As the brood of Fletts led Rose up the gentle slope to a gray-stone cottage with a slate roof, she felt a tug on her hand. Glancing down, she noticed the last of the children—a girl who seemed to fall in age between the twins and Alexander.
“My name is Margaret,” the little girl told her solemnly. Although she had auburn hair, she reminded Rose the most of Mr.Sinclair. It was the eyes—the deep, serious eyes. “Did Thorfinn talk to you about the Sheep Problem?”
“He did,” Rose said, not precisely surprised that little Margaret knew about the adult crofters’ concerns. She herself had absorbed more about her father’s business than anyone had ever expected. As a small child, Rose had often sneaked into his office in hopes that he’d notice her. A man of singular concentration, he rarely did. His secretary had always had a soft spot for Rose, so he had not alerted his employer to her presence but had occasionally brought her a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. Rose would sit there, listening to her father dictate letters and handle business calls until her nanny found her. More than once she’d even managed to secrete herself behind a potted plant and listen to business meetings. That had beenquitethe education.
“Will you let us keep our sheep on Hamarray?” Margaret’s tiny features looked heartbreakingly mature as she stared up at Rose in worry.
“Your brother and I have discussed working something out,” Rose replied carefully. She did not fully understand the details surroundingthe woolly creatures, but it was becoming evident that she would need to learn—at least until she had managed to root out the spy ring.
“It is very important, you know.” Margaret jutted her small chin into the air, looking like an Amazon warrior of old.
“So I hear.” Rose sighed. At Margaret’s sharp look, Rose immediately sobered and asked, “Could you explain it? I’m afraid this is all very new to me.”
Margaret tilted her head quizzically. “Aren’t you the new laird? Shouldn’t you know everything about your holdings?”
And that simple question sliced even more than her older brother’s previous blustering. “I am afraid understanding how to run an estate is not a prerequisite for owning one.”
A choking sound came from Rose’s right, and she glanced over to find Mr.Sinclair listening to her conversation with Margaret. He had the oddest expression on his face as he studied her. She was accustomed to confounding people, but there was an intensity to Mr.Sinclair’s look that was unusual. And she still wasn’t sure if she liked it.
“The sheep have brought us a handsome income after selling the meat and hides to the navy.” Margaret held up a thin finger as she sagely made each point. “And we use the wool for our clothes, like Thorfinn’s sweater. I helped card the wool, and the twins practiced spinning. And the money from selling part of the flock helped some of the farmers pay for petrol and buy motors for their boats. It is all connected.”
“There’s not enough land here on Frest for them?” It was half a question and half an observation.
“Nay.” Margaret shook her head with the gravitas of a scholar. “Especially with us needing to plant more—”
“For the cows and ponies to eat,” Mr.Sinclair quickly broke in, pronouncingcowslike “kyes.”
Now it was Rose’s turn to scrutinize the Orcadian. If she was not mistaken, he had strategically interrupted his sister. Could he be hiding something? Perhaps it was just a relatively innocent matter—somethingthat a tenant would not wish his landlady to know, like poaching. Or maybe it was more serious subterfuge—the kind involving spies and ambushes on dark beaches.
The snort of a cow interrupted Rose’s increasingly lurid musings. The beast shook its shaggy head as if chastising her, its liquid brown eyes reproachful. Although the creature sported two little spiky horns that protruded from its head, Rose now knew that an animal’s headgear did not necessarily denote its sex.
“Who is that?” Rose asked Margaret.
“Oh, that’s Sally. She’s a sweetheart. We get all of our milk from her, and she isneverbad tempered,” Margaret said.
Mr.Sinclair emitted another amused snort. “Don’t let Sal or Margaret fool you, Miss Van Etten—Sally has her obstinate days like we all do.”
“She’s only kicked you once when you were milking her!” Margaret protested.
“Once is enough,” Mr.Sinclair said crisply, but Rose had no trouble detecting the surprisingly fond humor in his voice. Although Rose had met many horse-mad men, she had never encountered one who showed patent affection for a dairy cow. Perhaps he had more softness inside his prickly exterior than she’d originally suspected.
“Mind your head,” Mr.Sinclair warned as they approached the low door to the cottage. It was a snug, inviting-looking building despite being made almost entirely of unforgiving rock. Although not as small as the blackhouses Rose had seen while touring Lewis in the Scottish Hebrides with friends before the war, it was not a large or even midsize home either. It certainly did not seem as if it could house all the boisterous and inquisitive Flett children, but then again, what structure could? She imagined they could easily take over her “Muckle Skaill,” her family’s lavish Florida mansion, or any one of her father’s numerous hotels.
The smell of peat fire greeted Rose as she stepped over the threshold. The thick walls held the roaring wind at bay, making the house even moreof a homey sanctuary. The main room, with the dining table already set, seemed to serve multiple functions. There was even a stone bed built into one of the walls. It reminded Rose a bit of an enlarged animal trough with the pallet situated between the wall and three stone slabs.
As she moved farther inside, a thin man rose slowly from a chair near the fire. Although he leaned heavily on his cane and his muscles seemed to hang loosely on his bones, he still exuded strength. It was not just a mere vestige left over from a robust youth but a present sturdiness melded together through stubbornness and sheer strength of will.
His pale-blue eyes studied her, and he made no attempt to hide his disdain. “This is one of the ‘grand’ lasses visiting Muckle Skaill, then.”
Rose was long accustomed to judgment. One didn’t grow up as the daughter of one of America’s wealthiest men without facing preconceptions. And those assumptions only grew greater—and more pejorative—if a society darling chose to drive fast cars, drink hard liquor, seduce handsome men, and smoke like the proverbial chimney.
“So I’ve been told.” Rose gave the man a wink, which he didnotreturn. His glower, however, did not deepen. Instead, his gaze sharpened assessingly.
“And you must be ...?” Rose asked the man pointedly.
“My late mother’s husband, Mr.Sigurd Flett.” Mr.Sinclair spoke quickly, clearly attempting to stave off a confrontation.
“You have the most delightful children, Mr.Flett. They are quite bright and all very lovely.” Rose could charm when she wanted to. After all, shehadendured all her mother’s haphazard lessons on poise and niceties, even if she generally chose to forgo them.
