Page 133 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Jack dropped to his knees beside Hannah, his hands trembling as they stretched toward her. He stopped inches from touching the girl, fingers curved around the shape of her face.
“Hannah. Oh, Hannah.”
Tears streaked her face as she blinked up at Jack.
“Who did this to you?” he said.
“The countess—” she began.
“What about her?” Macrath asked. His rage disappeared. Instead, fear punched him in the chest. “What about her?”
Hannah grabbed his shirt. “The countess,” she said. Each word took a week for her to utter. “He’s taken her.”
“Who’s taken her?” Macrath asked
“Paul. Paul Henderson,” she said slowly, enunciating each word around her bloody lips. “He’s taken her, sir.”
He nodded, outwardly calm while his mind raced. He’d have the fastest coach readied for the trip to London.
She gripped his shirt when he would have stood.
Patiently he listened, then altered his plans, hoping what she told him would lead him to saving Virginia.
When he would have lifted her, Jack shook his head, taking his place and gently raising Hannah into his arms, cradling her damaged face to his chest.
All the way back to the grotto, he heard Jack speaking, soft words to reassure her. He doubted Jack could take away Hannah’s pain as he promised, but he understood the need for the other man to believe it.
Sometimes a man had to pretend to be powerful even when he wasn’t.
In the grotto, before they sought out Brianag and endured the questioning sure to come, he turned to Jack.
“I’m going after him. You’ll look after Hannah?”
“No sir,” Jack said. “I’ll leave Hannah to Brianag. I’d be in the way. But I’ll see to the bastard myself.”
Jack had aged in the last ten minutes. Gone was the lad he’d known, and in his place a man with a face as stony as the rock formation around them. His gaze was direct, his rage barely checked.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until I’ve had my turn, Jack,” he said, clasping the other man on the shoulder.
Jack nodded. “You can have him first, sir. But I get him next.”
“Macrath?” Virginia groggily asked, blinking her eyes.
She was being carried somewhere. Above her was the wide blue sky, seabirds circling. Was she at Drumvagen? She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea swept through her.
After a moment she opened them again to see tall masts filled with sails.
Sails?
Was she dreaming? Was she back aboard the ship carrying her to England? No, that made no sense.
Why was Macrath carrying her? Had she fainted?
“You’ll have to forgive my bride,” he was saying. “She’s had a bit too much excitement today, I’m afraid. Could someone show me the way to our cabin?”
She turned her head. That wasn’t Macrath’s voice. She blinked up at the man. Nor was that Macrath’s face.
“Paul?”
