Page 17 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
“Oh, Macrath.”
Here, where there was a hushed reverence for the written word, she felt the same for him. In his piercing blue eyes she saw a reflection of someone she’d never known herself to be, a woman who was captivating and fascinating and brave. Being loved by Macrath made everything possible, even her transformation.
She knew she shouldn’t put her hand on his chest. Nor should he wipe away a tear from her cheek with such tenderness.
“Miss Anderson.”
She didn’t want to turn and see Mrs. Haverstock. She didn’t want to answer any questions. Or try to explain something so private and perfect.
When the woman walked into her line of sight, she had no choice but to drop her hand and step away.
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” she said. “I’ll make a point of reading Mr. Burns in the future.”
She nodded to him and turned away, when what she truly wanted was to have him enfold her in his arms.
“Until tonight,” he whispered.
It would have to be enough, but oh how could it be?
Drumvagen, Scotland
July, 1869
Astranger had come to Drumvagen. A stranger in an ornate ebony carriage pulled by four of the finest horses he’d seen in a while.
Macrath strode down the road, wishing he didn’t smell of ammonia and the other chemicals in his laboratory. Jack and Sam broke away, heading for their own quarters to bathe and change. He would have liked to do the same, but the carriage was sitting in front of Drumvagen, the door being opened by a burly coachman.
He stopped, transfixed by the strangest notion that he was in the middle of a dream. A black shod foot emerged first, then a flurry of black petticoat peeping beneath a silk skirt, ebony to match the carriage. Her gloved hand on the coachman’s arm, she lightly stepped from the vehicle, the black-ribboned bonnet shielding her face from his view.
He knew. Even before she glanced up at him, he knew. Only one woman had ever affected him the way she did, as if she gave off a signal his body recognized.
Virginia.
His blood was pounding, his heart beating as loudly as the drums of war. Inside, he shouted with exultant joy.
Virginia had come to Drumvagen.
When he’d first met her, she reminded him of a delicate bird, one at the mercy of air currents and tossed aloft to a strange and foreign land. She was almost preternaturally still, like she’d been poured from a mold, but her eyes were alive and watching everything.
Her face was oval, her eyes a clear blue, so light in color it seemed like he could see into the heart of her. Her hair was black and fine. Tendrils always escaped her careful hairstyle and surrounded her face. Her smile was quick and held a surprised air, as if her own joy startled her.
She wasn’t smiling now.
Her eyes had lost their sparkle. A lock of hair brushed against her alabaster cheek, only slightly tinged with a blush. Her mouth opened to greet him, then closed and firmed without saying a word.
He couldn’t breathe, but that could be the lingering effects of the explosion and the chemicals he’d inhaled. More likely it was simply Virginia.
She was wearing black.
Dear God, did she bring bad news?
He strode forward, wanting to shake the words from her.
“Ceana?” he asked. “Is she well?”
Recognition dawned in Virginia’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Yes, she’s well.” She glanced down at her gloved hands. “It’s Lawrence,” she said, her voice vibrating with emotion. “He’s dead.”
He schooled his features to show nothing, not even a trace of gladness.
