Page 56 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Drumvagen, Scotland
September, 1869
“The last of the equipment’s loaded, sir,” Jack said. “I’ve my trunk and Sam has his, but that’s all.”
“My sister isn’t planted in front of the carriage?” Macrath asked, fastening the last strap on his valise. He glanced over at his assistant with a smile. “No last minute protestations?”
Jack grinned at him. “No, sir.”
He’d plucked Jack from the Edinburgh streets where the boy had been working for Sinclair Printing. Jack had been a hawker, collecting pennies for the broadsides the company printed three times a week. Macrath knew the job well, since he’d done it since he was eight.
Short, with brown eyes and hair, Jack might be nondescript in appearance but he made up for it in other ways. His sense of humor kept Macrath chuckling, and Jack’s wish to make a success of his life was second only to his own ambitions.
After four years of working for him, Jack was nearly as adept as he was at repairing an ice machine. If Jack ever decided to leave his employ, the man would easily be hired by one of the mills in England. He could repair almost anything, and as he did, he crooned to it, like a man would to a woman he was seducing.
“There you go, you sweet thing. Go right in there for me. Good for you, you beauty.”
Sam, his other assistant, was quieter.
A Kinloch man, with a Kinloch accent, he was tall and thin, despite always eating. His black hair was long, falling over hazel eyes that watched and took in everything. His face was narrow, marked with a burgundy scar running the length of his jaw. When Macrath had asked about it, Sam said something Brianag had to translate, meaning he’d had the scar since birth.
Either he was getting more adept at deciphering the Kinloch accent, or Sam was getting better at speaking like an Edinburgh man, because they rarely had difficulties understanding each other lately.
Sam remembered details Macrath had forgotten, including measurements he could recall off the top of his head. Not content with fishing for a living like the men of Kinloch, he was never happier than when learning something new.
This voyage to Australia was the highlight of his life. Macrath would bet the man was already seated in the carriage, impatiently waiting for the trip to Kinloch Harbor to board thePrincess.
Jack grabbed his valise and left. Macrath followed with one last look around his bedroom. The scent of roses came to him along with the ghostly echoes of throaty laughter. A woman’s face smiling up at him was obscured by a mist, not formed of time, but determination.
He wasn’t going to think of Virginia.
Brianag stood at the base of the stairs waiting for him.
“I’ll leave Drumvagen to your care, then,” he said, smiling.
Brianag looked him in the eye. “It’s a big responsibility you’ve given me,” she said.
“One you can handle better than anyone. There were days when I didn’t pay any attention to Drumvagen. Yet, because of you, everything went smoothly.”
“So, you’ll be wanting me to be called the Devil of Drumvagen now. Or maybe the crone?” She surprised him with a grin, one he couldn’t help but answer in kind.
“Mairi won’t be staying long,” he said. “But if you need anything, be sure and tell her.”
“And what would I be needing? You’ve left enough money for me to set up my own castle, furnish it with kilted lads in bagpipes, and enough whiskey to keep me satisfied until the Second Coming.”
He stared at her, uncertain if she was kidding. The image of Brianag consorting with kilted lads was not one he wanted to have in his mind.
She strode to him, poked him in the chest with one finger. “I’ve had a dream, Macrath Sinclair, of a ship.”
He waited, certain she wasn’t finished.
“A ship sitting on dry land.”
“I suppose that means something,” he said.
She frowned at him. “It means I’ll be seeing a coffin soon.”
“Not the words a man wants to hear when he’s leaving on a voyage, Brianag.”
