The Virgin of Clan Sinclair (3 page)

She could almost hear the guilty giggles now.

Women would read her book in secret, their cheeks reddening. They would marvel at
The
Lusty Adventures of Lady Pamela
and wonder if they, too, had the courage the heroine had demonstrated.

Would her book incite others to explore the world with more adventure?

For that matter, would the book inspire her?

Why else would she be hiding in a stranger’s carriage? Lady Pamela would have done exactly this. In addition, her heroine would have discarded her bustle in the same manner.

Or perhaps she would have simply seduced the owner of the carriage and he would have gladly given her passage to Edinburgh in exchange for a little tumble on the leather seat.

Her face warmed as she thought of such an adventure taking place only inches from her. The stranger would be overcome by her beauty, of course. He would undress her slowly, each garment removed with a reverent air. He would kiss each area he unveiled, the curve of her neck into her shoulder, the skin above her shift.

He would touch her breasts, bend to kiss each nipple while excitement raced through her.

She was brought back to herself by voices.

Lifting her head, she tried to make out their conversation but couldn’t. To her surprise, however, they were moving, the carriage lurching as it started.

She lifted the seat up to discover that the carriage was empty.

They turned, the sharp curve throwing her shoulder against the compartment. She bit her lip hard, tasting blood, and felt the carriage turn again.

The road to Edinburgh didn’t wind around like this.

Abruptly, they stopped, the rocking of the carriage a sign the driver had dismounted.

To her horror, she heard Brianag’s voice, the words echoing.

“When you’ve settled your horses, ask one of the lads to bring you to the kitchen. We’ve a fish stew and bread baked this morning.”

They weren’t going to Edinburgh. Instead, all she’d done was hide in the carriage while the driver took it around to the stables.

She couldn’t leave the carriage for fear one of the lads would see her. Worse, they’d report her behavior to Macrath, who would feel duty bound to talk to her mother. That conversation would doom her to weeks of lectures, and might well escalate her mother’s plans.

In an attempt to gain her freedom, she’d only made matters much, much worse.

Chapter 3

T
he library door opened to admit Drumvagen’s housekeeper. Ross had the thought that regardless of how many times he met her, he would probably always be startled by her appearance.

Tall, with broad shoulders, she appeared almost like an Amazon. Her square face was matched with square lips and a jaw that jut pugnaciously out at the world. Her graying hair indicated that she was an older woman but her face was curiously unlined, making him wonder at her age.

Attired in a red and black tartan skirt and white blouse, she had a feathered brooch pinned at the base of her throat and a glare in her eyes.

She nodded just once in his direction, then evidently dismissed him.

“The Earl of Gadsden has agreed to be our guest, Brianag,” Sinclair told her. “Would you please show him to the guest chamber?”

By the time they made it up the stairs, the rain was pelting the windows like pebbles. He was even more appreciative of Sinclair’s hospitality; he wasn’t a fool to travel in weather like this.

Even in the midst of an increasingly fierce storm, Drumvagen was an oasis of safety, an example of man’s thumbing his nose at nature. When the lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, followed by deafening peals of thunder, the house stood impervious. None of the walls vibrated. The floors didn’t shake. The structure was as solid as a mountain and as defiant.

The housekeeper led him to a broad oak door with a brass handle and stepped aside.

“You’ll be settling in, then,” she said, nodding at him again. “The boiler works, but I imagine you’ll discover that on your own. I’ll send a maid to take you to the dining room promptly at six. In the meantime I’ll see that your coachman is settled.”

When he thanked her, she didn’t respond, merely left him standing in the hall, staring after her.

He entered the room, unsurprised to find that the comforts of Drumvagen extended to its guest chambers as well. He’d been given a bedroom with an adjoining bathing chamber, one that opened into a second bedroom.

Deep blue curtains were open, revealing a view of a turbulent sea, lightning flashes illuminating boiling clouds for just a second before plunging the world in darkness again.

He doubted his mother would miss him at home, not as long as there was a new arrival of purchases. Nor was there anyone else who would miss him at Huntly. Strange, that the realization should pinch now when it never had.

Perhaps it was the noise of Sinclair’s household. He could hear children laughing and someone singing not far away.

How long had it been since Huntly was filled with the sounds of children? Or had it ever been? Or was the house too large to be tamed in such a way?

He pushed the thought aside, along with the strange discomfort of the comparison.

Drumvagen wasn’t the first disappointment he’d ever experienced at his father’s hands, but it was a first lesson learned. Thomas was easily bored and not equipped to handle any problems. Over the years, he’d begun to understand that his father’s way of handling any crisis was to go off and get drunk in the company of willing hangers-on, people who realized that his father was as devoid of morals as he was flush with cash.

At last count, Ross had four illegitimate half brothers. Each was left a small fortune at his father’s death. Thomas had been less concerned about the three girls. One of Ross’s first decisions was to give each a matching amount of money.

His second task, and one that had occupied him since ascending to the earldom, was recouping what was left of the Gadsden honor.

As profligate as Thomas had been in sowing his seed in other places, he had only one legitimate child. As his heir, and the fifth Earl of Gadsden, it had fallen on Ross to attempt to undo decades of scandal.

A task that wasn’t as easy as simply announcing that he wasn’t his father.

Everywhere Ross went, his surname alone conjured up memories of glorious debauchery. Just last week a companion had regaled him with tales of how Thomas hired a performing troupe to entertain his guests. Various exotic animals were paraded through the man’s house, defecating at will and terrifying the staff.

Ross had heard similar tales over the years.

People remembered a reprobate. From the distance of years, Thomas had become less menacing and more hail-fellow-well-met. People saw him as less of a bastard and more of a boy in a man’s body.

Too bad Ross couldn’t say the same.

At least Sinclair had no stories to tell, no episodes of violent temper to recount, no profligate spending or wenching the length and breadth of Scotland and England.

He himself was not his father’s son. If anything, he was a creature that scandal had made.

Where his father had defied society, Ross embraced it. He was deferential to matrons, polite to young girls, and respectful to white whiskered men who would advise him on everything from his appearance to his investments.

Let the gossips go and talk about the Earl of Dumfries with his penchant for horse racing, or the Duke of Barnett who was rumored to have sired a bevy of children from the girls on his staff.

The fifth Earl of Gadsden was as proper as John Calvin.

He didn’t covet Drumvagen but he came close to envy when remembering the expression on Sinclair’s face when he spoke of his wife and children.

Drumvagen had become a home, one that Ross didn’t have even at his beloved Huntly. The sound of laughter was rarely heard in his house, unless it was an errant maid before being severely lectured. A man didn’t speak of his wife heavy with child or bear a look on his face half of desperation and half exuberant joy.

He’d created order at Huntly, a regimen worked out since he took over the earldom. He knew the exact number of maids and footmen he employed, the costs of their salaries, uniforms, days off, and the cleaning supplies required to keep Huntly spotless. He knew how many horses were stabled and the exact amount of feed they received each day, along with their exercise regimen. He was kept aware of the number of barn cats and hounds on the estate. Each repair to the house or the outbuildings was carefully calculated and planned in advance.

He made meticulous notes and had a daily schedule he consulted often.

Yet he hadn’t remembered his anniversary. The date had blindsided him.

Cassandra had been a beautiful woman. Her laughter still echoed in his mind. She was the perfect wife and would have been a glorious countess.

She never got the chance, dying two years after they’d wed. He’d been a widower more than twice as long as he was a husband.

His widowed state had made him a romantic figure. Girls sighed at him. Women fluttered their eyelashes. The widows of his acquaintance were predatory, and the mamas of every eligible female in the whole of Edinburgh bore down on him with fire in their eyes.

He avoided social engagements when he could or, when he was forced to attend, remained in the males-only bastion when the host was clever enough to create one, and begged off when it was possible.

Frankly, he was surprised that he hadn’t gotten a reputation for being sickly. He’d invented so many coughs, possible contagions, and stomach ailments, he was bound to be thought of as a hypochondriac.

He knew why he remained on the top of the Edinburgh marriage mart. He was alive, an earl, and single—all three qualified him to be a husband. The only problem was that the idea of marriage was abhorrent to him.

Unfortunately, most of the females of his acquaintance insisted on making him out to be a Scottish Heathcliff.

To them he was a creature from a fevered novel, a brooding hero plucked from the pages. He was as far from a romantic figure as that fool Heathcliff, wandering the moors when he should have applied himself to some sensible pursuit like repairing his home or purchasing cattle.

Baying at the moon never got a man anything but a hoarse voice.

T
he darkness was so complete, no matter how wide she opened her eyes, Ellice couldn’t see anything.

The carriage maker was to be commended. No cracks existed in the floor, and the compartment beneath the seat was perfectly joined, permitting not one thread of light.

She heard people moving around the carriage, felt the wheels roll a little as the brake was applied and the horses taken from their leads.

Someone laughed not far away and she smelled the pungent odor of wet hay, horses, and leather.

She was going to be late for dinner. Her mother would check her room and, finding her absent, would complain to the others at the table about what an ill-mannered chit she was.

I can’t imagine where the girl has gotten to now. Eudora was never such, disappearing at all hours with no concern for others. When Ellice is here, she’s almost a shadow. Never speaks. Never has an opinion. Dearest Eudora was such a conversationalist.

Only Virginia would know where she’d gone, but she wouldn’t tell. Nor did she ever contradict Enid, but her glance always carried a measure of compassion. As if to say,
She is a trial, isn’t she, Ellice?

She waited until she didn’t hear any more sounds, but just as she raised the carriage seat, she thought she heard one of the stable doors opening.

How was she to ever get out of here? The stables were always occupied, by either the stable master or one of the grooms. People were always walking in or out. Would they even notice her? If someone did, could she stop them from carrying the tale?

She forced herself to relax. She would have to miss dinner, that’s all, including meeting the stranger who’d been convinced to remain at Drumvagen.

Her plan would have worked, too, if only he hadn’t decided to stay.

She wasn’t good at telling time without a watch. The minutes seemed to stretch on into eternity when she was waiting for something to happen. Fifteen minutes might have passed or it might have been longer. When finally it seemed as if the sounds in the stable were muted, other than the stomp and snorts of the horses, she opened the seat, grateful that the hinges didn’t squeak.

Getting out of the compartment was a great deal easier than going in, and she took a moment to fluff her skirts and debate over putting on her bustle for the short scamper to the house. Would anyone see?

Yes, they undoubtedly would, and they’d go to her mother. Or, heaven forbid, Virginia.

No, Virginia wouldn’t listen to tales about her. As for her mother, she couldn’t even bear considering that conversation.

Your ladyship, did you know your daughter was cavorting about in the stable? Hiding in a carriage, she was, and acting as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

No, that would never do.

She blew out a breath, wished she never had the idea of escaping Drumvagen, and opened the carriage door.

T
he nursery, on the same floor as the family rooms, was in chaos, the door firmly closed. That wasn’t to prevent anyone from entering as much as it was to keep Fiona from leaving. She’d been walking for months now and was insistent on exploring. Everyone was afraid she’d tumble down the sweeping stairs in front of the house or the servants’ stairs in the rear. Therefore, she was kept closely guarded, at least until she was capable of understanding and obeying instructions.

“No,” to Fiona was merely a sound, one to ignore.

Today she was taking great pains in being even more obstinate, as she sat on the floor playing with a profusion of colored wood blocks and occasionally kicking one into submission.

Bedtime was rapidly approaching and tonight Virginia couldn’t wait. She’d sent Alistair on ahead since he’d been quarrelsome all day. When Mary finished tucking him into his bed, she’d return for Fiona. Only twelve when she’d come to Scotland, the young maid had blossomed in the intervening years. At last count she had three suitors from Kinloch Village.

Virginia sat back, placed her hands on her stomach and wondered at the pain sweeping through her. This labor felt nothing like the two before.

Hannah sat beside her, intent on her needlework and eyeing her every few minutes. The maid had settled into Drumvagen and become a dear friend, their bond having grown since London. Hannah was happily married herself now and well on her way to becoming a Scot.

“You need to go lie down,” Hannah said now.

“I’m having my child,” Virginia said, forcing herself to smile.

Hannah’s eyes widened but she didn’t try to dissuade Virginia.

After all, she’d already proved everyone wrong when she gave birth the first time. She was in labor with Alistair only a few hours. Fiona’s birth had been even faster. It seemed as if Providence had granted her the ability to have her children in a remarkably quick manner, a fact that had her darling Macrath in knots.

He watched her sometimes like he was afraid she was going to simply stop in the middle of the hall and deliver their child there.

“Have you told Macrath?” Hannah asked.

“Good heavens, no. He’d be circling me. Can you imagine?” She crossed her hands over the mound of her stomach and tried to smile again. The effort was too much, however, as another cramping pain stretched from her back to hug her in the depths of her womb.

Something was wrong.

“You’re lips are nearly blue, Virginia,” the maid said. “And I’m not liking your color. You should get to your bed.”

She nodded, nausea sweeping through her. Her heart was beating much too fast. That had never happened before, either.

“It might be a good idea to let Macrath know.”

Hannah grabbed the bellpull before reaching for Fiona.

A year and a half old, her daughter had the promise of beauty along with the Sinclair eyes. Her hair was black and curled around her shoulders. Her mouth was pursed in a pretantrum yowl as she reached for her blocks.

“Come with me,” Hannah said. “We’ll play a game.”

Fiona smiled and thrust both hands at her, a signal that she was more than willing to be picked up.

Macrath must have given instructions that any request from her be answered at a racing pace because a maid was at the door in less than a minute.

“Would you send for Macrath, please?” Virginia asked, pain making her breathless. The maid disappeared as fast as she arrived.