Page 95 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Drumvagen hugged the coastline, perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. There must be a way to reach the beach, get into the grotto, and from there climb the passage into the house.
Now, she saw to her surprise a few outbuildings north of Drumvagen, structures she hadn’t noticed or known about on her earlier visit.
As she approached, she saw a large stable, three other buildings, and a structure that looked like a barn except taller. They sat between Drumvagen and the road she was on. At least a dozen people were working, and several gave her curious glances. She smiled in greeting, pretending she belonged there, and passed them, intent on finding a way down to the beach.
A quarter hour later she found a spot that looked well traveled, tiptoed to the edge and peered over the side. A narrow path led from the road down to a crescent-shaped beach. The descent was dangerously steep. She drew back, fighting a sudden wave of dizziness.
She could stand here being afraid or simply ignore the feeling and go on with her plan.
She grabbed her skirt in one hand, the other outstretched to give her balance.
Did Drumvagen boast mountain goats? If so, this path was created by them, going in one direction then abruptly turning in another, forming a Z on the face of the cliff.
Halfway down, sand covered the rocks, the narrow path becoming even more treacherous. Twice she almost fell and caught herself by gripping clumps of gorse. Each time she uttered a quick and fervent prayer, hoping God would forgive all her previous transgressions in favor of saving her now.
Her heart was pounding and her breath coming in sharp pants. She could only concentrate on her footing, not the ocean’s nearness or the tide.
She jumped the last foot or so, landing on the beach. Glancing back the way she came, she knew she’d have to find the grotto. She wouldn’t be able to retrace her steps up the steep incline.
Never would she have thought she’d do something as adventurous as climb down a cliff. But then, since Lawrence’s funeral she’d done a great many things she would never have imagined. She’d seduced a man, borne a child, survived smallpox. Now she was trying to gain entrance into Macrath Sinclair’s home.
Hardly the behavior of a countess. She could almost hear the rumormongers whispering. “Have you heard? The Countess of Barrett was seen clambering down a cliff! Have you ever?”
Thank heavens she was far away from the drawing rooms of London. She could only imagine what would happen if they discovered the greater scandal.
“My dear, he isn’t Lawrence’s son, didn’t you know? Some Scot, I hear.”
That wasn’t going to happen. Somehow she would protect Elliot, even from his father if necessary.
She grabbed her skirts with one hand and picked her way across the sand. When she rounded an outcropping of rock, she almost sagged in relief, seeing the arched window of the grotto.
A few minutes later she was below the window, dismayed to realize it stretched a good distance above her. Even the large shelf of black stone that looked like a windowsill was out of her reach.
Turning back, she searched the ground for what she needed. At the narrowest part of the beach she finally located a rock large enough to stand on. The journey back to the window took several minutes because she had to stop, put the heavy rock down, rest, and a moment later pick it up again.
Placing the rock beneath the window, she stood on it and stretched her hand upward. The ledge was still several inches out of her grasp.
For the next few minutes she gathered up stones, setting them on the larger rock already below the window. One by one she added the smaller stones, each big enough to stand on. When she was finally done, she stood on the rock platform and could finally place her palm on the ledge.
She’d simply have to climb the rest of the way.
She glanced down at her silk skirt. In London, before leaving for Drumvagen, they’d only packed two dresses. She would have to sacrifice this one for a greater purpose—getting to her son.
Balancing on the pile of stones, she found a foothold on the stone wall and pulled herself up. Placing her foot in another gap, she repeated the movement, climbing an inch at a time.
She should have thought to wear gloves. Her palms were badly abraded and her knuckles scraped raw.
After reaching the ledge, she lay there, exhausted. The realization that she’d accomplished half her goal was enough to impel her to swing her legs over and slide down into the grotto.
Memories immediately swirled around her.
She’d never been able to forget the way Macrath made her feel. How could she? She’d experienced joy wrapped in laughter, wonder coupled with a passion so overwhelming it stripped from her the lessons she’d been taught on deportment and manners.
Here, in this spot, she’d been the instigator in their loving. She’d seduced him, not because Enid ordered it, but because she wanted him.
Her cheeks flushed.
Had Macrath been able to forget?
