Page 119 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
The four of them watched as Elliot reached out, grabbed the ring and started to gnaw on it. When it was broken, Brianag gave her a piece, then shared the other pieces with Mary and Agatha. They all ate their pieces under Brianag’s watchful eye. The taste reminded Virginia of oatmeal cooked too long.
“He’ll sleep now,” Brianag said, watching as Elliot gummed the last of the treat. “The bannock takes away the pain of teething.”
To Virginia’s surprise, Elliot did sleep, which was why, rather than returning to the nursery, she escaped outside for a little fresh air and solitude.
Drumvagen was unique, being sandwiched between the coast, a river, and woodland. She’d made it as far as the river, but this time she climbed to the top of the hill, standing on its crest and surveying the view framed by tall sycamores.
From there she could see Kinloch Village and its houses clinging like baby possums to the hills overlooking the harbor.
Below was the river, stretching wide and blue, undulating through the glen. At the base of the hill was a gate leading to an arched stone bridge weathered green and gray.
The storm of the night before had washed the world clean. Sunlight shone like lace through the emerald leaves, danced along the river, and glimmered on the ocean waves.
For years she’d lived in a city, missing the land and forest around Cliff House. As a child she heard the sigh of the wind through the branches at night. During the day she went into the woods and sat silent, listening to the life around her. At times she’d even escaped from her governesses, pretending not to hear their annoyed calling.
How had she tolerated London all this time?
The bridge appeared to have been carved from one large piece of stone. She strolled across, hesitating at the arched top, staring down into the rushing waters below. What an enchanting place this was. What a glorious kingdom Macrath was creating.
Elliot was part of his family, and yet he was—as far as the world was concerned—the eleventh Earl of Barrett, with all its rights and privileges.
He’d be schooled in how to behave, how to act in every situation. He’d memorize ranks, learn Lawrence’s family history, become the head of the family. One day he’d be compelled to marry, just as Lawrence had, to protect a title.
Elliot was only an infant, but she could almost see him in the various stages of his life. A boy, educated by a tutor who was a great deal kinder than any of her governesses had been. Later, he’d go away to school, to Lawrence’s alma mater. How would she bear the separation? He’d be tall, with black hair and blue eyes, and all the girls would look at him when he entered a room.
He’d never know anything of Scotland.
He’d be as regimented as she’d been in England, without ever having experienced the freedom of being unnoticed at Cliff House.
He’d never know his father was a unique man, one who’d created his own life rather than being handed a title he inherited. He’d never know he was the scion of a clan, the heir to an empire, one crafted from intelligence, determination, and a little luck.
He’d never realize his father’s eyes lit up on seeing him, that Macrath often held Elliot in his arms, staring down into his face with wonder.
Perhaps she could find a way to bring him back to Scotland periodically.
Macrath would never agree to losing his son for any length of time.
She turned back to Drumvagen, the beautiful day doing nothing for her sudden disheartened mood. As she walked, she glimpsed a flash of white through the trees. Curious, she followed the sight.
The sounds of birds faded, but other noises took their place: her soft footfalls, the crunch of leaves blanketing the ground. Beneath the leaves was moist earth, the scent of it heavy in the air. Mushrooms clung to the trunks of the lichen-draped trees.
The air grew cooler, the light more filtered.
Suddenly, she was in a clearing. A gazebo stood there, painted white with delicate frescoes carved on its sides, a bronze statue of a stag mounted atop its cupola.
She could imagine such a lovely structure at Cliff House, or even a park in London, but not here in the Scottish countryside, surrounded by towering trees and the silence of Drumvagen Wood.
Was it used for hunting? Or simply to lure a forest visitor to rest and reflect on the surrounding beauty?
She climbed the three steps and perched on one of the cunning ledges built into the structure. Here was the perfect place for contemplation and reverie. Here she could sit and wonder at the complications of her life, most of them caused by her own actions.
She was the architect of her own misery.
She heard a rustling sound, almost like something walking through the thick undergrowth of leaves.
Standing, she waited, and when Macrath appeared, she almost laughed.
“I thought you a stag,” she said, “and I was right.”
