Return to Clan Sinclair

by Karen Ranney

Ceana nodded, her gaze on the view outside the window.

  Virginia stood. “But right now we’ll address your wardrobe. I’ve nothing in mauve, I’m afraid. The shade doesn’t suit me. But I have a lovely pale green dress that would look wonderful with your coloring. For a while, at least, you can put your black aside.”

  Ceana might want to put her mourning aside as well, a thought she didn’t voice.

  His house was ready for her.

  He was ready for her.

  Paul looked around the sitting room one last time, gratified his servants had been able to find so many roses. She loved roses. Whenever he thought of Virginia, he remembered her perfume, a soft powdery rose scent.

  The rest of the house was sparsely furnished, but it would do. He didn’t plan on being here long. Just a week, maybe less time than that.

  Perhaps once Virginia was here she’d fall into his arms in relief and joy.

  He could almost imagine her words. She’d be so grateful to see him, she’d tell him of her prayers. “All those nights,” she might say, “I dreamed you would come back for me.”

  They might be able to leave for America in a few days. This time he wasn’t going to Kinloch harbor. No, he’d arranged for a large cabin aboard a luxurious vessel. They’d board her in London.

  “I’m leaving, sir.”

  He turned to find Connor standing there, filling the doorway.

  “You’ve memorized the map?”

  The giant nodded.

  “Take care with her. I’ll not have her injured or hurt in any way.”

  “No, sir.”

  “She has the most beautiful eyes,” he said, then caught himself smiling. He shook his head. “Bring her to me safely.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He watched as Connor left the room. A matter of an hour or two at the most and Virginia would be here with him.

  What was she doing here in the grotto again? Hoping for another tryst? Hoping to catch Bruce naked again? Hoping for another kiss?

  She’d almost gone to his room again last night, halted only by the memory of his honor. Somehow, she had to regain her sanity.

  She would leave in a few days and return to Ireland. Peter’s family would not understand why she was choosing to move home to Scotland. Something Virginia said the other day had stuck with her. Peter would want her to be happy, and happiness was no longer possible living in Ireland.

  She had loved Peter with all her heart and he had loved her, enough to push her away from death and toward life. Enough she could almost imagine him whispering in her ear, “Go, my darling. Seek out your life and live it fully and with joy.”

  She hadn’t done that until coming to Scotland. Once here, she’d forgotten she was a widow and become enthralled with a man.

  Moving to stand at the window, she stared out at the beach and beyond to the ocean. The wind was whipping the waves to white caps. Above, the sky was turning gray, the clouds blowing across the sun. She’d missed a Highland storm. Ireland’s rains seemed gentle in comparison.

  Where was he?

  Was he still swimming? He hadn’t left a pile of his clothing neatly folded by the door.

  He wouldn’t be looking for her. He wouldn’t be thinking of her, wondering what she was doing.

  He would have no idea she’d borrowed a gown from Virginia and done her hair in a different way. Vanity, that’s all it was. Foolishness. Could she be so lonely that any man would attract her attention?

  He wasn’t any man, though, was he?

  Passion had erupted between them, shocking her. Passion was heated air and being barely able to breathe, your heart beating so fast it felt like it was galloping in your chest. Passion wasn’t one single thing; it was excitement and joy and fear and surprise and delight and disbelief. Passion changed you, made you a different person.

  She wasn’t the Widow Mead any longer. She was Ceana Sinclair, a woman from a proud Scottish heritage.

  Bruce could have been her Highland lover, warrior, leader of men. Gone for weeks or months or years, he would have greeted her the same, marking her as his, so hungry for her he didn’t care where they were or who might be watching.

  She’d wanted him to take her on the beach, the secluded cove as their chamber. The long grass above them and the earth curving behind them would be their bed. They had no need of perfumed potpourri, not with the scent of the sea and the roses from Drumvagen. With the bright sunlight, there was no necessity for candles or lamps.

  Instead, he’d held her close, shielding her from the wind, comforting her without a word spoken. In those moments in his arms she felt herself healing, all the hurts and pains of the past three years fading away.

  He’d walked with her to the grotto, bent his head to kiss her one last time. She could see his eyes darkening, the pupils becoming wider. His face was bronzed as he kissed her. Then there was only him and the stars and sparkles behind her closed eyelids.

  She hadn’t seen him for a whole day. He hadn’t been at dinner the night before or at breakfast this morning. Had he left for Edinburgh again or gone farther, to Inverness?

  She missed him. When she heard a footfall, she turned with a smile to greet him, only to have a cloth dropped over her head.

  Seconds later she was upended.

  “Put me down this instant!”

  Who on earth was manhandling her this way? Bruce would have had more care. Wouldn’t he?

  She kicked out, but he only grunted in response. In the next moment he grabbed her legs. She screamed.

  “I should have muzzled you,” he said.

  That wasn’t Bruce’s voice.

  Whoever her abductor was, he was carrying her somewhere. She tried to kick again, but he was holding her so tightly she couldn’t. She beat at his back with her fists and he retaliated by slapping her on the bottom, hard enough that she cried out.

  “Let me go!”

  She could hear his shoes crunching on the sand and felt the sudden bright warmth on her legs. Where was he taking her? Who was he?

  Her brothers-­in-­law were not adverse to force when necessary, even though she’d never known them to use it on a woman. Had they been so upset at her leaving Ireland they’d come after her? Was she being kidnapped in order to force her to return to Iverclaire?

  “I don’t care how much they paid you. I will not return to Ireland under duress.”

  Her abductor only grunted in response.

  “How much did they pay you? I’ll double it.”

  He struck her again.

  Silence was probably a better recourse, at least until she saw her brothers-­in-­law.

  Suddenly, she was flying through the air, landing hard on soft grass. The breath left her in a whoosh. She jerked the covering off her head, and seeing a giant a few feet away, scooted backward on the hill overlooking the beach..

  She’d never seen him around Iverclaire. She would have noted such a large man with a pelt of black hair on his head matched by a salt and pepper beard.

  Poor man, he really was quite ugly. He had a porcine face, one lined with plump wrinkles. His nose was shorter than it should have been, adding to the piggish look, and his mouth was a little pink rosebud. His eyes, however, were quite spectacular. Green and intent, they sparkled at her like emeralds.

  “Whatever they paid you, I’ll double it.”

  He narrowed his eyes, staring at her. Finally, he shook his head, bent down and grabbed her arm. She jerked away.

  “I’ll walk,” she said. “If you put me over your shoulder again, I’ll get sick.”

  He grabbed her arm, propelling her along and forcing her to nearly run to catch up with him. A carriage was parked on the curve of road just out of sight of Drumvagen. After nearly throwing her inside, he closed the door, mounted the driver’s seat, and slapped the reins over the backs of the two
horses.

  Her Irish relatives had a good deal to answer for when she saw them again. If she hadn’t been determined to return to Scotland before, she certainly was now.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “The bad man’s come,” Carlton said, racing into Macrath’s laboratory.

  He skidded to a stop in front of the long table where his father and two other men were working.

  “The bad man’s come, Papa, and he’s taken Mama.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Carlton. Of course your mother hasn’t been taken.”

  “But she has,” the boy said.

  “Where did this take place?”

  “The grotto.” At his raised eyebrow, his son said, “It’s still inside Drumvagen, Papa. I didn’t leave the house, not until I came and got you.”

  There was no way to reassure his son he hadn’t seen his mother being abducted. Nor did Carlton believe him when he said he’d left Virginia only minutes earlier. There was only one thing to do—­prove to his son Virginia was fine. He walked Carlton back to the house.

  When they entered the kitchen and Carlton saw his mother, he flew at her, gripping her around the waist. She enfolded her arms around him, pressed a kiss to his hair and looked at Macrath in confusion.

  “I saw him,” Carlton said, pulling back and looking up at Virginia. “I saw him in the grotto. The bad man took you.”

  Virginia cupped her hand around Carlton’s cheek.

  “What did you see, my love?”

  Carlton looked from Virginia to Macrath and then back to Virginia again.

  “What did you see, Carlton?” Macrath asked.

  “A big man with black hair and a beard grabbed Mommy. She had something over her head and she was screaming, but he carried her down the beach.”

  His eyes sought his father again. “I saw him, Papa. I didn’t make it up.”

  “You thought it was me, Carlton?” his mother asked.

  He nodded.

  “Was the woman wearing a green dress?”

  Carlton nodded again.

  Virginia looked at Macrath. “He’s taken Ceana.”

  “What do you mean, kidnapped?”

  Bruce stood in Macrath’s library. He’d made his base of operations a room on the third floor. When a more truculent than usual Brianag had appeared at the door, he’d not bothered to question her why he’d been summoned to the library. The woman wouldn’t say anything, either because she despised Americans or had simply singled him out for her antipathy. From what he’d observed about Brianag, she didn’t like many ­people.

  He hadn’t expected Macrath to announce that Ceana had been kidnapped.

  Virginia looked as if she were going to cry.

  “Carlton says he saw who took her.”

  She reached behind her and drew her son forward. Ever since Carlton’s last escapade, trying to clamber up the drain pipe to Drumvagen’s roof, the boy regarded him with trepidation. Perhaps Carlton realized his patience was wearing thin.

  “What did you see?”

  As Carlton related his story, Bruce pulled out a notebook from inside his jacket and began to scribble the details.

  “Did you see a carriage or did he walk away from Drumvagen?”

  Carlton shrugged. He leveled a look on the boy that had him staring down at the carpet.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I ran for Papa.”

  He doubted if the man had simply walked away. “How long ago was this?”

  “A quarter hour, no more than that,” Macrath said.

  He nodded, pushing back his fear. Fear never worked to his advantage. He needed to be cold and calm in order to rescue Ceana.

  “She wasn’t wearing black,” Virginia said. “She wanted to look pretty, so I loaned her one of my dresses.”

  He concentrated on his notebook, trying to ignore her words. “What color was it?”

  “Light green, with a bouquet of flowers embroidered on the fabric in places. Bouquets of pink and blue and yellow. It has a round collar and tight sleeves.”

  Macrath gently touched his wife’s arm. “Bruce is not a fashion reporter, my love.”

  She nodded. “Of course. Of course.”

  Her smile was tremulous, more a gesture for Macrath than an expression of genuine humor.

  Bruce tucked his notebook back in his jacket pocket and nodded at Macrath. “I’ll take the road to Edinburgh,” he said. “I think that’s the way he would have gone.”

  “I’ll go toward the village.”

  He shook his head. “No, I want you to stay here. This might be a feint, something to draw you away from Drumvagen. I want you here to protect Virginia and the children.”

  “Then I’ll send some of my men,” Macrath said.

  He had no objection to that and only nodded. He wished, now, he hadn’t sent his two best operatives to Edinburgh. The third man accompanying him to Scotland had been sent to the station to investigate a recent report.

  An American matching Henderson’s description had been seen on an earlier Inverness train, disembarking at a station not far from Kinloch Village. Where he’d gone from there, Bruce didn’t know.

  He tried to put himself into Henderson’s shoes. If he were intent on kidnapping Virginia again, he would be concentrating on an escape plan. As wealthy as Henderson had become, he could afford to hire a ship.

  Before he left the library, he turned and gestured to Macrath, pulling him aside.

  “Have your men interrogate the harbormaster. See if any new ships have recently berthed there.”

  “What do you think will happen to Ceana once he realizes his mistake?”

  “It might not be a mistake,” he cautioned the other man. “You think he took her deliberately?”

  “It’s a thought,” Bruce said. “He might be willing to trade one woman for the other. Or it’s a way to draw you away from Drumvagen.”

  “I should’ve gone after the bastard ten years ago,” Macrath said.

  “You didn’t have any legal standing to do so. At least now, once he’s back in Scotland, you do.”

  Macrath looked a little mollified by that. He nodded curtly and went back to stand beside his wife.

  Bruce wanted to warn him that sometimes being protective was not enough. You could shelter your family, live a life serene and isolated from the rest of mankind, but bad things still happened. A crazy man appeared; war broke out.

  Life changed just when you thought it was safe.

  This time, however, he couldn’t fail. He couldn’t allow something to happen to Ceana. This time would be different.

  Before he could reach the door, it flew open, so hard he was surprised the handle wasn’t embedded in the far wall.

  Brianag stood there, arms folded, chin rigid and eyes blazing.

  “They’re here, then. The Irish.”

  He saw a hand reach out and push her gently away. The doorway was suddenly filled with men. To his surprise, two little redheaded girls wound their way through a forest of legs to stand there staring at them.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but is my mommy here?”

  One of the three men gently pushed his way between the girls. Taller than the other two, he had brown hair with a hint of red, cut shorter. All of them shared similar features but his were sharper. His nose was longer and narrower, his chin more pointed. His attire was slightly different in that he wore a jacket while the other men were wearing only shirts and trousers and boots that looked as if they’d tromped through a marsh.

  Whoever he was, he seemed to be the leader of the three.

  “We’ve come for our sister, Macrath.”

  Virginia was looking at the two little girls, one of whom appeared to be about Fiona’s age.

  “Darina?”

  The older girl nodded and curtsied prettily. “Aunt Virgini
a?”

  The tears puddling in Virginia’s eyes finally spilled down her cheeks as she bent down, held out her arms and said, “Come here, the two of you.”

  The little girls flew into their aunt’s embrace as Macrath moved to stand beside Bruce. To his surprise, Carlton came and stood behind the two of them.

  “Is that how you come into my house, Dennis Mead?” Macrath asked.

  “It is when our sister deserted her home and her children. She didn’t tell any of us where she was going. Nor did she answer our letters once she was gone.”

  Macrath took a step forward. “She was a member of my family first, Dennis. Would you dispute that?”

  “I wouldn’t. But I’d like to know why she came to Scotland and left her children behind.”

  “She didn’t leave her children behind,” Virginia said. “She came to see her family. She trusted her children in your care.”

  Dennis frowned at her but didn’t speak. Instead, he directed his attention to Bruce.

  “This is Ardan,” he said, pointing to the man with the red beard to his left. He glanced toward the man to his right, clean shaven with the brightest orange-­red hair Bruce had ever seen. “This is Breandan, and I’m Dennis, the fifth Duke of Lester. And who would you be?”

  As an American, he wasn’t impressed by titles, especially if a man only had to be born to get one.

  “Bruce Preston. The man who’s going to save her,” he said.

  He pushed through the three men, shoving at Ardan, almost wanting the man to take a swing at him. He was a damn good brawler when he had to be, and right at the moment he felt like planting his fist in someone’s face.

  The man let him pass, and he dismissed the three of them from his thoughts, intent on finding Ceana.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “What did he mean by that?”

  Dennis entered the room fully, coming to stand only a foot from Macrath.

  “What did he mean, save her?”

  “Someone’s kidnapped Ceana,” he said.

  He explained the situation, the look of rage deepening on the faces of his Irish brothers-­in-­law. Good, they wouldn’t have any hesitation in punishing Paul Henderson, law or no law.