Page 2 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
He seemed as loath to relinquish it as she was to step back. Prudence dictated that she do so, at least until Macrath spoke to her father, but prudence could go to blazes for all she cared now.
She was gloriously, madly, spectacularly in love with Macrath Sinclair and she didn’t care who knew.
“I’d rather go into the garden,” she said, daring to tell him the truth. She wanted another kiss from him, another stolen embrace.
“It looks to rain,” he said.
“Do you care?”
“Not one whit.”
“I don’t either. Besides, it’s forever raining in London.”
“You’ll find that Scotland is the same in some months.”
“I won’t care,” she said. “It will be my home.”
“Soon,” he said, the look in his eyes growing more intense.
Perhaps she should thank Providence that the weather was souring. Otherwise, she might make a fool of herself in the garden, demanding kiss after kiss.
“Virginia,” a voice called, breaking the spell.
She blinked and turned her head to see her father standing not far away.
Her stomach dropped, and she looked up at Macrath with apology in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but Father’s calling me.”
“I understand. Shall I accompany you?”
“It’s best you don’t,” she said. “I’ve no doubt done something wrong.”
“When I meet with him tomorrow, I’ll tell him the press of business demands a speedy marriage. We’ll be in Scotland before you know it.”
She would be with him wherever that was: in a corner of the garden, in a vestibule in the ballroom, in a hallway, a servant’s stair. The location didn’t matter, as long as she was with Macrath.
She squeezed his hand, then turned and reluctantly walked away, glancing back with a smile. Her father led her to an anteroom and closed the door.
“I’ll not have you making a fool of yourself over that Scot,” he said.
She held herself stiffly, as she did whenever he issued a dictate. The slightest indication that she disagreed with him would only make the punishment worse.
Now, she concentrated on the floor between them, hoping that he wouldn’t see her inability to look him in the face as disrespect.
“I’m sorry, Father,” she said.
Docility was better than rebellion. Easier, too, because she’d once tried to debate a point with him and had been severely punished for doing so. Her governess had taken great delight in using a birch rod. The lesson being that few things were worth physical pain.
Macrath was, and she wondered if her father knew it.
“People will look at me and wonder at the lack of control I have over a female in my own household.”
She’d heard a variation of that comment all her life. Ever since coming to England, however, it had grown more difficult to listen to him, and maintain some appearance of humility while doing so.
“I’m in love with Macrath, Father,” she said, the first time she’d ever admitted such a thing to him. She glanced up at him to find his eyes had narrowed. “You’ve agreed that Macrath could call on you tomorrow,” she hastened to say.
After that, her future would be assured. She would be Macrath Sinclair’s wife.
