The Virgin of Clan Sinclair (8 page)

Chapter 9

R
oss found Ellice sitting in the gazebo, leaning against one of the support posts. At first he thought she was asleep, but she opened her eyes and looked at him as he climbed the steps.

“You’re tired,” he said, sitting down beside her.

“I could sleep sitting up, a needle in my hand,” she said with a small smile.

Her brown eyes were red-rimmed, as if she’d been weeping. He wanted to ask, but concentrated, instead, on the news he had.

“We saved the village, I think. Four houses were damaged as well as the church, but everything else was spared.”

She closed her eyes. “Good. Good.”

Reaching out, he grabbed her left hand.

“I’m not a very good seamstress,” she said, trying to pull away.

He wasn’t letting her. Instead he examined the tips of her fingers.

“How many times did you stick yourself?” he asked.

“A dozen. Two. I don’t know.”

For a moment they sat in perfect accord, the only sound the rain droplets pattering from the trees.

She took a deep breath and released a sigh.

Two tears traced a path down her cheeks.

“What is it?” he asked, concern overwhelming any caution. “Has something happened?”

“It’s Virginia. It’s the flood. It’s my mother. It’s Scotland. It’s everything.”

“You’ve no news of Mrs. Sinclair?”

She shook her head.

He handed her his handkerchief. She nodded in acceptance, even as her weeping started in earnest.

“I’m just so tired,” she said, blotting at her face. “That’s all.”

He wasn’t given to impulsive gestures but couldn’t sit here and witness her pain. Extending his arm around her, he pulled her close. She grabbed his shirt with a death grip, turned and burrowed against him.

He shouldn’t have moved to comfort her. He should have expressed his regret about Macrath’s wife, explained the duties he’d given the men of Kinloch, and retreated. Hopefully, the end of the rain meant that the roads were passable. If so, he would leave Drumvagen as fast as the horses could carry him.

Instead, he held her as she cried, wishing he could reassure her that everything would work out for the best. The regrettable fact was that women died in childbirth. A man could have a succession of wives, and in many cases did.

Still, because she was so fully engulfed in her pain, he had to say something.

“You love her very much.”

She nodded against his chest.

“I never met her.”

She began to weep more, clutching the handkerchief to her mouth to muffle her sobs.

He decided that the best avenue was to simply remain silent, so he did, holding her against him and listening to her cry.

Finally, it seemed she was done. She pulled back, blinking up at him with reddened eyes. Her face was pale, her lips swollen outside their borders.

He wanted to kiss her, brush his tongue against those pillowy lips and inhale her breath. Because he almost never allowed his impulses mastery over him, except with her, he didn’t. The need to do so was a warning, however, one he noted and wouldn’t forget.

“It shouldn’t be happening,” she said. “She’s never had any trouble giving birth. But it’s been going on for so long now.”

Since he had little knowledge of childbirth, he was left without anything comforting to say. The fact that they shouldn’t be having this conversation was a moot point. He shouldn’t be holding her in his arms, either.

“Why is an Englishwoman living at Drumvagen?” he asked, hoping to distract her.

To his horror, she began to weep again, again soundlessly, large tears falling down her face in militaristic precision, one after the other.

Her eyes would swell shut if she didn’t stop crying.

He found himself rocking her, a discordant movement he’d never before performed, the sole purpose of which was to comfort the woman in his arms.

“Virginia was married to my brother,” she said, her voice choked by tears. “But he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was very sickly. No one expected him to marry, but he did. I used to tell myself it was a love match, but it wasn’t, not really. I think Lawrence hated Virginia. And poor Virginia did her best to be a wife but Lawrence didn’t care anything about her.”

He wasn’t in the position to pass judgment on anyone’s marriage since his own had been so lamentable.

“After my brother died, there was no money, nothing that wasn’t entailed along with the title.”

“Title?”

“He was the Earl of Barrett,” she said.

He pulled back a little, staring down into her face. He really should be leaving now. He shouldn’t be captivated by the sight of a tear caught on her lashes, or her perfect nose, slightly pink. Those lips were even more intriguing, so he made himself look away, staring out at the forest beyond the gazebo.

He glanced down to find Ellice still looking up at him, her eyes liquid pools of chocolate.

Their gaze caught and held, the seconds ticking by in solemn regularity. He felt drawn to her like a magnet. Pulling away would be a difficult task.

He must for his own safety. This woman with her guileless eyes, soft heart, and lurid imagination was a danger.

“Ellice,” he said, her name a warning.

“I’m not normally so unrestrained,” she said. “I don’t normally tell anyone what I’m thinking or feeling. I am sorry. You didn’t deserve all my confessions.”

Was the rosiness of her complexion due to her tears? Or was she blushing? If so, it was hard to believe that this woman with her air of innocence was the author of
The Lustful Adventures of Lady Pamela.

Her mouth was slightly open, the bottom lip so plump and succulent it begged for a kiss. He looked away, hoping that would be enough to curb his response to her and summon his common sense.

“If you wouldn’t tell anyone about my behavior, I’d be very grateful. I’m tired, that’s all it is. I’m worried, too. Virginia is like my sister.”

He silenced her by grabbing her face between his hands and placing his mouth on hers. For a moment she was still speaking, the sensation of her lips moving beneath his intriguing before her mouth fell open in surprise.

She tasted of tears and honey, a combination that had him reeling.

This sweet girl was the same one who’d imagined the bathing scene in her book, who’d described several sexual positions he’d never considered. He found himself wanting to try them. Even more, he wanted to know if Lady Pamela was her double while Donald was his.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, but not to push him away. He wanted to pull her onto his lap, cuddle her closer, slowly unfasten her blue dress with its bone buttons to see if her shift was lace trimmed like Lady Pamela’s.

Her tongue darted out to touch his, slide against his bottom lip and retreat again.

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, needing this in a way he’d never before needed a kiss. He inhaled her breath, gave her his in exchange, and felt his heartbeat jump when she moaned.

Fire traveled through his body when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her hands traveling to stroke the back of his neck.

She was trembling, and he caught her closer until he could feel the press of her breasts against his chest.

He hadn’t felt this surge of lust for months or perhaps even longer. Had he ever been lost in a kiss?

“Is this entirely appropriate?” a voice asked.

S
he flew out of Gadsden’s arms and stared, horrified, at Macrath.

In the lantern light he looked terrible. His eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark shadows. His beard looked as if he hadn’t shaved for days. His hair was unkempt, falling down on his brow.

“Virginia?” she asked, pushing back her dread.

“She’s out of danger, Brianag says.” His voice carried the weariness of the world.

She closed her eyes and said a swift and fervent prayer.

When she opened them, Macrath was staring at her, a look in his eyes she’d rarely seen and never directed at her. Gadsden was not the only man who could affect a cold stare. This one chilled her down to her bones.

How did she explain being in Gadsden’s arms? Or kissing him?

“And the baby?” she asked.

Macrath nodded, as if just remembering his child. “A healthy baby boy. A large child, Brianag says.”

He looked past her to the earl.

“In my library. Fifteen minutes.”

He turned without another word and left. She’d never seen Macrath be so rude, but she couldn’t blame him for his words or the look he’d leveled at her.

She was so thoroughly in the wrong that there was nothing she could do or say.

“Apologies are in order,” the earl said in that proper voice of his, the one she was beginning to think of as his Pontificating Tone.

“From me to you? From you to me? From you to Macrath? From both of us to everyone?”

She wished she were a better person. If so, she’d want to undo these last few minutes. The truth was, she’d wanted his kiss, wanted another even now.

She couldn’t even look at him. If she did, she knew she’d be trapped by those startling gray eyes. She’d stare at him until she lost her senses again. She’d let him kiss her and perhaps ravage her in full view of Drumvagen and the chaos within.

When she stood, he made no move to stop her. She sincerely hoped he wouldn’t play the gentleman now and insist on escorting her back to Drumvagen.

She needed to get as far away from him as she could, as quickly as possible.

“I wondered if you’d imagined everything you wrote. Or had you researched your book.”

She stood still. “And your decision?”

“It’s not imagination, is it? You’re very practiced, aren’t you?”

His accusation stripped the words from her.

Once, she might have been overjoyed at his thinking she was experienced. Now she was strangely hurt.

She left the gazebo, refusing to look back.

W
hy the hell had he said that? Why had he tossed words at her that made her face pale and her eyes widen? He’d been a pompous prig. He didn’t want scandal in his life, true, and everything about Ellice hinted at danger in that regard, but he’d no right to hurt her.

He wanted to go after her, apologize, perhaps even explain that it was better if they weren’t in the same room together, especially now after they’d kissed not once, but twice. He paired the memory of her kisses with the scenes she’d written, knowing that the two would forever be entwined in his mind.

Ellice Traylor was no virgin or demure miss right out of the schoolroom, despite how innocent she seemed.

He returned to Drumvagen feeling justifiably chagrined. He’d abused Sinclair’s hospitality and took full responsibility for the scene the man had interrupted. He had better sense than that, given his family history.

From now on he would do his damnedest to limit being in her company, since he couldn’t control himself around her. He wouldn’t forget himself again. He would never again allow his emotions full rein, and if he couldn’t do that, he’d simply avoid her at all costs.

Conscious of his appearance, he entered the back of Drumvagen, a little embarrassed when the maids and cook exclaimed over him.

“You’re a miracle, you are, sir, and thanks we are that you were here in our time of need,” one of the maids said.

Another offered him a towel. “I’ve warmed it in the stove. I’ll get another for your hair, shall I?”

Cook had a fragrant stew waiting, and he would have gladly sat at the kitchen table and eaten his fill had Macrath not been expecting him.

“I’ll send a tray to your room,” she said when he explained that he was on his way to visit with his host.

Sinclair answered at the first knock, and he pushed in the door to find the other man standing in front of a fire.

Sinclair glanced over his shoulder at Ross. “Come in. If you’re as wet as me, the fire will be welcome.”

“It’s been a long time since I was dry,” he said, joining Sinclair.

For a few moments neither spoke, the silence surprisingly companionable. He’d expected to be lectured as to proper behavior, but after glancing at the man, he realized Sinclair was as exhausted as he was.

They’d fought their own battles in the past day and a half and he had the inkling that Sinclair’s was the more difficult of the two.

“I’m very happy to hear about your wife.”

Sinclair nodded.

When he didn’t speak, Ross subsided into silence. Should he broach the reason why he was here? Or simply excuse himself and allow the man to rest?

“I hear I owe you a great debt,” Sinclair said.

“No debt is owed.”

Sinclair turned to face him. “You saved Kinloch. Some say single-handedly, and the Scots here are not given to awarding praise where it isn’t due.”

“You would have done the same,” Ross said. “But you were occupied.”

“Why did you? It’s not your land.”

That comment surprised him.

“Because the situation demanded it. People were going to lose their homes.”

“Yet there was nothing in it for you, other than my thanks.”

“Must there be some gratification in every deed?”

“I would have thought so, especially of you,” Sinclair said.

“You’re saying I act only to better my own circumstances,” Ross said carefully.

“I’m saying that’s the impression I got of you. Why shouldn’t I? I’m aware of your wealth, Gadsden. I’ve seen Huntly. I know you’ve political aspirations. Was that why you helped the people of Kinloch?”

“I came to apologize for my behavior with Miss Traylor, not to defend my actions to you, Sinclair.”

“Nor do you need to do the latter, Gadsden.” Surprisingly, the other man smiled. “I don’t think your efforts were politically motivated. And I am grateful, more than you know.”

Before he could speak, Sinclair held up his hand. “As far as the former, it’s to Ellice you owe your apology. Have you?”

Ross speared his hands through his hair.

He wanted to ask about Ellice and her history. Who was she, really? Evidently she wasn’t the charming ingenue she pretended to be. No woman could kiss that well without some practice.

Had she a reputation in London? Was that the reason Sinclair had made a home for her and her mother in Scotland?