Page 72 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
“We’ve a fortnight till London,” the captain said, “but I’ve a wager you’ll win.”
“A wager you’ve made with the other captains?”
“Aye,” the man said, grinning at him. “We’ll have one of those haunches of beef you’re cooling for us.”
They spoke of the voyage for a few more minutes before Macrath turned back to his machine. Tending it all these days had been wearing, but not if he won the wager.
In a fortnight he’d be in the city where she lived.
He’d tried not to think of her, the second time he’d attempted to wipe his memory clean. He’d given a valiant effort to eradicate all thoughts of loving her, of that time in the grotto, of her kisses, her whispers, the sound she made when she found pleasure in his arms.
In the process, he’d been willing to admit he was only human and some memories were not easily forgotten.
Even now he could summon her simply by closing his eyes. He could feel her, pliant in his arms, her breasts overflowing his hands, her laughter echoing in his ears. She trembled the first time he’d kissed her. In Scotland she’d done the same, but without the intrusion of prying eyes he was able to hold her close until she was the impatient one. Until she reached up and kissed him back.
How the hell could he forget that memory?
He wasn’t a man who confided his feelings to others, but on nights like these, when the stars peered down at him like a million interested eyes, he wished there was someone to whom he could say, “I was a fool not to court Miss McDermott. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t possess a throaty laugh or eyes reminding me of clouds. Nor was she to blame for my being unable to get Virginia’s face from my mind.”
If he were honest he might have said, “I should hate her for leaving me. For choosing a title over me.”
Despite her protestations, being the Countess of Barrett had meant more to her than anything else. More than staying in Scotland with him. More than his feelings for her. More than his love.
The stars, winking above a black sea, were silent.
London
July, 1870
In her delirium, Virginia was a girl again, racing through the woods near Cliff House, laughing. In the next instant she was standing on the bluff overlooking the Hudson River shining blue-gray and bearded by strips of forest. Her father owned most of the land she saw, but he rarely seemed pleased about his possessions. Or her, for that matter.
Then she was swinging, her skirts in the air, her stomach plummeting as she soared, her nurse fussing at her to be less of a hoyden and more of a young lady.
Her dog, Patches, was barking beside her as she ran from the porch of Cliff House across the wide expanse of lawn to the woods. She loved the woods bordering the white painted house above the Hudson, loved the smell of the rich, loamy soil, and the sweet scent of the purplish white flowers growing in wild abandon.
Suddenly she was in the ballroom, having to walk a straight line from one side of the room to the other, turn and walk back over the parquet floor to the other wall while maintaining a rigid posture, her chin level, an insipid smile painted on her face. The voices of her governesses, three in all because they’d each failed in some way to please her father, rang in her ears. The dancing master despaired of her, but she was good at balancing a book on her head, keeping her two feet parallel to each other, and pretending she was walking on a train track. There were so many rules to learn. More rules than countries and capital cities.
Her skirts must not sway. She must, above all, know the names of the guests attending her father’s annual summer party. She must be seen but never heard, unless her father asked her a question, and then she must reply as quickly as possible with the right answer so as not to embarrass him.
Her governess was rarely pleased with her, unless it came to spelling or geography. She was good at both, less competent at mathematics, and not at all interested in French or Italian.
“Why can’t I just speak English?” she asked in her fevered dream.
Her governess sharply rapped her knuckles for that question.
“I have a child,” she said, pulling the ruler from the governess’s grasp. “He’s the most wonderful child in the world,” she added in perfect Italian. “Have you any children? Has any man loved you?”
The scene shifted yet again and she was standing beside Lawrence’s coffin. In the way of delirium and dreams, she knew some of what she was experiencing had been true. She felt the sleek mahogany of the coffin top and remembered touching it and the brass nameplate there.
Then she was standing inside the burial plot, and the caretaker lowered Lawrence’s coffin to her. She perched atop it, her hoop billowing around her waist, as they piled dirt on top of her. Her pantaloons were covered in dirt and she was missing one shoe.
Abruptly, it was no longer Lawrence’s coffin but Eudora’s. Poor Eudora was screaming in disbelief. Ellice was pointing at her and giggling.
None of the mourners seemed to think anything was amiss as both of them were buried alive. Not one person said anything, even Macrath, who stood at the end of the burial plot, looking down at her with a severe expression.
“Will you help me?” she asked, stretching up one hand.
His fingertips touched hers, and just when she thought he would grip her hand, he pulled back.
