Page 14 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Hannah had not been told of the situation or the circumstances. Neither had she asked any questions about their journey. She would’ve thought the girl would be curious, if nothing else. Instead, the maid remained calm, her eyes flat, her smile thin.
Virginia wished she had one jot of Hannah’s composure.
A shout, followed by a cloud of smoke, suddenly punctuated the silent day.
She sat forward, looking past Hannah to a crofter’s hut, the same kind that had dotted the landscape throughout their journey. This house was longer, with two doors rather than one, and four windows, not two. The thatch was burning and white smoke poured through a large hole in the middle of the roof.
As she watched, three people ran from the structure toward the road. The one in the lead stopped, turned, and regarded the crofter’s hut from a safe distance. The other men reached him and stood on either side, all three surveying the burning house.
Watching from the carriage, the stench reached them, and she withdrew her black edged handkerchief, holding it to her nose.
Whatever were they doing?
The acrid smell was enough for her to give the signal to the coachman. Like it or not, she’d been provoked into courage.
She eased back against the seat, willing herself to relax. She could do this. She must do this. From what she’d gleaned from the conversation of older women, men were interested in bed sport, almost to the exclusion of common sense.
Surely, Macrath would be interested in bedding her.
Her heart was beating too fast and her breath was tight.
She remembered every stroke of his fingers on the back of her hand and on her exposed wrist. She recalled the sight of his smile, not as common as other men’s, but more precious for its rarity. His eyes, those engaging blue eyes of his studied her so intently she had the impression he knew all her thoughts.
Whenever she was in Macrath’s company, her cheeks were flushed and hot. Her mouth felt odd, her lips too full. A laugh always bubbled in her chest, but she wasn’t amused as much as delighted, enlivened, or simply thrilled.
Now, she gripped her hands together tightly and prayed for composure. What if he denied her entrance? The thought came unexpectedly and abrasively. What if he didn’t welcome her?
What if Ceana’s whispered answer at the funeral was wrong? What if Macrath wasn’t in Scotland? They’d be forced to retrace this interminable journey.
The carriage approached Drumvagen slowly, almost cautiously. She shielded her eyes from the sun staring down at her accusingly through the window. Now was the time to turn around and go back to London. Neither the coachman nor her maid would question her. Only Enid, and the look on her mother-in-law’s face would be condemnation enough.
Had Poor Lawrence wanted them all desperate and panicked? What good did it do to speculate? Poor Lawrence was beyond anything but divine questioning.
She took a deep breath, then another. Her heart was still racing and her hands were cold inside her gloves.
What was she truly afraid of—Macrath’s reception or her own weakness around him?
Seabirds soared overhead, their piercing shrieks almost a battle cry.
Perhaps this was a battle. One of her conscience against her desires.
Was it permissible to pray for a successful conclusion to this errand? Would God send a lightning bolt to strike her if she did? She wouldn’t be guilty of adultery, since Poor Lawrence was dead, but certainly her behavior could be considered wanton. Was prostituting herself for a good cause any less prostitution?
Even if she were successful in seduction, there was no guarantee she’d become pregnant. If she did, she might bear a daughter. If so, they were back in the same situation, with one more mouth to feed.
The carriage wheels crunched on the oyster shells lining the circular drive. Dozens of windows stared down at them like curious eyes. Was she wrong in thinking people stood there, watching them and wondering at their presence? Or was that simply conjecture, something about which she’d been lectured all her life?
“Stop imagining the worst, Virginia. Try to think of something good rather than always being focused on what could go wrong.”
At the moment, it was all she could think.
The coachman opened the carriage door and she was forced to release the strap above the window. She straightened her shoulders and managed a smile.
Who had written that courage was not the absence of fear but the conquering of it? She’d wager the author hadn’t been pushed into acting the harlot.
London
A year earlier
