Page 77 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
It couldn’t be Virginia. He refused to believe it.
He removed his hat, scraped a hand through his hair and replaced it. With the fingers of one hand, he tested the folds of his cravat, while the other smoothed down the front of his coat.
Glancing down, he inspected the toes of his shoes. They were still shiny despite the dust from the hay.
His knock was answered by a man in his shirtsleeves. “What do you want?”
“Is this the home of the Countess of Barrett?” he asked, wondering if his solicitor had gotten the information wrong.
“Why would you be wanting to know?”
Macrath didn’t like making instant judgments about people, but he took an immediate dislike to the man who stood in the doorway, blocking his entrance.
“I’d like to see her,” he said, withdrawing his card.
The other man read the card, frowning. “A Scot,” he said, his tone leaving no doubt of his contempt.
Macrath bit back his annoyance. He didn’t care what the idiot thought of him. He needed to see Virginia.
“Tell her Macrath Sinclair is here to see her.”
“She’s ill.”
Time slowed, each minute freezing in slow motion.
“She’s ill?” He glanced at the wreath on the door. “Is it smallpox?”
“It’s none of your concern,” the man said, and tried to close the door in his face. Macrath slapped his hand on the door, pushed it open and entered. He was half a foot taller than the other man and angrier.
“I want to see her. Now.”
“She’ll not see you. She’s not seeing anyone.”
“I’m not leaving until I make sure of that myself,” he said. He was going to find her if he had to knock on every door in this house.
If she was sick, she’d be in her room. He strode toward the staircase, but before he could reach it, the other man grabbed his arm. He shook it off and took the steps two at a time.
“Virginia!”
On the second floor, a maid at the far end of the corridor door turned and stared at him, clutching toweling to her chest.
Before he could reach her, the idiot attacked him.
Hannah heard the shouts, and her first thought was someone else had died. Her second was that Paul had lost his mind, shouting the way he was. The third, immediately on its heels, was that retribution had come, today of all days.
She glanced at her patient. Virginia was asleep, but this morning she’d eaten her first solid food in two weeks and perched on the edge of the bed, dangling her feet. Tomorrow, she would get her up and let her sit in the chair by the window, for a change of scenery if nothing else.
Now, however, the wrath of Scotland was upon them.
She hurried to the door, pressing her ear against the wood.
Macrath turned and struck out, hearing a satisfying crack as his fist slammed into the man’s chin.
The bastard fell, and he went after him, straddling the man’s chest, pulling him up by his collarless shirt and shaking the man until his eyes opened.
“Where is she?” he asked, enunciating each word.
The man rebounded like a cat, striking out with his feet and connecting behind Macrath’s knee. He stumbled, catching himself at the last moment. Enough time for the man to get to his feet, come after him like a bull and butt him in the stomach.
