Page 115 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
“Good Scottish stone,” he said with a smile. “Everything I could buy from Scotland, I did. What I couldn’t, I found in France or England. The chandelier in the hall, for example, is from France.”
“As is the furniture in my suite,” she said, then verbally retraced her steps. “In the suite I’m currently occupying.”
He only smiled at her mistake, led her to a stall and introduced her to a pretty little mare named Empress.
When she once confided she’d never been a great horsewoman, he hadn’t tried to convince her to try riding again. He had never tried to change her, a fact she appreciated.
They visited the barn and enclosures, where she admired one of the black-faced ewes heavy with lamb.
“Most lambs are born in the spring,” he explained. “She found herself in this predicament, no doubt from too much frolicking.”
The remark was meant to be joking, but it cut too close to their own situation. Frolicking, indeed.
Was that why he hadn’t visited her room, because he was cautious about frolicking?
The question never left her lips.
The sun appeared through a rip in the clouds, promising a bright and sparkling afternoon. But when she begged off from any more exploration, he didn’t object, merely nodded.
“I need to return to the nursery,” she said.
He only smiled, an expression that had her wanting to reach up and place her fingers over his lips. He mustn’t try to charm her as he’d done all morning. He really shouldn’t smile at her in such a way.
She took her book of poetry and returned to the house, feeling more than a little cowardly for escaping.
Macrath fascinated her too much.
She had to remember why she was here, and why she needed to leave. Daily, however, he was making it more difficult, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d planned it that way.
Paul smiled and plunked down the coins for the drinks on the table. With a bit more ale, maybe he’d be able to understand his companions better.
He’d never held an antipathy for the Scots, at least until meeting Macrath Sinclair. Now every single Scot he met reminded him of the man.
Money, a perennial lubricant, aided him in his quest for information. By the second day in Kinloch Village, spent in one of the wharf-side taverns, he’d loosened enough tongues to get directions to Sinclair’s house.
He’d even had the good fortune of talking to several lads employed at Drumvagen. Now he had enough information to draw a map of the place.
The harbor town proved beneficial in another way. Two ships were leaving soon, one of them theOregon, bound for America. He hadn’t hesitated in booking passage for two.
He shook his head when William would have downed the contents of his tankard. The man looked disappointed but put the tankard down. William needed to pace himself or he’d be a liability.
A beggar worked harder than a man used to eating. Before he left London, he’d hired William, who willingly confessed to being a snakesman when Paul had asked. A past they’d shared, although he hadn’t confided in the man that he, too, had been a burglar before he got too large to crawl into some of the windows.
William was tall and gaunt, like he’d never eaten his fill. His hair, black and stringy, was queued at the back of his neck, revealing features that could do with a bit of a wash.
Paul was careful never to remain downwind of William for long. His hints about the man’s aversion to bathing had fallen on deaf ears, as did his caution about drink. William liked his ale and whiskey almost as much as he disliked soap and water.
One thing he did do about the man’s appearance, and marginally his odor, was to send William off to a used clothing mart to replace his stained shirt and trousers. William had returned looking much the same but smelling better.
Amazing what a decade could do. Ten years ago he’d been just like William, a sour stench clinging to him, his clothes as dirty and soiled. He’d wanted better and had set about changing. He’d learned to speak like the toffs, to bathe and smell good, to eat with the right utensils, to rid himself of the habits clearly labeling him as lower class.
In the task he’d hired William for, appearance didn’t matter. Still, he didn’t want him to attract undo attention. Luckily, the smell of fish was so strong that it easily overcame William’s body odor.
He’d told William a tale, one of a woman who needed to be rescued. William was just young enough to believe it, and old enough to cast himself in the role of good Samaritan or a prince rescuing a princess.
He took a sip from his tankard and nodded when William glanced at him. William drank deep, settled back in the chair with a satisfied sigh and belched loud and long.
The other men laughed. Paul smiled and ordered another round. Leaning forward, he said, “Now, tell me more about this grotto.”
