Say no,Sinclair silently pleaded.Just say no. Please.
Miss Van Etten’s bright-red lips stretched into a particularly bonny smile. “Why, yes! I’m famished, and a meal sounds absolutely wonderful right now.”
Rose had attended grand dinner parties held by the Astors and the Vanderbilts, and she’d dined in manor houses, châteaus, and castles of Europe’s elite. Yet no invitation had instantly charmed her as much as these adolescent sprites’. Rose was generally not one to coo overchildren of any age. She did not dislike youngsters, but neither did she feel compelled to adore them. Since her own childhood, she’d rarely found herself in the company of young people. Yet something about this girl’s unabashed enthusiasm delighted Rose. Perhaps it reminded her a bit of the joie de vivre she and so many of her generation had lost on the battlefields of the Great War.
A miss with the brightest-red hair Rose had ever seen barreled onto the beach next. Almost as tall as her fair-haired sister, she moved like a whirl of color against the blue sky and pale sand. Constant motion. Rose had been like that once herself.
“Whatever are you driving? It is the grandest thing I’ve ever seen—even in Kirkwall.” This child was as informal as Freya had been formal.
“Hannah,” Freya hissed, sounding very much like a harried nanny, “you’renotsupposed to bombard a guest with questions. It isn’t polite. You haven’t even introduced yourself yet.”
“Oh, right.” The redhead bobbed her head, but she didn’t seem the least bit contrite. She pivoted toward Rose, giving a bounce as she did so. “I’m Hannah Flett. What is the model of your automobile? What type of a motor does it have?”
“It is an American brand—a 1913 Mercer Raceabout.” Rose chuckled, the sound seeming less perfunctory than it had for a long time.
“It’s a jolly-looking machine!” Hannah circled around it. She started to reach out, as if to touch it, but quickly snapped her hand back. Although Rose enjoyed when folks appreciated her cars from a respectable distance, she didn’t generally like strangers—or anyone, for that matter—touching one of them. But oddly enough, she found she wouldn’t mind if this girl did. She just seemed so reverent.
“Would you like to see the motor?” Rose asked, unable to keep a hint of amusement from her tone. Luckily, the girl did not notice as she rapidly clapped her hands.
“Oh yes. Would you really let me?”
“Every race car driver likes to show off the engine.” Rose climbed out of the car and walked over to the hood, choosing the side that was facing away from the sea and its salty spray. Hannah smacked her palms together again as Rose undid the buckles on the straps holding the metal down and folded back the bonnet.
“Ohhh, it is a T-head! It is ever so much prettier than Thorfinn’s dirty old motor in his sloop. His doesn’t roar like yours either. It makes this sad little put-put sound, as if its piston is all puggled.”
Mr.Sinclair, who’d also exited the Mercer to study its engine, made a choked sound. Rose cast a curious glance in his direction. Even the thickness of his wool sweater could not obscure how his muscles had stiffened. He was uncomfortable with her presence and clearly wanted her gone.
He was indeed a sobersides. It was obvious that he thought she purposely acted like a flibbertigibbet. But at least he hadn’t treated her like a fragile doll or an ice princess during their argument in the Mercer about the Sheep Problem. He’d actually blasted her with his temper—but not as a scold, not really. She’d endured enough chiding lectures from men to recognize one.
No, Thorfinn Sinclair had challenged her. Dared her to be better. Perhaps even thought her capable of rising to the occasion as “laird”—and all that the word entailed. People always thought Rose irredeemably frivolous. Even during the war, she’d often been seen as either some sort of angel or a rich girl on a charitable adventure. No one ever took her seriously ... she barely did herself. Yet Mr.Sinclair seemed unwilling to allow Rose to use her fecklessness as an excuse to wriggle out of what he considered to be her duty. He pushed at her outward facade of blitheness.
Although Rose wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about being prodded, Mr.Sinclair’s insistence that she assume an active role as landlord offered her the perfect excuse to start poking around Frest for information about the viscount and any suspicious activities. Sinclair hadcertainly answered all her questions about the population of the island without ever suspecting that she might have an ulterior motive.
“Are you really going to marry the Earl of Mar and become the mistress of Muckle Skaill?” one of the identical girls with strawberry-blonde hair asked as she moved closer to Rose.
Her twin followed and immediately added, “And are you truly from America? What is it like there? Are you as rich as they say?”
“Girls!” came Freya’s horrified cry just as Mr.Sinclair said in a stern tone, “Barbara. Mary.”
Although they seemed ready enough to overlook their sister’s admonishment, they immediately looked chastened by their older brother.
“Sorry, miss,” they both mumbled to her.
“No harm done, girls,” Rose told them brightly. “I’ve faced worse questions from society columnists back home. Yes, I am from the United States, but no, I am not going to marry the earl. Iambuying his estate, however, so I will be mistress of Muckle Skaill after all.”
“The Earl of Mar will no longer be laird?” Freya asked, her voice even more high pitched with excitement as she immediately glanced at her half brother.
“He is already gone,” Rose answered, and her pronouncement caused a great cheer to rise up. Clearly, the Flett family did not harbor any soft sentiments for their old landlord. Did such disdain for English authority extend to all British rule and make spying for the enemy more palatable to the adults?
The littlest member of the gaggle of children marched forward, his chest puffed out in importance. “I’m Alexander. I’m six. Can I ride in your automobile? I’ve never been in one. Hannah would like to go, too, but she didn’t have a chance to ask you yet.”
Rose did not know why, but she found herself kneeling in the sand to address the little tyke. “Why, that sounds like an excellent idea, Alexander. I think it would be even better if all your siblings had a ride.”
Freya stepped forward then, opened her mouth, and then shut it firmly. Even if she did not voice a complaint, her crestfallen disappointment was palpable. Clearly, she was worried that her dinner would be ruined.
“After,”Rose added loudly, “we eat the wonderful meal that Freya has prepared. Should we all adjourn to the house?”
Freya beamed, looking once again like a merry wood sprite. But she wasn’t the only one shooting Rose a pleased expression. So was Mr.Sinclair.
