Sinclair undressed her slowly, with gentle hands. Bertie helped pull his clothes away as well until he was bracing himself over her in nothing but his kilt. Sinclair didn’t bother taking off the kilt itself—he simply shoved its folds up as he slid inside her.
He moved slowly, heat building between them, sultry and close like a summer night. His body was touched with sweat, his mouth hot as he kissed her.
The glorious friction of his kilt on her skin, of Sinclair stiff inside her, sent Bertie floating on ripples of joy. She latched her fingers around his shoulders as the ripples lifted her. She saw herself on the mountainside again, only this time, her grip slid away from the rocks, and she fell down, down, tumbling freely as the doll had.
She cried out, but Sinclair was there to catch her, sweeping her up into his strength. He buried his face in her hair as his h*ps moved, languid pleasure giving way to fiercer need.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispered. “Never, never, Bertie, lass. I can’t.”
“I’m here,” Bertie said, or thought she said.
You’ve done something to me, Basher McBride. I’ll never be the same again, no matter how far I go or what I do. I’ll never be just Bertie ever again. Some part of you will always be part of me.
“Dear God,” Sinclair groaned. His thrusts came faster, harder, until both of them were filling the air with cries of need.
They crashed together, their bodies slick with sweat, Sinclair’s kisses hot on her flesh. Sinclair drew Bertie to him, holding her solidly, keeping her in safety with him.
The next day was subdued. The rest of the McBride and Mackenzie families heard the tale of the doll’s fate and Bertie’s daring rescue. Bertie was celebrated with many toasts to her bravery, and tight hugs from the ladies. “Damn fool thing to do,” Hart growled, though he looked at her with new respect.
Ian gave her a quiet nod. “Thank you,” he said. His evenhanded thanks warmed Bertie more than Mac’s and Daniel’s wild applause.
“When I pick out a wife, she’s going to be just like you,” Daniel said, his strong hand on her shoulder.
“A governess?” Bertie asked, giving him a grin. Or a pickpocket?
“One who knows the world and isn’t afraid of it.” Daniel kissed her cheek. “And one as pretty. Mmm, let me just kiss you again.”
“No.” Sinclair got around Bertie and scowled at Daniel. “Leave her be, Danny.”
Daniel only laughed, studied the two of them together, and gave Bertie a big wink. “Right you are, Uncle Sinclair.”
Macaulay broke the celebration to hand Bertie a telegram that had come from the train station. Bertie took it in surprise, wondering who’d be telegraphing her, but she stilled when she read the terse words.
“What is it?” Sinclair asked, warming her shoulder as he leaned to read it.
“It’s me dad.”
Bertie wasn’t certain what emotions ran through her. The telegram wasn’t from Gerry Frasier—Mrs. Hill had sent it, saying that a woman who called herself Mrs. Lang had come looking for Bertie. Bertie’s father was very ill, Mrs. Lang had said, and was asking for Bertie to come.
Sinclair plucked the telegram from her cold hands, read it, and immediately told Macaulay to purchase tickets to London.
Bertie had supposed that Sinclair would send her back alone with either Macaulay or Aoife to look after her, but Sinclair packed up the whole family to return with her. Sinclair wanted Cat back in a house she was used to, he said. She’d rest and recover better without the other families hovering around her, even with all their sympathy. Cat was unnerved by it. So London it was for all of them.
Bertie was sorry to leave the families and festivities behind, but she too wanted Cat to rest. Also she did feel anxious about her father. Even if the old sot could be a brute, he was still her dad.
“London at Christmas can be fine too,” Bertie told Cat as she settled the girl into the compartment she’d share with Andrew. Andrew was with Sinclair, Sinclair carefully letting him explore some of the train, so Bertie, at her request, could put Cat to bed first. Bertie wanted Caitriona settled in before Andrew bounced around the room with his usual vigor. The stay at Kilmorgan had healed him almost completely.
“Your dad promised to take us to a pantomime,” Bertie continued. “One of the lavish ones at Drury Lane. That’ll be a treat, let me tell you.”
Cat nodded without much interest. Bertie propped the doll, which had been mended by Macaulay and Daniel, on the table near Cat’s bunk. The doll’s porcelain face had a big crack across it, and she was missing part of her cheekbone, but her blue eyes still shone, and her smile was as wide. Her hair, which had been dark like Cat’s, was blond now, her original hair now scattered about the hill below the old castle. Eleanor had found an old wig in the attics at Kilmorgan and had given it to her maids to be cleaned and brushed, then to Daniel to cut up for the doll.
Daniel and Macaulay had done an amazing job, but there was no denying that the doll had been ruined. She was dressed in the brand new frock Sinclair had given Cat this Christmas, her old dress far beyond repair.
Bertie straightened the rust-colored skirt of the doll’s gown. “There. She looks a bit tattered, but she’s still with us.”
Cat only nodded. When the repaired doll had been returned to her, Cat had looked it over, thanked Daniel and Macaulay politely, then set the doll aside and didn’t pick it up again. She hadn’t carried it with her since, and told the maid to pack it with the rest of her things when readying themselves to leave.