The Virgin Of Clan Sinclair

by Karen Ranney

  Ellice had no patience for needlework, but this was nothing like the intricate footstool patterns or samplers she’d done as a girl. Instead, this was production stitching. Ten of them worked side by side in the gazebo. Two of the maids cut muslin into large squares while the rest of them sewed. Once the bottoms and sides were done, each bag was passed to one of the men, who filled it with sand so the top could be stitched.

  Thanks to Brianag’s militaristic planning, there were seven bolts of muslin in the attic, and Ellice prayed it would be enough to help protect the village.

  Virginia’s condition had not changed. She was in and out of consciousness—that information gleaned from a pale and drawn Hannah, who’d helped her carry the bolts to the wagon.

  “I can’t leave her,” Hannah said.

  “Of course you can’t,” Ellice said, hugging her. They’d each given the other strength when Virginia was so ill with smallpox in London a few years earlier. Now they needed to remain hopeful, just as they had then.

  “Go and tend to her,” Ellice said. “She’s in my prayers, and the prayers of every person at Drumvagen.”

  Would that be enough?

  Thunder roared overhead as if God Himself had heard her.

  Strike me, God, and not Virginia. I, no doubt, deserve it. She does not.

  They worked for hours, darkness no clue to the time. The skies were boiling black, the thunder constant, the rain unremitting. Someone lit lanterns and hung them on the eaves of the gazebo. Two of them were immediately doused by the sideways rain. They were relit and placed inside the structure, at a careful distance from the pile of muslin ready to be stitched into bags.

  She pricked her finger so many times her blood christened each finished bag, but it hardly mattered. No one was going to point to it and say, “Look at what a despicable job Ellice did. How terribly gauche.”

  They worked silently, the thunder and rain too loud for normal conversation. The only time anyone spoke was when the same young man who ran the bags to the river returned with news.

  “The water’s at the outskirts now,” he said. “The earl doesn’t think it’ll rise higher, but we need more bags.”

  “We’re working as fast as we can,” Ellice said, glancing at the other women.

  Each of them looked tired, pale, and worried. Either their thoughts were filled with Virginia’s suffering or with their own homes and those of relatives in Kinloch.

  “He knows that,” the boy said. “But the earl said that we still need more. He said to tell you he’s bracing the fortifications on the south side of the river, hoping that will keep most of the flooding from the village.”

  “What about my house? Do you know anything?”

  Ellice glanced over at the girl who’d asked, one of the maids new to Drumvagen. She’d found the girl crying in the parlor one day, afraid of Brianag and miserable in her new job. She reassured her at the time that everyone felt the same about the housekeeper. Had the girl settled in? Or was she wishing she’d found work anywhere else?

  “The earl said that none of the houses are affected yet,” the boy said, “only the church, but we should be able to repair any damage once the water goes down.”

  “Go to Drumvagen,” Ellice said, giving him orders, when she never gave orders to anyone. “Tell them we need any bolts of cloth still in the attic. I don’t care if it’s silk or satin. If there’s no more cloth, tell them we need extra sheets and pillowcases.”

  “Yes, miss,” he said, and began running through the rain to Drumvagen.

  An hour later they had two more bolts of cloth and all the extra sheets Drumvagen possessed.

  Toward evening, Cook sent food to the gazebo with food for all of them. Ellice made the decision to send four of the maids to Drumvagen to get warm and dry and sleep for a few hours. When they returned, she and the other women would rest.

  After being wet for so long, she felt like a duck. A very waterlogged duck who never wanted to see a lake or pond or body of water again for a long time. Or rain—dear God, please let them be spared rain for a while, although drought was not something for which to pray.

  She thought it was probably early morning when the rain eased. All she was certain of was her fatigue. Her lips were numb with cold and her entire body seemed to shiver all at once. She couldn’t feel her fingers but kept stitching.

  At first she thought she was mistaken, but then realized that the pounding on the gazebo roof wasn’t as strong as earlier. Several of the other women glanced up, and more than once she met a pair of eyes, the hopeful look making her wonder if they were finally being spared.

  She bit off a thread, placed the bag to the stack at her right and stood, her legs feeling strange after having been sitting for so long.

  Slowly, she walked to the gazebo steps, standing there to watch as the rain subsided. When she tilted her head back, she could see a section of midnight blue sky and stars. Clouds scudded across the sky, revealing a bright moon, white and full.

  One by one the other women joined her.

  “It’s a miracle,” one of them said, tears bathing her face.

  “Hardly a miracle,” another answered. “The rain’s stopped, it has. Finally.”

  “What about the flooding?”

  “I’ll go and see, then,” one of the women said, and she was soon joined by the others.

  “Go,” Ellice said when they hesitated at the steps. If she lived in Kinloch, she’d be as anxious to see if her house had been spared.

  Returning to the bench where she’d sat for so many hours, she began to stack up the bags. The rain might start again and they might need more sandbags.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. She couldn’t sleep yet. Nor was it safe to return to Drumvagen until she knew if the danger was over. The river might continue to rise.

  No one had come in the last hour with news. How was Virginia faring? A tear fell from beneath her closed lids and she brushed it away.

  Weeping never accomplished anything, did it?

  Chapter 9

  Ross 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.

  She 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?”

  H
is 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.

  Why 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.