Karen Ranney

by The Devil of Clan Sinclair

  “Summon Hosking, please,” Virginia said, never moving her gaze from his face.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he said when the maid disappeared to do her bidding.

  She didn’t say a word.

  Didn’t she realize? She was his.

  Hosking was a tall man with burly arms, and a grin that reminded her of Macrath’s charm. He wore a cap and always forgot about it. Most of the maids were fond of him and always had to remind him to remove it. His face was round and pleasant, and no doubt one day would become a mass of fleshy wrinkles.

  He seemed a happy sort of person, one who loved his horses and cared for the carriages like they belonged to him. Except he wasn’t looking happy now.

  “Are you all right, your ladyship?” he asked, scowling down at Paul.

  “No, Hosking. Mr. Henderson is in my way. Perhaps you can convince him to step aside.”

  The coachman approached Paul until they were standing nearly nose-to-nose.

  “I’m sure Mr. Henderson will be leaving,” he said. “And let you be about your business, your ladyship.”

  Paul looked at the three of them, adopted a cool smile and shrugged.

  “At least you know now. You also know what a fool you were not to have chosen me. I would have given you a child. I would have even let you keep it.”

  After climbing into the carriage, Virginia lay her head back against the seat, fighting a wave of dizziness.

  “I have never liked him,” Hannah said, sitting opposite her. “There is something not right about Paul.”

  Surprised, she opened her eyes to face the maid. “I’ve felt the same,” she said, a confession she wouldn’t have made a few weeks ago.

  Hannah didn’t ask what Paul had meant. Was it because she had no curiosity? Or because she’d known, all along, that Elliot was Macrath’s child?

  Paul had touched her. He’d been her lover.

  Her skin crawled.

  Nausea swamped her. Whether from the effort of walking from the house to the stable or from Paul’s admission, she didn’t know or care. Grabbing the strap above the window, she held on, even though the carriage had not yet begun to move.

  She must continue this journey, no matter how sick she was.

  Had the trip to Scotland been difficult for Elliot? At least Macrath had the sense to take his wet nurse and nursemaid with him.

  The plan that had been so foolhardy all those months ago seemed even more idiotic now, and cruel as well.

  She’d trade a thousand fortunes for Elliot.

  Did her actions equal or surpass Macrath’s? If she hadn’t plotted to become pregnant from him, he wouldn’t have stolen her child. In this instance, she was the greater sinner.

  She lay her head back against the seat, feeling the rumble of the carriage wheels through her bones.

  Thousands of people had died in the epidemic, that much she knew from the physician. She was lucky not to be one of them.

  She was so tired it was a burden to remain upright. Her skin pulled at her, weighing her down. Her bones wanted to bend. She was will and stubbornness, nothing more at this moment.

  “Your ladyship, are you sure you want to do this?”

  She didn’t open her eyes, merely licked her lips and answered Hannah.

  “Yes,” she said, even that short word an effort.

  She had to get to Scotland and convince Macrath to give her back her son.

  Drumvagen, Scotland

  July, 1870

  The carriage entered Drumvagen’s drive, just as it had a year and a half ago. This time, however, Macrath stood at the head of the steps, his legs braced apart, his arms folded, and his face expressionless.

  He would send her back to London. He wouldn’t even give her a chance to rest and recuperate from the journey. She was a dangerous woman, and he knew it only too well. She was the only person in his life to cause him pain.

  The door opened and the maid was the first to descend. She looked around her, at the commanding staircases of Drumvagen, and saw him standing at the top.

  She trudged up the stairs, frowning at him. The coachman descended from his seat, opened the door and entered the carriage.

  Hannah reached him just as the coachman emerged from the interior of the carriage with Virginia in his arms.

  Macrath pushed back a surge of alarm. He told himself he didn’t care what happened to Virginia, Countess of Barrett.

  “She’s sick,” Hannah said bluntly. “I told her she was still too ill to travel here, but she was all for coming after her son.” She planted her fists on her hips and glared at him. “Well?”

  He had the impression that while he might be a mastiff and she a kitten, the maid was not adverse to challenging him.

  “Well what?”

  “Summon a physician! Do something!” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, then seemed to compose herself. “Or do you want her to die?”

  “She’ll not bring smallpox to my home,” he said. “I have a child to care for. There’s too much danger with her here.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened. “Then where do you suggest we go?”

  “There’s a crofter’s hut not far from here. I used it as a laboratory. I’ll send bedding for you and I’ll have meals delivered. The minute she’s well enough to travel, you’ll leave Drumvagen.”

  With that, he turned and left her.

  Chapter 22

  Macrath made his way to the room he’d designated as his son’s nursery. Located just a few doors down from his own suite, it was close enough that he could check on his son. Last night he’d been awakened by the baby’s cry, only to be reassured by a sleepy Mary that Elliot was only hungry and Agatha was already seeing to him.

  Now he entered the room quietly, closing the door behind him. His son had only been here for two days, and the atmosphere of Drumvagen was altered. Or perhaps he was the one who’d been changed. He found his mood immediately lightened when he heard his son’s gurgling laughter.

  “No, they aren’t to be eaten, you silly boy.”

  Mary was leaning over the cradle. When she heard him, she glanced over her shoulder. “He’s nibbling on his feet, sir. He thinks his toes are grand things, don’t you, silly?”

  He hesitated in the middle of the room, his glance encompassing Agatha and Mary.

  “His mother is here,” he said. “She isn’t to see him, under any conditions.”

  “Is she still sick, sir?” Mary asked.

  “She might be. I don’t know.”

  She’d been foolhardy, coming after them so quickly. Anyone with a modicum of sense would have waited until she was well. Was that a sign of a mother’s devotion? Or her desperation?

  Would there ever come a time when he judged Virginia simply, without looking for a dual purpose?

  Mary frowned at him. “If she isn’t, sir, why shouldn’t she see him? She’s his mother. She’s the Countess of Barrett,” Mary added as if he didn’t know. “And Elliot is the eleventh Earl of Barrett.”

  The wet nurse, being older and wiser, didn’t speak.

  He looked at Mary. “She isn’t to see him.”

  At the door, he turned. “Oh, and another thing. His name, from now on, is Alistair. Not Elliot.”

  Her eyes widened but she didn’t say a word.

  Fine, let her believe he was a despot. He didn’t care.

  Brianag was in the kitchen garden, picking herbs. He almost asked if it was for one of her potions before he came to his senses. He didn’t need to alienate his housekeeper now.

  The garden was a new addition to Drumvagen, something Brianag had insisted on when she came to work for him. He’d given her the latitude and the manpower, and the result was a neat square of hedges. Inside, protected from the ocean winds, were paths and herb beds. Nothing was labeled but she somehow knew which plant was which.

  “We have a visitor, Brianag,” he said when she straightened. “She’s ill. Will you treat her?”

  “The widow?” she asked, a
rranging the herbs in her basket.

  Maybe he was wrong and she wasn’t picking just herbs. Something smelled of onion and lemon, twin odors surprisingly compatible.

  “Do you know everything happening at Drumvagen?”

  “What’s needed to know. The rest I just ignore.”

  “She’s recovering from smallpox,” he said, amazed at the calmness with which he said those words.

  “Has she any rash?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”

  After the first glance, he hadn’t looked in her direction. The coachman, however, hadn’t had any qualms about carrying her. When he said as much to Brianag, she nodded.

  “She’s probably through the worst of it.” She eyed him. “You’re worried she’s brought the sickness to Drumvagen.”

  He nodded.

  “You’re also worried about her.”

  He frowned at her but didn’t refute her comment.

  “You’ll be sending her home as soon as she’s well?”

  “She doesn’t belong here.”

  She smiled. “There were those who said the same about you, an Edinburgh man all for buying himself Drumvagen.”

  “Do they still say that?” he asked.

  “Oh, you fit in well enough now,” she said, smiling.

  “Even with the name of Devil?”

  “The name didn’t matter once I came to work for you.”

  He wasn’t certain what to say. Brianag’s arrogance was occasionally grating, and this was one of those times.

  “So it was you and nothing I did?”

  None of his contributions toward village events mattered? His paying for the new altar at the church counted for nothing?

  She shrugged, which annoyed him further.

  “If I hadn’t come, no one from the village would work here. Drumvagen was getting a reputation for being haunted.”

  He folded his arms and regarded her. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Her smile broadened. “There are people who do,” she said. “They need to be humored. I figure the dead have better things to do than bother with the living. But we living like to think we’re important enough to be visited from time to time.”

  “So you let people think you’ve deghosted Drumvagen?”

  She frowned at him. “I’m not a witch. It was enough I was here. No ghost would dare haunt me.”

  How had they gotten on the subject of ghosts?

  “Will you see to her?”

  Her nod was a jerk of the chin. “I’ll see to your countess,” she said. “And to your child.”

  He wanted to explain, then realized she probably understood the whole of it. Turning, he left the garden before she could annoy him further.

  The cottage they’d been directed to was longer than it was wide, furnished with a square table and two chairs, a small area she took to be a sleeping alcove separated from the rest of the space by a half wall, and a kitchen that held a small stove. There was no bathing chamber, but a small lean-to had been built along the back wall and could be used for their intimate needs.

  Within a quarter hour four men arrived, two carrying bedding, another a large chest. The fourth man carried a steaming kettle he set by the door.

  Virginia sat in one of the chairs at the table, noting that none of the four came close to her. She couldn’t blame them. For all they knew, she carried pestilence.

  “Our cook sent this for you,” one of the men said.

  Whatever it was, it smelled delicious. Her stomach grumbled at the scent of onions and chicken broth. The man reached forward and put a loaf of bread on the table before quickly retracting his hand.

  “Where is my son?” she asked, the words coming with difficulty. She was so weak she could have slept for days. First, however, she had to make sure Elliot was well and being cared for properly.

  Two of the men left the cottage, probably reasoning if they left, they couldn’t be commanded to answer.

  The man who’d carried the food looked back, but when he spoke, it was to Hannah.

  “You’ve not had the disease?” he asked.

  Hannah shook her head.

  “The Sinclair says you can come, then, and see the boy is provided for.”

  Hannah turned to look at her. Virginia nodded, and her maid left the cottage.

  Before the last man left, she glanced at Hosking standing at the door.

  “Can you find accommodation for my coachman?” He’d been her loyal protector against Paul, and she wouldn’t have him sleep on the bare ground.

  The young man nodded at her. “I’ll see he gets quarters.”

  In a matter of moments she was alone in the cottage.

  Two cots rested in the corner with bedding atop them. To Macrath’s credit, the mattresses appeared plump. She should organize the cottage so it was habitable. She should fix their beds, if nothing else. Even the idea exhausted her.

  She lay her head down on her folded arms, closed her eyes and would have fallen asleep had not the door of the cottage flown open at that moment.

  “I’ve come to see to you,” Brianag said, her voice as loud as thunder.

  Macrath’s housekeeper hadn’t made a secret of her dislike when Virginia had visited Drumvagen the first time. She could only imagine what Brianag had to say now.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I don’t need your help.”

  “I’m the wise woman of Kinloch Village and Drumvagen,” Brianag said. “I’ll see to you.”

  “You’re a witch?” she asked faintly.

  “I’m not a witch,” the woman said, putting a covered basket on the table and coming around to Virginia’s side. “I’m a good Presbyterian.”

  She leaned closer, peering into Virginia’s eyes.

  “Have the scabs fallen off?” she asked. When she didn’t answer, Brianag folded her arms across her ample chest. “Do I have to tell the Sinclair you wouldn’t let me see to you?”

  She didn’t want to subject herself to an inspection, but it might be the only way Macrath would allow her to see Elliot. For that reason, she nodded.

  “Most of them,” she said. “Except for two on my arm.”

  “Show me,” the woman demanded.

  She hesitated, then finally unbuttoned her cuff, rolling up her sleeve to show her left arm.

  “I would not have brought smallpox to Drumvagen,” she said.

  “We don’t know for sure, now do we?” Brianag said, holding Virginia’s arm and touching each scab. Her hands, while large and swollen with arthritis, were gentle. “I’m thinking you’re in such a hurry to find your son you didn’t think about the rest of the world.”

  Since that comment was too close to the truth, she remained silent.

  “My maid told me I’m no longer contagious,” she finally said.

  “Oh, your maid, is it? Perhaps I should have her look at some of the injuries in the village. Old Man MacPherson is having some problems remembering his kin. Perhaps she can help with him as well.”

  “There’s no reason to be disagreeable,” Virginia said.

  The woman looked startled. A moment later her face melted into a smile. She pulled up a chair and sat so close their knees met.

  “Any fever?”

  Virginia shook her head. “Not for a few days.”

  “Are you fatigued?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I imagine it’s to be expected.”

  “You’re as weak as a newborn lamb. Good thing we’ve no wolves.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she kept mute.

  Brianag placed a palm on her forehead. “You’re cool to the touch. Not clammy, either.”

  “I’m feeling much better.”

  The other woman didn’t respond.

  Instead, she leaned forward, peering into Virginia’s eyes again.

  “Any headaches?”

  “Not now.”

  “Delusions?”

  “Unless believing Macrath would be reasonable could be considered a delusi
on.”

  Brianag raised one eyebrow and said something that had her staring at the woman.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Brianag smiled. “You’ll need to learn the way of speaking if you’re to remain here,” she said. “I told you biting and scratching is Scots folk’s wooing.”

  “Well, I have no intention of wooing Macrath and I know for sure he isn’t wooing me.”

  The other woman merely smiled.

  Finally, Brianag settled back, nodded once, then reached into her basket. “You’ll use this twice a day on the remaining scabs,” she said, pointing to a jar. She held up a brown bottle. “And this once a day after you bathe your face and neck. The scars won’t show as much.”

  “What will you tell him?” Virginia asked. “That I’m well, I hope. And I should be allowed to see my son.”

  For a moment she thought Brianag wouldn’t answer her.

  “I’m thinking you should wait for a few days. A week, maybe.”

  “And after that?”

  Brianag smiled again. “The tree doesn’t always fall at the first stroke.”

  She stared at the door long after the woman left.

  Hannah took one look at Mary and Agatha and stopped in the doorway. Folding her arms, she glared at both of them.

  “And what would you be doing here?” she asked. “Did he pay you enough to forget about your loyalty, then?”

  “He paid us enough to remember it’s the babe who needed us,” Agatha said.

  “Leave them alone,” Macrath said, coming out of the shadows.

  Startled, she dropped her arms and forced herself to stare back at him. Macrath’s hard eyes judged her like he was a hungry eagle and she was a rodent scampering up a hillside.

  She’d faced him down once, she could do it again.

  “I’m here on behalf of my mistress,” she said. “To ensure Elliot is being cared for.”

  “My son is well,” he said.

  Mary glanced out the window, while Agatha pretended great interest in the buttons of her bodice.

  “Tell her nothing will convince me to allow my son to leave Drumvagen,” he said.

  The three women looked at each other.

  Elliot uttered a short, sharp cry, but before any of the women could go to his side, Macrath was at the cradle, reaching down and picking up the child.