The Virgin of Clan Sinclair (4 page)

Hannah put Fiona on her hip and held her arm out. Virginia gripped it tight and slowly rose from the chair. Her face felt cold and wet. Suddenly, she felt like she was going to faint.

Please, let Macrath get here first.

Her pace was agonizingly slow, the pressure building in her womb so that each step was torture. Before they were halfway to the suite, Macrath was pounding up the stairs.

After one look at her, he swept her up in his arms.

“You should have let me know,” he said, bending to press a kiss to her forehead.

“I just have,” she said, a spasm causing her to close her eyes.

Hannah opened the double doors and moved out of the way.

Fiona reached for her father but Hannah stepped back as Macrath entered the room.

She looked up just then, one hand gripping his shirt.

“Get Brianag, Macrath, please. I think something’s wrong.”

“Do it,” Macrath said, his voice holding an edge.

Hannah nodded, descending the steps with Fiona in her arms.

Virginia palmed her husband’s cheek, wishing his look wasn’t so filled with fear. The pain suddenly cut her in two, washing away any thoughts.

Chapter 4

R
oss found his way to the kitchen, grateful that Sinclair had offered his hospitality. In the hour since he’d agreed to stay, the storm had increased. Thunder muted every other noise but the rain drumming on the roof.

He followed the sound of laughter, entering the cavernous kitchen to find it filled with people.

His driver was separate from the others. Harvey would have been easy to find regardless, clad as he was in his mother’s new livery of red and black.

His brown hair was askew and even in this fragrant room the man smelled of horse, not a strange fact since most of his days were spent with the horses and he lived above the stables.

“Is there anything I can do, sir?” Harvey asked.

“No, you go about your dinner,” he said. “I’m just going to get some clothes for the morning.” There was no need for the man, or any of Drumvagen’s servants, to perform a task he could easily do himself.

“If you’re sure, your lordship?”

At Huntly he had a staff that hovered night and day. These past two weeks had been marked by a curious freedom.

“I’m sure,” he said, nodding.

With Harvey assuaged, although the man frowned as if in doubt of his competence, Ross left Drumvagen and headed for his carriage, dashing through the rain and getting soaked before he reached the stables.

The structure had been built of gray brick to match the exterior of the house. Long and rectangular, containing at least twenty stalls, it was draped in shadows and faintly illuminated by the last faint light of the gray day.

No one was about. No doubt all of Drumvagen’s staff was arrayed in the kitchen. Only the horses were present, restless from the sound of the storm.

The smell of hay and leather surrounded him, bringing back memories of his childhood when he’d returned home from school. He’d visited all the servants at Huntly, finding in them the ease of simply being himself.

For years he’d been Master Ross, his hair ruffled by fond, work-weathered, hands. His teeth were inspected to praise the new ones that had come in since he’d been home last. He was measured against a beam in a stable not appreciably different from this one, his rapid height praised. Everyone noticed him. Everyone saw him. The feeling of belonging he’d experienced among the staff counteracted his father’s disregard.

At Drumvagen, his carriage had been pulled into a large space in front of a double door. A rolling clap of thunder accompanied him as he went to the rear of the vehicle, untying the leather flap over the baggage area. He grabbed his valise and was turning to leave when the carriage door opened.

He watched as a female foot emerged, then a hint of petticoat and skirt.

“Who the blazes are you?”

The female in his carriage didn’t say a word, merely turned and stared at him with doelike brown eyes.

Was she too afraid to speak?

He walked around to the side of the carriage. “Answer me now. Who are you?”

A small head shake was her only response.

“What are you doing in my carriage?”

She just stared at him.

He stretched out his free hand while smiling reassuringly.

“It’s all right. You can’t stay in there, you know. You must come out. Were you tricked by someone? Did you think it a fine game to hide in there?”

“I wasn’t tricked,” she said, grabbing the handle above the window.

“You’re English,” he said.

“And you’re a Scot,” she answered. “Is it so strange to find an Englishwoman in Scotland?”

“In my carriage, yes.”

She still hadn’t explained why she was there. After her quick look at him, he dismissed the idea that she was deficient. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence and perhaps something else.

Why did he warrant defiance?

“It’s not that large a carriage,” she said, giving it a dismissive glance. “One thinks it’s a bit larger than it is, but it isn’t, not really. It’s quite confining, even for someone who isn’t all that tall. I can’t imagine what it would be like for someone like you, for example.”

He stared at her. “Do you want me to apologize for the close confines of my carriage?”

She shook her head.

“No, I’m just explaining.”

“Who are you?”

“You would want to know, wouldn’t you? Or, more importantly, why I’m in your carriage.”

“Yes,” he said, when it was obvious she wasn’t going to provide that information.

Her blue dress was smudged with dust, the white cuffs more than a little gray. Her shoes were scuffed as well but looked as if they’d been polished at one time.

He reached out and plucked a cobweb from her dark brown hair. She shivered in response, then focused her gaze on his hand.

“Were you and the spider acquainted?” he asked.

“I don’t like spiders,” she said. “But they’re better than snakes. I haven’t the slightest idea why God made snakes. He forgot their legs. Although a snake with legs would be even more terrifying, don’t you think?”

He brushed off his fingers with his handkerchief. “If you think that bombarding me with speech will make me forget the question, you’re mistaken. I’m known to have an excellent memory.”

“Why?”

He stared at her again. “Why what?”

“Why do you have an excellent memory? Is it an occupational requirement? Was it something you were born with? I’m interested in a great deal, you see.”

“Who are you? And why are you in my carriage? I warn you, I will not tolerate any deflecting maneuvers.” When she didn’t speak, he added, “If you’re involved in something illegal, it’s best to tell me now.”

She smiled at him, such a blazingly happy expression that he almost reared back. “You think I’m doing something illegal,” she said.

He slowly nodded.

“No one has ever thought I was doing anything illegal. I have conformed to the letter of every rule and regulation for the extent of my life.”

“You really shouldn’t look so pleased to be thought of as a law breaker. There are rules and regulations to limit human behavior for a reason.”

“What reason? So that someone can say, ‘Oh, you broke a rule, miss. Back to the schoolroom you go. Or, sir, you are in violation of that regulation. How very vulgar of you.”

Her smile abruptly vanished. “Do not tell me that’s why you have an excellent memory. Are you a magistrate?”

“I’m not, but why does the thought of a magistrate make you frown?”

“I think being a magistrate would be the most horrid job you could have, being judge over people, all pompous and proud.”

“Who are you? And don’t go off on another tangent.”

“You’re very tenacious.”

“No,” he said. “We aren’t going to discuss my tenacity. Who are you?”

She took another step away from the carriage. “If you could only have one question answered, which would it be? Who I am or why was I in your carriage?”

“I think I deserve the answer to both, don’t you? After all, it’s my carriage.”

She turned her head. His breath halted as he stared at her. Why hadn’t he seen it before? The woman in his carriage, the one who’d emerged from his carriage like a Botticelli Venus, was beautiful.

Not in the way Cassandra had been beautiful, with glittering eyes and full, red lips. Cassandra’s blond beauty might have faded in time, become handsomeness instead.

This woman’s beauty was simple: well-defined cheekbones, a high forehead, slender nose, and stubborn chin. As the years passed she might grow even more attractive.

He suspected that her laugh would captivate, just as her tears would act like a razor to whomever brought them forth. Her smile had already charmed him, and now her silence incited his curiosity. Not about who she was and why she was here, but about more.

Who was the woman behind the smile?

“I hoped that you were going to Edinburgh,” she said, just when he thought she wasn’t going to answer.

“Are you escaping from an angry husband?” he asked. None of his concern, if she were. “Or escaping to a lover?” That was certainly none of his business, either.

Her cheeks bloomed with color. “I was going to tell you that,” she said. “Oh, not about the husband, but the lover.”

“Is it the truth?”

She shook her head. “I hadn’t decided, however, whether to use that excuse if I was found. Or to tell you that I had a sick relative. It all depended on how kind you seemed to be.”

He folded his arms and regarded her.

“Or you could simply be a servant wishing to escape to Edinburgh. Is that it? You’re employed here and the isolation has finally gotten to you?”

“Drumvagen isn’t all that isolated. There’s Kinloch Village.”

“Hardly exciting enough for someone as daring as you.”

She laughed. He was right. Her laughter was enchanting. So, too, the sparkle in her eyes as she glanced at him. He’d never seen eyes as darkly brown as hers. With her dark hair she should have been a study in monochrome, but she wasn’t. Her cheeks matched her pink lips.

“Who are you?”

“I don’t think my identity is as important as yours. Your name isn’t Donald, is it?”

G
od had a marvelously mischievous sense of humor. Not only had He taken her from London and deposited her in the wilds of Scotland, but He gave her a need to write down all the forbidden, odd, and wicked thoughts she had.

Then, in the most glaring demonstration of His power, God put this man in her path.

Or maybe it wasn’t God at all but the Devil.

The carriage owner’s features were so familiar to her that she could have sculpted him blindfolded.

His was a perfectly carved face graced with a Roman nose and high cheekbones. The hollows below them were shadowed, accentuating his leanness. His bold brow led to black mobile eyebrows. One was arched at her even now. Full lips looked as if they smiled often—only not at the moment.

His gray eyes were the color of a stormy sky, revealing no hint of his thoughts. She had the feeling she could gaze into his eyes for hours and never learn more about the man than he wished her to know.

But what kept her silent, every thought jelled in wonder, was his physique. He’d come to the stable attired only in dark trousers and a white shirt. Now the shirt was plastered to his chest, the rain having dampened the linen so it conformed to every contour and muscle.

What would he do if she placed her palms on him like she wanted? Just to touch, to see if his chest was as broad as it appeared or a mirage. Were those muscles truly as defined as they seemed through the fabric?

“Are you a farmer?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“No, you live in Edinburgh, don’t you?”

“How do you know where I live?”

“I overheard you talking earlier,” she said.

Truly, her hands were itching to touch him. She curled her fingers into fists and deliberately looked away.

“You must box, then,” she said. “Or be an equestrian.” Something must account for his fitness.

“I’ll ask the questions,” he said. “None of which you’ve answered. Who are you and what were you doing in my carriage?”

His hair was slicked back, the ends curling at his neck. She wanted to touch him there, too.

What an utter temptation he was.

The man she’d imagined had been brought to life.

“What is your name?” she asked, feeling breathless.

He didn’t answer.

“I’ll tell you my name, shall I?” she said. “Then, you tell me yours.”

If anything, his face grew stonier. “I see no reason for us to exchange pleasantries.”

Even his voice made her shiver.

“Are you married?”

Had she shocked him? His lips thinned and those glorious eyes narrowed. He did not, however, answer the question.

“You wanted to know my name and why I was hiding in your carriage. All I’m asking is for a little reciprocation.”

His teeth were clenched so tight that a muscle flexed in his cheek as he bent down, retrieved his valise, and strode away.

She scrambled to catch up with him.

Her hero was a great deal more personable. He inspired a woman’s adoration. When he touched Lady Pamela, she trembled.

Donald even smelled good.

He stopped and turned, nearly knocking her over. She regained her balance, stepping backward.

“Were you sniffing me?”

She’d been lectured never to discuss a man’s appearance in public or his failings. She knew better than to discuss personal subjects, like a man’s income. One never flaunted one’s wealth—or lack of it. Politics was a subject better left to others. Nor was she to ever talk about her health. In the smallpox epidemic that had killed her sister and thousands of other Londoners, she’d been unaffected. She wasn’t to say so, since that would sound too much like boasting.

Sniffing, however? She didn’t know the proper etiquette.

“Yes,” she said, deciding to be honest. “I was. Do you use scent? Or fancy soap?”

How often did he need to shave during the day? Even now a hint of beard shadowed his face, giving him an almost swarthy appearance. He looked the picture of a gentleman, but one with a touch of menace.

“I imagine Sinclair has his hands full with you on staff. Unless you were fired. Is that why you want to go to Edinburgh?”

“If I had, would you put in a good word for me?”

Her hero would have. Her hero championed the downtrodden, saved abused cart horses, and was a man to emulate and admire.

This man didn’t look as if he’d go out of his way to help anyone.

“When I speak to Sinclair, I’ll inform him of the circumstances, nothing more,” he said, his eyes conveying frozen disdain.

Perhaps most people would have been put off by such a glare, but she’d been face-to-face with angry people for years. First, her brother Lawrence, who seemed to be in a foul temper most of the time. Then her mother, who didn’t allow her title of Dowager Countess of Barrett to restrain her anger when she was annoyed. Brianag was an intimidating individual even on days when she was happy with the world. Nor would it do to forget Macrath. She’d seen him angry at one of his inventions once. He’d almost kicked it in frustration.

This man’s words, however, made her stomach cramp.

“There’s no reason to tell anyone I was in your carriage.”