Page 109 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Virginia didn’t have any other option but to follow, and hope the housekeeper wasn’t leading her to the dungeon.
Brianag stopped, waving her toward an arch.
“Say but little and say it well,” she said before walking away.
She stared after the woman. What did that mean? Did Brianag try to be confusing?
She walked into the Clan Hall, her anxiety fading in the face of such beauty. Here was the true heart of Drumvagen. High white walls covered in tapestries and paintings led to a ceiling timbered in dark wood beams. Two rose marble fireplaces, each as tall as Macrath and as wide as a settee, stood on opposite sides of the room. Narrow windows were cut high up in three walls, revealing a night sky sparkling with stars. During the day, light would flood into the room, touch the upholstered furniture arranged around mahogany tables, and illuminate even the darkest canvas.
Now, lamps scattered throughout the room colored the walls a pale yellow and beckoned her inside.
Had Macrath commissioned those portraits? Or were they from his family? Or had he simply purchased them because he liked the faces and the colors?
Questions she might ask him if they ever talked again like they had in London or those magical moments in the grotto.
Crystal bowls filled with cloves and other spices—Macrath’s scent—rested on tables beside comfortable looking chairs. Shiny brass andirons shaped like dragons perched in the fireplaces, while ceramic vases painted blue and looking foreign rested on the hearth and mantel.
Rather than placed against the wall, the furniture was arranged in seating areas, encouraging a visitor to sit before the fire and talk. Each settee was upholstered in a fabric she’d never seen, colors resembling autumn leaves embroidered on an ivory background.
The room was blessedly uncluttered and spacious. A warm and inviting room she would be proud to call hers.
She froze.
Macrath was sitting near the cold fireplace in a high-back chair watching. The setting reminded her of London, enough that she wondered if he’d staged it that way.
His eyes were intent on her, his hands relaxed on the carved arms of the chair. He wore a white shirt and dark trousers, but there was no doubt he was the master of Drumvagen, its laird and its devil.
A worthy adversary, her father would have said.
She took a deep breath and entered the room, coming to his side and taking the chair next to him before he asked her to sit or even invited her to do so.
“Did you know Drumvagen has fifty-two rooms?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“It has thirty-two fireplaces, ninety-six doors, two hundred fifty-six windows, and a total of twenty-two hundred panes of glass. That’s only the main house, not the outbuildings.”
“Did you memorize all that?”
“I own it. Don’t you think I should know what I own?”
“You don’t own me,” she said, putting her knees together and placing one hand atop the other on her lap, a pose she’d been schooled in by all her governesses.
“I do not.”
His tone was agreeable, but the sharp look in his eyes said something entirely different.
“I’m not leaving the cottage.”
“Ah, but the cottage is not up to your standards.”
“I don’t recall saying that,” she said.
A quirk of his lips irritated her. Had she amused him?
“Very well,” she said, remembering the litany she’d leveled at him about the conditions of the cottage. “The roof is repaired, you’ve had planks placed across the floor. I’m comfortable there.”
“Yes, but you’re my son’s mother. I would say you deserve the best.”
