The Devil of Clan Sinclair (18 page)

Chapter 20

T
he hired carriage had seen rough use. The sagging leather seats needed to be reupholstered. Two of the window shades were missing, and the floor bore some stains he didn’t want to contemplate. But the driver had been available, and for a sum probably twice the amount he should have paid, was willing to cross London.

Half the country had moved to the city it seemed, and the result was a congestion of people, carriages, and horses.

When the vehicle abruptly stopped in the middle of the street, Macrath waited, thinking traffic delayed them. When they didn’t move, he opened the door and descended the steps.

“What’s wrong?” he asked the driver.

“There’s hay in the street,” the man said. “Someone be sick there. And there’s a black wreath.” With the handle of his whip, he pointed to a door across the street.

“People get ill all the time,” he said.

“Not like this. I’ll not get smallpox no matter how high the fare.”

“Smallpox?”

The man gazed at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re new to London, then? You’ve not heard of the sickness?”

He shook his head.

“Aye, rich and poor alike this year. It looks like one of the rich ones got it this time.”

He paid the man the remainder of the fare. “I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he said.

“Then God go with you, and I hope the errand isn’t worth the death of you.”

He didn’t bother telling the man he’d had cowpox as a boy, and such a thing seemed to carry with it some sort of immunity.

The next block was even more worrisome, if he judged his surroundings by the driver’s fear. Three of the town houses were decorated with black wreaths.

He stood at the base of the steps leading up to the address his solicitor had given him. This door, too, held a wreath. Dread was the father of the fear traveling from his feet to lodge in his throat. Someone had died in this house.

It couldn’t be Virginia. He refused to believe it.

He removed his hat, scraped a hand through his hair and replaced it. With the fingers of one hand, he tested the folds of his cravat, while the other smoothed down the front of his coat.

Glancing down, he inspected the toes of his shoes. They were still shiny despite the dust from the hay.

His knock was answered by a man in his shirtsleeves. “What do you want?”

“Is this the home of the Countess of Barrett?” he asked, wondering if his solicitor had gotten the information wrong.

“Why would you be wanting to know?”

Macrath didn’t like making instant judgments about people, but he took an immediate dislike to the man who stood in the doorway, blocking his entrance.

“I’d like to see her,” he said, withdrawing his card.

The other man read the card, frowning. “A Scot,” he said, his tone leaving no doubt of his contempt.

Macrath bit back his annoyance. He didn’t care what the idiot thought of him. He needed to see Virginia.

“Tell her Macrath Sinclair is here to see her.”

“She’s ill.”

Time slowed, each minute freezing in slow motion.

“She’s ill?” He glanced at the wreath on the door. “Is it smallpox?”

“It’s none of your concern,” the man said, and tried to close the door in his face. Macrath slapped his hand on the door, pushed it open and entered. He was half a foot taller than the other man and angrier.

“I want to see her. Now.”

“She’ll not see you. She’s not seeing anyone.”

“I’m not leaving until I make sure of that myself,” he said. He was going to find her if he had to knock on every door in this house.

If she was sick, she’d be in her room. He strode toward the staircase, but before he could reach it, the other man grabbed his arm. He shook it off and took the steps two at a time.

“Virginia!”

On the second floor, a maid at the far end of the corridor door turned and stared at him, clutching toweling to her chest.

Before he could reach her, the idiot attacked him.

H
annah heard the shouts, and her first thought was someone else had died. Her second was that Paul had lost his mind, shouting the way he was. The third, immediately on its heels, was that retribution had come, today of all days.

She glanced at her patient. Virginia was asleep, but this morning she’d eaten her first solid food in two weeks and perched on the edge of the bed, dangling her feet. Tomorrow, she would get her up and let her sit in the chair by the window, for a change of scenery if nothing else.

Now, however, the wrath of Scotland was upon them.

She hurried to the door, pressing her ear against the wood.

M
acrath turned and struck out, hearing a satisfying crack as his fist slammed into the man’s chin.

The bastard fell, and he went after him, straddling the man’s chest, pulling him up by his collarless shirt and shaking the man until his eyes opened.

“Where is she?” he asked, enunciating each word.

The man rebounded like a cat, striking out with his feet and connecting behind Macrath’s knee. He stumbled, catching himself at the last moment. Enough time for the man to get to his feet, come after him like a bull and butt him in the stomach.

The air left him in a whoosh, but he wasn’t done yet.

He hadn’t learned how to fight by the Marquess of Queensberry rules. Instead, he’d learned from the boys in Edinburgh who’d shown him a few dirty tricks. What they hadn’t known about fighting was a waste of time anyway.

He turned his back, and when the bastard rushed him, used leverage to force him off his feet and over his shoulder. As he flew past, Macrath dug his elbow into the man’s midsection. This time when he landed, he didn’t get up fast. Instead, he slowly shook like a wet dog, rising to his hands and knees.

Macrath planted his boot in the middle of his arse and shoved.

“Where is she?” he repeated.

The maid, who hadn’t moved, dropped her toweling and pointed to a door.

He stepped over the man’s body. Feeling his ankle gripped, Macrath kicked out and freed his foot, going to the door.

Two knocks later Virginia’s maid opened it, and upon seeing him, immediately closed it again. He heard the lock engage and shook his head.

Nothing could be easy today, could it?

What was her name? Sally. Sarah. Hannah.

He knocked on the door again. “If you don’t open it, Hannah,” he said, his voice deliberately mild, “I’ll just have to break it down.”

Seeing movement from the corner of his eye, he turned just in time to get punched in the head. A bright red flash filled his vision just before the pain hit, traveling across his forehead and down the back of his neck.

He was getting tired of this.

He balled up his fist, connecting with the other man’s nose, lifting him in an almost graceful arc before he crashed to the floor.

Macrath stood there a moment, shaking his hand, wondering if the idiot was going to get up again.

Satisfied, he stumbled back to the door.

“Hannah, open the door.”

A second later he heard the key turn in the lock, but she only cracked open the door a bit.

“It’s not safe for you, sir. My mistress is ill.”

“Is it smallpox?” he asked, hoping the answer was negative.

“Yes, sir,” Hannah said. “She’s had a hard time of it, but she’ll live.”

Bracing his hands on either side of the door, he wondered what would convince her to allow him to see Virginia.

Before he could speak, she said, “You needn’t worry about the child, sir. We’ve all been very careful. He isn’t sick, and there’s no sign of illness.”

“The child?” he asked slowly.

He’d evidently been hit too hard. The words made no sense.

Hannah nodded. “We check on him every day, sir. He’s a sturdy little mite.”

He placed his hand flat against the panel of the door. “Where is he?”

“He’s in his nursery, sir. Upstairs, on the third floor.”

He looked back the way he came. The stairs ended at the second floor. He turned to the young maid who was still standing frozen at the end of the corridor.

“Take me to the nursery,” he said. She only nodded repeatedly. Was he that alarming?

A moan from the man on the floor answered that question.

He wasn’t going to think. He wasn’t going to say anything. He wasn’t going to feel anything. He refused to render judgment until he had additional information.

He felt encased in stone as he climbed the stairs behind the silent, trembling girl.

On the third floor she stopped in the middle of the hall and pointed to a white painted door. She didn’t look at him, merely clutched her apron with both hands, staring at the floor.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded, stepping away. He didn’t try to stop her as he opened the door.

He saw the girl first. A young thing, merely a child, with dark brown hair caught up in a bun, she was dressed in a blue uniform with a white apron. The other woman was taller, older, and had the largest bosom he’d ever seen. She sat in a large chair and in her arms was an infant.

“Are you the doctor?” the young girl asked.

“No.”

“Then you shouldn’t be here,” the older woman said.

He entered the nursery, closing the door behind him, taking time with each task. A curious odor of vinegar and spices scented the air, coming from squat white pots placed throughout the room, one of which was close to the door.

Was this their way of keeping smallpox away?

With measured footsteps, he advanced closer, his attention not on the woman but the infant she held. Her eyes never moved from his face, almost like she thought she would stop him by a look alone.

God Himself couldn’t stop him at this moment.

“He’s asleep, sir.”

The sound of her voice woke the child. His hands were abruptly raised in protest. A second later he gnawed on one fist, his eyes opening as he stared balefully at Macrath.

In that instant he knew. This child was his. A son, a little boy who scowled at him with a face so like his own.

Could you hate a woman you loved? Could the two emotions live side by side?

“How old is he?” he asked softly.

“Five months and a few days,” the nursemaid said.

He reached out one bloodied finger and touched the infant’s cheek. How could skin be that soft?

The baby turned his head, blue eyes fixed on Macrath.

His next question was to the older woman. “What’s your position here?’

She looked like she didn’t want to answer him, but after a quick glance at his bloody hands, evidently changed her mind.

“I’m the wet nurse. Mary’s the nursemaid.”

He nodded, turning to the girl. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Twelve, sir.”

“I can offer you each a salary double what you earn here. But you need to choose now.”

Each female looked at him wide-eyed.

“I’m leaving for Scotland with the child. Come with me.”

“Are you stealing him?” Mary asked in a tiny voice.

“I’m a friend of the countess,” he said. “I’m taking him somewhere safe, where there’s no disease. If you want to come with me, tell me now.”

“Well,” the wet nurse said, “I’d be a fool to say no, wouldn’t I? What with the countess still sick.”

“Elliot will need us,” Mary said. “I’ll go as well. We’ll come back when everyone is healthy, won’t we?”

He smiled, willing to lie if necessary. Once they were in Scotland, he’d decide whether to send them back to England and hire his own staff or keep them on. For now, he needed them.

How could Virginia do such a thing? How could she hide their child from him?

Macrath looked down at his son and found another dimension, another part of him he’d never known existed. This is why his sisters wanted him to marry. Why they fussed at him to find someone to love. Not for the companionship. Not solely for the joy of being in love.

But for bringing a child into the world, for carrying on his lineage, for starting his clan.

He was no longer angry. Instead, wonder mushroomed inside him, burning away every other emotion.

He would protect this child with his life. He would do everything in his power to ensure his son was happy and the world bowed down before him.

Even if it meant taking him from his mother.

W
as she crying in her dream?

Virginia raised her hand and touched her face. She wasn’t crying and she couldn’t remember the dream. If she wept, she didn’t know why.

A sound came from just beyond the bed. She wasn’t crying but someone else was.

Blinking her eyes open, she concentrated on the tester above her head, gradually focusing on the pattern embroidered there before looking around the room.

Hannah huddled in the chair beside her bed, her hands covering her face, her shoulders hunched. No doubt the girl was trying to weep soundlessly, but she was doing a poor job of it.

She stretched out a hand to her maid, patting her on the arm.

“Hannah?”

Was it Elliot? Please let him be all right. Please don’t let them have lost another member of the family. Please don’t let the doctor have given her bad news.

Would the epidemic never stop?