Page 12 of Return to Clan Sinclair
“How long will you be staying?”
She folded her hands, straightened her shoulders and smiled thinly up at him. “Do sit down, Mr. Preston. If you’re going to continue with your marathon of questions, shouldn’t you at least be comfortable? Or must you overpower everyone with your size?”
“Who’s being crass now, Mrs. Mead? Is it entirely polite for a woman to comment on a man’s ... size?”
Her entire face was flushed, but her eyes sparkled merrily at him. He was certain Ceana was enjoying their encounter.
“Never mind,” he said, taking the chair opposite the settee. He made no pretense of looking away, but studied her intently. “I can find out the answer to most of those questions.”
“Why would you even care?”
He settled back, resting his ankle on his knee and placing his hands on the arms of the chair.
“Because you fascinate me. I’m curious about a great many things, Mrs. Mead. Such as you. I find myself wanting to know all manner of things about you.”
She looked away, presenting him a perfect profile. She had a stubborn chin, an aquiline nose, and lips that interested him entirely too much.
How did she kiss? Did she throw herself wholeheartedly into passion or did she need to be coaxed into it?
“You never answered me,” he said. “How long has it been since your husband died?”
She turned to look at him, and to his shock there were tears in her eyes. He stood and before she could say a scathing word to him was beside her on the settee, pulling out his handkerchief and pressing it into her hand.
“Oh for the love of God, Ceana, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
She smiled and the expression of tears and humor made his heart turn over in his chest.
“You didn’t,” she said. “Oh, very well, maybe you did. Everyone has been so careful not to talk about my husband, as if doing so might resurrect him. As if Peter would appear like a ghost in the middle of the parlor. Peter would never haunt anyone. He was always so careful to consider everyone’s opinion and wishes.”
The man sounded like one of those diffident creatures he’d encountered occasionally who were so anxious to please other people they never pleased themselves.
“I really can be extraordinarily rude at times,” he said. “Forgive me.”
She pressed his handkerchief to her cheeks, mopping up her tears.
If Macrath Sinclair entered the room now he would think that his sister had been abused in some fashion.
“Why are you here?” she asked, surprising him. “What secret do you and Macrath share? Is it a new invention? Why won’t he talk about it?”
He stared at her.
“You see how annoying it is, Mr. Preston?”
He began to smile.
“Are you married, Mr. Preston?”
“Not anymore,” he said.
“That means you once were. I’m sorry.”
“It was a very long time ago, Mrs. Mead. I do not pull on the scab of my grief in order to feel it every day.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” she asked.
“Only you can answer that question.”
“If you must know, Mr. Preston, I was not crying for my husband. I was missing my daughters. Do you have children?”
