Karen Ranney

by The Devil of Clan Sinclair

  What if Macrath didn’t remember her? What if he never remembered when they held hands surreptitiously, or escaped to the terrace to talk? What if he didn’t recall that she’d confessed her love for him in a breathy voice, nearly panicked at the admission?

  She knew he wasn’t married, thanks to Ceana’s comments, but what if he was interested in another woman? Surely, his sister would have known?

  She had to do this. Turning to Hannah, she forced a smile to her face, said, “I think we should advance, don’t you?”

  Hannah had not been told of the situation or the circumstances. Neither had she asked any questions about their journey. She would’ve thought the girl would be curious, if nothing else. Instead, the maid remained calm, her eyes flat, her smile thin.

  Virginia wished she had one jot of Hannah’s composure.

  A shout, followed by a cloud of smoke, suddenly punctuated the silent day.

  She sat forward, looking past Hannah to a crofter’s hut, the same kind that had dotted the landscape throughout their journey. This house was longer, with two doors rather than one, and four windows, not two. The thatch was burning and white smoke poured through a large hole in the middle of the roof.

  As she watched, three people ran from the structure toward the road. The one in the lead stopped, turned, and regarded the crofter’s hut from a safe distance. The other men reached him and stood on either side, all three surveying the burning house.

  Watching from the carriage, the stench reached them, and she withdrew her black edged handkerchief, holding it to her nose.

  Whatever were they doing?

  The acrid smell was enough for her to give the signal to the coachman. Like it or not, she’d been provoked into courage.

  She eased back against the seat, willing herself to relax. She could do this. She must do this. From what she’d gleaned from the conversation of older women, men were interested in bed sport, almost to the exclusion of common sense.

  Surely, Macrath would be interested in bedding her.

  Her heart was beating too fast and her breath was tight.

  She remembered every stroke of his fingers on the back of her hand and on her exposed wrist. She recalled the sight of his smile, not as common as other men’s, but more precious for its rarity. His eyes, those engaging blue eyes of his studied her so intently she had the impression he knew all her thoughts.

  Whenever she was in Macrath’s company, her cheeks were flushed and hot. Her mouth felt odd, her lips too full. A laugh always bubbled in her chest, but she wasn’t amused as much as delighted, enlivened, or simply thrilled.

  Now, she gripped her hands together tightly and prayed for composure. What if he denied her entrance? The thought came unexpectedly and abrasively. What if he didn’t welcome her?

  What if Ceana’s whispered answer at the funeral was wrong? What if Macrath wasn’t in Scotland? They’d be forced to retrace this interminable journey.

  The carriage approached Drumvagen slowly, almost cautiously. She shielded her eyes from the sun staring down at her accusingly through the window. Now was the time to turn around and go back to London. Neither the coachman nor her maid would question her. Only Enid, and the look on her mother-in-law’s face would be condemnation enough.

  Had Poor Lawrence wanted them all desperate and panicked? What good did it do to speculate? Poor Lawrence was beyond anything but divine questioning.

  She took a deep breath, then another. Her heart was still racing and her hands were cold inside her gloves.

  What was she truly afraid of—Macrath’s reception or her own weakness around him?

  Seabirds soared overhead, their piercing shrieks almost a battle cry.

  Perhaps this was a battle. One of her conscience against her desires.

  Was it permissible to pray for a successful conclusion to this errand? Would God send a lightning bolt to strike her if she did? She wouldn’t be guilty of adultery, since Poor Lawrence was dead, but certainly her behavior could be considered wanton. Was prostituting herself for a good cause any less prostitution?

  Even if she were successful in seduction, there was no guarantee she’d become pregnant. If she did, she might bear a daughter. If so, they were back in the same situation, with one more mouth to feed.

  The carriage wheels crunched on the oyster shells lining the circular drive. Dozens of windows stared down at them like curious eyes. Was she wrong in thinking people stood there, watching them and wondering at their presence? Or was that simply conjecture, something about which she’d been lectured all her life?

  “Stop imagining the worst, Virginia. Try to think of something good rather than always being focused on what could go wrong.”

  At the moment, it was all she could think.

  The coachman opened the carriage door and she was forced to release the strap above the window. She straightened her shoulders and managed a smile.

  Who had written that courage was not the absence of fear but the conquering of it? She’d wager the author hadn’t been pushed into acting the harlot.

  London

  A year earlier

  Her father was determined that she was to be cultured. He had no interest in anything but business, so while he met with various solicitors, off she went in the company of her American maid and her English chaperone, a woman with whom she’d been saddled since arriving in London.

  Mrs. Haverstock was as far from a chaperone as Virginia could imagine. The woman had been widowed, she said, for over five years, which meant she must have married as a child. She was only a few years older than her, with blond hair so pale it appeared almost white in a certain light. She smiled often and was delighted by almost everything she saw, even Virginia’s father.

  “Mr. Anderson,” she once said, “is an amazing man to have accomplished all he’s done as young as he is.” From that day forward, Virginia watched Mrs. Haverstock with curiosity, wondering if she had dreams of becoming the second Mrs. Anderson.

  A curious thing to contemplate because she’d never once considered that her father would remarry. That he didn’t was probably due more to his consuming interest in business over amatory pursuits.

  However, she would not have been surprised if Mrs. Haverstock was successful. She’d managed to convince him to hire her after only one interview, after all.

  The woman was indefatigable. They visited St. Paul’s Cathedral one day and Covent Garden Market the next. One whole afternoon was spent at London Bridge, followed by a short and fragrant journey down the Thames.

  Virginia would never forget how horrified she’d been by Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks. She couldn’t imagine her father approving that expedition so she never told him of it, or the nightmares that came for two days afterward at the thought of all those wax statues coming alive.

  At Westminster Abbey, she was horrified to discover other tourists gouging their names into the royal tombs. When she said as much to her chaperone, Mrs. Haverstock just waved her comment away.

  “They’ve done the same to the pyramids, my dear.”

  Mrs. Haverstock adored museums, and Virginia might have as well had she not been dragged to every one of them in London. The East Indian Museum was regrettably boring, but the British Museum was most impressive.

  The concentric circles and curved shelves of the Round Reading Room fascinated her. So, too, the various readers occupying the tables. Each claimed his space beneath the vaulted blue dome like it was his home. One reader had strung a rope between him and the nearest table and hung tracts from them, cautioning a visitor from speaking to him. Another had brochures of anti-papal literature arrayed in front of him.

  She was walking quietly from one shelf to another, grateful to have momentarily lost Mrs. Haverstock to a conversation with an unexpectedly encountered friend, when she saw him.

  Macrath leaned against a bookshelf and smiled at her.

  Her heart was leaping in her chest like a child promised a candy.

  “What are you doing here?�
� she whispered.

  Looking around, she couldn’t see Mrs. Haverstock. She grabbed Macrath’s sleeve and disappeared in front of one of the curved shelves with him, well aware that, if seen, this infraction of decorum was sure to be reported to her father.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked again.

  “I could say that I visit the British Museum often,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “It’s only my second time here.”

  For a month they’d seen each other at balls and dinners, and found a way to slip away from the crowd. More than once he’d asked for her reticule and she’d handed it to him, amused when he slipped a few broadsides inside.

  “There, you won’t have to lie. You didn’t buy them.”

  Whenever he did that, she’d take out the broadsides later, smoothing her hands over the rough paper, not caring about what tales they told as much as that Macrath had touched them.

  “You told Ceana you’d be here,” he said, smiling.

  She had occasion to meet Ceana one night, and the two became fast friends, each watching for the other at various events.

  But it was Macrath who changed her life.

  If Macrath was in a room, her eyes sought him out. If he laughed, her ears heard it. She could even tell if he spoke in a crowd because his Scottish accent was so distinctive.

  “I came to see you,” he said now. “I couldn’t wait for tonight.”

  “You couldn’t?”

  Her heart had ascended to the base of her throat and something odd was happening in her eyes. She couldn’t hold all the emotions she was feeling inside, and they had to be expressed as tears.

  When she’d first entered the Round Reading Room, she was surprised at the number of people there. Now it seemed like they were all eavesdropping.

  Macrath reached out and plucked a book from the shelf, appearing engrossed in the text.

  She raised the book to see the binding, smiling when she read it. “I’ve always loved Tennyson,” she said. “I was required to memorize some of his work.”

  “Were you?”

  She nodded.

  “Come into the garden, Maud,

  For the black bat night has flown.

  Come into the garden, Maud,

  I’m here at the gate alone.”

  “Hardly proper reading for a young girl,” he said, smiling. “It’s been made into a song, you know.”

  She shook her head, surprised. “No, I didn’t.”

  He leaned close to her and began to sing the words softly.

  His breath smelled of mint, brushing against her temple. He was entirely too close for propriety, but she didn’t move away, merely closed her eyes to savor his presence.

  “Virginia,” he said softly.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to open her eyes.

  “Have you never heard of Robert Burns?” he asked, replacing the volume of Tennyson poems. “A much better poet by far.”

  Once again she shook her head.

  He started searching the books. A moment later he found what he was looking for, and thumbed through the volume.

  Unsmiling, he held the book out to her, pointing to a poem.

  “You should read ‘A Red, Red Rose,’ ” he said.

  She took the book from him.

  O my Luve’s like a red, red rose

  That’s newly sprung in June;

  O my Luve’s like the melodie

  That’s sweetly played in tune.

  As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

  So deep in luve am I;

  And I will luve thee still, my dear,

  Till a’ the seas gang dry.

  She glanced up at him, something sweet and hot racing through her body.

  “Oh, Macrath.”

  Here, where there was a hushed reverence for the written word, she felt the same for him. In his piercing blue eyes she saw a reflection of someone she’d never known herself to be, a woman who was captivating and fascinating and brave. Being loved by Macrath made everything possible, even her transformation.

  She knew she shouldn’t put her hand on his chest. Nor should he wipe away a tear from her cheek with such tenderness.

  “Miss Anderson.”

  She didn’t want to turn and see Mrs. Haverstock. She didn’t want to answer any questions. Or try to explain something so private and perfect.

  When the woman walked into her line of sight, she had no choice but to drop her hand and step away.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” she said. “I’ll make a point of reading Mr. Burns in the future.”

  She nodded to him and turned away, when what she truly wanted was to have him enfold her in his arms.

  “Until tonight,” he whispered.

  It would have to be enough, but oh how could it be?

  Drumvagen, Scotland

  July, 1869

  A stranger had come to Drumvagen. A stranger in an ornate ebony carriage pulled by four of the finest horses he’d seen in a while.

  Macrath strode down the road, wishing he didn’t smell of ammonia and the other chemicals in his laboratory. Jack and Sam broke away, heading for their own quarters to bathe and change. He would have liked to do the same, but the carriage was sitting in front of Drumvagen, the door being opened by a burly coachman.

  He stopped, transfixed by the strangest notion that he was in the middle of a dream. A black shod foot emerged first, then a flurry of black petticoat peeping beneath a silk skirt, ebony to match the carriage. Her gloved hand on the coachman’s arm, she lightly stepped from the vehicle, the black-ribboned bonnet shielding her face from his view.

  He knew. Even before she glanced up at him, he knew. Only one woman had ever affected him the way she did, as if she gave off a signal his body recognized.

  Virginia.

  His blood was pounding, his heart beating as loudly as the drums of war. Inside, he shouted with exultant joy.

  Virginia had come to Drumvagen.

  When he’d first met her, she reminded him of a delicate bird, one at the mercy of air currents and tossed aloft to a strange and foreign land. She was almost preternaturally still, like she’d been poured from a mold, but her eyes were alive and watching everything.

  Her face was oval, her eyes a clear blue, so light in color it seemed like he could see into the heart of her. Her hair was black and fine. Tendrils always escaped her careful hairstyle and surrounded her face. Her smile was quick and held a surprised air, as if her own joy startled her.

  She wasn’t smiling now.

  Her eyes had lost their sparkle. A lock of hair brushed against her alabaster cheek, only slightly tinged with a blush. Her mouth opened to greet him, then closed and firmed without saying a word.

  He couldn’t breathe, but that could be the lingering effects of the explosion and the chemicals he’d inhaled. More likely it was simply Virginia.

  She was wearing black.

  Dear God, did she bring bad news?

  He strode forward, wanting to shake the words from her.

  “Ceana?” he asked. “Is she well?”

  Recognition dawned in Virginia’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Yes, she’s well.” She glanced down at her gloved hands. “It’s Lawrence,” she said, her voice vibrating with emotion. “He’s dead.”

  He schooled his features to show nothing, not even a trace of gladness.

  “My condolences,” he said.

  Why was she here?

  The question thrummed between them. Her maid, and the interested glances from her coachman, kept him silent.

  He turned and strode in the other direction, and she, as he’d hoped, followed him. He hesitated at the entrance to the drive, staring out at the expanse of sea and sky, one mirroring the other.

  Boiling black clouds on the horizon promised a storm by nightfall. Drumvagen was a secure and comforting refuge in the midst of lightning and thunder. On another night he might have settled in front of the fire, sipping whiskey from a tan
kard belonging to his father. His thoughts would have returned to London and the woman who now stood silently beside him.

  “Why have you come, Virginia? To tell me of your widowhood?”

  She didn’t answer. Her silence caused him to turn and look at her.

  “Was it a happy marriage?”

  She hesitated. When she nodded, he didn’t believe her.

  “A short one,” she added.

  Didn’t she realize he knew how long it had been? He’d gotten drunk the day of her wedding, the first time he’d ever allowed himself to do so.

  He wanted to embrace her, hold her close to him. He wanted to fall to his knees, wrap his arms around her hips, keep her there until he accepted she was truly at Drumvagen.

  “Why are you here, Virginia?” he asked, his mind racing in a dozen directions at once.

  She reached out one gloved hand and placed it on his shirted chest. His pulse raced at her touch, as if she had the power to burrow into his skin, stroke the heart beneath and quicken its beat.

  “Let me rest,” she said. “Feed me a meal or two, and perhaps a glass of wine.” She glanced away, then back at him, as if daring herself. “Then I’ll tell you.”

  Turning, he looked at his home, taking in Drumvagen’s sprawling glory. He would put her in the suite he’d prepared for her.

  He held out his arm. She placed her hand on it, and he accompanied her up the drive and then the steps, much as he had thought of doing from the moment he met her.

  What did she think of Drumvagen? Her eyes were wide as she took in the broad double doors. He’d ordered them from Italy and had to wait nearly a year for them to be finished.

  Like a boy, he wanted to tell her about building Drumvagen, how he’d found it an unfinished shell and knew it was his home from the beginning. He wanted to brag about each of the furnishings, tell her the story of how he’d found the chandeliers, the carved doors, and the mirrored walls.