Chapter 11

Chapter 11

When the knock came, Virginia thought it was the maid returning with an answer. But when she opened the door, Macrath stood there, smiling at her.

"I was sorry to hear you were taken ill," he said, holding out his hand for her.

"It was a sudden thing."

"I, too, have a need to rest."

"Have you?"

"It's come upon me suddenly."

"Perhaps it's contagious," she said.

"I suspect it is, but limited only to us."

They smiled at each other in perfect accord.

"I haven't taken you from your experiments, have I?"

"They'll always be there," he said. "You won't."

She pushed that thought away as she placed her hand in his.

Would it be untoward to tell him how wonderful she felt? She was aware of herself in a way she'd never before been. Her breasts were sensitive; she was conscious of the contours of her lips. She remembered every single spot he'd kissed, praised, and worshiped with his fingers, and gloried in all of it.

Reaching up, she pressed her fingers against his cheek, her thumb tracing the edge of his bottom lip.

"I would not trade last night and this morning for anything. I want to thank you for it," she said.

He grabbed her hand, curving the fingers inward toward the palm, and kissed her knuckles.

"Virginia," he said softly. Just her name, spoken with such tenderness that she felt her heart expand.

How could he nearly bring her to tears with a glance?

Shame enveloped her, pushed her to confess. The minute she said the words, he'd send her away, she knew that well enough. But she'd already transgressed. What was wrong with another sin, one of omission?

"Come with me," he said.

"Where are we going?"

"If we're supposedly ill, I think we should avoid my staff, don't you? Perhaps we'll explore the woods or walk in the tide. I've so many things I want to show you."

With that twinkle in his eye, she would go anywhere with him.

"Lead on, MacDuff," she said, smiling brightly at him.

His laughter warmed her heart. "Macbeth?"

"My father insisted on a varied curriculum. I can even operate a sextant, a compass, and I know how to build the fire."

"The perfect companion," he said, tugging on her hand.

Where were they going? She wasn't dressed for exploration. The silk of her skirts would no doubt be torn by the brambles and branches. Her fine leather shoes were polished and would probably be scratched by the undergrowth. Then, too, she was supposed to be a proper widow. She shouldn't be gamboling about in the woods with Macrath, playing the hoyden.

A sign of her foolishness, that she didn't ask. Nor did she care.

Reaching behind her, he closed the door, grabbed her hand, and they were suddenly away, laughing like children as they raced along the corridor and down the stairs. With each successive footfall the years fell away, and they were boy and girl. She could imagine that they were children of nature with no obligations other than to explore the world outside. They might spy a bird's nest on an upper branch, watch the wind dance along the moor, or smile at the sight of a squirrel chittering angrily at them.

But Macrath didn't lead her out of Drumvagen for the woods or the ocean. Instead, he turned left, strode down a hall and entered a library.

She only had time for a quick impression of bookcases, fireplace, two chairs, and a large desk before he went to the side of the room and pulled a sconce on the wall. A moment later a crack appeared behind one of the bookcases.

"A secret passage?" she asked, fascinated. "It's like something out of a book."

"Not just a passage. Something even better."

Now was the time to remind him that she wasn't excessively courageous. But it seemed like she was, especially with him.

"Would you like to see one of my favorite places at Drumvagen?" he asked.

She would do anything with him. Didn't he know that? Hadn't last night and this morning proved that?

Her face flushed as she nodded.

He lit a small lantern, held it aloft with one hand, and, turning back to her, held out his other hand. With no hesitation, she allowed him to pull her into the passage and close the door behind them.

"You know your way, I hope."

"Else we are doomed to spend the rest of eternity wandering through Drumvagen," he said, humor in his voice.

In the next moment it felt like the two of them were on a great adventure. As they descended shallow stone steps, a briny smell wafted up from below.

"Will you tell me where we're going?" she asked, fervently hoping they weren't heading toward the ocean.

"No," he said. "It would spoil the surprise."

"Not even a hint?"

"No hints."

"Are you normally this stubborn?"

"Yes," he said, although he didn't sound the least apologetic about such a character flaw. "I like to get my way."

As they descended into the darkness, she said, "Perhaps you're Hades and I am Persephone."

"I've no pomegranate seeds," he said. "Besides, I've already had my way with you."

"Should a gentleman say such a thing?" she asked, uncertain whether to be amused or affronted.

"I'm not a gentleman with you," he said. "I'm not the owner of Drumvagen. I'm only Macrath. And you are not a countess, an American, or a widow. You are simply Virginia."

Warmth traveled through her at his words. He was right. If he hadn't been, she wouldn't have lied to Hannah, pretending illness and fatigue. She wouldn't be here now, clutching her skirts with one hand and his hand with the other, descending into blackness, the lantern giving off only a small circle of yellow light.

The air grew cooler as they descended. Sounds faded until their breathing was loud in the silence. A brine-tasting breeze sought them out, urging them forward. Sand crunched beneath their feet.

The staircase expanded, the passage becoming larger and lighter. He stopped, extinguished the lantern and placed it on the ground. Taking her hand again, he led her down into a sunlit room of stone, the shape reminding her of a mushroom. At the top was an opening allowing sunlight to stream inside the space. Even more amazing was the window on one wall. A wide arch had been cut out of the rock, so perfectly created that it possessed a sill. Here someone could sit and draw up his legs, staring off into the distance where the ocean met the horizon.

"It's a grotto," she said, amazed. Her voice echoed back at her.

He smiled. "It's an effect of the stone," he said.

He dropped her hand as she turned in a circle to see everything. The room was almost perfectly round. Besides the window and the chimney hole, there was another opening in the other curved wall.

"Where does that lead?" she asked.

"The beach."

"I can imagine why it's your favorite place at Drumvagen. Did you come here as a boy?" she asked.

"The only place I knew as a boy was Edinburgh," he said. "I purchased Drumvagen five years ago."

Surprised, she glanced at him.

"I wasn't always wealthy," he said. "It's a recent event for me."

Wealth was not a subject of polite conversation. Either you had it and everyone knew it, or you pretended you had it, and everyone allowed you the pretense. But it was never openly discussed.

When had they ever ascribed to societal rules when it came to what they talked about? No topic was considered off limits between them.

"My father was like you," she said. "I don't think he had much respect for people who inherited their money."

He smiled slightly. "I don't think your father had much respect for anyone except himself."

His comment startled a laugh from her.

"Why did he settle on Lawrence?"

"I think he was impressed by my mother-in-law. She can be very persuasive."

"At least your father got the title he wanted," he said.

"He didn't have long to enjoy it." She glanced at him. "But you don't know. He died two months after my marriage." Poor Mrs. Haverstock had never had a chance to charm him, since she'd been dismissed just before Virginia's wedding, along with her American maid.

"My own parents have been gone many years," he said. "But my sisters and cousin have tried to make up for the lack."

"Have they succeeded?"

"As far as they're concerned," he said. "If your father had approved my suit, they would have swooped down to London to look you over before our wedding."

"And if they hadn't approved of me?"

He smiled. "I would have sent them back to Edinburgh," he said. "They would've remained silent, only because I contribute to their household in a significant fashion."

"In other words, you would have bribed them."

"Which is what your father did," he reminded her.

"It was easier being Virginia Anderson from America. As an American, I was expected to be a little odd. ‘Those Americans, what can you expect from them? They come from the colonies, after all.' "

He laughed at her perfect British accent.

"As a countess, I have a whole other set of rules to follow."

"You would like my sister, Mairi," he said. "She cherishes being a little odd."

She turned to him. She only knew Ceana, who always seemed a conformable type of person.

"Mairi's determined to run the printing company. So far, she's making a success of it."

"You're proud of her," she said, surprised.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Her father had never been proud of any of her achievements, not that there were many to laud. Nor had Lawrence ever cared enough to ask what she'd done or even wished to do.

Suddenly, she wanted Macrath to be proud of her. She could hardly do that on this journey to Scotland, could she? What she was doing was wrong in so many ways, she owed him an apology now. Or perhaps an explanation.

"I think it's easier for a man to create his own destiny. Like you," she said, nearly desperate to stop her thoughts. She'd much rather talk about him than think about what she was doing.

He moved to the window and she followed. Leaning against the sill nature had created, he stretched out his legs, smiling into the distance "I had it in my mind to create an empire so that people would always know about my achievements."

"They would revere you," she teased. "They might even bow down in front of your picture."

"I need to get my portrait painted," he said. "In order for them to do that, of course."

"Of course," she said, smiling. "However, I think they'll remember you even if you never get your portrait painted. You're an unforgettable man."

Without looking at her, he stretched out his hand. She took it, threading her fingers with his. What a wonderful person he was, and how quickly he'd become lodged in her heart again.

She looked around. "Is it a secret? Does everyone know about the grotto?"

"I would imagine a great many people know," he said. "After all, Drumvagen stood empty for years."

"Did it?"

He nodded. "Evidently, the first Earl of Pembarton and the architect argued about money. The house was unfinished, open to the elements, and nearly a ruin."

"Until you came along," she said. "Perhaps it was meant to be. Drumvagen needed an owner, and you needed a house."

"I was looking for a castle," he said.

Startled, she glanced at him. Rather than meeting her eyes, he looked away, almost like he was embarrassed.

"When I was a boy in Edinburgh," he said, "I always thought it would be a wonderful thing to own a castle. To start my own clan. Perhaps I thought of myself as the Sinclair, laird of all he surveyed."

"A clan?"

"Who doesn't want to leave some part of himself behind? My father was much beloved in Edinburgh. I think I wanted the same, but in my place, on my terms."

She looked around. "I think you made a better choice," she said. "A castle would be drafty and cold. Drumvagen is not only magnificent, but it's a comfortable place to live, even being so close to the ocean."

"You don't like the ocean?"

"I don't like the ocean."

He stared out the window. "The ocean makes you feel as small as a grain of sand. I worry about the factory in Glasgow, or how sales will go on the Continent, only to look at the ocean and realize all my cares and concerns aren't important."

"While I look at the ocean and think of all the people who died."

He glanced at her.

"My father owned several ships. I happened across a manifest one day," she explained, deciding not to tell him she had broken a rule by being in her father's office. But she'd wanted to leave him a note, someplace where he could not overlook it. A note he would have to read. She didn't want to go to England, but he'd been stubbornly refusing to hear her pleas.

"One of his captains reported there had been seven births and twelve deaths aboard ship during the voyage."

She glanced down at the sand laden floor and fluffed her skirts. "He listed all their names, how old they were, and how they'd died." She folded her arms then unfolded them. "They'd been buried at sea. I remember the manifest when I look at the ocean."

He did not, thankfully, utter any platitudes about life or death. Nor did he try to cajole her out of her thoughts. He merely listened, which was such an oddity in her life, she marked each conversation with him as special.

He straightened and strode to the far right-hand side of the window, staring toward an outcropping of rock.

"I own a ship," he said. "One of my first major purchases before Drumvagen. Her name was originally the Sally Ryan, but I changed it."

His eyes sparkled and his grin was so wide she could only ask, "What did you change it to?"

"The Princess," he said smiling at her. "The figurehead was redone as well. It resembles you."

"Me?"

He didn't answer, merely raised his hand.

She followed where he pointed. Above the rocks in the distance stretched a series of tall poles or denuded tree trunks. No, the longer she stared, the more she was able to tell they were masts.

"It's Kinloch Harbor," he said. "Where the Princess is berthed. If you look to the right, you can see her mast. It's one of the tallest."

Had he named his ship for her? Is that how he thought of her? A princess? Many people had once held a similar opinion. They saw her father's wealth and it blinded them to anything else. She should tell him the wealth was all gone, translated into houses, farms, and land to go to Jeremy.

Above all, she should tell him why she was here. Would he understand? Or only be angry at her duplicity? Whatever his reaction, it might be easier to live with herself if she were honest.

Being in London and thinking of him was easier and simpler than standing so close to him. After last night, she felt like a traitor, the worst kind of manipulator. She drew back, the words on the tip of her tongue.

"I wanted to show you this place," he said, silencing her confession. "The moment I met you, I wanted to show you Drumvagen."

"Was the house built where it was because of the grotto?" she asked, trailing her fingers over the stone of the sill. How smooth it felt, almost like glass beneath her fingers.

"I don't know," he said, glancing at her. "I never spoke to the original owner or architect. But I would have built a house here because of it, I think."

"For nefarious purposes? Like smuggling?"

He glanced around. "It seems the place for it, doesn't it? Perhaps patriots used it to hide arms during the last rebellion."

She knew little Scottish history, and when she admitted that to him, his chuckle caught her unawares.

"I think the history of America and that of Scotland are similar. Not on the same timeline, but in our craving for freedom from England."

"Yet we Americans now gravitate to England," she said. "Is it the same with you Scots?"

"Perhaps it is," he said. "Or else I would not have given Ceana a season in London. We would have remained in Edinburgh."

She would never have seen him, never known him, and wouldn't be standing here now. She'd never been one to give much credence to fate, but she couldn't help but wonder if there was something to it.

No other man had ever made her feel the way he had. She couldn't imagine giving herself to someone else. Or experiencing such freedom and joy in the act.

"You didn't seem enamored of London society," she said.

He'd been different from the beginning, a little rougher, a little less refined. No, that wasn't it. The other men she'd met in London had been too effeminate, too caring about how long their tea was steeped or the cut of their coat and the shine on their shoes. He was a man among men. A man with an accent and a separateness that marked him as unusual.

Did all Scots have that sense of independence?

He'd stood on the sidelines and watched others with a light in his eyes that told her he found most of what he saw to be ridiculous. A half smile played around his mouth; his stance was relaxed.

He'd never tried to belong in the drawing rooms of London. He rarely spoke to others, aloof and somewhat detached. He did not join the rest of the men in their entertainments. He was polite for his sister's sake, and present so that Ceana could have her season.

"You were a magnificent dancer," she said. "I was surprised."

His laughter echoed through the grotto.

"That's because you were my partner," he said. "I don't remember dancing with anyone as effortlessly."

How strange to feel jealousy for that person she'd been, innocent and more than a little naive.

"Did you dance with many women?"

He smiled at her like he knew how foolish she was being and wanted to reassure her.

"I never imagined a place like this as a boy," he said, blessedly changing the subject from London. "Besides, I was too busy worrying about earning enough money to eat."

"Yet you still dreamed," she said.

He nodded. "You always have time for dreams." He stared off into the distance, and she wondered if he was recalling those years in Edinburgh.

"Was it an awful childhood?" she asked, then realized the question was unbearably rude.

"At times," he said, before she could call back the question. "After my father died, I remember being afraid all the time. A friend of my father's loaned me the money to bury him." He glanced over at her. "That was the first debt I paid."

She settled onto the ledge beneath the arched window, uncaring about the damage to her skirt, hoping he would continue to speak about his childhood and worried that doing so would trouble him.

"I couldn't let the girls know how desperate we were, so I worked harder than I ever had before." He smiled. "I sold broadsides for hours every day, then went back to the office and worked with Mairi to write them for the next day. Being out on the street helped me, because I heard what interested people, what worried them, what angered them."

She pulled up her skirt and, she hoped, with a ladylike grace, scooted into a more comfortable position.

"How did you go from being a printer to inventing an ice machine?"

He grinned at her, such a charming expression that she couldn't help but smile back.

"I used to clean the typeface with ether. Every time I did, it got cold. That fascinated me. I wondered if there was a way to get the air cold."

"Was there?" she asked, fascinated.

"As a side effect," he said. "But I also discovered I could create ice."

"And your sisters never again had to worry about their meals."

"Add another mouth," he said. "My cousin, Fenella. Mairi invited her to live with us when her parents died."

"Do they ever come to Drumvagen?"

He leaned against the stone wall. "They do. Mairi's only two years older than me, but she thinks she's my mother." He glanced over at her. "Fenella occasionally accompanies her. Ceana hasn't come back to Scotland after her marriage, but I think it's probably only a matter of time."

"Did you never wish for a brother, rather than all those females?"

He laughed. "My life was filled with relatives. I can't say I wanted another."

"I wanted a brother or a sister," she said, giving him a confession of her own. "Maybe my childhood would've been easier. My father would not have cared so much about my studies. Or maybe he would have visited me more than twice a year."

"While I think being an only child could be a blessing," he said. "Mairi always wants to know why I haven't married. She harangues me constantly about my plans for the paper. She gets into arguments with Brianag."

Before she could comment that Brianag was a formidable figure, he moved to stand in front of her.

"See, you've changed this place already," he said. "The grotto will forever smell of roses, and I'll be able to close my eyes and say to myself, Virginia was here. I'll mark the exact date and time."

He mustn't do that to her. He mustn't cause her to want to weep simply with words.

Or perhaps that was her conscience rearing its head.

She moved her skirt aside so he could sit.

"What will you be thinking when you come here?" A foolish question, and one she should not have asked. His smile gently chided her, but he answered nonetheless.

"I'll be wondering why you came to me on a stormy day. Why you stayed until the weather was fair. Why I know, even as you sit here, that you're planning to leave again."

She reached out and touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers.

"What would you say if I told you that I came all this way for what happened last night?"

A comment that was too close to the truth.

"Or a kiss?" he asked. He bent his head down as he spoke, his voice a little rough, accented Scottish. Her breath hitched at the sound of it, at the feel of his breath against her temple.

He kissed his way to her lips, hovered over them.

"A memory I might be able to summon any moment of any day."

He kissed her softly, gently, his lips barely there. Suddenly, he clasped his hands behind her head, keeping her prisoner as he deepened the kiss, their tongues tangling, heat erupting between them.

She felt like her clothes might melt.

"I've never been able to forget you," she said long minutes later, when the kiss was done. How would he respond to that confession?

He didn't say anything, merely took her hand and kissed the tip of each finger.

"While I sat and brooded," he said.

She smiled gently at him. "I doubt you brooded all that much. Ceana said that you've been very successful. People crave your attention all over the world."

"It was easier to travel," he said, "then sit and remember you."

Perhaps this wasn't the best topic. When she returned to London, she would not be able to easily forget this interlude. That's all it was. For now, however, she didn't want to waste one moment.

She slipped off the rock sill and stood in front of him.

"Did you ever think of taking me here?" she asked, wondering at her own daring. The girl she'd been, the woman she was, would never have considered saying such a thing. But for now, Virginia the mouse had become someone else, a shocking woman with an edge of desperation.

Not because she needed a child, but because she needed him.

His smile faded, his look growing even more intense, as if he were judging the limits of her courage.

Slowly, his hands reached out and gripped her shoulders, pulling her toward him. Before she could ask what he was about, he'd lifted her. Then she was on his lap, her knees on either side of his legs. Such a position opened her, made a mockery of any hint of modesty in her pantaloons.

She gripped his shoulders as he moved back, bracing himself with both arms.

"Never dare a Scotsman," he said.