Finbar pawed the ground and snorted.
“You laughing at me, too, you traitorous waste of oats?”
It took two more tries and an enormous grunt, before he finally hauled his carcass into the saddle and set off for his cottage along the Seaward Path. He would stop at Mam and Fergus’s house. Mam would feed him.
“Bloody hell.” Saturday was the day his mother went to Thurso to look in on Old Granny Murray. Bless her for being such a kind soul, but where was she when he needed her?
He turned Finbar’s head at the fork in the path, and continued homeward at an amble. His mam would expect him to attend kirk tomorrow. How could he? He’d sooner walk into kirk stark naked than appear in public scalped like a bairn’s bottom. How could he have let that sneaky Dr. Farquhar shave him while he was distracted?
Easy. Any man would have been distracted with the sylph, Virginia, seated at his elbow. The doctor could have shaved his ears off and he wouldn’t have noticed. Jesus, she smelled nice. Better than any other woman he’d known. And not just from her bath soap. He’d caught a whiff of her skin on board the Tigress. Even in the chaos of battle, he could not miss the salty musk. It was as if God had given her a perfume intended for his nose and no one else’s. How could a woman possibly smell that good, and where had she come from?
Some good house in England, no doubt. She was an English lady, if ever he’d met one. And she’d be wanting to go home as soon as possible, wherever that was. In the meantime, he planned to make time with Miss Virginia Whitebridge. After his beard filled in a bit, of course. How long would that take? One, maybe two weeks?
He bonked his head on the roof of the horse shelter. “Och!” Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed he and Finbar had arrived home. “Look where you’re going, ye numpty.” His horse responded by releasing wind.
Half asleep, he unsaddled Finbar, alternately rubbing his head and cursing. He filled the feeding trough with oats and brushed the warhorse down while he munched. “Good night, old man,” Magnus said and stumbled to his cottage.
He didn’t light a candle, didn’t light a fire, didn’t even undress himself. He just crashed down onto his pallet like a felled tree.
Magnus woke sometime midmorning the next day, estimating he’d slept close to sixteen hours straight. He fumbled for the chamber pot under the bed and stood for a good long time emptying himself. After stripping off his filthy clothes, he poured water from the ewer into the basin and began to wash.
He slapped at his cheeks. Bloody hell, what was wrong with his face? “Aw, Jesus.”
Magnus had no mirror. Still, the horror of yesterday came back to him. His face was bald. Auntie Flora, Dr. Farquhar, Lucy, and all those women had witnessed his humiliation. He must look ridiculous without a beard.
Lucy had been especially cruel, taunting him with nonsense about his beard hiding a handsome face. He never thought she had a mean streak in her. She’d always been particularly nice to him. And Auntie Flora had just stared at him like he’d grown horns. She probably felt sorry for him.
Only Miss Virginia had been civil. A good thing, too. He didn’t think he could weather her contempt. He had saved her life, and she had thanked him. She held him in high regard and he liked that. Once again, his thoughts drifted toward the carnal. What would Miss Virginia’s breasts look like freed from her corset? He was determined to find out.
He finished washing, not because he planned to see anyone in the near future, but because he couldn’t stand his own stink. He belted an old tartan around his middle and went out to tend the animals. Six brown eggs waited for him in the hen house. He thanked the chickens, then went inside and cooked the eggs for breakfast. Hunger sated, he crawled back into bed. His jaw hurt again, and he wanted to forget about his bald face. Perhaps he could just sleep until his beard grew back.
What seemed like only minutes later, he woke with a start, disoriented and angry.
“Magnus.”
He lifted one eyelid. Who was in his cottage opening all the shutters? “Keep those blasted things shut!” he shouted.
“Wake up, man.” His stepfather shook his shoulder.
He groaned and rolled over, presenting his back to Fergus.
“Why were you no’ in kirk? Ye’ve got yer mam fashed aboot ye. Get yerself dressed. The laird and your auntie are having people at the big house.”
“For what?”
“Declan and Caya have handfasted.”
“Good for them, but I’m no’ going,” he said to the wall.
“What?”
He rolled onto his back and repeated, “I’m no’ going. I’ll express my felicitations to them both at a later time.”
Fergus stepped back and propped his hands on his waist. “Would ye mind tellin’ me why?”
He sat up and pointed to his face. “This is why.”
“That’s barely a scratch. Are you trying to tell me a nick on your chin’s disabled you?”
“Are ye daft?” How could his stepfather be so thick? “I’m no’ going anywhere ’til my face is covered again.”
Fergus quirked a furry gray eyebrow at him. “I didnae ken you were a vain man, son. What would the vicar say?”
Magnus balled his fists and let the steam out through his nose. In a voice so low, Auntie Flora would have called it a growl, he said, “Give my apologies. I willnae be leaving the cottage for a good long while.”
“You sure?”
“I’m no’ leaving, and I suggest you stay far away if you ken what’s best.”
Fergus looked at him for a long moment. “Suit yerself,” he said and left.
Magnus slammed the shutters closed and latched the door. Like a bear, he planned to sleep for a month.
Unfortunately, the plague of visitors would not cease. For two days, a constant stream of women called on him day and night. His mam, Auntie Flora, Lady Charlotte, and today, that foul-mouthed Mary woman. Now, he loved his mam and his auntie. He more than appreciated Mrs. Swenson’s gifts of food. For that matter, Lady Charlotte and Miss Mary were undeniably beautiful. But why could they not leave him the hell alone?
“Just open the bloody door!” Mary shouted.
“Go away!” Jesus, were they playing some kind of game? Dogging him for sport? He’d made it perfectly clear he didn’t want to see or be seen by anyone and yet, here was another at his door. The knocking persisted. “I said go away and leave me be!”
“Ye’ve got bollocks for brains, Magnus Sinclair!”
“I’ve got sense enough to stay away from you.”
“Fine. I’ll leave Mrs. Swenson’s victuals in front of the door and the rabbits can eat ’em for all I care.” He heard some rustling and a muttered, “Clot-heid.”
He’d only asked to be left alone. Just for a week or two. Long enough for him to recover his dignity. Why did those women have to dog him with questions like, “Are you well, Mr. Sinclair?” and, “Don’t you want some dinner, Mr. Sinclair?” and, “Won’t you let me have a look at your stitches, Mr. Sinclair?” And why the hell hadn’t Miss Virginia come?
Virginia. He scratched at the itchy spot on his chest. Odd. Every time he thought of the lass, that divot she’d left when she’d pounded her fist against him would tickle. He smiled, imagining her in his arms again, as he had done many times since the rescue. A dozen things he’d like to do with her—to her—buzzed through his brain, as well. Why hadn’t she come to check on him?
Magnus peeked through the shutters and waited until Mary was well out of sight before he opened the door and collected the food she’d left behind. He might be an ornery sod, but he wasn’t a fool.
The roast chicken was good, as were the tatties and neeps. Mrs. Swenson knew what he liked. She’d even tucked a gooseberry tart at the bottom of the basket, which he ate in one bite. If Virginia was here with him, he’d share the gooseberry tart with her. And then he’d offer to kiss the jam from her sweet lips.
Jesus, man. Stop thinking about her. She doesnae think much of you. After all,
she hasnae come by to see you like the others.
He finished off the jug of ale and glanced at his bottle of whisky, hoping the fairies had come and filled it while he’d napped. But no. It was still empty. Whisky was the only thing that kept his mind off Virginia. He needed more. He yawned wide and felt a twinge where his stitches were. Declan always had whisky.
“I’ll visit Declan and Caya today.” He yawned again. “Right after I take another nap.”
…
Tuesday afternoon just before luncheon—or dinner as the Scots called it—Virginia heard a carriage approach the house. “Do you hear that?”
Flora perked up from her sewing. “I dinnae hear anything.”
“Do you think it’s Alex and Lucy?” The only benefit to losing her spectacles was Virginia’s heightened sense of hearing.
“Och, I hear it now. Aye, that sounds like the Balforss carriage.”
They rose and went outside to greet them.
“Welcome home, dear,” Flora said, embracing Lucy.
Lucy sighed dramatically. “Oh, Lord, it’s good to be home. Alex took forever hiring his sailing crew. I hope I haven’t missed dinner.”
“You’re just in time,” Virginia said. “But why is Alex hiring sailors?”
“Didn’t anyone tell you?”
“No one mentioned anything—”
“The Sinclair men who rescued you and the other women plan to salvage the Tigress, form a partnership, and start a shipping company of their own.” Distracted by her husband taking luggage down from the top of the carriage, she called, “Alex, bring my trunk to the entry hall. I’ve brought everyone presents back from the shops in Wick, and I have a special one for you, Mother Flora.” Lucy looked around as if she’d lost something. “Where’s my Jemma?”
“She’s down for her afternoon nap,” Virginia said. For two days, she had stood in as Jemma’s mother. She adored the little “red-haired tyrant” as Alex called her. Holding her, playing with her, sitting with her while she fed herself had been a joy. Only when Jemma had become cranky had she reluctantly laid her down for her naps.
“Go wait in the dining room for us, Mother Flora,” Lucy said, “I want your gift to be a surprise.”
“Dinnae be long,” Flora said and went inside.
“You must tell me about Morag. Was she happy to return home?” Virginia asked. Bringing Morag home to her family had been the main purpose of Lucy’s trip to Wick.
“Oh, Virginia, such a tearful reunion. Morag’s father, George Sinkler, is a huge man—bigger than Alex. You should have seen him. He wept like a baby when he saw Morag. She crawled into his lap, and Morag started to cry and her brothers and sisters started to cry and then I started to cry. Even Alex teared up.”
Alex cleared his throat and shot Lucy a look of warning, which she ignored.
“Honestly, I would not have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.”
“I’m glad she’s with her family, but I miss her.”
They followed Alex as he muscled Lucy’s trunk through the front door. He set the trunk down in the middle of the entry, straightened, and arched his back. Virginia winced at the series of pops and crackles his spine made.
Lucy looked appalled as if he’d done something inexcusably rude. “Honestly, Alex.”
“Sorry,” he said. Virginia didn’t think he meant it.
Lucy whipped off her bonnet, tossed it on a nearby chair, and then started to dig through the contents of her trunk. She extracted a few small packages tied with string and, handing them to her husband, said, “Take these into the dining room, would you, darling?” She returned to her frantic search with little care as to how things had been carefully arranged and folded. “Ah ha! There you are.” She plucked a black leather hat box from within and held it aloft. “I can’t wait to see Mother Flora’s face.” Lucy’s eyes widened on Virginia. “Oh, I forgot to ask, how are you getting on at Balforss?”
“Do you mean how many times have I walked into a wall?”
“Dear, Ginny, you haven’t hurt yourself, have you?”
Ginny. That’s what the girls at school used to call her. Before she’d married Langley. Before he’d tossed her down the stairs in a drunken rage. Before everything had gone terribly wrong. “Not at all. In fact, I haven’t broken a single teacup. Granted, I’ve wandered into the wrong room several times, but I haven’t gotten lost.”
They waltzed into the dining hall together to join Alex and Flora. Lucy’s little dog came bounding out from the direction of the kitchen, barking a greeting, overjoyed to see his mistress.
“Hercules, my darling. I missed you.” Lucy set her hat box down and scooped the tiny beast off the carpet. “Whenever I’m away, he spends his time with Mrs. Swenson only because she feeds him. But you love me best, don’t you, darling?”
Everyone at Balforss had missed Lucy. They missed her smile, her humor, and her ability to gently manipulate the world around her, leaving people believing that it had been their idea to accommodate her wishes in the first place. She had heard Lucy described as a force of nature, a willful woman, and a fractious female. But always the monikers were repeated with love and respect and good-natured humor. A part of her envied how Lucy had become adored by people who, as a rule, did not like the English.
She had missed Lucy’s vivacious personality and her generous spirit, of course, but she had welcomed the break from her company. Lucy was curious. She kept asking her why she hadn’t written a letter to Langley.
For two days, Virginia had been free of Lucy’s shadow, free to pretend she was simply Virginia Whitebridge, unmarried English woman, survivor of an epic ordeal, and newly befriended by a handsome Scot named Magnus Sinclair.
And for two days, Virginia had been free to pretend she was a mother. She’d cared for Jemma almost exclusively, a joy she had never known before. A joy with sharp edges that sometimes cut her with the knowledge that she would never have her own child. It also deepened her determination to recover her trust money from Langley. She’d made a promise to Mrs. Pennyweather, and she intended to keep it. But until she knew who was responsible for her abduction, she could not return to England without risking her life.
Lucy interrupted her thoughts by dropping the squirming Hercules into her arms. She reached down, opened the hat box, and lifted a midnight blue taffeta turban in triumph. “This is for you, Mother Flora. The latest fashion. Just look at the colors.” She handed Flora the turban.
“Thank you.” Flora accepted the gift and held it out, letting the afternoon light catch the iridescent emeralds and plums hiding within the blue. “But what is it, dear?”
“It’s a turban.” Lucy waited a beat and explained, “You wear it on your head.”
“Och, like a sheikh?” Flora seemed alarmed.
“Well, no. Not exactly. Let me show you.” She gestured to the white mop cap Flora wore during the day. “May I?” When Flora nodded, Lucy removed the cap and replaced it with the turban. After some adjustments, she retrieved a small hand mirror from the hat box. “Here. Take a look.”
Flora lifted the mirror. “Oh.” She blinked, turned her head left, then right, dipped her chin, and blinked again. She pressed her lips into a small smile. “It’s quite a lovely wee thing, is it not?”
Before anyone could agree, Laird John tromped into the room and froze at the sight of his wife. Virginia sensed the tension between them as Flora carefully set the mirror down on the table. Laird John and Flora stared at each other for what seemed a very long time. At last, Laird John flashed his wife a roguish grin wide enough even for Virginia to see and hot enough to set London Society aflame with gossip. A crimson flush crawled northward from the lace edge of Flora’s bodice.
“The color becomes you,” Laird John said, his voice low and velvety, so intimate it was Virginia’s turn to blush. Indeed, the man spoke to his wife like he planned to, to, to… Well, whatever he planned to do, Virginia knew he shouldn’t do it in the dining room.
Mrs. Swenson
broke the tension when she entered with a tray of soup bowls. The rich aroma elicited a collective “mmm” from the room, and everyone tucked in for the cook’s creamy smoked haddock soup.
At the meal’s end, Alex wadded his serviette and tossed it on the table. “I’m riding into Thurso to collect my new saddle. Are you coming wi’ me, Da?”
“Aye. Get the horses and I’ll be with you soon. I want to have a word alone with your mother.”
Alex watched his parents slink out of the room and muttered a disgusted sounding, “Jesus.” He excused himself, kissed Lucy on the top of her head, and told her he’d be back in time for supper.
After he’d left, Lucy asked, “Where’s Lady Charlotte?”
“I think she’s in her room pouting.”
“Pouting?”
“Her nose is out of joint, I suspect. Magnus told her to go away when she brought him his breakfast this morning. It was the second time. He wouldn’t even step outside his cottage.” Virginia looked down and sucked in her cheeks, afraid she might start to laugh. But when Lucy lost her control, the both of them completely fell apart giggling so hard Virginia couldn’t catch her breath.
“Oh dear, that is too funny,” Lucy said.
“God forgive me for laughing.” Virginia held her side.
“Have you both gone completely daft?” Mary stood in the doorway to the dining room, one fist jammed on her right hip.
“There you are, Mary.” Virginia dabbed at her eyes. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve just come back from that bastard Magnus’s cottage.”
“Really? What happened?” Lucy asked.
“He sent me away again. He didnae even open the door. ‘Hello, the house,’ I call. ‘Go awa,’ he says. ‘But I’ve got yer dinner,’ I says. ‘Go awa’ and leave me alone,’ he says. ‘But you’ve got to eat something,’ I says. He yells, ‘Get out and dinnae come back, ye wee bizzum!’” Mary stomped her foot. “I never.”
“How awful of him.” Lucy disintegrated again and Virginia joined her, paroxysms of laughter buckling her at the waist.
Forgetting the Scot Page 4
