, transfixed by the strangest notion that he was in the middle of a dream. A black shod foot emerged first, then a flurry of black petticoat peeping beneath a silk skirt, ebony to match the carriage. Her gloved hand on the coachman’s arm, she lightly stepped from the vehicle, the black-ribboned bonnet shielding her face from his view.

He knew. Even before she glanced up at him, he knew. Only one woman had ever affected him the way she did, as if she gave off a signal his body recognized.

Virginia.

His blood was pounding, his heart beating as loudly as the drums of war. Inside, he shouted with exultant joy.

Virginia had come to Drumvagen.

When he’d first met her, she reminded him of a delicate bird, one at the mercy of air currents and tossed aloft to a strange and foreign land. She was almost preternaturally still, like she’d been poured from a mold, but her eyes were alive and watching everything.

Her face was oval, her eyes a clear blue, so light in color it seemed like he could see into the heart of her. Her hair was black and fine. Tendrils always escaped her careful hairstyle and surrounded her face. Her smile was quick and held a surprised air, as if her own joy startled her.

She wasn’t smiling now.

Her eyes had lost their sparkle. A lock of hair brushed against her alabaster cheek, only slightly tinged with a blush. Her mouth opened to greet him, then closed and firmed without saying a word.

He couldn’t breathe, but that could be the lingering effects of the explosion and the chemicals he’d inhaled. More likely it was simply Virginia.

She was wearing black.

Dear God, did she bring bad news?

He strode forward, wanting to shake the words from her.

“Ceana?” he asked. “Is she well?”

Recognition dawned in Virginia’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Yes, she’s well.” She glanced down at her gloved hands. “It’s Lawrence,” she said, her voice vibrating with emotion. “He’s dead.”

He schooled his features to show nothing, not even a trace of gladness.

“My condolences,” he said.

Why was she here?

The question thrummed between them. Her maid, and the interested glances from her coachman, kept him silent.

He turned and strode in the other direction, and she, as he’d hoped, followed him. He hesitated at the entrance to the drive, staring out at the expanse of sea and sky, one mirroring the other.

Boiling black clouds on the horizon promised a storm by nightfall. Drumvagen was a secure and comforting refuge in the midst of lightning and thunder. On another night he might have settled in front of the fire, sipping whiskey from a tankard belonging to his father. His thoughts would have returned to London and the woman who now stood silently beside him.

“Why have you come, Virginia? To tell me of your widowhood?”

She didn’t answer. Her silence caused him to turn and look at her.

“Was it a happy marriage?”

She hesitated. When she nodded, he didn’t believe her.

“A short one,” she added.

Didn’t she realize he knew how long it had been? He’d gotten drunk the day of her wedding, the first time he’d ever allowed himself to do so.

He wanted to embrace her, hold her close to him. He wanted to fall to his knees, wrap his arms around her hips, keep her there until he accepted she was truly at Drumvagen.

“Why are you here, Virginia?” he asked, his mind racing in a dozen directions at once.

She reached out one gloved hand and placed it on his shirted chest. His pulse raced at her touch, as if she had the power to burrow into his skin, stroke the heart beneath and quicken its beat.

“Let me rest,” she said. “Feed me a meal or two, and perhaps a glass of wine.” She glanced away, then back at him, as if daring herself. “Then I’ll tell you.”

Turning, he looked at his home, taking in Drumvagen’s sprawling glory. He would put her in the suite he’d prepared for her.

He held out his arm. She placed her hand on it, and he accompanied her up the drive and then the steps, much as he had thought of doing from the moment he met her.

What did she think of Drumvagen? Her eyes were wide as she took in the broad double doors. He’d ordered them from Italy and had to wait nearly a year for them to be finished.

Like a boy, he wanted to tell her about building Drumvagen, how he’d found it an unfinished shell and knew it was his home from the beginning. He wanted to brag about each of the furnishings, tell her the story of how he’d found the chandeliers, the carved doors, and the mirrored walls.

He kept silent, watching her, noting the delicate blush appearing on her cheeks and wondering at its cause.

This woman was the source of his greatest pain.

He should send her away, tell her about the inn only a few miles distant. He should send Jack or Sam as an outrider, to ensure she got to her destination and didn’t think about circling back to Drumvagen. He should keep men at intervals along the road to guard the approach, to keep her from it.

Instead, he pushed open the door and stood aside for her to enter his home.

Chapter 6

M
acrath hadn’t changed. He was the same as he had been, a magnificent specimen of man. The only thing different was the strange smell surrounding him like a cloud.

She wished Hannah wasn’t right behind her. She would’ve studied Macrath, from the top of his head all the way down his body. She felt his arm beneath her hand and wondered if he knew she was trembling.

He led her to a small parlor with windows overlooking the ocean with its wind tossed waves. The storm that had been threatening for the last hour was advancing. The face the clouds showed was gray and flat, the edges detailed and brightly limned by a sun she couldn’t see. She heard thunder, but lightning hid like a cowardly mastiff.

The parlor was shadowed by the approaching storm, a cozy place to watch nature’s display.

She glanced toward the white marble fireplace, the burgundy upholstered settee faced by two matching chairs and a mahogany table. Before she had time to remark it was a lovely room, or question the identity of the portraits along the fireplace wall, a woman joined them.

Virginia had been trained by her governesses never to show her emotions, especially in social situations. If she were surprised or taken aback, she must never allow anyone else to know.

The woman Macrath introduced as his housekeeper, however, almost jolted her out of her restraint.

Her face was broad and square, her nose narrow and long. Her hair, brown threaded with gray, was arranged at the back of her head in a severe bun. Perhaps she normally wore a genial expression, but at the moment, twin vertical lines appeared between her deep set brown eyes, and her square lips were thin.

She was nearly Macrath’s height and sturdily built, dressed in a plaid skirt, a white bodice, and a length of the same plaid tossed over her shoulder and fastened with an oversized pin festooned with feathers. Virginia wondered if the woman was one of those affected to Highland dress. She’d been told that ever since the Queen first expressed her love of Scotland, all things Scottish were in vogue.

“This is Brianag,” he said. “She’ll show you to your rooms.” Turning to the housekeeper, he said, “The Rose Room, Brianag,”

Once more he glanced at Virginia. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll ensure I’m acceptable to present company. Otherwise, I’m going to smell of ammonia.”

“Is that what it is?” she asked, smiling.

“We were experimenting with combining chemicals,” he said.

“It wasn’t dangerous, was it?”

After a quick glance at his housekeeper and Hannah, he only shook his head. A moment later he was gone, leaving the three of them standing there.

Without a word, Brianag turned and left the room. Virginia glanced at Hannah.

“Are we to follow her?”

“I don’t know, your ladyship.”

What a strange woman. Rather than wonder, she trailed after Brianag. A wise impulse, because the housekeeper was waiting at the base of the sweeping steps. She nodded at Virginia’s appearance, grabbed her plaid skirt with one fist and stomped up the steps.

With one more quick glance at Hannah, Virginia followed, the two of them climbing to the second floor. In the middle of the hallway, the housekeeper opened a door and entered. Evidently, she expected them to follow her inside, if the impatient look she gave them was any indication.

Virginia stood at the doorway of a sitting room papered in pale pink silk. A settee, upholstered in a rose pattern, was arranged in front of the carved black fireplace, and next to it a table and chair with a needlepoint footstool. On the far wall was a secretary, and several thriving plants in black urns. The room was so spacious there was ample room to walk, to swing one’s skirt, even perform a solitary waltz. She didn’t doubt the bedroom was as comfortable.

“The room is lovely,” she said. “But I haven’t put anyone out, have I? It looks like it’s been readied for an occupant.”

“At Drumvagen there’s a suite for the master and one for the mistress. This is the one set aside for the mistress. Himself had it decorated for his bride.”

Virginia stood silent for a moment, deciphering that news, Hannah at her side.

“He didn’t marry after all,” the woman added, frowning darkly at her.

Turning to survey the room again, she wondered if Macrath had created this suite for her. Was she the bride he hadn’t married?

How strange to feel so sad about it now.

Had he thought about her when he had the room furnished with rose patterned upholstery? Had he remembered her love of roses, her fondness for the shade of dark pink? Had he remembered she liked music boxes? Was that why the display case to her left was filled with seven of them? Had he, too, remembered her frustration about not being able to grow anything? Was that why the plants had been so lovingly tended they seemed to welcome her?

“You’ll be comfortable enough here,” the housekeeper said in a tone daring her to argue.

“Thank you, Mrs. . . .” Her words trailed away.

“My name is Brianag,” the woman said.

“Yes, well . . .” Virginia felt flustered and not a little confused. Was she supposed to address her as Brianag? “Is it a Scottish name?” she asked.

“Would you be thinking it anything else? Welsh?”

Brianag did not approve of her.

“Will you be staying long?”

She hadn’t expected the question, especially from Brianag.

“It’s no matter of mine,” the housekeeper said before she could answer. “Ti keep a calm souch.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ti keep a calm souch,” Brianag repeated.

Repeating something did not make it understandable.

She was then given an explanation about the bells for meals and told that a maid would escort her to the dining room. She smiled in response, which had no effect on the woman’s scowl. When she closed the door behind Brianag, she sagged against it in relief.

At least she was here. She’d done that much. Macrath hadn’t turned her away. The next step was going to be so much more difficult, however.

Perhaps she’d do as her mother-in-law implied—let Macrath know she was willing, and let him do the rest.

London

A year earlier

W
henever she saw Macrath, Virginia felt lighter, somehow. Any worries or cares simply drifted away. With him, she could do anything. Nothing was too great an obstacle to overcome.

When he left her, it was as if the sun suddenly dimmed and the cloud stayed in place until the next time she saw him again.

The day following the meeting in the British Museum, Macrath had simply disappeared. An entire week went by in which the days seemed as dark as night. Neither he nor Ceana had been to any of the endless entertainments she’d been forced to attend.

Had they returned to Scotland?

When she and Mrs. Haverstock visited the Victoria and Albert Museum and then the Science Museum, she kept hoping Macrath would appear. He hadn’t, but she’d grown heartily tired of education.

If she never saw another sight in London, she’d be pleased.

“Miss.”

Virginia put her finger in her book to mark her place, listening.

“Miss.”

No, she hadn’t imagined it. Someone was whispering to her. She peered around the chair and saw Bessie, the undercook, standing in the doorway.

Why on earth didn’t the girl come toward her?

Evidently, something was capturing her attention, because she looked to her left, then at Virginia, and to her left again.

“Quick, miss,” she said. “Before anyone sees I’m gone.”

“What is the matter?” she asked, standing and approaching the door.

The girl rarely left the kitchen. To find her in the corridor outside the parlor was odd, but not as odd as what Bessie did next.

She raced up to Virginia and whispered, “He said I was to give a message to Maud. I told him there was no Maud in our household, but he said there was, and it was you. A pet name, miss?”

“What did he say, Bessie?” she asked, desperate to know.

“You’re to come to the garden, Maud,” the girl said, then flew down the corridor to the kitchen.

Her smile reached her heart before traveling to her lips.

Macrath.

He was here. He was here in the garden.

She straightened her skirt, wishing she’d worn one of her new dresses today, but she didn’t want to take the time to change.

Skirts swinging, she took the same path Bessie had, avoiding the kitchen for the garden door, stepping down into the long rectangular lawn with heart beating and her breath coming too tight.

He wasn’t there.

Had she misunderstood? Had he given Bessie a message that the girl hadn’t understood? Was he waiting for her somewhere else?

The door to the shed at the end of the garden suddenly creaked open. She grabbed her skirts in both hands and flew down the flagstone path.

Suddenly, he was there, tall and handsome, his eyes twinkling. By his presence, he forever changed the garden into an enchanted place.

“You’re here,” she said, feeling foolish and too young.

“At last,” he said.

“Were you away?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I had to travel to Edinburgh on business.”

“I hope it went well,” she said. How inane she sounded. Perhaps it was better than saying what was truly on her mind.

Don’t go away again without warning me. Let me know when you’ll be gone, so I’ll know how many days to prepare myself for sorrow.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, and her heart tripped over itself. In violation of every societal rule she’d been taught, she placed her hands on his arms. She stood too close. She leaned toward him.

“I’ve missed you as well. Every day has been a month long.”

He didn’t speak, and neither did she. They were comfortable in each other’s silences, and it was so restful to be with him in one way and so tumultuous in another.

He made her feel things she’d never felt.

She wanted to be kissed. She wanted to be held. She wanted to know if an embrace was as wondrous as all the poets said it was. She wanted to know, most especially, what happened afterward.

Would kissing him ease this uncomfortable ache? Would it rid her of this craving to touch him, to stroke her hands over his broad shoulders and down his arms to measure the incredible breadth of him? She wanted to lay her cheek against his chest, marvel at the beating of his heart, thanking God all the while He had sent Macrath into her life.

“I turned to look every time someone entered a room,” she said.

“I stored away a dozen stories I heard, thinking you would want to know what was happening in that part of the world.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Gladstone’s speech.”

They smiled at each other.

“Will you be going back to Scotland soon?” she asked, her earlier fear returning.

“I think so, yes.”

She tried to remain calm but the pain bit through her composure.

He’d never come out and said the words, but he’d given her to think he loved her. How could he now speak of leaving her?

“You would like Scotland, I think.”

She only nodded, feeling numb.

“Will you come with me to Drumvagen, Virginia?” he asked, catching hold of her hand and drawing her back to him. “Will you be my wife and love me as I love you?”

Her heart was beating out of her chest. In a moment it would fly away like a suddenly released bird.

“I would be very amenable,” she said.

Why was she being so coy? There must be no mistake. He must know exactly how she felt.

“Yes, Macrath, yes. With my whole heart. I love you so.”

He leaned close, pressing his lips against her forehead.

“You’ll talk to my father?” she asked, the words feeling too heavy to be spoken.

“Today if he’ll see me.”

She had never done anything as shocking as what she did next. She placed her hand on his chest and slowly stood on her tiptoes.

“Kiss me,” she said. “Please.”

“Virginia,” he said, pulling back, “this isn’t wise.”

But, oh, she had been wise for so long, and he was such a temptation.

Suddenly, his arms were around her and his mouth on hers. He angled his head to deepen the kiss. Every thought disappeared and every sensation vanished but for wonder and excitement.

She’d known he’d be direct, perhaps a little impatient, and he was. She’d suspected she would be eager and she was.

His lips were soft, his body hard beneath her hands. His tongue touched hers, darted back, and teased her again,

She linked her hands behind his neck and held on, allowing herself to sink into the deliciousness of his mouth.

Her heart fluttered. Her breath and pulse raced. Something dark, heavy, and a little frightening arced between them.

He was right in cautioning her. She never wanted to move from his arms.

When they finally parted, she moved back, touching her lips with her fingertips.

If someone saw her, she would be lectured for hours about deportment and how she’d failed to give the impression she’d been reared correctly.

But any punishment was worth it for one of Macrath’s kisses.