The Devil of Clan Sinclair (10 page)

He did not, thankfully, utter any platitudes about life or death. Nor did he try to cajole her out of her thoughts. He merely listened, which was such an oddity in her life, she marked each conversation with him as special.

He straightened and strode to the far right-hand side of the window, staring toward an outcropping of rock.

“I own a ship,” he said. “One of my first major purchases before Drumvagen. Her name was originally the
Sally Ryan,
but I changed it.”

His eyes sparkled and his grin was so wide she could only ask, “What did you change it to?”

“The
Princess,
” he said smiling at her. “The figurehead was redone as well. It resembles you.”

“Me?”

He didn’t answer, merely raised his hand.

She followed where he pointed. Above the rocks in the distance stretched a series of tall poles or denuded tree trunks. No, the longer she stared, the more she was able to tell they were masts.

“It’s Kinloch Harbor,” he said. “Where the
Princess
is berthed. If you look to the right, you can see her mast. It’s one of the tallest.”

Had he named his ship for her? Is that how he thought of her? A princess? Many people had once held a similar opinion. They saw her father’s wealth and it blinded them to anything else. She should tell him the wealth was all gone, translated into houses, farms, and land to go to Jeremy.

Above all, she should tell him why she was here. Would he understand? Or only be angry at her duplicity? Whatever his reaction, it might be easier to live with herself if she were honest.

Being in London and thinking of him was easier and simpler than standing so close to him. After last night, she felt like a traitor, the worst kind of manipulator. She drew back, the words on the tip of her tongue.

“I wanted to show you this place,” he said, silencing her confession. “The moment I met you, I wanted to show you Drumvagen.”

“Was the house built where it was because of the grotto?” she asked, trailing her fingers over the stone of the sill. How smooth it felt, almost like glass beneath her fingers.

“I don’t know,” he said, glancing at her. “I never spoke to the original owner or architect. But I would have built a house here because of it, I think.”

“For nefarious purposes? Like smuggling?”

He glanced around. “It seems the place for it, doesn’t it? Perhaps patriots used it to hide arms during the last rebellion.”

She knew little Scottish history, and when she admitted that to him, his chuckle caught her unawares.

“I think the history of America and that of Scotland are similar. Not on the same timeline, but in our craving for freedom from England.”

“Yet we Americans now gravitate to England,” she said. “Is it the same with you Scots?”

“Perhaps it is,” he said. “Or else I would not have given Ceana a season in London. We would have remained in Edinburgh.”

She would never have seen him, never known him, and wouldn’t be standing here now. She’d never been one to give much credence to fate, but she couldn’t help but wonder if there was something to it.

No other man had ever made her feel the way he had. She couldn’t imagine giving herself to someone else. Or experiencing such freedom and joy in the act.

“You didn’t seem enamored of London society,” she said.

He’d been different from the beginning, a little rougher, a little less refined. No, that wasn’t it. The other men she’d met in London had been too effeminate, too caring about how long their tea was steeped or the cut of their coat and the shine on their shoes. He was a man among men. A man with an accent and a separateness that marked him as unusual.

Did all Scots have that sense of independence?

He’d stood on the sidelines and watched others with a light in his eyes that told her he found most of what he saw to be ridiculous. A half smile played around his mouth; his stance was relaxed.

He’d never tried to belong in the drawing rooms of London. He rarely spoke to others, aloof and somewhat detached. He did not join the rest of the men in their entertainments. He was polite for his sister’s sake, and present so that Ceana could have her season.

“You were a magnificent dancer,” she said. “I was surprised.”

His laughter echoed through the grotto.

“That’s because you were my partner,” he said. “I don’t remember dancing with anyone as effortlessly.”

How strange to feel jealousy for that person she’d been, innocent and more than a little naive.

“Did you dance with many women?”

He smiled at her like he knew how foolish she was being and wanted to reassure her.

“I never imagined a place like this as a boy,” he said, blessedly changing the subject from London. “Besides, I was too busy worrying about earning enough money to eat.”

“Yet you still dreamed,” she said.

He nodded. “You always have time for dreams.” He stared off into the distance, and she wondered if he was recalling those years in Edinburgh.

“Was it an awful childhood?” she asked, then realized the question was unbearably rude.

“At times,” he said, before she could call back the question. “After my father died, I remember being afraid all the time. A friend of my father’s loaned me the money to bury him.” He glanced over at her. “That was the first debt I paid.”

She settled onto the ledge beneath the arched window, uncaring about the damage to her skirt, hoping he would continue to speak about his childhood and worried that doing so would trouble him.

“I couldn’t let the girls know how desperate we were, so I worked harder than I ever had before.” He smiled. “I sold broadsides for hours every day, then went back to the office and worked with Mairi to write them for the next day. Being out on the street helped me, because I heard what interested people, what worried them, what angered them.”

She pulled up her skirt and, she hoped, with a ladylike grace, scooted into a more comfortable position.

“How did you go from being a printer to inventing an ice machine?”

He grinned at her, such a charming expression that she couldn’t help but smile back.

“I used to clean the typeface with ether. Every time I did, it got cold. That fascinated me. I wondered if there was a way to get the air cold.”

“Was there?” she asked, fascinated.

“As a side effect,” he said. “But I also discovered I could create ice.”

“And your sisters never again had to worry about their meals.”

“Add another mouth,” he said. “My cousin, Fenella. Mairi invited her to live with us when her parents died.”

“Do they ever come to Drumvagen?”

He leaned against the stone wall. “They do. Mairi’s only two years older than me, but she thinks she’s my mother.” He glanced over at her. “Fenella occasionally accompanies her. Ceana hasn’t come back to Scotland after her marriage, but I think it’s probably only a matter of time.”

“Did you never wish for a brother, rather than all those females?”

He laughed. “My life was filled with relatives. I can’t say I wanted another.”

“I wanted a brother or a sister,” she said, giving him a confession of her own. “Maybe my childhood would’ve been easier. My father would not have cared so much about my studies. Or maybe he would have visited me more than twice a year.”

“While I think being an only child could be a blessing,” he said. “Mairi always wants to know why I haven’t married. She harangues me constantly about my plans for the paper. She gets into arguments with Brianag.”

Before she could comment that Brianag was a formidable figure, he moved to stand in front of her.

“See, you’ve changed this place already,” he said. “The grotto will forever smell of roses, and I’ll be able to close my eyes and say to myself, Virginia was here. I’ll mark the exact date and time.”

He mustn’t do that to her. He mustn’t cause her to want to weep simply with words.

Or perhaps that was her conscience rearing its head.

She moved her skirt aside so he could sit.

“What will you be thinking when you come here?” A foolish question, and one she should not have asked. His smile gently chided her, but he answered nonetheless.

“I’ll be wondering why you came to me on a stormy day. Why you stayed until the weather was fair. Why I know, even as you sit here, that you’re planning to leave again.”

She reached out and touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers.

“What would you say if I told you that I came all this way for what happened last night?”

A comment that was too close to the truth.

“Or a kiss?” he asked. He bent his head down as he spoke, his voice a little rough, accented Scottish. Her breath hitched at the sound of it, at the feel of his breath against her temple.

He kissed his way to her lips, hovered over them.

“A memory I might be able to summon any moment of any day.”

He kissed her softly, gently, his lips barely there. Suddenly, he clasped his hands behind her head, keeping her prisoner as he deepened the kiss, their tongues tangling, heat erupting between them.

She felt like her clothes might melt.

“I’ve never been able to forget you,” she said long minutes later, when the kiss was done. How would he respond to that confession?

He didn’t say anything, merely took her hand and kissed the tip of each finger.

“While I sat and brooded,” he said.

She smiled gently at him. “I doubt you brooded all that much. Ceana said that you’ve been very successful. People crave your attention all over the world.”

“It was easier to travel,” he said, “then sit and remember you.”

Perhaps this wasn’t the best topic. When she returned to London, she would not be able to easily forget this interlude. That’s all it was. For now, however, she didn’t want to waste one moment.

She slipped off the rock sill and stood in front of him.

“Did you ever think of taking me here?” she asked, wondering at her own daring. The girl she’d been, the woman she was, would never have considered saying such a thing. But for now, Virginia the mouse had become someone else, a shocking woman with an edge of desperation.

Not because she needed a child, but because she needed him.

His smile faded, his look growing even more intense, as if he were judging the limits of her courage.

Slowly, his hands reached out and gripped her shoulders, pulling her toward him. Before she could ask what he was about, he’d lifted her. Then she was on his lap, her knees on either side of his legs. Such a position opened her, made a mockery of any hint of modesty in her pantaloons.

She gripped his shoulders as he moved back, bracing himself with both arms.

“Never dare a Scotsman,” he said.

Chapter 12

H
er hands clutched his shoulders; her whole body bending toward him. One of his hands twisted in her hair. He thrust the other beneath her skirt.

He smiled at her look of surprise, watched as her eyes changed, turning soft. He leaned forward and kissed her, sinking against Virginia’s lips with a feeling of coming home.

Somehow, he had to convince her to remain with him. Life at Drumvagen would not be the same without her. He could promise her the world. He didn’t remain in Scotland year-round. She could travel with him. He was due in Australia in a few months, and she would enjoy the voyage. She would be at his side, someone who could listen to his thoughts, who could reason with him, someone who would believe in him.

He had to convince her to stay.

He held his hand over hers, conscious of the delicacy of her fingers. She had nearly unmanned him last night with this delicate hand. She had clenched him to her, had held him between her palms, had expressed such genuine delight he’d wanted to take her again and again until the newness of his conquest had worn off. Except, after their loving at dawn, he realized it wasn’t the novelty of Virginia ensnaring him, but her smile, the sparkle in her eyes and the tenderness of her touch.

She was the woman he’d loved for more than a year and thought lost to him.

The day could not be more wonderful. But it wasn’t the sparkle in the air after the storm or the blue, cloudless skies. Even if snow had fallen, followed by a monsoon, he would never feel this day was anything but miraculous.

She had come to him. Not only yesterday, but last night. She had come to him. All those nights of sitting and staring at the fire, wondering if she had found bliss in her husband’s arms—all those questions had been answered. Another miracle—she was nearly a virgin. She’d moaned in wonder and disbelief, and he had been the one to bring her those sensations, to gift her with satisfaction.

He pressed his cheek against hers, synchronized his breathing to hers, pressed his hand against the small of her back, wanting to know her more intimately than any other person.

“You’ve been in my dreams for so long,” he said, giving her the truth. “I wanted to know what it was like to touch you. Now that I know, I’ll never forget.”

A moment later he pulled back. “Are you crying, Virginia?”

She buried her face against his chest.

“Is that a no?” he asked when she sighed. “Or a yes?”

“You mustn’t keep doing that,” she said. “You bring me to tears with your words, Macrath.”

He enfolded her in his arms again, pressed her cheek against his chest, feeling a burst of tenderness for her.

“What a terrible woman I am to be in another man’s arms.”

“Newly widowed.”

“Yes,” she said.

His conscience, restrained until now, shook free of its ropes. “And I should release you.”

Neither moved.

Long moments went by before he reached up and pulled free the tantalizing braid she wore, starting to unplait it.

“Another dream of mine,” he said as she rested acquiescent in his arms. “To see your hair around your shoulders.”

She remained still, encapsulated by sunlight, a radiant woman with flushed cheeks and full lips.

Gulls serenaded them, the tide adding a layer of soft sound.

The desire coursing through him was a languid thing. He didn’t need instant completion as much as simply to touch her, breathe in her air.

“Are you seducing me?” she asked, reaching up to press her lips against his throat.

“Is it working?”

He felt her lips curve against his skin.

“Have you had a great many lovers?” she asked, sounding more British than American at the moment.

“Not all that many,” he said.

She stiffened and he called himself ten times a fool.

“But there were some?”

What kind of idiot discusses his past while holding the woman he loves in his arms?

Pulling back, she peered into his face. “Did they all seduce you? All those women? Or did you seduce them?”

He didn’t get the chance to answer. Her hands came up and pressed against the back of his neck, forcing his head down. She kissed him, not the soft and gentle kisses she’d given him before.

Her mouth opened, her tongue explored his, measuring the contours of his lips.

This moment, this time, with the sound of the sea and the tide and the bright glare of the sunlight warming his back, was unique. A memory he would recall forever.

To his surprise and delight, she unfastened the buttons of his shirt, spread her hands wide over his chest, her fingernails raking his skin.

She made a sound, a soft moan giving voice to desire.

He wanted to make her scream.

When her fingers trailed lower to fumble at his buttons, he bit back a strangled oath and placed his hand on hers.

“I call quarter,” he said. “Would you unman me?”

“I would mount you,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

He moved his hands away, holding them up in a gesture of surrender.

“Then do your worst, I’m your slave.”

Her lips were full and slightly swollen. He wanted to kiss her again, but when he leaned forward, she gently pushed him back, grabbing the silk of her skirts and moving them to the side so she could see. One by one she unfastened the buttons of his trousers, and when he was free, grabbed him with both hands.

He wanted to sing hosannas when her heated palms and fingers explored the length of him.

“You are so beautiful,” she said, her head bowed to study him.

She was the beautiful one, her cheeks flushed pink, her hair flowing around her shoulders.

“Stay with me,” he said, softly against her temple. He kissed her there, noting her shiver. Was she as attuned to him as he was to her?

He knew when she trembled, when her excitement was at its peak. He knew what pleased her, from soft kisses on the inside of her wrist to long strokes of his fingertips from her ankle to her hip.

He wanted her beneath him, wanted to press his forehead between her breasts, inhale her scent and feel himself home at last.

She was his harbor, and the thought warmed him. He knew he could tell her his secrets, his fears, and she’d keep them safe.

“Stay with me,” he said again. “Stay at Drumvagen.” He hadn’t expected to be this direct. But once he said the words, he smiled into her face. “Don’t be the Countess of Barrett,” he said. “Be the American Virginia Anderson.”

Instead of answering him, she raised up on her knees, holding onto his shoulders for balance. After some rearranging of her skirts, she slowly, so slowly he ached to pull her down, lowered herself on him. Her eyes were closed, an expression of such intensity on her face he couldn’t look away. Finally, she was seated, sitting astride him as easily as if he were a saddle.

Let her mount him, then. He would give her the ride of her life.

She opened her eyes, blinked at him, a smile curving her lips. Her face was flushed, and he knew he would never forget the sight of her at that moment.

She pressed her hands against his chest, her fingers splayed to tease his nipples. He surged upward. Her eyes fluttered shut, her smile fading.

“Not too fast,” she said. “Make it slow. Make it last.”

“I’m not sure I can,” he said. “You feel so damn good.”

Her smile was back. “So do you. But I like this,” she said. “So much.”

She was going to kill him. He was certain of it. But he didn’t move. Instead, he concentrated on the row of buttons down the front of her bodice.

He wanted her breasts. He wanted her nipples in his mouth. There, a task he could give himself to forget how hot and tight she felt around him.

The buttons done, he unfastened the busk at the front of her corset, pushed it away from her rib cage and stared at the black lace trimmed shift. With a murmured apology, he tore the edge of it until he could reach her breasts. His thumbs abraded her nipples while she was driving him mad by rocking on him.

He might not survive this.

He lowered his head until he could mouth one nipple, surging upward as he sucked on her. She gasped, gripping his chest with nails as sharp as talons.

She slowly rose up on her knees until he was nearly out of her, then lowered herself again.

Pleasure pierced him. “I’m not going to last if you keep doing that,” he said.

“I don’t want you to last,” she said. She smiled at him, a creature poised between innocence and knowledge. “I like seducing you.”

“You’re too expert at this.”

She shook her head slowly from side to side.

He pressed down on her hips, seating her on him. All he could think was: how much longer did she want this to last?

She slowed her movements, up and down, a little to the side, then raising up on her knees to tease him once more.

He bent his attention to her other breast, praying his stamina would last. If he could withstand the next few moments, perhaps he’d be the one to drive her mad and not vice versa. Either way, they’d both be delighted.

His hands clenched on her waist. He wished she was naked so he could feel every inch of her. Kissing her neck, he tasted the dampness of her skin, the heat of it. Her heart beat in a fierce rhythm and her breath came in gasps to equal his.

Now, it must be now. He couldn’t last any longer.

“Come with me, Virginia,” he whispered against her ear. “Come with me.”

She moaned against his lips as she climaxed. A second later he was with her, the world graying as his body shuddered.

H
annah knocked softly on the door, waited a moment, then opened it slowly.

She tiptoed through the sitting room. No doubt the silence meant the countess was asleep. She hoped it was not a fever or anything contagious.

When she reached the bedroom, she peered inside only to find the bed empty.

Opening the doors of the armoire, she surveyed the dresses. One was missing.

The room smelled of the rose scent the countess favored. Turning, Hannah faced the bed again.

The dowager countess would be pleased about these developments.

Yet the situation was also worrisome. Macrath Sinclair was not the type of man one tricked. Nor was Virginia, the Countess of Barrett, the kind of woman who could take advantage of someone with impunity.

Still, it was none of her concern, was it? The countess and her mother-in-law wouldn’t be the first women to take matters into their own hands. That thought did not ease her fears about the future.

A feeling of foreboding swamped her as she closed the armoire doors slowly, then left the room.

L
ong minutes later Virginia pulled back, her expression a combination of embarrassment and incredulity.

He stroked his knuckles over her heated cheeks, feeling his heart expand. He was happy, and the feeling buoyed him, expanded through him like air into a balloon.

For years he’d been willing to do almost anything to succeed, and he had. Until now he hadn’t realized he’d neglected a vital part of life. He hadn’t thought about his own happiness. Now it seemed of paramount importance.

In a day his life had changed course. One single day and suddenly his focus was different.

How did he retain this feeling of elation? He suspected the answer was absurdly simple—by keeping Virginia with him.

How did he coax her into loving him? Not with wealth, because she’d always been wealthy. He doubted he could pretty up his speech enough for it to be considered poetry. What could convince her to love him?

He’d always been able to find answers for his problems, either from correspondence with men more learned than he or by seeking out answers through trial and error. Who, though, did he go to for advice about love?

Brianag? Perhaps she could furnish him a potion to use, if she didn’t strike him for hinting she had powers of witchcraft. He would have paid the devil a ransom if Virginia remained with him.

She got to her knees and moved to his side. She rearranged her skirts and buttoned her bodice while he made himself presentable.

“Stay here. Don’t return to London,” he said.

She didn’t answer, only stared down at her clasped hands. A moment later she shook her head.

“I cannot,” she said. “How could you ask that of me?”

Had he been wrong? Did she value her title that much?

“I’m expected back in London,” she said faintly.

“You’re expected back in London,” he repeated.

She wouldn’t look at him, slipped from the ledge and turned her back. Her hair was floating about her shoulders in a cloud, enticing him. He wanted to thrust his hands into it, tilt her head back and watch her try to avoid him then.

“We’re not in London, Virginia,” he said. “We’re far enough away the gossips wouldn’t know you’re here. Or care. Stay with me. If you insist on mourning your earl, we’ll marry after enough time has passed.”

She turned toward him, her eyes widening, her face so pale she looked like she might faint.

“Oh, Macrath.” She walked closer and stretched out her hand, cupping his jaw in her palm. “Dearest Macrath.” Her voice sounded teary, but her eyes were dry.