The Virgin of Clan Sinclair (6 page)

Worse, he wanted to go back and read the rest and finish every damn page.

The hero looked like him.

Gray eyes weren’t all that common. Only his father had possessed them in his family. The man’s good looks no doubt played a small role in his lechery, in addition to his fortune and title.

Ross was tall and his face narrow.

What other similarities were there?

He told himself it was for research alone that he grabbed the pages, sat at the desk, and began to read from page one.

H
ow could she possibly sleep?

Ellice lay on her bed, staring up at the tester over her head. Her mother had spent the last few hours with her, Enid’s fondness for Virginia keeping her pacing. Ellice knew she would have liked to be with Virginia, but Brianag was queen in the sickroom and had refused admittance to anyone other than Macrath.

More than one maid walked the corridor, moving past Ellice’s room with halting feet. A cloud hung over Drumvagen, and it was centered on the master’s suite.

Galelike winds punched the windows, as if nature were insane with fury over the fate of such a good woman. Thunder shouted in the clouds above, the sound reverberating repeatedly until it was in her brain.

God was as miserable as the rest of the inhabitants of Drumvagen.

She got out of bed and knelt beside it, pressing her forehead against the mattress.

If she had anything at all, it was because of Virginia. When she and her mother needed a home, Virginia had provided one. When she needed a private place, Virginia had let her use the cottage. When she was at the end of her tolerance with her mother, Virginia had listened, sharing her humor and compassion. When she was sad, sometimes talking about London with Virginia eased the worst of the ache.

Now, Virginia lay abed, ten hours into a difficult labor, one rendering Brianag uncharacteristically silent.

Please, God, spare her. Is it always women’s lot to die in childbirth? I don’t understand how such a good person as Virginia could be taken from us. Who would mother her children?

God was probably going to extend a celestial finger through the clouds, His nail lit by an unearthly light.

You would challenge me, child? Would you tell me how to create the animals in the forest, the fish in the sea? Have you no respect for your God?

How odd that the god of her imagination sounded like her mother.

Sleep was not going to come tonight.

She stood, went to the armoire and selected another blue dress, this one with a plain blue collar and cuffs. She didn’t care about her appearance. Who would see her, the very annoying Earl of Gadsden?

She’d seen the look on his face when the maid appeared at Macrath’s door. The man had looked startled, then abruptly distant, as if giving birth to a child was an abhorrent act, one that offended him.

He was probably deeply asleep. Her eyes widened. He was probably deeply asleep, just the time for her to retrieve her book.

A
s a careful man, Ross limited his acquaintances to those who were reputable. He was never seen in circumstances that would give voice to speculation as to his intentions or his motives.

But as he put down the last page of Ellice’s manuscript, he realized he’d been caught. Over the years, he’d learned to conquer the personal shame of his circumstances. Embarrassment, however, was a close cousin, and now it sat heavily on his shoulders.

He shouldn’t have read the book. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t now be perched on the edge of a precipice.

What the hell did he do?

Sinclair was occupied with his wife or he’d deliver the pages to him, along with a friendly warning to watch Ellice. She was evidently involved in a great many lurid activities. How else would she be able to write about such things?

Nor did he want to deliver the pages to Ellice herself. She’d ask him if he’d read the book and he’d be forced to admit that his curiosity had been greater than his common sense.

Or Harvey could deliver the manuscript to Ellice, explaining that he’d found it in the compartment below the seat. That would be the best solution, one that would eliminate his involvement completely. She needn’t know he’d read the book.

She really must be encouraged to destroy what she’d written. Perhaps he could ask Harvey to suggest such a thing, along with a financial encouragement to do so. But how to do that without letting her know he’d read it?

Since he’d been so ensnared by her imagination that he hadn’t yet undressed for bed, he donned his shoes, threaded his hands through his hair, and set out for the stables and his coachman.

Chapter 6

E
llice finished dressing hurriedly. She would never get a better chance to retrieve her manuscript and bustle than now.

Outside her door she saw two maids, both silently leaning against the wall. She walked up to them, whispering the question.

“How is she?”

The older of the two girls shook her head, biting her lips against words she didn’t say.

Ellice’s stomach twisted as she nodded in response. She deliberately blocked her imagination, unable to perceive of a world without Virginia. Life at Drumvagen wouldn’t be bearable without the woman she considered a sister.

She left them, heading toward the servants’ stairs and the back of the house. Three of the maids were sitting around the table, sipping at cups of tea. She sent them a commiserating smile and grabbed a shawl from a peg by the door, wrapping it around her head and over her shoulders.

A minute out the door she realized how foolish she’d been. By the time she made it to the stables, she was soaked through to her shift. She’d never experienced a storm like this at Drumvagen, hours and hours of intense rain, so heavy it felt like standing beneath a waterfall.

She opened one of the doors, grateful that the hinges were oiled often. Inside, it smelled of rain, damp hay, warm horses, and sodden wood.

Overhead, the storm was giving no signs of subsiding. Thunder rolled and roared and the rain continued. Did nature itself mourn for Virginia?

She said another quick prayer, wishing she could do more, just as she had in London when Virginia was sick with smallpox. All she’d been able to do then was keep reassuring the staff that Virginia would get well, that things would get back to normal and everything would eventually be fine.

Nothing ever did go back to normal, though, did it?

A faint yellow light illuminated the large space just inside the door. A stablehand sat on a chair, a watchman against fire and any other danger. Evidently he was exhausted from his day because he was asleep, his chin on his chest.

She tiptoed past him and down the center aisle. Only a few hours ago she’d been racing down this same corridor. This time she paused in front of one of her favorite mares, Lady Mary, and rubbed her face, the mare’s hooves pawing the ground in greeting.

She returned to Gadsden’s carriage, glad to see that there was no lantern or guard.

Those working at the stables slept above the stalls, on a second floor Macrath had expanded to include larger rooms for staff and visitors. No doubt the earl’s coachman was sleeping there.

She sluiced as much of the rain from her face and hair as she could, hoping she didn’t drip all over Gadsden’s carriage. She didn’t want anyone to know she was here.

After opening the door, she unfurled the steps, stood on the bottom one and reached over into the compartment, trying to forget the spiderweb the earl had brushed from her hair. There was no gigantic spider lurking in the darkness. It was not going to come dashing out at her, latch onto her hand, fix her with bulbous black eyes and fanglike teeth.

All she had to do was wrap the manuscript in her bustle to protect it from the rain and get back to her room, no one the wiser.

“Looking for this?”

She screamed and fell off the step.

R
oss had been on the point of returning the manuscript and the garment to the compartment when he saw her enter the stables. At first he thought she had an assignation with a servant, but then realized she was heading for his carriage.

He’d only been a few feet away, but not fast enough to get there before her. Like it or not, he would have to return the manuscript directly to her.

When she screamed, he had no choice but to come out of the shadows, grabbing her as she fell, just before she reached the ground.

Now, she lay in his arms, staring up at him. He wished, almost fervently, for a lantern, some light to see her.

“I’ve brought your book back to you,” he said, helping her stand. Releasing her, he went back to where he’d dropped the manuscript and her clothing. “And your undergarment.”

She glanced away, the ceiling of the stable suddenly capturing her interest.

When he handed her the manuscript, she glanced down at it then up at him.

“It’s not tied the way I had it,” she said. “Did you read it?”

He should have told her that he’d simply retied the string because it was loose. Instead, he nodded.

He’d read the whole thing from first page to last. At first he’d told himself it was to ensure that he was correct in his assumption:
The Lustful Adventures of Lady Pamela
was a book of erotic literature. By the second chapter, however, he’d become intrigued in the story, enough to keep reading.

He’d read for hours, finding himself increasingly aroused, enough that remembering certain passages now would be unwise.

“You were on your way to Edinburgh with your book,” he said. “Why?”

“Mairi and Logan own a publishing company. I want them to publish my book.”

Stunned, he stared at her. “You can’t publish it,” he said.

She stood draped by shadows, her arms filled, her expression hidden by the darkness.

“Why can’t I?”

“It’s salacious. A proper woman wouldn’t write such a thing.”

“Then perhaps I’m not proper.”

Oh, she was most definitely not proper, not after writing the scene in the tub. Or the one in front of the fire. Or the one using the chair in Donald’s parlor.

He felt his face warm.

“You’ll be ruined. Have you given no thought of how it would affect the rest of your family?”

“What do you mean?”

“I doubt Sinclair would care for the notoriety.”

She shook her head. “You don’t know Macrath. He doesn’t care a whit about what people think.”

“Then what about Virginia? Would she not be offended?”

At the woman’s name, Ellice turned and walked away. He cursed himself for a fool and followed her.

“You can’t publish it.”

“Why does the book bother you that much?” she asked. “Is it because it’s the story of a woman? If it was about a man, would you object? Like
Tom Jones
?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve read that. What about
Justine
or
Juliette
? Do you count the Marquis de Sade as one of your favorites as well?”

She didn’t answer.

“Are you always this stubborn?” he asked.

He had the idea she was, but in a subterranean manner. She sucked you in with those big brown eyes and that tremulous smile. Then, just when you were feeling protective of her, she stood her ground like one of his Highland ancestors, feet planted, hands on hips, daring anyone to try to move her.

Only the truth would do.

“The hero looks too much like me.”

She stopped and turned. The light wasn’t any brighter here, but one of the horses eyed him with interest.

“People might infer a relationship between us.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, turning and walking toward the door again. “Why should they? I’d never set eyes on you while working on it.”

“Nevertheless, the hero looks like me. You live in Macrath’s home. I’m asking for Logan’s support in my election. Logan is Macrath’s brother-in-law. Of course the relationship will be considered, especially if you publish the book.”

“I’ve never heard of anything sillier,” she said.

“The book could damage my career.”

“No, I was wrong,” she said. “
That
is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

She was talking loud enough to wake the groom, who started, eyes opening wide, then straightened on his chair, pretending he’d been wide-awake the whole time.

“I’m standing for election for representative peer in a few weeks,” Ross said, lowering his voice. “There are four men in contention for two slots. Your book could cost me the election. The scandal could destroy any future chances I might have.”

“There’s no scandal involved,” she said airily. “I have no connection with you whatsoever. I have nothing to do with you. You are a thimble filled with water next to my ocean. You are a grain of sand to my beach. You are a tiny star in the sky. You’re nothing to me.”

She opened the door then and stood there staring at the sheet of rain. Without another word, she left him, disappearing into the torrent like a watery sprite.

Chapter 7

E
llice fell into an uneasy doze around dawn, only to wake in a few hours.

When she opened her door, she was greeted by silence. The maids had disappeared.

Please, God, no. Don’t let anything have happened to Virginia.

She descended the stairs, finding most of the staff in the kitchen.

“Is there any news?” she asked.

The cook answered her. “Brianag says no progress.”

How much longer could this go on? She left the kitchen without responding, wanting to be alone. The problem was that this was Drumvagen. There was no place to be alone.

The rain still fell, making the front lawn of Drumvagen look an extension of the ocean to their left. She heard her mother come down the stairs and into the family parlor, and deliberately walked in the other direction.

Even though she was desperate for a place to escape, she was chained by worry to the house. Because she was unmarried, she wasn’t allowed at Virginia’s side. Evidently, being a virgin meant she was supposed to be ignorant of all things, including how babies are brought into the world.

She walked into the Great Hall, a room even larger for it being empty. How strange, that of all the rooms at Drumvagen, the Great Hall was the one least used. They all crowded into other rooms, smaller but more cozy.

She walked a path around the room, wishing the day weren’t so dark and the thunder so ominous.

A storm in Scotland was like nothing she’d ever experienced in London. Here, the elements felt alive, sentient. This storm was a raging monster that had grown in fury since yesterday.

Sometimes, she thought Scotland was more than a country, more than a rough and magnificent land with a border created by men, written on a map, and defended for hundreds of years. Scotland was almost a living creature that could turn and bite your hand if you didn’t speak about it in fond and loving tones.

When she walked the hills and glens surrounding Drumvagen, she sometimes felt like she was being watched. Not by living inhabitants, but those who’d gone before, proud men and women who hated the English and now hovered over their land to protest her appearance.

For all her imagination, she didn’t believe in the hundreds of folktales Brianag told the children. The trees weren’t alive; they were simply trees. Brownies didn’t do chores for obedient children. Sea creatures in the shape of horses didn’t bedevil the coast.

Yet something about this storm was otherworldly, as if God were punishing them.

In the sunlight, the Great Hall was a pleasant place. The walls were painted the color of cream. Furniture was arranged in groups so that several different conversations could be held. Large fireplaces, each capable of burning a tree trunk, sat on either side of the room.

Now, rain dripped down the chimneys, seeming to bring a chill with it. Wind from the sea buffeted the house, shivering against the windows.

She hugged herself and kept walking, the movement the only way to ease her fear. Turning the corner, she looked up to find the Earl of Gadsden standing there.

For an instant she recognized him. Not in the sense of knowing who he was as much as seeing the man he hid from the world. As if for that unguarded second she was somehow prescient and could feel his uncertainty and remnants of pain.

The sensation faded as quickly as it had come. He nodded to her, entering the Great Hall.

She whirled away from him. If her skirts flew about her ankles, she didn’t care. If her face was flushed and her hair askew, she didn’t mind, because it was only him. She turned back, looked at him and asked, “Are you still here?”

“The roads are impassable,” he said. “Otherwise, I would have to decline your gracious hospitality and leave.” His gray eyes were steady on her.

In London they never turned away a visitor. In fact, they were such a solitary group that any visitor, announced or not, was welcome.

Here in Scotland she’d never known Macrath to banish anyone, from a would-be investor, to a tinker, to a carriage filled with Lowlanders who’d gotten lost. Instead of sending them on to Kinloch Village and one of the inns there, he welcomed them to Drumvagen and no doubt left them with an enduring memory of their visit.

He wouldn’t be happy to know that she was practically pushing the Earl of Gadsden out the door. But he was with Virginia and had better things to think about than an annoying Scot.

Very well, she hadn’t thought him annoying before he’d demanded that she not publish her book. He’d been very attractive to her. He was still handsome, but she was dutifully ignoring that fact.

What she really wished was that she’d never been impulsive and hidden in his carriage. But then, if she’d remained in her room, she would never have met her hero in person. She would never have watched his eyes chill or that marvelous mouth firm in annoyance.

He wasn’t quite smiling, but his face had changed.

“You do have a dimple,” she said. “I’ve been waiting to see.”

“Have you? What will it cost me?” he asked.

She blinked at him, confused.

“If it’s money you want, I’ll pay you not to publish the book.”

She could only stare at him.

“Come, name an amount. I’ll pay it if you promise to destroy it.”

“Are you insane?”

Evidently, the Earl of Gadsden didn’t like his sanity questioned, because his eyes grew even colder. He walked to the other side of the room, staring at the picture above the mantel.

Was he trying to guard against his baser urges? If he mastered them, perhaps he could tell her how. Despite being annoyed with him, she couldn’t help but notice how well fitting his buff trousers were. Lady Pamela had never noticed a man’s derriere. Perhaps she should. The midnight blue jacket fit his broad shoulders magnificently.

“Do you pick out your clothing or do you have a manservant do it for you?”

He turned his head, looking at her as if he’d just happened onto an interesting specimen of bug.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why do people say that? Is it to stall for time? You know as well as I do that you heard me perfectly well. Why wouldn’t you want to admit to a valet?”

“I have a valet. He’s not on this journey, however.”

“There, was that so difficult?” she asked. “I suspect you have a great many servants.”

“Why do my personal arrangements interest you?”

She didn’t know how to answer that. Everything about him interested her.

“Is there any news about Mrs. Sinclair?”

She was not going to talk about Virginia. Instead, she started walking again, pacing, trying to ignore him.

He made the shadowed room seem full somehow, as if he’d come with ghosts and they’d drifted off his shoulders to settle in the corners.

“Why does Sinclair insist on hanging this here?”

The question caught her off guard. She glanced at the painting he was studying, then smiled. The work had been done by an artist Macrath commissioned during the building of Drumvagen. The painter had captured the scaffolding, the wagons carrying the stone and wood to finish the interior of the house. The ocean was serene, the sky a brilliant blue, and the workmen and craftsmen looked like ants as they toiled in the bright afternoon sun.

“Drumvagen is his dream,” she said. “Anyone who talks to him for more than a minute or two understands that.”

She walked closer to the fireplace.

“You were going to live here, though, weren’t you?”

He glanced at her. “I doubt it would have ever come to pass,” he said.

“Why did your father never finish the house?”

Macrath had told them all about the earl who’d begun Drumvagen but walked away after a dispute with the architect.

He smiled. “My father was a stubborn man in some respects and showed remarkable lassitude in others. Drumvagen was an impulse.”

“Well, I shouldn’t say this, perhaps, but I’m glad. Otherwise, Macrath would never have found Drumvagen in ruins and made it what it was.”

“A case of something good coming from folly. Could you not see your way clear to doing the same?”

“Are you saying my book is folly?” She didn’t know whether to be insulted or pleased. He turned, faced her and folded his arms.

“I warn you, Miss Traylor, that I wield a significant amount of influence.”

“Am I supposed to be afraid of you?”

“Change the hero’s appearance, then. Agree to publish the book anonymously.”

Slowly, she shook her head.

“Why the devil are you being so obstinate?” he asked.

No one had ever called her obstinate before. She’d been considered conformable, easy to sway, a malleable personality.

He took a step toward her. She didn’t move away. How very tall he was, and in this light almost dangerous looking. His eyes were such a glorious shade, merging with the encroaching shadows.

“I can buy up every single copy and have them burned,” he said, his voice low. “Or I can simply give you the money not to publish it. Wouldn’t you prefer to have the funds?”

She really must step back. He had the strangest effect on her. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, wrap her legs around his waist, entwine her arms around his neck and demand he kiss her.

The scent of heather perfumed the air because Brianag insisted on filling vases with heather cut fresh every morning. Yet she still smelled him, a combination of leather and lemons.

She took a step back and he matched her movements, stalking her.

“I can give you a substantial sum,” he said, naming an amount that made her gape. “In exchange, you would give me the book. A fair trade, don’t you think?”

Once, their family had been on the threshold of poverty. She wasn’t supposed to know it because her mother had made such an effort to hide the knowledge.

The idea of having that much money at her disposal now was heady.

She could live the rest of her life on the amount he’d mentioned. She could have her own establishment and live as she pleased. She could pen a dozen books featuring Lady Pamela and a man who looked nothing like the Earl of Gadsden, but her hero would speak like him, have that inflection in his voice when he was being sarcastic, that upturn of his lips that didn’t mean amusement as much as disdain. But he wouldn’t have gray eyes as hard and as brittle as shale.

She looked away, toward a shadowed sideboard and the murky mirror above it. The gilt frame looked dull, their figures barely visible, dark gray against a backdrop of nearly black.

He touched her face, so suddenly that she jerked, startled. He didn’t withdraw his hand, though. Nor did he stop looking at her in just that way, as if he would steal her soul if he gazed hard enough.

What was her soul worth?

Not the amount he’d offered. Not ten times that amount.

“No,” she said, the answer coming without conscious thought. Perhaps she was being obstinate. Or maybe she simply couldn’t be purchased that easily.

“No?”

His eyebrows lowered as he stared at her. His gaze seemed to light on each feature as if he were comparing her to the beauties he knew and finding her lacking in so many ways.

“It’s my book. My effort. My hours of thinking and worrying. Did I tell that right? Did I say it correctly? Will a reader understand?”

“Oh, I think you wrote it perfectly,” he said, dropping his hand.

“You do?” Should she be so pleased at his comment?

“That’s just the problem, you see. It doesn’t read like a book. It reads like a journal. As if you’ve experienced all those things in reality.”

She couldn’t breathe.

“As if you and I had done all those things together.”

A spear of heat traveled to the core of her.

“As if that episode on the desk happened in my library at Huntly. Or when Lady Pamela unveiled herself. That could have occurred in my bedchamber.”

Her face was going to catch fire. Her lips felt singed.

“And the part about the attic? We have an attic just like that at Huntly. It’s like you visited it, saw the small windows, pulled out that table from storage and dusted it with the back of your dress.”

Donald had mounted Lady Pamela on that table in defiance of all propriety and reason. They might have been interrupted by a maid at any time.

She cleared her throat. “It’s a work of fiction,” she said. She could barely speak.

Was this part of his offensive? Torment her until she agreed?

“You really should leave,” she said, her voice sounding husky.

“Perhaps I should.”

She nodded.

“Otherwise, I might do something inexcusable.”

What was wrong with her? Her pulse shouldn’t be racing. Her breath shouldn’t be tight. She should move away, away now, before he came closer, bending his head, and then she felt his lips pressing against her temple.

She closed her eyes, feeling his breath on her ear.

“Such as toss you onto that settee,” he whispered, “to see how much of your book is real and how much imagination.”

She shivered.

“Are you Lady Pamela?”

In her heart of hearts she was, but only partially. She dreamed, she envisioned, she imagined, but only as far as her knowledge could take her.

Was she to be punished for her curiosity? For wanting to know, for being impatient to know if the coupling between a man and woman was as wondrous as it seemed to be? The books she’d read had informed her about the physical act, but what about the emotions?

Virginia looked at Macrath and her eyes sparkled. Hannah smiled at her husband and her cheeks bloomed with color. Logan and Mairi were nearly combustible in the same room. Even she, a virgin, could feel the heat between them.

Was it so terrible to want to know?

His lips left her skin and she immediately felt cold.

Would he say something cutting now? He’d tried everything else, bribery and cajoling.

Then his lips were on hers. They were full, pillowy soft, urging her to forget her resistance and her will. She hadn’t expected that softness. He wrapped his arms around her and she had no recourse but to allow him to do so.

She raised her head even farther, her mouth dropping open to welcome him. Fire raced through her at the touch of his tongue.