Page 99 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Not the response he expected.
“You cannot keep a child from his mother, Macrath.”
“You cannot keep a child from his father, Virginia.”
She looked away, facing the window. For a few moments she ignored him, speaking to their son in tones too low to be overheard. The gentleness of her movements didn’t need speech, however, nor the quick act of brushing her face with one hand.
He’d thought of her at Drumvagen, knowing they would weather anything together. She would bear his children who would inherit his empire. When they spoke of him, which they surely must do, they would also speak of his great love for an American woman.
Except, of course, none of it had happened.
Her hair, black as a crow’s belly, shone in the sun. Her eyes were such a pale blue they looked almost like clouds passing across a Scottish sky. Her face, oval and delicate, featured a nose at once aristocratic and pert, a mouth lush enough to fuel his dreams.
He didn’t want to remember her long, long legs or those magnificent breasts right at the moment. Not when he was thinking she was a selfish bitch.
She faced him, her eyes direct and unflinching, yet her shoulders were too straight, her posture too rigid for true composure.
Did she think he was unaware of her tears?
She should leave this moment. He would escort her to the door himself, summon her coachman and send her fleeing from his property. She would no longer be able to look at him with those soft eyes of hers and her mouth trembling.
He could easily hate her for what she did. Easily despise her for how conflicted he felt in her presence. No one else had the ability she did to turn his world upside down, then smile at him in apology.
“I was always so careful in telling you the truth when you did nothing but lie to me. Why did you do it?”
Her smile seemed forced as she turned Alistair in her arms, patted his hands together, and leaned her head against his.
He would damn well stand here until the North Sea turned to ice, but he was going to get an answer.
“Why did you take Elliot?”
“His name is Alistair,” he said. “My father’s name. Not Elliot, which is too English. He isn’t English, you know. He’s half American and half Scot.”
“The world doesn’t see it that way. He’s Lawrence’s child. He’s the eleventh Earl of Barrett.”
“Then the world needs to be corrected,” he said.
“And, in doing so, would you label your son a bastard?”
“I would label my son a Scot,” he said.
She frowned at him. “You once admitted you were stubborn. Do you take pride in it?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened.
“Did you expect me to lie to you?” he asked.
“I don’t know what to expect from you,” she said, and the words were said with such exasperation he suspected they were the truth.
“Don’t expect anything. Just leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “Not as long as Elliot is here.”
Their son started to fuss. She stood with him in her arms and began to walk back and forth in front of the window, patting his back as she did so.
She looked comfortable tending him.
