Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(68)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

He sat down next to the bed and stroked Cat’s hair. She looked so like Daisy, with her dark hair and Irish blue eyes and dark lashes—as the saying went, eyes put in with a smutty finger. Cat had shared her mother’s liveliness until that terrible day Daisy went away.

Sinclair took her hand, his heart beating too hard. He wished he could reach that liveliness, bring it to the surface, but he didn’t know how. It killed him that he didn’t know how.

He could have lost her today, and Bertie—when he’d seen Bertie go over the cliff his entire world had stopped. He might be even now sitting here, wondering that he was still alive without Bertie.

Sinclair cleared his throat and squeezed Cat’s hand. “I know she’s not just a doll, sweet. Your mother gave her to you, and I know you treasure it.”

“Mama’s gone.”

The dull words struck Sinclair’s heart. “I know. And I miss her every day. It’s all right to miss her, love.”

Fresh tears flowed from Caitriona’s eyes, but they were quiet tears, not the crazed sobs of her hysterics. “I don’t want Bertie to go. Even if I go to Miss Pringle’s Academy, I want Bertie to stay.”

“I want her to stay too,” Sinclair said, all his heart in the words.

Cat wiped away her tears. “She will,” she said with conviction, and Sinclair hoped with everything he had that his daughter was right. He’d make sure of it.

Bertie returned to her own room after she set up Andrew with a bath in the nursery. Andrew didn’t want a bath, but he gave in without as vehement an argument as usual. Bertie left him in the care of the nannies and went to her room to plop into a soft chair and let out a sigh.

Not two minutes later, Sinclair slammed his way into her bedchamber without so much as knocking, and Bertie leapt to her feet again. “What’s wrong? Is Cat all right?”

Sinclair stared at her as though he didn’t understand the question, then he nodded distractedly. “Yes, she’s asleep. Aoife is with her.”

“Good.” Bertie pressed her hand to her heart. “You had me worried, there.”

“I had you worried?” Sinclair banged the door shut and strode to her, his fury evident. “Devil take you, Bertie, what the hell were you thinking, climbing down that cliff and risking your bloody neck? For a doll?”

Bertie gaped up at him. Sinclair’s face was blotchy red, his eyes glittering with rage. He wasn’t the stern, arrogant barrister, or the empty, unhappy man; this was someone new. Sinclair towered over Bertie, his large hands balled to fists, a furious Scottish warrior barely holding himself in check.

“Her mum gave her that doll,” Bertie said faintly. “Of course I had to fetch it back.” She put her hand inside her collar and drew out her locket. “My mum gave me this. You don’t think I wouldn’t have been over those rocks in a trice if I’d dropped it?”

“It’s worth your life?” Sinclair roared.

“I know it was stupid of me,” Bertie said quickly, “but I couldn’t let the poor thing go. You saw what it did to Cat. It was like losing her mum all over again.”

“I know, but damn it, Bertie, don’t you dare do anything like that ever again!”

Bertie put her hands on her hips, her own temper rising. “Were you going to skim down there and get it? We’d have been scraping you from the rocks for sure. I’m limber, and I know how to climb.”

“I would have fetched Macaulay and some lads to help, and rope,” he shouted. “Not thrown myself over the side and hoped for the best.”

“Macaulay was off showing people how to shoot things, remember? I wager most of the lads who work here were out with him. Sun was already gone by the time we reached home—not enough light left to organize a rescue party. And there’d be dolly, hanging from that rock all night. Or maybe carried off by some bird to line its nest. How do you think Cat would have felt about that?”

“That doesn’t mean you should have risked your life for it!” Sinclair’s bellow rivaled the noise Andrew could make. “It’s only by the grace of God you didn’t fall, or I’d be out looking at your body on the rocks now, you broken and gone . . .”

His words choked off, his chest working as he struggled for air. Bertie reached for him, her own heart hurting. “I’m sorry. I truly am. You all right?”

“No. Can’t . . . breathe.” Sinclair backed away, sitting down hard on her bed, his breath coming in hoarse gasps. “This happens to me whenever I’m . . .”

Bertie went to him. “Let me help. How can I help?”

“I’ll be all right in a minute.” But Sinclair’s breathing still came with too much difficulty, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

Bertie sat on the bed beside him. “Now you close your eyes.” She moved her hands up his back in a caress and started kneading his shoulders. “Let me ease you.”

“Can’t. When I close my eyes, I see . . . you . . . falling away from me . . .”

“But I didn’t. I’m here, right next to you.” Bertie wriggled her thigh against his. “See? You just let me look after you now.”

Sinclair turned his head to look at her. “Bertie . . . damn you.”

Bertie climbed up behind him on the bed, put her arms around him, and drew him back to her. He resisted at first, stiff, but then he leaned into her bosom, his eyes at last drifting shut.

“We’re all here, safe and whole,” she said into his ear. “That’s all you need to remember.”

She caressed his chest, finding his heart banging hard beneath her hands. She continued to rub gently, kneading his tight muscles, smoothing his shirt over his hot skin. Bertie rested her cheek against his hair, breathing the warmth of it, moving to kiss the scars that decorated the top of his cheekbone.

Sinclair’s breathing at last began to slow, the gasps easing, until he drew a long, relieved breath. He coughed once, then he closed his eyes again and lay back against Bertie, relaxing.

Bertie lightly kissed his cheek. His skin was flushed, warm, his whiskers rough on her lips.

When she kissed his cheek again, Sinclair turned his head and met the kiss with his lips.

Bertie stilled, fire rising at his warm breath, the smooth touch of his mouth. Sinclair took over the kiss, parting her lips, sweeping his tongue inside. The icy chill of the wind across the ruins, plucking at her as the rocks cut her hands, vanished under his heat.