“But youarethe land agent, and the people of Frest will respond better to one of their own.”
Sinclair pulled his palm from Rose’s grip and scrubbed at his entire face with both hands. “I am not exactly one of them, any more than I am a bloody gent.”
Rose tugged gently on his wrists, and he allowed her to guide his fingers to the rough, scarred wood of the table. She was not wearing gloves, and her warm flesh pressed against his.
“You belong here, Thorfinn, to this island, to these people. You’re like the standing stones by Fornhowe and on the headlands—sturdy, strong, part of the landscape.”
Sinclair barked out a laugh, wishing it were so. “I wouldn’t say that too loud, lass. You’ll horrify the crofters.”
Rose shook her head. “The islanders respect you.”
Now Sinclair was chuckling in earnest but not from mirth. “They see me as a coward.”
“They all rely on you, Thorfinn, and part of them resents that a bit. It must have been frightening for them to know how dependent they all were during the war on one single person. And now with you being estate manager, you will be the boss, which carries with it a whole other set of tensions. But the crofters wouldn’t have anyone else in the position—I guarantee it.”
Hope and pride clashed with disbelief. Sinclair had sought acceptance all his life, but it had always eluded him. Neither his sire nor his stepfather had ever regarded him as a son. And his very best friend had never been able to openly acknowledge him as his brother.
“Thorfinn, you’re not that little boy hiding in a cave and reading about how to manage an estate anymore. You’re doing it. Youarethe land agent—and a good one who cares. Once you see that, fully see that, your eyes will open to how the crofters really regard you.”
A swell built inside Sinclair, and his breath grew short. He felt like he was standing on the strand as a great wave arose before him. Yet he did not flinch, did not try to run as the white frothy breaker started todescend. He had no idea where the current would lead him, but he was too enthralled to struggle against it.
“Thorfinn! Thorfinn! Thorfinn!” Margaret’s excited voice seemed to physically wrap around him and pull him back from the beckoning deep. He and Rose sprang apart, as they had both by unspoken agreement chosen to hide their relationship from the children. It was too new, too vulnerable of a connection to expose to others, and Sinclair knew the bairns would read too much into it. His siblings were already enamored enough of Rose without dreaming of a fairy-tale wedding that would never be. And Sinclair would do well to heed his own warning. He’d never experienced a relationship like this afore, and he was sore afraid of tumbling headlong into an intensity that Rose would neither reciprocate nor desire.
He and Rose had shifted apart just in time, as Margaret careened into the room followed by Alexander, who was pumping his knobby legs as fast as he could to keep up with his older sister. When Margaret stopped short, the little lad slammed into her, but luckily neither of them took a spill.
“Myrtle told me to tell you that the crofters are starting to arrive for the meeting!” Margaret puffed out her thin chest in pride of being entrusted with the announcement. “Freya and the twins are showing everyone where to set out their blankets. Hannah’s gone to fetch Da, as she knows he won’t want to miss a moment.”
No, because Sigurd clearly expected Sinclair to mess up and wanted to be there in case he needed to fix his stepson’s blunder. As if she sensed his thoughts, Rose nudged his foot—the encouraging gesture obscured from the children by the sturdy table.
They stood up together, and the bairns danced around them excitedly. Sinclair heard his siblings’ raised voices as if they came from a far-off distance. His blood seemed to whoosh through him like a riptide. He slowly fisted and unfisted his hand, but even that gesture didn’talleviate the pressure inside him. He really shouldn’t be feeling so anxious. He’d previously led meetings like this.
But you weren’t the bloody land agent afore.The words, dripping with disdain, sneaked through him like the taunt of the schoolhouse bully.
As Sinclair and Rose exited the cottage, people came up and greeted them. Trying his best not to sound stiff, Sinclair automatically responded.
The wind was gentle today, and the horizon glowed in a rainbow of orange and yellow. The air wasn’t hot, but it was a pleasant mix of chill with a healthy hint of warmth. It felt like any other evening as the crofters gathered as they had for Sinclair’s whole life. But women and bairns now came instead of just the menfolk—a change the war had wrought. The lasses were just as vital to the land, and they deserved their voice too.
No, it wasn’t Frest or the people gathering that were different. It washim.
“Everybody’s here!” Hannah’s cry seemed far away. “Even Da. We can start now.”
Feeling like he was moving against a powerful gale, Sinclair plodded down the bank to the sand below. The gentle slope of the island formed an almost natural amphitheater, and he stood within sight of all the crofters as they gazed down at him ... waiting.
He spotted Sigurd’s lined face and saw what he always did—not just the expectation that Sinclair would blunder but the mixture of satisfaction and disappointment that accompanied his stepfather’s certainty of his failure. For although the older crofter had tried to accept Sinclair for his wife’s sake, Sigurd could never completely stop seeing Sinclair as the offspring of the man who had worked to destroy the people of Frest.
Sinclair’s steps faltered, and he felt curiously hollowed out, like an empty husk of wheat tumbling in the wind. Then he saw her,Rose. She gave him a nod, crisp and short, and he swore he felt himself takeroot.She—who had Edinburgh, London, and New York lawyers on retainer—believed inhim, thoughthimcapable.
And hell, wasn’t he? He understood life on Frest—every bit of it from which lichens made the best dye to how to navigate the skerries to find the best place to drop crab pots. His childhood and adolescence had been spent reading and preparing to become estate manager one day.
Sinclair straightened and marched straight to the rock that the crofters had centered themselves around. After climbing on it, he exchanged a brief affirmative glance with Rose, and when he spoke, he felt like a modern Demosthenes.
“By now, I assume that all of you have heard about the collapse at Fornhowe. Our operations were not harmed, as only the entrance was affected. However, no one should currently go inside.”
Miss Morningstar had reluctantly agreed with Rose and Sinclair that she would halt her current preliminary work in Fornhowe until he could make a reasonable show of studying the infrastructure.
“I will be thoroughly investigating why the cave-in happened and if the structure remains sturdy,” Sinclair continued. “I’ll stabilize it as necessary. Any questions?”
He paused, carefully scanning the familiar faces before him. Did any of them seem guilty, perhaps anxious? He saw nothing, though, to raise his suspicions. Aye, more than one visage showed concern but no more than one would expect, especially given how the islanders relied on the proceeds that the still made. Sinclair knew that Rose and Miss Morningstar would be studying the reactions too. And mayhap they could see more clearly than him, since they would not be blinded by years of knowing and working alongside these people.
