Page 105 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Drumvagen, Scotland
September, 1870
Aweek passed. A week of harmony, at least on the surface. Every morning, Virginia left the cottage for Drumvagen, returning only at the gloaming, as the Scots called it. Except for those times when he visited Elliot when she was there, she didn’t see Macrath. They didn’t converse. He didn’t threaten, and she didn’t try to convince him of anything.
He spent a lot of time in the nursery, however, and that was disconcerting.
When he smiled at her, she forgot what she was saying, her words stumbling to a halt. She stared at him and he looked oddly pleased, leaving her wishing he hadn’t come to see Elliot.
“He loves the boy,” Agatha said one day after Macrath left.
“That he does,” Mary added. “Elliot smiles in a certain way when his father comes to tuck him in at night.”
Anyone who saw them together could tell Macrath adored Elliot. He wasn’t afraid to lift him from his cradle, carry him from place to place, and even play horse with him. His knee was the steed and Elliot squealed in delight when Macrath bounced him up and down.
Each time he placed Elliot back in the cradle, he said, “God be with you.” She’d always look away and pretend she wasn’t affected by his soft-voiced blessing.
Once, she glanced back to find Macrath watching her. At times like that she could almost convince herself he was feeling amiable about her.
Perhaps he would allow her to leave. If she worded her request in exactly the right way, he might see the reason in her argument.
Was she being naive to even think such a thing?
He didn’t, however, bring up her leaving Drumvagen again. Nor did she, unwilling to face the impenetrable wall of Macrath’s determination. The situation could not continue to exist as it was. Macrath was not the type of man to simply acquiesce to circumstances.
He manipulated them.
She returned to the cottage, annoyed that Macrath was able to bid Elliot good-night. He wasn’t living in a cottage on the moor. He was only a few steps away from the nursery. He could straighten the covers, say a prayer over his child, and ensure he was ready for sleep.
Hannah wasn’t in the cottage, and Virginia wondered if she’d walked to the village. Life in their small cottage was occasionally boring. Macrath employed a large staff at Drumvagen, easily fifty people, most of whom were men who lived in the village and didn’t try to hide their appreciation of her maid.
Hannah didn’t seem adverse to being noticed by the Scots, either. She’d yet to see one in a kilt, but Hannah said they wore them in the village.
What was it about Scottish men? Perhaps it was their way of speaking, the rolling lilt of their voice sounding like warm cream.
When Macrath talked, she wanted to close her eyes and simply listen. He could be reading an atlas and make it sound delicious.
Or maybe it was the twinkle in his eyes. Did all Scottish men have it, or was it simply Macrath?
What woman could resist him?
She must.
After checking the stove to ensure the fire was still banked, she put on the kettle and returned to the table.
The cottage had changed from two weeks ago. She’d returned one day to find boards had been laid over the dirt floor and rugs atop them that had to be worth more than the whole cottage. There was china, too, easily the equal of what she’d used in London, and crystal that she thought better than Enid’s.
Macrath was evidently determined to be a good host.
When the kettle started hissing, she moved it to a cool spot on the stove, poured the boiling water into the teapot and stood waiting for the tea to steep.
From her spot by the stove she could see a hint of one of Drumvagen’s towers. The air was different at gloaming, diffuse and almost hazy, like nature couldn’t bear the thought of night and submitted to it by degrees.
She felt the same tonight. Darkness was coming and with it loneliness.
Her son was safe, feted, and adored. His father was a man of principle, ambition, and wealth. If those were the only issues she had to deal with, life would be easy indeed.
A wagon lumbered down the road, but rather than passing the cottage, it stopped in front of it.
