Page 11 of Return to Clan Sinclair
He was on his best behavior for the rest of dinner, which meant he ignored Ceana. From time to time he would glance in her direction then look away when she noticed.
He’d never seen a woman so beautiful in black. She was the epitome of suffering, and he’d seen his share. He still recalled every memory of the war, of the carnage he’d seen and the widows and orphans he’d had to greet. He had found something good to say about every man in his command. They’d all been soldiers, most of them unwilling and unprepared to go to war, but they’d done so anyway. More than a few had died with surprise on their faces.
He wanted to know her story. Who was her husband? How had he died? Where had she lived? Why, of all of them at the dinner table, did he seek out her smile the most?
Perhaps it had something to do with the look she’d given him earlier. He could have mistaken the hunger on her expression. He could have simply wanted to see it.
When they moved away from the dinner table and into the small parlor, Macrath and Virginia addressed them both.
“I hope you’ll forgive our absence for a few minutes,” Macrath said. “It’s time to tuck our brood into bed.”
And check on Carlton, if he didn’t miss his guess.
He went to stand beside the fireplace, resting one hand on the mantel just inches away from the frame of the family portrait. It was of Macrath, Virginia, and their three children. On the opposite wall there was another member of the family with the Sinclair eyes. On a third wall there was a picture of Ceana along with a redheaded man. She was younger there but her eyes still sparkled as they had in the grotto. Her husband’s expression was one of adoration, and her smile was ripe with joy.
Even a blind man could see she’d been in love.
“Did you still love him on the day he died?” he asked, turning to her. She gave him a blank look at first, and then her expression melted into anger.
“What kind of question is that to ask, Mr. Preston?”
“An intrusive one,” he said. “An impertinent one. Possibly even a rude one.”
She looked surprised at his self-indictment.
“Yet I can’t help but want to know. If you loved him on the day he died, he died a happy man. Not all men can say as much, Mrs. Mead.”
She turned her head and studied the portrait she’d studiously avoided until now.
“I loved him with my whole heart,” she said.
“Then I envy the man, dead as he is.”
She shook her head at him. “You have to stop saying things like that.”
“Most people think it’s because I’m an American. We’re a little crass sometimes.”
“Nonsense. I’ve known my share of Americans, including Virginia. They were all extraordinarily polite people. All but you, Mr. Preston.”
She grabbed the material on the backside of her dress, moved it so she could sit.
“Why do women insist on having a bustle over their bottom?” he asked. “Do you have no idea how ridiculous you look?”
Her eyes were blazing at him now, her cheeks pink. He hid his smile with difficulty.
“Are you an expert at fashion? Or do you think it would be better for me to appear naked at dinner?”
“I doubt I should have finished my meal in that case, Mrs. Mead.”
She had the most enchanting expression on her face, a combination of surprise and irritation.
“Where do you live?”
“None of your concern,” she said.
“Why have you come to Drumvagen?”
“Again, none of your concern.”
