Page 63 of The Devil of Clan Sinclair
Macrath turned at the question, forcing a smile for the benefit of the young lady who stood there.
The daughter of his host, she was a charming creature with blond hair and warm brown eyes. Her smile flashed and he’d heard her tinkling laugh all evening.
“Yes I am, Miss McDermott,” he said.
“My father says Scottish inventors are the best,” she said, smiling winsomely at him. “Is the contest really between you and Mr. McAdams?”
“Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t brag,” he said. “However, I believe my newest modifications mean a better machine.”
“Just think, Mr. Sinclair, what it would be like to ship things all over the world and keep them fresh until they’ve reached their destination.”
“I believe your Australian ranchers hope that’s the case,” he said.
The race was simple. Four steamships would be equipped with whatever modifications the individual inventors wished. They’d start the journey from Sydney, with the destination London. Whoever arrived in London first with a consumable cargo won the race. The prize was a lucrative contract with Hamish McDermott and his consortium of ranchers.
The proceeds could add substantially to the Sinclair empire, not to mention the reputation of the Sinclair Ice Company.
“It’s a pity American canned meat has taken over the market, Mr. Sinclair. It strips us of our ability to compete. Even Canada has outsold us, because we aren’t frozen most of the year like they are.”
Surprised, he could only stare at the woman. Evidently, she was well versed in her father’s business.
“Are you interested in reading the newspaper, Miss McDermott?” he asked.
She tilted her head, her eyes softening as she smiled. “Why, yes, I am, Mr. Sinclair. Is that an attribute in your sight? Or a detriment?”
“Merely a curiosity,” he said, smiling back at her.
She was an attractive woman, one still in the first blush of youth, without the shyness and insecurity of a girl right out of the schoolroom. She had more poise and confidence about her than Virginia had when he met her. He couldn’t imagine Miss McDermott coming to him and holding out broadsides with trembling fingers.
Nor could he imagine Miss McDermott ever being surprised when someone told her she was beautiful.
He watched as she moved away, smelling of oranges and tea. He’d have to ask for the name of her perfume. She greeted one guest after another. Later, she’d herd them into dinner like a sheepdog, nipping at their heels with a delicate mixture of a smile and a guiding hand.
Three times now he’d been invited to the McDermott home. After the first occasion he’d figured out that the smiles from his host were due more to his status as a rich, unmarried man than to his ice machine.
He sipped at the drink he’d been given, something tasting vaguely like champagne mixed with lemonade, but not as awful as the orange mixture he’d once tasted in London. Nor had he seen any fog for as long as he’d been there.
He’d traveled through Australia, impressed by the hardy people who reminded him of his fellow Scots, the awe-inspiring scenery nearly as beautiful but lacking the majesty of Scotland, and the capacity for making a fortune. That, more than anything, recommended Australia to him.
But he’d never emigrate. He’d miss his family and his homeland. Even now, Scotland called to him. He’d been gone too long. Brianag had taken to writing him once a month. Thanks to her stewardship, he didn’t worry about Drumvagen, but there was other business needing to be handled.
His empire was growing.
His family was, too. His younger sister was going to give birth to her first child, another reminder he needed to be about building his clan.
He needed to find a wife.
What good did it do to think of Virginia?
Months had passed, yet she was still in his thoughts. He’d started to write her a half dozen times and each time stopped himself. Her role as countess interested her more than anything he might be able to offer her.
Instead, he should give some thought to replacing her in his mind and in his life. Miss McDermott, with her full lips, bright blond hair, and warm brown eyes would be an asset to Drumvagen.
He’d been wrong, before, to allow a woman to tie him in knots. Perhaps his pick of a wife was a decision better served by logic. On the face of it, Miss McDermott would be a more than adequate candidate for marriage.
Her father’s business interests could pair with his. There, he’d done two things—intertwined his desire for an empire along with his wish for a clan.
“May I escort you to dinner, Miss McDermott?” he asked when she circled back around to him.
