Page 103 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Neither looked to be winning or losing the war.
Common ground? What was that?
He allowed Virginia to come to Drumvagen. When he heard the sound of her laughter, he smiled. Once, he’d entered the room to find her sitting on the edge of the chair, rocking back and forth, singing softly to their son. Rather than sleeping, Alistair had reached up and pressed his palm against her cheek in wonder.
Macrath had sent for a rocking chair that day.
When her daily visit was done, she returned to the cottage. He pretended she wasn’t there on the moor. Until darkness fell and he came to this window to see if a light was lit in the cottage. He told himself she was far away, so she couldn’t disturb his peace of mind, or what was left of it.
He wondered at her thoughts and what she was doing. Did she find it easy to sleep on the narrow cot? Did she once think of returning to London? Why had he never noticed the core of stubbornness in her?
Would he have done what she did? If he were facing poverty, would he have calculated to get a child to save a fortune?
The question was foolish, because he couldn’t put himself in a woman’s position. But he’d been familiar enough with being poor. As a boy growing up in Edinburgh, he’d known there were weeks when the income from the printing company was barely enough to support them all. He’d seen his father’s worry. He’d known his own, when the support of his sisters and cousin had fallen on his shoulders. He’d been determined, then, to rise above his circumstances. He never again wanted to lay awake at night wondering if he could keep a roof over their heads or how he would be able to feed them all in the coming weeks.
That’s why his threat to Virginia was so empty, because whatever she’d done to him, he wouldn’t inflict on her the sense of desperation he’d felt as a boy.
He’d sold papers on the corner, bartered for the equipment for his first ice machine, drummed up investors who’d all chipped in a little for the promise of a good return. He’d earned a fortune for them, too, enough so they still clamored to be part of the empire he was building.
Virginia hadn’t had the opportunities he’d had, so she’d survived the only way she could.
Had her desperation been the equal of his?
At least he hadn’t lied to other people. He had never taken advantage of anyone. Nor had he treated someone he loved as badly as she had.
That was the thought keeping him awake. Perhaps she didn’t feel anything for him. Perhaps he had simply been a means to an end.
It was plain she loved Alistair.
What did she feel for him?
Poverty didn’t excuse Virginia from keeping the secret concerning their child. He understood the lure of a title, but his son wasn’t the eleventh Earl of Barrett.
Alistair was a Scot, a damn sight better than being an earl.
Things had to change. He couldn’t go on like this. He either had to banish her from Drumvagen or welcome her wholeheartedly.
He left the room to greet Virginia in the nursery, biting back a surge of excitement. Another sign of his idiocy, that he anticipated this moment.
His life would be a great deal less chaotic if he’d never met Virginia Anderson. But would he have felt as truly alive? Would he have learned the full measure of love, how miserable it could make him or how happy?
He needed a resolution, something more than this polite vacuum they were operating in, their emotions cooled to the point of ice.
He wasn’t a machine and neither was she.
Did Virginia realize he didn’t give a damn about what the world said, but he wasn’t giving up his son? If she loved him, she wouldn’t ask it of him. Did she feel anything for him?
If she loved him, he’d fix this situation somehow.
If she didn’t love him, well, he’d kill what he felt for her.
First, however, he’d find out which it was.
London
August, 1870
“You’ve been ignoring me,” Paul said, opening the door to her sitting room without knocking. “I told your maid, repeatedly, that I needed to speak with you.”
