Page 48 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
She didn’t answer, only stared down at her clasped hands. A moment later she shook her head.
“I cannot,” she said. “How could you ask that of me?”
Had he been wrong? Did she value her title that much?
“I’m expected back in London,” she said faintly.
“You’re expected back in London,” he repeated.
She wouldn’t look at him, slipped from the ledge and turned her back. Her hair was floating about her shoulders in a cloud, enticing him. He wanted to thrust his hands into it, tilt her head back and watch her try to avoid him then.
“We’re not in London, Virginia,” he said. “We’re far enough away the gossips wouldn’t know you’re here. Or care. Stay with me. If you insist on mourning your earl, we’ll marry after enough time has passed.”
She turned toward him, her eyes widening, her face so pale she looked like she might faint.
“Oh, Macrath.” She walked closer and stretched out her hand, cupping his jaw in her palm. “Dearest Macrath.” Her voice sounded teary, but her eyes were dry.
“You won’t stay?”
“I can’t.” She dropped her head, staring at the stone floor.
Silence stretched between them. Not the expectant kind that allows for anticipation, but something darker and more troubling. This silence was one of unvoiced truths, hidden meanings, and lies.
The ocean-born breeze sighed through the opening to the beach. The gulls cried aloud in joyous triumph over a school of fish. The tide rolled onto the sand as the sun poured in through the hole at the top of the grotto. Life went on, even though he was as cold as ice.
He buttoned his shirt, each movement of his fingers allowing his frozen thoughts to thaw.
She started to braid her hair, her fingers flying expertly over the tresses.
“Didn’t your husband’s family think it an odd journey for you to take so soon? What did you tell them?”
“I needed to get away,” she said. “To escape London. And maybe myself,” she added.
“Or for a bit of entertainment? You had an itch and decided to scratch it?”
She glanced at him. He had never seen her complexion as pale as it was now. She bit at her bottom lip.
“No, Macrath,” she said, stretching out her hand to him. “I can’t stay with you, however much I may want to. To do so would be to thrust Lawrence’s family into the center of controversy and scandal.”
“Then why come to Scotland days after you became a widow?”
“Because I needed to see you,” she said, her voice sounding like she pushed back tears. “Because I wanted to see you.”
“I feel the same. Stay with me.”
But, damn her, she didn’t speak. She only inspected her clothing, fluffed up her skirts and strolled toward the passage. He followed her, grabbed her arm, and turned her before she could escape.
“Like it or not,” she said softly before he could speak, “I am the Countess of Barrett. I have people depending on me, just like your sisters are dependent on you.”
A few minutes ago they’d been as close as any two people could be. Now a continent separated them.
“I think, perhaps,” he said, speaking the words with remarkably little emotion, “it would be best if you left Drumvagen as quickly as possible.”
He should’ve guarded his heart with greater care. He should have remembered she’d wounded him before, but that injury had not been at her hands.
This one was.
Chapter 13
