Karen Ranney
Page 1
The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Karen Ranney
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Author’s Note
An Excerpt from The Witch of Clan Sinclair
An Excerpt from The Virgin of Clan Sinclair
About the Author
Romances by Karen Ranney
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
London
September, 1868
Please let him be there. If he hadn’t come to the Duke of Bledsoe’s ball, she didn’t think she could bear it.
He must have been invited. She’d done enough hinting to the duke’s daughter that she’d be very, very pleased if Macrath Sinclair was invited, along with his sister Ceana.
She’d waited so long already, a whole day, since seeing him. She’d told herself that all she had to do was be patient a few more hours. That refrain had sung through her mind all during the time her maid had dressed her hair, when the gown needed a few last minute stitches to keep one of the silly bows in place, and when her gloves were handed to her. Only one more hour, she’d thought as she was inspected by her father and Mrs. Haverstock, turning in a slow circle so her appearance could be judged.
To her surprise, neither her English chaperone nor her father had said a word. Nor had her father frowned, his usual expression in her presence. He only nodded, a sign to precede him into the carriage, Mrs. Haverstock following.
The carriage wheels had been too slow. Her heartbeat had been too fast. Hours, decades, eons later they were finally at the Duke of Bledsoe’s home, only for it to take forever before the carriage got to the head of the line and they could leave the vehicle. Because of the crush of people, there was another interminable wait to climb the steep stone steps, and yet another to enter the ballroom.
Would he like her hair? Her maid had done it in an intricate style tonight. What about her new scent from Paris? She’d thought about him the moment she uncapped the flacon, wondering if he would think the rose scent too strong. Would he think her high color attractive? She couldn’t help herself; the thought of seeing him after an absence of twenty-four endless hours reddened her cheeks.
Dear God, please let him be here. Please. She’d promise a dozen things, only let him be here.
She heard Mrs. Haverstock behind her, greeting friends. Moving away, she scanned the crowd for a sight of him.
Thank you, God. There he was. There, just beyond the pillar in the ballroom. Standing there, looking out at the crowd as the music surged around him.
She made herself wait, watching him. He was so handsome in his elegant black evening dress. He stood on the edge of the ballroom, a man with the studied gaze of a person twice his age. His stature was of someone who knew himself well, who’d gone through his own personal battles and won his wars.
Several women stopped, their looks intent. Suddenly, she felt a fierce possessiveness, and wanted to clamp her hands over their eyes to stop their acquisitive looks.
He was hers.
He turned in her direction, his eyes lighting on her. There it was, the smile she’d been anticipating. Slowly at first, dawning with merely a quirk at the corners of his lips, growing as she walked toward him.
She wanted to race to him, throw herself into his arms, press her hands against his chest and feel the solidness of him. Otherwise, she might believe she’d dreamed him, conjured him up from a lonely girl’s prayer and a wishful woman’s yearning.
He was as perfect as any daydream could create him, but he was no illusion. He was Macrath and she was enthralled.
“Are you well?” she asked on reaching him. A full day, nearly twenty-four hours, had passed since she’d seen him last, and anything might have happened in the interim.
The smile she’d watched from across the room was now directed solely at her. How wonderful, that an expression could have such warmth, like the sun spearing directly into her.
“I am well, Virginia,” he said. His voice, warm and low, held a roughness that chafed her senses. “And you?”
She was just now starting to heal. The last day without seeing him had been unbearable. She was shriveling up inside for lack of one of his warm smiles. Without seeing his beautiful blue eyes and hearing his Scottish accent, she was not quite herself.
How did she tell him something like that? It seemed like he knew, because his smile faded and he reached out one hand to hold hers.
She could hear people around them, but it was like a bubble surrounded Macrath and her. No one was important. Nothing else had weight.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
She smiled, pleased he thought so. Few people did. She was too retiring to be noticed most of the time.
When she just shook her head, he said, “You’re the most beautiful woman in London.”
“You’re beautiful as well,” she said. She didn’t mean handsome, either. He was a gift from God, a creation of masculine beauty.
Even his laugh was glorious.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked, still holding her hand.
He seemed as loath to relinquish it as she was to step back. Prudence dictated that she do so, at least until Macrath spoke to her father, but prudence could go to blazes for all she cared now.
She was gloriously, madly, spectacularly in love with Macrath Sinclair and she didn’t care who knew.
“I’d rather go into the garden,” she said, daring to tell him the truth. She wanted another kiss from him, another stolen embrace.
“It looks to rain,” he said.
“Do you care?”
“Not one whit.”
“I don’t either. Besides, it’s forever raining in London.”
“You’ll find that Scotland is the same in some months.”
“I won’t care,” she said. “It will be my home.”
“Soon,” he said, the look in his eyes growing more intense.
Perhaps she should thank Providence that the weather was souring. Otherwise, she might make a fool of herself in the garden, demanding kiss after kiss.
“Virginia,” a voice called, breaking the spell.
She blinked and turned her head to see her father standing not far away.
Her stomach dropped, and she looked up at Macrath with apology in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but Father’s calling me.”
“I understand. Shall I accompany you?”
“It’s best you don’t,” she said. “I’ve no doubt done something wrong.”
“When I meet with him tomorrow, I’ll tell him the press of business demands a speedy marriage. We’ll be in Scotland before you know it.”
She would be with him wherever that was: in a corner of the garden, in a vestibule in the ballroom, in a hallway, a servant’s stair. The location didn’t matter, as long as she was with Macrath.
“I’ll not have you making a fool of yourself over that Scot,” he said.
She held herself stiffly, as she did whenever he issued a dictate. The slightest indication that she disagreed with him would only make the punishment worse.
Now, she concentrated on the floor between them, hoping that he wouldn’t see her inability to look him in the face as disrespect.
“I’m sorry, Father,” she said.
Docility was better than rebellion. Easier, too, because she’d once tried to debate a point with him and had been severely punished for doing so. Her governess had taken great delight in using a birch rod. The lesson being that few things were worth physical pain.
Macrath was, and she wondered if her father knew it.
“People will look at me and wonder at the lack of control I have over a female in my own household.”
She’d heard a variation of that comment all her life. Ever since coming to England, however, it had grown more difficult to listen to him, and maintain some appearance of humility while doing so.
“I’m in love with Macrath, Father,” she said, the first time she’d ever admitted such a thing to him. She glanced up at him to find his eyes had narrowed. “You’ve agreed that Macrath could call on you tomorrow,” she hastened to say.
After that, her future would be assured. She would be Macrath Sinclair’s wife.
“I’ve already picked out your husband and it’s not that Scot.”
Her hands were still clasped in front of her. She bowed her head again, her gaze on the crimson patterned carpet. She’d think of anything but her father’s words. Her mind, unaccustomed to joy, had forced her imagination to produce something more familiar, her father’s derision.
“You’re going to be a countess, daughter. How do you feel about that?”
She was going to be sick.
Slowly, she lifted her eyes, unsurprised to find him smiling.
“But you agreed to meet with him,” she said.
“It’s done, Virginia. We’ve just now finalized the arrangements. You’re to be married within the month to the Earl of Barrett.”
Turning, he extended his hand and a woman stepped out of the shadows. “Your future mother-in-law, Virginia. The Countess of Barrett.”
She gave the woman barely a glance, intent on her father. She said the one word she never said, one tiny word she’d learned had no power in the past. Perhaps it would work now.
“Please.”
The world halted, stilled, hung on a breath of air.
“There’s no fussing about it; the deal has been struck.”
“But you agreed to meet with Macrath.”
He scowled at her. “I won’t tolerate your rebellion, Virginia.” Turning to the woman, he said, “I’ll have her chaperone take my daughter home, your ladyship. Perhaps a few weeks of contemplating her future will make her grateful for it.”
The woman merely nodded.
“There won’t be any entertainments until after your wedding,” her father said.
Did it matter?
She’d be confined to her room, but she didn’t care. She’d sit and stare out at the world, her body in one place, her soul and heart in another.
Virginia only shook her head, unable to speak, flooded by a sense of despair so deep she was certain she was bleeding inside.
Chapter 1
London, England
July, 1869
The ferns near the window wiggled their fronds as if they wanted to escape the room.
Virginia Anderson Traylor, Countess of Barrett, wiggled on the chair and wanted to do the same.
She sat in the corner of the parlor, swathed in black. Her hands were folded on her lap, her knees pressed together, her head at the perfect angle.
How many times had she thought about this scene? In the last year, at least a dozen or more, but in her imagination she’d always been surrounded by weeping women rather than sitting a solitary vigil.
She stood, unable to remain still any longer. She’d been a good and proper widow for nine hours now. For the last four, she’d watched over her husband’s coffin alone.
Her thoughts, however, had not been on her husband.
A dog howled, no doubt the same dog that howled for three nights straight. Ellice, her sister-in-law, thought he’d announced Poor Lawrence’s death.
The parlor where she sat stretched the length of the town house. Two fireplaces warmed it in winter, but now it was pleasantly temperate. The room had been refurbished with the infusion of money she’d brought to the marriage. The wallpaper was a deep crimson, topped by an ivory frieze of leaves and ferns. Four overstuffed chairs, upholstered in a similar crimson pattern as the wallpaper, squatted next to a tufted settee. A half-dozen marble-topped tables, each adorned with a tapestry runner, filled the rest of the available space, their sharp corners patiently waiting to snare a passing skirt.
No doubt Enid meant for the room to be the perfect showplace in the Earl of Barrett’s home. What her mother-in-law had accomplished, however, was a parlor reeking with excess. Even the potpourri was overpowering, smelling so strongly of cloves that her nose itched and her eyes watered.
The coffin was crafted of polished mahogany, wider at the shoulders and narrow at the feet, with three brass handles on each side. A round brass plaque over where Poor Lawrence’s heart would be was engraved OUR BELOVED.
Not her beloved, and he hadn’t shown much love toward his family. The hyperbole, however, was expected of them. So, too, all the mourning rituals that would be carried out in the next year.
Perhaps Lawrence had arranged for his own coffin and the plaque was a last thumb in the eye to his wife, mother, and sisters.
For her sitting, she’d insisted the top of the coffin be lowered. The other members of the family would probably want to view Poor Lawrence once more.
“A bad heart,” Enid had called it. A bad disposition as well, although perhaps she shouldn’t fault him for being angry at the circumstances he’d been dealt. A semi-invalid since birth, he’d been limited in what he could do, to the point of being imprisoned in this house.
Poor Lawrence was what she called him in her thoughts. To his face, she’d been a proper wife. “Dearest husband,” she’d said on those occasions when he allowed her to visit him.
“Dearest husband, how are you feeling?”
“Dearest husband, you’re looking better.”
“Dearest husband, is there anything I can bring you?”
He never answered, only slitting his eyes at her like she was an insect he’d discovered in his food.
Lawrence was, whether it was right to say such a thing about the deceased, a thoroughly unlikable person. Yet John Donne, the poet, stated that every man’s death was a loss to be experienced by all mankind.
With age, Lawrence might have changed. He might have become a better person. He might have even been generous and caring.
How foolish it was to ascribe virtues to the dead they never owned in life. Lawrence wasn’t a hero and he wasn’t kind. Look at how he’d thrust them all into poverty.
She could easily understand his antipathy toward her. After all, didn’t she feel the same for him? Why, though, would he treat his sisters and mother with contempt? Why punish them when it was obvious they hadn’t done anything but treat him with kindness and care?
Every day, Eudora and Ellice called on their brother. Even if Lawrence wouldn’t see them, they still returned, time after time. Eudora selected books she thought he’d like to read from their library. Ellice relayed stories to him of their days and the world outside the house.
Enid was as fond as any mother could be, worrying about Lawrence’s health, querying his attendant about his cough, his color, his weakness. Despite his wishes, she insisted the doctor make regular visits, and listened when his examination was done.
What had Lawrence done to repay them? Guaranteed they would forever be dependent on others.
He could, just as easily, have given some of her father’s money to his mother—or to her—to ensure their future was secure. Or he could have spent it on personal property not subject to his will.
But he hadn’t done anything kind or caring.
At least, now, she would never again have to pretend to be a loving wife. These sleepless hours were little enough sacrifice for such blessed freedom.
Custom dictated the curtains be drawn, but she’d opened them at midnight, unable to bear the closed-in feeling of the room. The mirror was swathed in crepe. Candles sat burning on the mantel beside a clock stopped at the time of Poor Lawrence’s death.
The room celebrated death, but she’d never been afraid of death. She was not overly fond of the dark, heights, or the ocean, however, and she detested spiders.
“The world is not going to swallow you whole, Virginia,” her father had said more than once. “There’s no reason to be a timid little mouse.”
She circled the bier, her fingers trailing over the polished top of the coffin, closer to Poor Lawrence in death than she’d ever been in life except one time, the night their marriage had been consummated, six months after their wedding. On that occasion, he’d kissed her, so passionately it jolted her. The coupling, however, had been a painful experience, one she’d not wished to repeat. To her relief, he felt the same and they never touched again.
Enid, Dowager Countess of Barrett, pulled open the sliding doors of the parlor, then closed them just as quickly.
Her mother-in-law was stocky and short, her shoulders as wide as her hips. When Enid headed toward her, it was like facing a solid wall of determination. Enid’s brown eyes could be as warm as chocolate sauce. Now they were as cold as frozen earth.
“Have you decided?”
Even though it was just before dawn, her mother-in-law was dressed in a black silk dress with jet buttons. Her hair was pulled back from her round face and contained in a black net snood. Although she wore a full hoop, she expertly navigated the room filled with furniture, moving to occupy a chair close to the bier.
“What you propose is so . . .” The words trailed away.