Return to Clan Sinclair (3 page)

 

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

B
ruce 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.

 

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

“A
unt Ceana?” Fiona said, standing in the doorway of the Tartan Parlor. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course you can,” Ceana said, making room on the settee for Fiona.

Her niece sat beside her, folded her hands very primly and looked at her somberly.

“Is it so terrible living in Ireland? Do you miss Scotland so very much? Papa said you must. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else but at Drumvagen. But I suppose I must, because one day I'll marry and move away.”

“And you're afraid you might go as far away as Ireland, is that it?”

Fiona nodded.

“I doubt you will,” Ceana said. “But if you fall in love and wish to marry someone, the distance won't matter. You'll go anywhere with him and hardly notice where you are.”

“Does it hurt very much to be in love?”

What a question. How on earth did she answer? Perhaps it would be better to direct the girl to her mother, but then Fiona continued.

“Sometimes I see them, my parents, and they look at each other and there is such pain in their eyes.”

Oh dear.

“I don't think it's pain at all, Fiona. I think it's love you're seeing. I was there, at the very beginning, you see. I remember when they first saw each other and it was like no other person existed for Virginia and Macrath. Or nobody was ever more important to my brother and your mother.”

Fiona threaded her fingers together.

“Sometimes I think they don't notice when anyone else is in the room.”

“That's a wonderful thing, don't you think? A mother and a father should love each other the most first and then their children. Your grandfather, for example, spoke fondly of your grandmother every day of his life. When he died, it was with her name on his lips. I like to think he saw her at that moment and went to join her in heaven.”

“Like you'll go and join Uncle Peter?”

The child knew how to ask questions, didn't she?

Very well, she would turn the tables on her. “How do you like being the only girl in the household?”

Fiona sighed. “I do wish I had a sister. But then, she'd probably steal my hairbrush and want to wear my ribbons. Carlton steals things from me all the time, but he never wishes to wear my clothes.”

Ceana bit back her laughter with difficulty.

“There's always a first time,” Bruce said.

She looked up to find the man grinning at her.

“I wouldn't put it past Carlton to wear your clothes and pretend to be you, Fiona, in order to escape Drumvagen. He's the master of escape.”

Fiona nodded. “He would. He doesn't like to be confined. Or punished.” She sighed. “He's very trying for a younger brother.”

“I can attest it's also very trying to be the youngest,” Ceana said.

“Did you disobey your father?” Fiona asked.

“Indeed I did not.”

“Or tell tales that couldn't possibly be true?”

She really couldn't lie to her niece. “Maybe once or twice.”

“I would wager you didn't stow aboard ship because you wanted to see America,” Bruce said.

“Oh, dear, did he really do that?” Her nephew sounded a great deal more adventurous than any of the family.

She heard Virginia calling her daughter. Before she could alert Fiona to her mother's summons, the girl had scooted off the settee and was at the door.

“Thank you, Aunt Ceana,” she said, and smiled in parting, a gamine expression equally distributed between Ceana and Bruce.

She smiled after her niece. Her daughters would like Fiona. She truly needed to bring them home. They would love Scotland.

Bruce stared out the window at the waves rolling into shore. What was he thinking? That she wanted to know was a surprise.

“Why are you here, Mr. Preston?”

He turned his head and studied her.

“I'm not at liberty to discuss it with you, Mrs. Mead. I would if I could.”

He was the most annoying man.

“Tell me about your children,” he said.

She eyed him. “To what purpose?”

His smile was wry, as if he mocked his interest or her protectiveness.

“Can't I simply be interested?” he asked, coming to sit beside her.

She wasn't certain it was wise for him to be interested or for her to feel pleased. She looked out at the view, feeling like she was on a tiny island surrounded by the ocean. All she could see was Kinloch Bay and beyond to the North Sea.

“I have two daughters,” she said. “Ten and seven. Nessa is the youngest and the mischievous one. Darina's more solemn. She worries about everything, and that worries me.”

“Were you the same?”

She considered the question.

“I don't think I was. I was the youngest. First, there was Mairi, then Macrath, then me. Even after our father died and I knew we didn't have much money, I didn't worry. I knew Macrath would take care of me. Or Mairi.”

“You were fortunate to have such protectors.”

She nodded.

She hadn't forgotten his response when she asked if he had children. He said “not anymore,” leaving her filled with curiosity. But it wasn't a question she could easily ask. Instead, she let silence envelop them.

The sea breeze from the open window cooled the room, brought the scent of the ocean inside.

He didn't talk or try to fill the silence with platitudes. Instead, he sat beside her as quiet as she, seemingly content.

She put her hand on the settee. Her little finger was only a short distance from his hand. They were so close yet so far away.

“My wife was from Mississippi,” he said. “We met during the graduation ceremony at West Point. Her brother was a good friend of mine.”

She didn't turn, didn't look at him, merely inspected the toes of her shoes peeping out from beneath her skirt.

“I knew about the tension between the states, but I never expected the situation to escalate to war. She'd taken the children to visit their grandparents in Mississippi. The day Fort Sumter was fired on, I was given my own division. Suddenly, the South was my enemy and my in-­laws were traitors.”

He didn't say anything else for a few moments. He simply sat studying the tartan pattern of the settee.

“She was stuck behind enemy lines.” He turned his head to look at her. “That's how I was told to think of it. It took me a year to get to Mississippi.”

She really didn't want to hear anymore. She wanted to wave her hand and send him from the room, allow her to think about her own children safe at Iverclaire.

Most of all she wanted to banish the spike of fear deep inside warning her of the horror of his tale. But once curiosity had been set free, it was difficult to quash it entirely. The question of his wife and children's fate hung in her mind, desperate to be answered.

“Daniel was five. Sarah was six.”

“You never saw them again?”

“No.”

The one word was too simple, filled with such hopelessness she wanted to weep.

“After the war I tried once more. This time I found my sister-­in-­law.”

When he finally spoke again, she let out a relieved sigh, then caught her breath in the next second.

“She led me to all three graves,” he said, lowering his head to study his interlinked hands. “I don't know what was worse, knowing or not knowing.”

“How did they die?” she softly asked.

“Corinth was a hospital town,” he said. “Soldiers returning from Shiloh were sent there, but the town wasn't prepared for hundreds of thousands of men. ­People died of the heat, of dysentery, of other diseases. So did my family.”

He looked away. “It was a very long time ago.”

“Do you ever truly forget such things? Is there enough time in the world to cope with such loss?”

He stood, glancing down at her, his fascinating eyes gleaming. “Perhaps not. But sooner or later you have to make a choice. To live in the world as it is. Or to sit wishing and hoping things were different. Wishing and hoping never made anything change.”

Before she could say anything else, he left her sitting there, staring after him, feeling as if she'd failed in some elemental and important way.

H
e hadn't intended to tell her anything. He never talked about his wife or children. Instead, they were locked away in a vault in his mind.

Then why had he?

There was something about Ceana Mead that called to him. Maybe it was her nurturing nature? After all, she was trying to save Carlton when he first saw her. Fiona had taken to her immediately and Alistair couldn't say enough good things about her. Or maybe it was the way she had of looking at him that seemed to burrow down into the core of him where the real Bruce lay, the person he never showed anyone.

He hadn't wanted her pity, but perhaps he craved her understanding.

She had a directness about her that he hadn't found in many women. But then he wasn't in the company of women much. Had that been a conscious decision? If so, here at Drumvagen he had no option but to notice Ceana.

He wondered about her marriage. She said she'd loved Peter with all her heart. Did she miss the man the way he'd once missed Kate, as if part of his life had been turned to ashes at her death?

In the beginning he'd had to make a choice each day, the same one he suspected Ceana was making now. To live or to will himself to die. To choose to put one foot in front of the other, to enjoy life without guilt, to accumulate a treasure trove of memories having nothing to do with Kate or his children. To begin to build a life alone.

Was she doing that? And why did he care so much?