Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Drumvagen, Scotland

July, 1869

Freshly bathed and changed, Macrath sat in what had been designed as the Clan Hall by the architect. Stretching the width of the main section of Drumvagen, the room was supposed to be used as a gathering place. Exposed beams hinted at a history much older than the twenty years since Drumvagen had been started. He wondered, not for the first time, if some of the older features of his house had been taken from the crumbling structures dotting this area of Scotland.

The brick of Drumvagen was new, the gray tint purposely selected to blend in with the landscape. The house was a black pearl nestled in a bed of trees.

Virginia was here.

Virginia was at Drumvagen.

"You wanted to see me?"

His housekeeper stood at the doorway, frowning at him.

Brianag had a reputation as a healer. She was intuitive to a frightening degree, and known for being able to foretell the future, a talent she steadfastly refused to acknowledge.

She was also a termagant, frightened the servants and the inhabitants of Kinloch Village, and had no hesitation in telling him when he'd used ill judgment—according to her opinion.

She was only a few inches shorter than he was, with broad shoulders and a build hinting at masculinity. Her normal stance was to plant her large feet wide, fold her arms in front of her, and scowl down in judgment over the penitent.

God help the man who got on her bad side.

A great many people petitioned Brianag, and it might either be fear or their belief in her abilities. Many mornings he'd come downstairs only to be told his housekeeper had been summoned to the village to treat a broken bone or another injury.

According to Brianag, the villagers had nicknamed him the Devil of Drumvagen. He'd learned that interesting bit of nonsense a few years ago when she pinned him down in this same room.

"Why?" he asked. "I've never done anything to earn such an idiotic name."

"You'll find you don't have to, here at Drumvagen," she said matter-of-factly. "It's enough you look like Old Nick."

"What do you mean?"

She folded her arms and tilted her head a little, studying him.

"You've got the black hair and blue eyes, and a wicked grin when you're not all somber. I've heard tell in the village the girls were warned away from you. Maybe they're thinking you'd lure them here to have your wicked way with them."

He frowned. "Where would they get such an idea?"

She shrugged. "Still, it makes for a good tale. And it gives the village mothers something to use with their children."

Startled, he could only stare at his housekeeper. "You mean as a warning? Be good or the Devil of Drumvagen will get you?"

She smiled. "I think the devil part is because you expect people to jump to your bidding quickly, with no questions asked."

He regarded her in astonishment. He was unfailingly polite to his staff, including her, even though there were times when he was annoyed or irritated.

"I've never heard anything more ridiculous."

She thrust one imperial finger at him. "That's the reason," she said, "right there. You've a temper about you."

"And you, Brianag. I've heard you shouting at the maids."

Her frown was an imposing sight, with her bushy eyebrows coming together in a single line.

He suspected she agreed to work for him because of curiosity. Working here was a way to discover what he was doing at Drumvagen. Over the last five years she'd created a fiefdom, one she ruled with an iron hand.

"Is she settled?" he asked now.

"In the room you made for her," Brianag said.

How the hell had she known that? He'd given instructions for the rooms to be redecorated shortly after he met Virginia. The furniture was to be French, upholstered in a rose pattern. The curtains and wallpaper were to be the softest pink, her favorite shade. Pots were to be filled with the most priceless rose potpourri. He'd worried about the timetable of getting everything perfect for Virginia before their wedding.

The wedding that had never happened.

"How long will she be staying?"

He wasn't about to tell her he didn't know. Hell, he didn't even know why Virginia was here.

He was not going to question Providence at the moment, however.

"You'll see to her maid and the driver as well?"

When his housekeeper just raised one eyebrow, he amended his statement. "Of course you will. And dinner, too. Something special, I think."

The second eyebrow joined the first. Her mouth thinned and her arms remained folded in front of her.

Brianag's annoyance wasn't as important as another fact, startling, confusing, and a blessing.

Virginia was at Drumvagen.

Brianag tapped her foot impatiently. Who employed whom?

"Is there anything else?"

"You might try smiling once in awhile," he said. "Or stop looking so ferocious. Or try remembering I'm your employer. A simple ‘sir' wouldn't be amiss from time to time."

"Is that all? Sir?"

He nodded, and she left the room, mumbling something in her indecipherable Scots.

Macrath had been born and raised in Edinburgh. He considered himself a Scot through and through. Yet the people of Kinloch spoke with such a thick accent he had a hard time understanding them. He'd heard Brianag in the kitchen, talking to the maids, and it might as well be a foreign tongue. When she noticed him, she always switched to a more understandable Scottish English, one not requiring interpretation.

When she was irritated, however, she spoke whatever she wanted.

He eased back in his chair, staring at the carved ceiling. Reaching inside his jacket, he plucked out the note he'd kept with him for a year. A handy piece of remembrance, a morality tale in a few sentences. Something to keep him sane—and probably bitter—for all these months. A reminder that he shouldn't be so overjoyed to see her now, or not until certain questions were resolved.

He read it again although he could see the words whenever he closed his eyes. A moment later he tucked it away again.

What explanation would she give him for both the note and her arrival at Drumvagen?

The last time he'd seen her, Virginia had been walking away from him with a smile, heading toward her father.

A man to whom he'd taken an instant dislike, a confession he'd never made to her.

"My daughter tells me you own a newspaper," Anderson had said on that first meeting. They'd both been sipping whiskey offered in one of the rooms set aside for bored spouses and male escorts.

Of average height, Anderson had black hair and blue eyes that were cold and flat, without one ounce of warmth. The only time he appeared remotely approachable was when he talked about his empire, how many shares of stock in railroads he owned, his cotton mills, and ships. Evidently, the recent war in America had only expanded his holdings.

A curiosity—not once did Anderson mention his daughter.

"The newspaper is a family business," Macrath told him. "I've since branched out into other fields. I've invented an ice machine."

"An inventor, eh? One of those fellas who tinker with things, then try to convince the rest of us to give them money for it. Is that it?"

"I suppose it is," Macrath said.

The American had just described, in unflattering terms, what he'd done to get funding for his first machine. He'd come up with the idea, created a prototype, then solicited investors to whom he proved it would be a good risk. After the first flurry of sales of the Sinclair Ice Machine, having made five men richer than they'd been, he declined any further investments.

When he explained this to Virginia's father, the man didn't look impressed. Instead, Anderson studied him with a sour expression on his face.

"I've heard tales about Scotland. How you all prance about in kilts, showing your bare asses. I'm surprised there are any of you left, what with you beating each other over the head with swords for hundreds of years."

"Perhaps I'll get a chance to show you the real Scotland," he said, hoping such an occasion never happened. He couldn't imagine being trapped in a railroad car or carriage with Anderson for longer than a minute or two.

The man flicked his hand at him, as if to dismiss Scotland and Macrath. In the next moment he'd wandered off, leaving Macrath staring after him and trying to imagine the man as an in-law.

However, he'd been willing to put aside his feelings for Virginia's sake.

Evidently, Virginia had put aside hers as well. For him.

Why was she here? Should he even care? She was here, and that was all that mattered.

Virginia studied her reflection in the pier glass as Hannah fluffed her hem and straightened her hoop.

"It's a good thing you're one of those women who look handsome in black," her mother-in-law had said. "But you needn't wear those nightgowns edged in black, I think."

She had closed her eyes on that comment, not wishing to discuss her nightgowns with Enid.

Did she look her best in black?

Her eyes seemed to sparkle with unshed tears, looking bluer than normal. Even so, they were not as arresting as Macrath's eyes.

If she could be only half as attractive a woman as he was a man, she would be beautiful indeed. Once, a maid had told her she had all the qualities of beauty save one: the confidence.

Now she was trembling, and when she clenched her hands into fists, the tremors crept inside.

She was caught on a fulcrum, one side of her grateful she was here because it was the one place on earth she most wanted to be, while the other desperately wanted to be away from this place. It was almost like being split into two—angel and sinner—and each side warring with the other.

The storm had struck since she'd seen Macrath. Rain sheeted the windows, and gusts of wind occasionally caused the panes to shiver in their frames. Should she be worried about the rolling thunder? Was it a sign of disapproval from God? This was not the first time she'd sinned, but the only time she'd done so egregiously, with premeditation and not as much regret as she should have felt.

"Have you been given your quarters, Hannah?" she asked.

"Yes, your ladyship. I have an acceptable room with a window overlooking the sea. I can smell it and hear the birds as well. No doubt they'll wake me up in the mornings. Better than the maids arguing or carriage wheels on the cobbles, I'm thinking."

"Good," she said, wishing she had something to say to the girl. She and Hannah had never conversed much, but now it felt almost uncomfortable not to do so.

Or was she trying to think of anything but her upcoming dinner with Macrath?

Her gaze fixed on the massive four poster bed. Had Macrath imagined her here, too?

"Is there anything else I can do, your ladyship?"

Talk me out of this. Keep me from leaving this room. Instill some sense of decorum if not morality in me.

She only shook her head in response.

When Hannah answered the soft knock on the door, Virginia gave herself one last look in the mirror.

God help her, but she was running full tilt toward sin.