Andrew recovered enough that, on the twenty-third of December, Sinclair decreed he was well enough to board the train for Scotland.
The train would leave from Euston station and travel all night, putting them in Edinburgh in the morning. From there, they’d take a smaller, slower train to the heart of the highlands and Castle Kilmorgan, arriving in time for the Christmas ball.
Last Christmas, Andrew had been a handful, setting the house into uproar. This year, his convalescence and Bertie’s presence might keep him calmer, Sinclair thought. Might.
Sinclair booked first-class sleeping compartments—one for himself, one for the children, and one for Bertie. Macaulay and Aoife also traveled with them, leaving Mrs. Hill, Charlotte, and Peter to watch over the house. Their families were in London, and Sinclair never had the heart to take them away for Christmas.
“I have this all to myself?” Bertie asked in amazement as she turned in a circle in the cramped sleeping compartment.
“Best I could do on short notice,” Sinclair said. He’d had no need to accompany her, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. “If you need anything, ring for the conductor or ask Aoife or Macaulay.”
Bertie turned around again and faced Sinclair, her wide smile in place. Bertie had a new dress for traveling, gray with black piping and black cloth-covered buttons. A subdued garment, but one that looked smart and hugged her curves. Her gray hat’s brim turned up to reveal a black lining, and a feather curled from the crown. Eleanor had chosen the hat as a gift, having her favorite milliner make and deliver it. Bertie’s joy when she lifted it from of the box had been the same as that of a woman regarding a diamond tiara.
Remembering her delight—Bertie had jammed the hat straight on her head and twirled around with it, laughing—started to make him hard. Sinclair had donned a kilt for this trip to his homeland, and an arousal could be disastrous.
He made himself leave her and return to his compartment with Andrew and Cat, sitting down as the train jolted, getting ready for its long journey.
For her part, Bertie thought she’d never settle in. She’d never been out of London, let alone to Scotland, and anticipating seeing the countryside, from a luxurious train no less, had her in a right state. She was sorry they’d travel at night, but she’d make sure she saw something of Scotland before they shut themselves into the castle.
Aoife popped her head in while Bertie was exploring her compartment, saying that Mr. McBride expected her to join him and the children for supper. Bertie tore herself away from the shining inlay walls, the soft seats, and the amazing little closet that had a sink with running water, and followed Aoife down the narrow passage.
The main compartment Sinclair had taken was quite large. Two wide, velvet-upholstered seats faced each other, the windows had thick curtains pulled over them, and lamps softly lit the compartment. Their meal was delivered to a table in the middle of the compartment, served on china plates with silver cutlery.
“I think I could live forever on a train,” Bertie said, looking over the fish in sauce, crisp greens, and buttery potatoes.
“You’d soon grow tired of its rocking,” Sinclair said. He ate, but without the enthusiasm of Andrew. He was more like Cat, calmly putting the tasty food into his mouth as though it were nothing out of the ordinary.
“You do everything like that,” Bertie said. She hadn’t meant to voice the thought out loud, but the words slipped away before she could catch them. Sinclair looked up at her, his expression still, waiting for her to explain. Bertie drew a breath and said, “You have all these wonders, but you barely notice them. Everything is a delight—don’t you know that?”
Sinclair put down his fork and gazed across the little table at her, his gray eyes focused so sharply that Bertie moved a little in her seat. She knew she was being far too impertinent, but she always spoke as she found.
The waiter entering with the pudding ended the moment, and the meal resumed.
Sinclair said good night to his children after that and went off to the smoking car. He didn’t smoke, Bertie knew, but she assumed he’d drink brandy and speak with other men there.
Bertie got the children to bed. Aoife would sleep in the bunk opposite their two, watching over them, promising to call Bertie if she was needed. Bertie returned to her own cabin, interested to see that her seat had been turned into a small bed while she’d been having supper.
Now to discover if she could sleep on a train. Everything was so fascinating she might have trouble dropping off, in case she missed something. Sinclair had talked about the train’s rocking, but Bertie liked it. The train was like a live thing, clicking along the rails, humming to itself, the whistle’s shrill call blasting into the night.
Bertie tried to peer out into the darkness, but could see little beyond her own reflection. She had just dropped the curtain when her door snapped open behind her and Sinclair stepped inside.
He didn’t smell of smoke—he smelled like the night, as though he’d walked to the end of the train to watch the track unfold behind them. He said nothing, only gazed in silence at her, his hair glinting in the lamplight, his hands in gloves closing to fists.
“Teach me about the delights,” Sinclair said after a time, his voice low. “I can’t see the wonders anymore. Show me what you see, Bertie. Please.”
Chapter 19
Bertie’s lips parted, her dark blue eyes taking him in. The top button of her bodice was undone, as though he’d interrupted her undressing. The thought of her in here alone, slowly unbuttoning and drawing off her clothes, was enough to kill him.
“I don’t see much different than you do,” Bertie answered, sounding nervous.
Sinclair shut the door behind him and locked it. “Yes, you do, or you would never have said that to me.”
“I was rude. My father once had a kind mistress, name of Sophie, who tried to teach me good manners, but I wasn’t always best at it.”
“I don’t give a damn about your manners.” Sinclair let the motion of the train ease him onto the edge of the bed, and he pulled Bertie to sit beside him. “Show me what you see.”
Bertie stared at him as though he’d run mad, and Sinclair likely had. He’d made his way to the back of the train, standing alone on the observation platform in the freezing cold, but it hadn’t cooled his need for her.
He realized tonight he’d been trying to hold on to his control and his life when it was nothing. His grief had made him into an automaton, going through the motions of living, stopping when there was nothing to do. If not for Andrew and Cat, he’d have told Macaulay long ago to prop him up in a square somewhere for pigeons to land on.