The Virgin Of Clan Sinclair

by Karen Ranney

She laughed, swatted at him with one hand while she wrapped the other around his neck.

  “Then I hope that Ellice learns that lesson as quickly as she can.”

  Logan drew back. “Pity the Earl of Gadsden if she learns it as well as you.”

  Laughter filled the room.

  Chapter 17

  Macrath and Virginia were fighting.

  Or perhaps it would be fairer to say that Virginia was all for fighting but Macrath was being stoic.

  The situation was so odd that all of them were speechless, watching as Virginia stormed down Drumvagen’s curved staircase, her maid Hannah following.

  The children, Virginia had announced a few minutes earlier, were going to remain at Drumvagen for the two days they would be gone. Brianag was going to supervise their care and act as lady of the manor, if Ellice had her guess.

  Macrath was standing in front of the door, refusing to move.

  “You aren’t going.”

  “Of course I’m going,” Virginia said, halting in the middle of the stairs and sending a barbed look toward her husband. “Ellice is getting married at Huntly. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “You nearly died.”

  “I didn’t nearly die. You’ve been listening to Brianag.” As if the woman had been waiting offstage for her name to be announced, the housekeeper strolled into the massive foyer.

  “Very well,” Virginia amended, “perhaps it was a difficult birth and unexpected, but it’s been weeks, Macrath.”

  “You’re not well enough.”

  Virginia blew out a breath. “Of course I am, Macrath. I’m well enough to take strolls around Drumvagen. I’m well enough to walk to the village. I’m well enough to spend the night walking Carlton when he’s fussy.”

  She frowned at him. “Nothing, not even you, is going to keep me from Ellice’s wedding, Macrath.”

  “It’s nearly four hours by coach.”

  She raised her eyes heavenward. “During which I shall be sitting, you foolish man. Would you keep me wrapped in bunting?”

  “I would do anything to protect you.”

  Virginia’s eyes softened. She came down the rest of the way, stepping into Macrath’s arms. In full view of the rest of them, she kissed him. Not the kiss of an invalid, or a mother, but the kiss of a passionate woman deeply in love.

  When they parted, he looked down at her.

  “You’re not going to relent, are you?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re not going to listen?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Nothing I can say will change your mind?”

  “Anything you say is important to me, Macrath.”

  “If I told you I would worry less, would you still insist on coming?”

  She smiled at him. “Yes, because you really would rather I stay in my room, take my meals from trays, and be protected from the world.”

  “I nearly lost you, Virginia.”

  “Oh, Macrath.” She put her hand on his cheek. “I’m truly well, my darling.”

  He looked past her to where the rest of them were standing. Mairi, Logan, Enid, and Ellice returned his look. Did he know that they were all on Virginia’s side in this matter? It seemed he did from the sigh that left him.

  Turning to Brianag, he said, “Keep my children safe.”

  “Dinna get up to high doh,” she said in return.

  Ellice rolled her eyes. Half the time she didn’t understand the housekeeper, and today was no exception.

  An hour later they were off, Logan and Mairi traveling in their own carriage and Virginia and Macrath in one of the Drumvagen vehicles. Ellice and her mother took pride of place at the head of the line, almost as if they led a funeral cortege.

  Instead of a rolling catafalque following them, however, there was a wagon containing Ellice’s clothes, her collection of books, even her grandmother’s lace doilies, a present from her mother and one she didn’t know how to refuse.

  Evidently, she was going to her bridegroom with all her earthly possessions, since her rooms were now bare. She couldn’t rid herself of the notion that she’d been banished from Drumvagen, as if the house knew she’d been critical of it.

  She wished she could have traveled with anyone else. Her mother was going to take this opportunity to lecture her on how to be a good wife, how to be a good manager of staff, how to be a good countess. Enid considered herself the arbiter of all things great and good, and the four hours to reach Huntly would be endless.

  Ellice had already been informed that being a Scottish countess did not rank as high as being an English one, so despite the fact that her mother had been pushed back to being a Dowager Countess, she still outranked her, or so Enid insisted.

  The only way she would have outranked her mother was to marry a duke. Then, no doubt, Enid would have claimed that a Scottish duke was no more important than an English earl.

  One way or another, her mother was always going to be more important.

  How odd to find some measure of compassion for Brianag.

  “This house of his is supposed to be large and imposing,” Enid said with a sniff. “I’ve heard of it, of course, but I doubt it’s the equal of some of our grand homes in England.”

  Her mother always made the demarcation between Scotland and England, no matter that they were supposed to be one country. Brianag did the same. Ellice had made the mistake of saying something like that to Brianag once. For weeks afterward there was a foul smell in her room that she couldn’t locate, almost as if a dead fish had been placed beneath a floorboard.

  At least she would no longer have to see the housekeeper every day. Only on visits, if she were allowed to make any back to Drumvagen.

  Huntly was outside of Edinburgh, between the city and Drumvagen, close enough that she could easily visit any number of shops if she wished, or even go see Mairi and Logan. She would very much like to do that, as well as renew her acquaintance with Fenella, Mairi and Macrath’s cousin. The woman had married the previous spring and was with child.

  In the normal course of things, she would be a mother. She might give birth to numerous children until Huntly was a home as filled with raucous laughter as Drumvagen.

  She and the earl would be parents.

  Would they have a marriage as distant as her own mother and father? Or one as close and warm as Virginia and Macrath, Mairi and Logan?

  “Did you love my father?” she asked, turning her head to survey her mother.

  Enid’s eyes widened.

  Had she broken every rule of polite behavior by asking? Today might be the very last opportunity she had to ask. Besides, after today her mother couldn’t march into her room to criticize her for another failing. Nor could she hold Eudora up as a paragon of all the virtues. An angel who, no doubt, was instructing the angels on being angelic.

  “It’s because it’s your wedding day, of course, Ellice. You would be thinking of such things.”

  “Did you?”

  “Love isn’t important, child. Not when so many other things are pressing.”

  What could be more important than love? She didn’t ask the question, but her mother answered nonetheless.

  “Family,” Enid said. “Connections. The future. Respect. Honor.”

  She’d never thought her mother all that fond of family. She avoided their cousin who’d inherited Lawrence’s title and entailed estates. She always seemed surprised that Ellice was her daughter. As for the rest, she didn’t know what connections meant. The future? The continuation of the line, perhaps, something that Lawrence hadn’t cared about. Respect and honor? That was the answer to her question.

  Her mother hadn’t loved her father. She had honored him by wearing mourning from the day he died until now. Perhaps she respected him by never challenging his dictates, by accepting his rules.

  Didn’t she ever want to feel love?

  No, that was certainly not a question she was going to ask.

  But she did skirt the edge of it whe
n she said, “How can a woman live with a man without loving him?”

  Her mother smiled. “You have a great deal to learn of the world, Ellice.”

  She turned back to the scenery, wondering if she truly did. Or was that simply her mother’s way of waving her hand in the air and dismissing all the uncomfortable thoughts her question summoned?

  Perhaps it had to do with how you defined love. She wanted a passionate romance like those she’d been around at Drumvagen. She wanted to look across the room, see her husband, and feel her cheeks warm. She wanted to rise late because she’d been bedded. Or not attend a function, in favor of fevered lovemaking with her husband.

  Could she accept another brand of love, that of friendship? If she could laugh with her husband, tell him stories of her day and have him want to listen to her, that might be enough. If what they felt for each other in their bed wasn’t as torrid as she wished, she would allow her imagination freedom in her writing.

  Or was love simply defined as acceptance? Was she to see her place in life as the wife of the Earl of Gadsden and come to realize that caring for her and giving her a home was an example of his kind affection for her?

  What balderdash.

  She couldn’t imagine ever thinking of the earl as simply a friend. Yes, they might come to like each other, to share themselves, to care about one another. But sparks flew when they were inches apart, and the world exploded in a bright sizzling light when they kissed.

  How could their lovemaking be anything less than wondrous?

  Or would they only feel passion without affection?

  Lady Pamela had felt that before meeting Donald. She’d known her share of conquests, men who wanted physical pleasure above all. Those men cared nothing for her thoughts, for her wishes or dreams. A pair of upturned breasts, silken thighs, a bottom they stroked with their hands—Pamela was wanted, but as parts, never a whole.

  She couldn’t allow the earl to think of her in such a way.

  Her thoughts trailed away as she became aware of the silence in the carriage. Her mother was never silent.

  She turned to find Enid staring out the carriage window, her mouth agape.

  Ellice looked beyond her to what had captured her attention.

  “Is that Huntly?” she asked, the words pushed past the constriction in her throat.

  “I believe it is,” her mother said. Nothing more was forthcoming. No criticism or remark about how Huntly was not as grand as some of the houses in England.

  Ross was wrong. She’d never imagined anything remotely like Huntly. The house wasn’t just one building, but a series of connected structures, each the size of Drumvagen.

  The framework was a C, the main building comprising the backbone of the letter. Two sprawling towered buildings were at either end of the C and connected by curved wings. A massive cobbled courtyard lay in between, a pattern laid out in the bricks.

  Greeting the visitor was an impressive domed building fronted by ionic columns. Behind the house, and visible because of the elevation of the road they were on, was a large circular lake flanked by woods. They might be close to Edinburgh, but the impression was of an estate—a palace—in the middle of the country.

  A palace waiting for a princess, and she was as far from a princess as anyone could possibly be.

  “Stop the carriage,” she said.

  Her mother glanced in her direction but ignored her. Since her mother normally ignored her, Ellice simply said it again. “Stop the carriage.”

  “Don’t be foolish, child.”

  “I’m not being foolish,” she said, panic nearly swamping her. “I can’t live there.”

  “Of course you can.”

  No, she really couldn’t.

  She’d heard people talking about Huntly, but why hadn’t they said more?

  She’d thought Huntly was the size of Drumvagen, something large but manageable. Not once had she considered that the Earl of Gadsden would be as wealthy as a pasha, ensconced in his palace.

  No, she couldn’t possibly marry him.

  “I’ll tend the children,” she said. “Virginia will never have to employ a governess. I’ll teach them. I’m good at reading and writing.”

  “What has gotten into you?”

  “I’ll scrub the floors. I’ll work for Brianag. I’ll even do the laundry.”

  Her mother reached over and patted two fingers against her cheek. “Don’t be foolish, Ellice.”

  She’d go to Mairi and tell her that she’d changed her mind. Publish The Lustful Adventures of Lady Pamela far and wide. With any luck the book would be a success and she’d be able to live on her own, with maybe one maid and a cook, since she hadn’t the slightest idea how to cook. Bread and jam wouldn’t be substantial enough to live on day after day.

  “Eudora would know how to handle the situation. Your sister would have been poised right now, not a silly girl uttering nonsense.”

  That was hardly fair.

  Eudora would never have found herself in this situation. If the earl had offered for Eudora, it was because he wanted a porcelain statue for a wife, not because he’d nearly taken advantage of her.

  However much her mother wished it, Eudora had not been a saint. Nor had she been given to physical demonstrations of affection. She didn’t like to be touched, and the idea of marriage—as she once said—seemed distasteful to her.

  While Ellice had not only imagined her downfall with great gusto but chronicled it as Lady Pamela.

  Perhaps her mother should read her book. Then she’d know exactly who she was and how different she was from Eudora.

  Her mother wasn’t going to help. Nor was she going to utter reassurances.

  You’ll do fine, my child. You’re the equal of this place and that man. You’re a Traylor and can acquit yourself well to any situation.

  No, she wouldn’t say any of that.

  Lady Pamela would have sailed out of the carriage, removed her gloves, looked Huntly up and down as if it barely met her expectations and addressed the majordomo. Have my bags brought to my quarters. I’d like to be shown them, please, before meeting with the earl.

  She would want, of course, to be at her very best before seeing the man who offered her a palace in exchange for her presence in his bed.

  That thought brought Ellice up short.

  He’d nearly ravished her. She’d nearly ravished him.

  Wasn’t that the most important thing? Not how large and imposing Huntly was or the extent of his wealth. No, the man she kissed hadn’t been the owner of an estate as much as a man with talented lips, who murmured promises against her ear, kissed her throat, and had her sighing in bliss.

  She would think of him and only him. Not this surprising home that terrified her.

  Ross sat in the library of his home, intent on chores he’d given himself before his bride arrived.

  Huntly’s library was a masterpiece of design, crafted by the second Earl of Gadsden.

  When approaching Huntly, the library was to the left, a separate building attached to the main structure by a curved wing. Square, with an octagonal cupola, it had two floors, the second accessible by a intricate wrought-iron staircase.

  Except for the staircase, the building was identical to the one his mother occupied on the other side of the courtyard. Huntly’s architect had a penchant for order and balance. If there was a columned entrance on one side of the ballroom, it was duplicated on the other side. The double doors leading to his suite in the family quarters were matched by the double doors of the countess’s suite.

  Even the floor was marked off in geometric perfection, the tile patterned to lead the eye to several sections inlaid to appear like stained glass, their theme the flowers that grew in Huntly’s gardens.

  The walls were covered in crimson silk. On the far wall, opposite the window, were a dozen paintings, each one framed in gold.

  The window behind his desk gave him a view of the land he’d inherited: perfectly manicured lawns giving way to woods
, rolling hills, and the river in the distance. Nearer the house, the third Earl of Gadsden had dammed a tributary, creating a lake fed by dual waterfalls.

  From where he sat he couldn’t see the rest of Huntly, but it was in his mind’s eye, just as it had been from the moment he realized it was going to be his.

  He was simply one more in a long line of men whose duty was to care for and guard their home. Not a glen or a mountain, but a structure built by men who were experts in their fields. One look at the plaster carvings on the ceiling and you knew you were in the company of an artist. Studying the perfection of a brick wall made you realize the skill of the masons. The stained glass had taken months to finish, each step done with care and talent.

  Huntly’s order suited him, eased him, made him feel as if the chaos of his personal life was transitory, measured against the perfection of his heritage.

  Each time he entered the library he felt a surge of joy, not for his possessions as much as his good fortune. Even deep in his studies or investigations, he never failed to appreciate exactly where and who he was.

  He was petitioned throughout the day for this or that. If his farm manager didn’t need to see him, the gillie did. He met with his majordomo daily, as well as the housekeeper since his mother had abdicated any responsibility for Huntly. He approved bills, discussed economies, allowed hunting on part of his land and fishing in the river.

  Standing, he stretched, went to the window and admired the view of the lake.

  The trees around the perimeter needed to be trimmed this spring. An army of gardeners worked at Huntly, their role a simple one. Keep the magnificent estate looking that way. No leaf should be out of place. No tree should be unpruned. The gardens should be blowsy with flowers, all the topiary animals kept manicured.

  Those travelers on the road stretching through the glen should be able to glance toward Huntly and be in awe.

  He was only the steward for Huntly, the role he’d been reared to perform since childhood. Was that why his father never remained long at the house? Because he knew that Huntly wasn’t truly his home but more a responsibility?

  His father had managed to escape the duties of his office due to the work of Melrose Bishop, a factor who’d retired a few years ago. Without his tireless work when Ross was a boy and his father out trying to populate Scotland, Huntly would have probably been in disrepair. As it was, the three-hundred-year-old house was as perfect as man could make it.