“Oh.” Her topaz eyes grew large as comprehension seemed to finally rain over her. “Ohhhh.”
Shite, it never failed to amaze him how bloody ignorant the wealthy were of the land, the animals, thepeoplewho helped to support their lavish lifestyles.
“Is it urgent?” Miss Van Etten asked.
“I would rather not wait.” Sinclair tried to sound polite, and he thought he managed it. Barely. If she was going to be Frest’s new laird, cementing the islanders’ grazing rights on Hamarray was more important than ever. “It is the cause of much concern, and I would like to put the people of Frest at ease. Some of them are elderly—”
“Then I suppose you might as well hop in.”
“Hop in?”
Miss Van Etten patted the seat next to her. “We can talk while I drive.”
Sinclair had never ridden in an automobile, but he doubted an open-air one would be conducive to a business conversation, especially with the high winds already buffeting Hamarray. But this was his best and perhaps only opportunity he would have today to discuss the tenancies with Miss Van Etten.
When he climbed into the bucket seat next to her, he couldn’t quite stop the flash of excitement that flickered through him like the emerald-green merry dancers that sometimes appeared in the darkened sky on a winter’s eve. He’d first spotted an automobile in Kirkwall, the principal town on Mainland, the largest isle of Orkney. The locals of that island had even started an auto club. Of course once the war had begun, the navy had brought lorries, motorcycles, and other vehicles to their bases. But Sinclair had admired the machines only from afar.
But now. Now he was climbing into the finest, sleekest vehicle he’d ever spied. Even the motor sounded posh. Its rich, steady roar sounded nothing like the pathetic put-put-put of the one on his skiff. The leather seat felt even softer and more buttery than the upholstery on the Earl of Mar’s favorite armchair.
Part of him wanted to groan in appreciation. And he hated the weakness. Sinclair could not afford to allow the trappings of wealth to distract him, especially not when the crofters needed him.
“Have you driven a car before?” Miss Van Etten asked almost in his ear. Although the stone walls of the old stable temporarily sheltered them from the constant howl of the winds, the rumble of the engine still necessitated her raised voice.
“Nay.”
“Ridden in one?” Her voice didn’t sound the least bit superior, but it still chafed.
“Nay.”
Miss Van Etten tapped the steering wheel with one gloved finger. “Are you good with mechanical things?”
“Passable.”
“That’s all we need,” Miss Van Etten said. And then, without warning, she leaned over him, her fur coat pressing against his wool sweater. Her breasts brushed against his arm, and he sucked in his breath. He didn’t know if she’d registered the contact, but he bloody well had.
“This is the oil pump,” she told him, touching one of the tubes on his side of the vehicle before moving to the next. “And this is the petrol. Got it, buster?”
“Aye.”
“Good.” She pulled back, her body once again sliding across his. Seemingly unaffected by their closeness, she tapped a gauge. “When the indicator travels below this point, pump the handle. That will repressurize the tank and give the engine more gas.”
“Gas is petrol?” he asked, stumbling through her Yankee dialect.
“Yep.” She next tapped on the sight glass. “You can see the oil splashing through here. Give it a squirt or two if it needs more. You think you can handle that?”
If he could coax his boat motor into performing on gritty, low-grade fuel, he could certainly inject a bit of lubricant into this well-maintained masterpiece. “Aye.”
“Oh, one more thing.” Miss Van Etten leaned over him once again and stuck her hand between hislegs. Before he had a chance to react, she’d opened a small compartment and pulled out a set of goggles. Tossing them onto his lap, she warned, “You’ll need these. There’s no windshield on your side.”
“Ah,” Sinclair said, glancing at the circular piece of glass in front of her. It looked a bit like a giant monocle and fit with the trim, minimal design of the yellow-and-black automobile.
Using a bright-green scarf, Miss Van Etten secured her hat around her chin. She adjusted the levers on her side of the car and then gripped the wheel. Suddenly, without any other warning, they were off, shooting through the open doors of the stable.
Sinclair quickly shoved on the goggles and adjusted the strap as they bounced through the old mews. Although he’d sailed at a fast clip when the wind was just right, he’d never experienced anything like this. The ground seemed to simultaneously rush by and rise up to greet him. Then there was the vigorous bouncing. He felt a bit like the innards of a bairn’s rattle being shaken back and forth.
Miss Van Etten, however, was not the least bit bothered by the jarring ride. She waved to her friend, Miss Morningstar, who had taken off in the direction of the broch.
The road down to the docks, which the earl had installed a few years before the war, was not well maintained. That, however, did not slow Miss Van Etten. With ungodly whoops and hollers, she sped around the big craters, swerving right, then swiping left. Despite Sinclair’s bulk, he found himself slipping and sliding—hitting the metal door one minuteand slamming into Miss Van Etten’s shoulder the next. If that wasn’t enough jostling, the wind blasted him in the face with the force of an angry winter gale.
