Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

Bruce was a creature of habit. He chose to think of it as disciplined. Every morning, he woke at five o’clock, went running along the beach of his Massachusetts home. At least three times a week he went swimming, finding the exercise and the chill bracing. After the swim he returned to his home, eating the huge breakfast his cook had prepared.

For the rest of the day he reviewed the notes his operatives had sent him the day before. At last count he had business in four states and employed twenty men, most of them seasoned veterans of the Civil War. He preferred to work with soldiers, finding in them the same discipline he demanded of himself. Only rarely did he handle a case on his own. This one was the only recent deviation.

Macrath Sinclair had hired him ten years ago when his business was new. The other man’s faith in him had kept Bruce solvent for a good many months while he tracked the man Sinclair had hired him to find.

When Paul Henderson had abruptly changed his schedule and made arrangements to travel to Scotland, Bruce telegraphed the information to Macrath and promptly followed Henderson.

Now he was sitting at a table in Drumvagen in the heart of Scotland, very far away from Massachusetts and significantly different from his daily regimen, which had been disturbed on a basic level.

On this afternoon, for example, he’d been a little homesick and took a dip in the ocean. On his return to shore he’d seen the youngest Sinclair child once again, attempting suicide by misadventure. He made it across the sand and rescued the boy, only to find himself face--to--face with yet another Sinclair, a beauty who startled him down to his toes.

Her blue eyes had singed him, stripping any words from him. He’d stood there naked, letting her look her fill. He’d never acted that way around any woman, let alone one in mourning.

“Have you been a widow long?” he now asked the woman seated opposite him.

Ceana blinked at him as if surprised. “Why would you want to know, Mr. Preston?”

He found himself smiling.

“I do apologize if I’ve offended you, Mrs. Mead. It was not my intent. Was your husband Irish?” There, he dared another personal question.

Her eyes narrowed.

Macrath was smiling faintly, while his wife was looking from Ceana to him as if fascinated by their byplay.

“Yes,” Ceana said.

He suspected that was the only response he was going to get.

“How did you meet?” he asked.

Her lips thinned. Was she going to lose her temper? What would Ceana Mead be like angry?

She absolutely fascinated him, and he didn’t have time to be fascinated by anyone, let alone an Irish widow. Correction, a Scottish widow with an Irish sounding voice.

“Macrath took Ceana to London for a season,” Virginia said.

He glanced at his hostess. She had a beautiful smile, and he’d seen it often in the two weeks he’d been here.

“Ceana and I became friends,” Virginia continued. “I always looked for her at the events I attended.”

“And I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful American,” Macrath added.

“You’re an American?” he asked Virginia, genuinely surprised.

“From upstate New York,” she said, naming a town with which he was quite familiar. “My father was Harold Anderson.”

Harold Anderson had been a tycoon in every sense of the word. At one time, the man had his hand in everything.

Bruce sat back, surprised. “Yet here you are, in the middle of Scotland.”

“Yes,” she said smiling again. “Aren’t I blessed?”

He had the feeling Macrath was the one who was truly blessed.

“Is that where you met your husband, Mrs. Mead?” he asked, turning to Ceana. “In London?”

She stared at him. He was pretty good at reading -people and he could swear there was a glimmer of annoyance in Ceana’s eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “Are you married, Mr. Preston?”

Instead of answering her, he asked, “Do you like to swim, Mrs. Mead?”

To his amusement, her cheeks turned pink. Was she recalling the sight of him naked?

“Only when there is no one around, Mr. Preston,” she said. “If someone might spy on me, for example, I am modest to a fault. More than I can say for a great many -people.”

Macrath laughed. “Are you calling me immodest, Ceana?” He glanced at his wife. “No more cuddling on the beach for us, my love.”

Ceana lifted her eyes to the ceiling, prompting Bruce’s further amusement.

He concentrated on his plate for a few minutes. “I must congratulate you on your cook,” he said to Macrath. “The meal is easily the equal of anything I’ve had in New York City.”

He was on his best behavior for the rest of dinner, which meant he ignored Ceana. From time to time he would glance in her direction then look away when she noticed.

He’d never seen a woman so beautiful in black. She was the epitome of suffering, and he’d seen his share. He still recalled every memory of the war, of the carnage he’d seen and the widows and orphans he’d had to greet. He had found something good to say about every man in his command. They’d all been soldiers, most of them unwilling and unprepared to go to war, but they’d done so anyway. More than a few had died with surprise on their faces.

He wanted to know her story. Who was her husband? How had he died? Where had she lived? Why, of all of them at the dinner table, did he seek out her smile the most?

Perhaps it had something to do with the look she’d given him earlier. He could have mistaken the hunger on her expression. He could have simply wanted to see it.

When they moved away from the dinner table and into the small parlor, Macrath and Virginia addressed them both.

“I hope you’ll forgive our absence for a few minutes,” Macrath said. “It’s time to tuck our brood into bed.”

And check on Carlton, if he didn’t miss his guess.

He went to stand beside the fireplace, resting one hand on the mantel just inches away from the frame of the family portrait. It was of Macrath, Virginia, and their three children. On the opposite wall there was another member of the family with the Sinclair eyes. On a third wall there was a picture of Ceana along with a redheaded man. She was younger there but her eyes still sparkled as they had in the grotto. Her husband’s expression was one of adoration, and her smile was ripe with joy.

Even a blind man could see she’d been in love.

“Did you still love him on the day he died?” he asked, turning to her. She gave him a blank look at first, and then her expression melted into anger.

“What kind of question is that to ask, Mr. Preston?”

“An intrusive one,” he said. “An impertinent one. Possibly even a rude one.”

She looked surprised at his self--indictment.

“Yet I can’t help but want to know. If you loved him on the day he died, he died a happy man. Not all men can say as much, Mrs. Mead.”

She turned her head and studied the portrait she’d studiously avoided until now.

“I loved him with my whole heart,” she said.

“Then I envy the man, dead as he is.”

She shook her head at him. “You have to stop saying things like that.”

“Most -people think it’s because I’m an American. We’re a little crass sometimes.”

“Nonsense. I’ve known my share of Americans, including Virginia. They were all extraordinarily polite -people. All but you, Mr. Preston.”

She grabbed the material on the backside of her dress, moved it so she could sit.

“Why do women insist on having a bustle over their bottom?” he asked. “Do you have no idea how ridiculous you look?”

Her eyes were blazing at him now, her cheeks pink. He hid his smile with difficulty.

“Are you an expert at fashion? Or do you think it would be better for me to appear naked at dinner?”

“I doubt I should have finished my meal in that case, Mrs. Mead.”

She had the most enchanting expression on her face, a combination of surprise and irritation.

“Where do you live?”

“None of your concern,” she said.

“Why have you come to Drumvagen?”

“Again, none of your concern.”

“How long will you be staying?”

She folded her hands, straightened her shoulders and smiled thinly up at him. “Do sit down, Mr. Preston. If you’re going to continue with your marathon of questions, shouldn’t you at least be comfortable? Or must you overpower everyone with your size?”

“Who’s being crass now, Mrs. Mead? Is it entirely polite for a woman to comment on a man’s ... size?”

Her entire face was flushed, but her eyes sparkled merrily at him. He was certain Ceana was enjoying their encounter.

“Never mind,” he said, taking the chair opposite the settee. He made no pretense of looking away, but studied her intently. “I can find out the answer to most of those questions.”

“Why would you even care?”

He settled back, resting his ankle on his knee and placing his hands on the arms of the chair.

“Because you fascinate me. I’m curious about a great many things, Mrs. Mead. Such as you. I find myself wanting to know all manner of things about you.”

She looked away, presenting him a perfect profile. She had a stubborn chin, an aquiline nose, and lips that interested him entirely too much.

How did she kiss? Did she throw herself wholeheartedly into passion or did she need to be coaxed into it?

“You never answered me,” he said. “How long has it been since your husband died?”

She turned to look at him, and to his shock there were tears in her eyes. He stood and before she could say a scathing word to him was beside her on the settee, pulling out his handkerchief and pressing it into her hand.

“Oh for the love of God, Ceana, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

She smiled and the expression of tears and humor made his heart turn over in his chest.

“You didn’t,” she said. “Oh, very well, maybe you did. Everyone has been so careful not to talk about my husband, as if doing so might resurrect him. As if Peter would appear like a ghost in the middle of the parlor. Peter would never haunt anyone. He was always so careful to consider everyone’s opinion and wishes.”

The man sounded like one of those diffident creatures he’d encountered occasionally who were so anxious to please other -people they never pleased themselves.

“I really can be extraordinarily rude at times,” he said. “Forgive me.”

She pressed his handkerchief to her cheeks, mopping up her tears.

If Macrath Sinclair entered the room now he would think that his sister had been abused in some fashion.

“Why are you here?” she asked, surprising him. “What secret do you and Macrath share? Is it a new invention? Why won’t he talk about it?”

He stared at her.

“You see how annoying it is, Mr. Preston?”

He began to smile.

“Are you married, Mr. Preston?”

“Not anymore,” he said.

“That means you once were. I’m sorry.”

“It was a very long time ago, Mrs. Mead. I do not pull on the scab of my grief in order to feel it every day.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” she asked.

“Only you can answer that question.”

“If you must know, Mr. Preston, I was not crying for my husband. I was missing my daughters. Do you have children?”

“Not anymore,” he said, standing.

She’d turned the tables on him quite ably, hadn’t she?

He left before she could ask him anything else.