“Where are you going!” he shouted as loudly as he could, making sure that she could hear him properly.
“To Frest. The ring of sand around the island is a natural racetrack.”
“But the passage will soon be flooded!”
She sped faster and tapped on the gauge that showed the air pressure in the gas tank, indicating that it was running low. “I’ll wait until low tide or have someone bring me back by boat. I can have one of the servants at the big house deliver your rowboat to Frest.”
Miss Van Etten was not entirely thoughtless, yet she was clearly accustomed to her whims being automatically met. She was an odd contradiction, and Sinclair was no closer to understanding her than when they’d begun this journey—nor his reaction to her.
Sinclair at least knew enough not to attempt another protest as he pumped more air into the “gas” tank. The lass wouldn’t listen even if she could hear him.
The black-and-gold racer shot across the sand like an angry great yellow bumblebee. Sand and water doused them, but Miss Van Etten didn’t seem to mind the deluge. Instead she shouted. He had no idea how she didn’t swallow a mouthful of grit and salt. Perhaps she did and simply did not care.
He, for one, kept his lips firmly clamped together, but he had more than one reason for doing so. Not only did it keep debris out, but it kept his own shout bottled up. He was sore afraid that if he did yell, it would be in the form of a rather high-pitched scream.
Sinclair had never in his life approached this velocity either by sea or land. The turf seemed like a living creature, ready to reach out and drag them into the sandy depths. Yet it also felt as if they would take flight, losing themselves in the bright-blue April sky.
Despite Sinclair’s trepidation, a thrill crashed through him. His heart seemed to tap and skitter like his fingers did over the strings of his fiddle when he played a particularly lively hornpipe. He’d always enjoyed the wind in his face—a good thing considering where he dwelled. A part of him had wanted to soar like a whirling, dipping, diving hen harrier without boundaries.
But he did not indulge this side of himself. It reminded him too keenly of his sire. Sinclair’s family needed his stability. They relied on him too much for him to think about adventure beyond that of keeping the bere barley growing, the animals fed and watered, the herring barrels full, and the lobster pots regularly checked.
Miss Van Etten appeared to have no such limitations. She drove not like a mere bird of prey but more akin to a shooting star blazing across the firmament. The isle that he knew so well looked entirely different as it became a whirl of green, gray, and reddish brown. The ride was disorienting yet freeing. He did not know if he breathed. Either his chest muscles had frozen up in wonder or the wind whipped the air away from him.
Miss Van Etten did not stop with one circuit of the isle or even two. Again and again they whirled around the circumference of Frest. The islanders not at sea had come down from their houses to watch the spectacle. Their faces flashed by like pictures in the zoetrope toy that Reggie had owned. The folks of Frest would all be talking about Sinclair’s madcap ride with the new Lady of Muckle Skaill over their dinner tables tonight. A sight like this might even go down in island lore.
Finally, they came to a stop.
“Now that,” she said, “was the best course I’ve ever driven. You have a marvelous island.”
It pleased him that she’d called Fresthisand nothers. It did not, however, solve the primary issue of why he had sought her out in the first place.
“There is still the Sheep Problem.” Sinclair crossed his arms over his chest. For some reason, he felt the need to gird himself from this fae woman.
“I told you that I would look into it as soon as I took care of some pressing matters.” Miss Van Etten’s mouth had tightened ever so slightly. “I am a woman of my word.”
Sinclair had never trusted the word of an aristocrat—even Reggie’s, as much as he’d loved his half brother. Things came too easily to them, and they treated their promises too cavalierly, not understanding what a spoken guarantee meant to those who did not have the luxury of unlimited means.
“Miss Van Etten, with all due respect, you are now the landlord of Frest and Hamarray. You are here now, are you not? This may seem like a silly annoyance to you, but we rely on those grazing rights to feed and clothe us. With the count occurring tomorrow, the future of the flock will be on every crofter’s mind, and they’ll all be anxious about what the new laird—meaning you—will decide.”
“I am the ‘laird’?” Miss Van Etten’s lips quirked in wry amusement. “My dear Mr.Thorfinn Sinclair, I can assure you that as an American, I have no desire to put on airs and—”
“How are you not putting on airs when you insist that your concerns are more pressing than those of an entire island’s worth of people?” He was thundering now. He really should stop, but he couldn’t. “We have suffered through enough absentee landlords who only take from these isles. This may be a pleasure escape for you—be it for hunting or racing or for whatever shite toffs do—but this is our home, our livelihood, our past, and, God willing, our future.”
Miraculously, Miss Van Etten did not look angry. True, her sardonic mirth had vanished, but ire had not risen in its place. Instead,she appeared ... thoughtful and perplexed—put out, even, but not enraged.
“This isn’t just about the sheep, is it?” Her question showed a surprising acuity despite her previous lack of any insight into what he was trying to convey.
“Nay.” The word was expelled from Sinclair along with his righteous anger. How could he express that it was about a people now mourning the loss of a generation of loved ones—the generation who had been supposed to take up the mantle of struggling to eke out a living from a tiny plot of land, less-than-generous grazing grounds, and an oft raging sea?
Miss Van Etten appeared even more contemplative. Once again, she reached over his legs for the compartment by his knees. Although the motion was perfunctory, it affected him all the same. For a moment, he felt like he had when they’d barreled through the strand.
She withdrew a pack of Lucky Strikes. Instead of lighting one and lifting it to her mouth, she just rolled a cig through her fingers and then leaned back into her seat.
“How many people live on Frest and Hamarray?” Miss Van Etten asked.
Sinclair battled down annoyance that she hadn’t thought to consider the human souls living on the islands she was buying—as if they mattered less than the amount of acreage. But at least she was asking now. He needed to focus on that. “There are fifty-three crofters, including children, on Frest.”
“What about Hamarray?” She lifted the still-unlit cigarette to her lips and sucked on it. Aye, she was a woman of contradictions.
