She clutched the bag to her chest. “They’re perfect. Colleen,” she called to the girl. “Look what the marquess and marchioness brought us.” She gave the girl a small orange. “Say thank’ee.”
“Thank’ee.”
Sinclair ruffled her hair. “We’ll let everyone know as more food arrives. And if you need anything, you know where we are.”
“Aye.” Farmer Beattie dropped the crate by his front door. “That we do.”
Winnifred shifted from boot to boot. That … hadn’t sounded friendly.
Apparently, Sinclair didn’t think so, either. Jaw hard, he turned and lifted Winnifred back into the cart. He hefted himself up beside her, bobbed his chin at Beattie, and slapped the reins against the horse’s back.
They turned down the path and rode in silence for several minutes. Sinclair shifted on the bench, the wood creaking. “It didn’t use to be like this.”
She looked up at him. “How so?”
“The tenants. They didn’t use to be so angry. Or disrespectful.” He tugged the brim of his hat lower over his head. “We had good relationships with them. We worked together. There were summer festivals and games where the barrier between peer and tenant disappeared and we’d have a good time together.”
“Some of the people we visited today were happy to see you.”
He snorted. “Happy to see the food we brought.”
The closely-built huts of a village drew into view, with some two-story structures sprinkled in between. More cottages were scattered off the main road, the gardens in the front yards brown or barren. A blacksmith looked up from his irons and watched them as they drove past.
Sinclair cleared his throat. “This is Inver, by the by. There’s a draper and haberdasher’s shop that some of my guests have said is well stocked. A hat shop that sells ribbons and the like that mother is quite fond of.” He pointed to a glass-fronted building. “And that pastrycook there sells passable ices and tarts.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “Passable? That’s quite the ringing endorsement,” she teased. Sinclair’s spirits had lowered with each tenant they’d visited, and a melancholy husband wasn’t to her liking. She didn’t particularly favor him prodding and curious, either, but that at least didn’t make her heart heavy to see.
Her words had their desired effect. One side of his mouth twitched upwards. “It’s a good village, full of hard-working and honest folk. I just—”
“Winnie!”
She jerked her head around, searching for the voice. No one had called her Winnie since—
“It is you!” A young man trotted over to walk alongside the cart, his freckled face grinning up at her. “What on earth are you doing in Inver? In Scotland, for that matter?”
“Donald.” Her stomach squeezed at the sight of her old friend. “Is this your home? I always thought you were from Edinburgh.”
Sinclair pulled the cart to a stop.
She turned to him. “This is an old friend of mine and my father’s, Donald Innes MacConnell. Donald, this is my husband, the Marquess of Dunkeld.”
“Winnie.” Donald’s shoulders drooped. He gave her a look of such disappointment that she couldn’t help but blush, even without knowing his cause. “Youmarried the marquess?”
***
What the bloody hell did that mean?
Sinclair draped his arm along the back seat of the cart, letting his palm settle against his wife’s waist. “Yes, Mr. MacConnell. Luckily for me, I captured my prize.”
Winnifred stiffened slightly, and gave him a questioning look.
Sin’s gut hardened at the blush that covered her cheeks. The blushDonaldhad inspired. She’d mentioned once a Scottish friend from childhood. At the time he’d paid it no mind. But now he wondered, just how close had the two of them been?
“Congratulations.” The boy bowed stiffly. His apricot curls scraped against his starched collar. He had the sort of face women would consider pretty, Sin supposed. Delicate like a poet’s. Extremely punchable. “Excuse the surprise. I didn’t think my Winnie was the sort to run in the same circles as the likes of you.”
“My father is a friend of Lord Stamworth’s,” she said faintly. “We met at one of his routs.”
“And you caught the eye of the marquess.” Was there disbelief in the man’s voice? Sinclair tightened his grip on the reins. He didn’t know if MacConnell was casting aspersions on him or Winnifred, but it was an insult to Sin either way.
