Page 4 of Return to Clan Sinclair
He smiled, an utterly charming expression, and so like Macrath she stopped for a moment, catapulted back into the past. He might have said the same words Macrath often said to her back then:It’s going to be better, Ceana, don’t worry. It’s going to be all right, I promise.
They would have enough food to eat. They would have enough money to make sure they stayed warm.
He’d made good on all those promises and more. Because of Macrath, she’d had a London season with new dresses and a dance instructor. Because of Macrath, she’d married the son of a duke.
“If you’ll pardon me, Aunt Ceana,” Alistair said, unaware of her mental trip to Edinburgh and the days of penury, “I’ll go and see what room Brianag has assigned to you.”
She had the most absurd wish to apologize for her arrival. Or causing a disagreement with the housekeeper, but she had a feeling facing Brianag down had elevated her stature in Alistair’s eyes as well.
What was Macrath thinking, to allow Brianag to be in charge of the children? She chided herself for the question. What she was engaging in now was a little of her Irish brothers-in-law behavior. What right had she to dictate anything? Sweet and unassuming as Fiona appeared, there was every chance she, herself, was as much a hellion as Carlton was rumored to be.
Drumvagen was as different from Iverclaire as she’d hoped.
CHAPTERTWO
“See? I told you he wouldn’t stay in his room. See? I told you,” Fiona said, pointing to the window.
At first Ceana couldn’t make out exactly what she was seeing: a corner of a curtain, perhaps, or a bit of laundry falling from the window. Then she realized it was a rope made of some material, perhaps sheets. As she watched, two shoes came into view, then a pair of trousers.
“He’s going to the grotto.”
“He’s going to kill himself,” Ceana said, standing and estimating the distance to the beach.
Fiona shook her head. “He’s done it before.”
Just then Carlton’s face came into view. Her nephew grinned at her, an expression reminding her of Virginia’s smile, just before he glanced down and his look changed to terror.
“Where’s the grotto?” Ceana asked, her voice rough with urgency. She’d heard of Drumvagen’s grotto but had never seen it. “Show me, Fiona. Now!”
Her niece slid from the settee, grabbed her hand and pulled her from the parlor, racing down one of Drumvagen’s corridors.
They came to a closed door, but Fiona opened it without hesitation, revealing a library that was probably Macrath’s domain and forbidden to his children. She would have to make her apologies after she’d saved Carlton.
Fiona ran to the bookshelf.
“There’s a latch up there,” she said, pointing to the second shelf from the top. “Can you see it?”
She could.
“Pull it down and then pull the bookshelf out. It leads to a passage to the grotto.”
She turned. “Aren’t you coming, Fiona?”
The girl shook her head. “No, it’s too dark.”
She wasn’t fond of the dark, either, or things lingering there, like bugs and snakes and vermin. But she had Carlton to think of. How horrible would it be for Macrath and Virginia to return from Edinburgh to find she’d been present at the death of their child?
The darkness was nearly absolute, leaving her no choice but to stretch her hands out on either side of her, fingertips brushing against the stone walls. The incline was steep, further necessitating she take her time. Yet at the back of her mind was the last image she had of Carlton, his bright impish grin turning to horror as he glanced down.
The passage abruptly ended in a mushroom-shaped cavern. This was the grotto she’d heard so much about, with its flue in the middle and its broad, wide window looking out over the beach and the sea. She raced to the window, hopped up on the sill nature had created over thousands of years and leaned out.
A naked man reached up, grabbed Carlton as he fell. After he lowered the boy to the sand, he turned and smiled at her.
Carlton was racing across the beach, glancing back once or twice to see if he was indeed free. The rope made of sheets was hanging limply from his window.
The naked man was standing there with hands on his hips, staring at her in full frontal glory.
She hadn’t seen many naked men, the last being her husband. The image in front of her now was so startling she couldn’t help but stare. A smile was dawning on the stranger’s full lips, one matched by his intent brown eyes. No, not quite brown, were they? They were like the finest Scottish whiskey touched with sunlight.
