“But—”
“Besides, Young Thomas was thrilled. He’s tired of being stuck inside painting and hanging wallpaper, and I’m sure he won’t mind being a stone’s throw away from Freya’s home. I suspect he’s sweet on her. Come her birthday they’ll only be two years apart, and he gets this funny look on his face every time—”
“Do you really think that’s an inducement for me to give them a chance to be alone together without a proper chaperone?”
Rose rolled her eyes. “Your stepda will watch them like the proverbial hawk, and besides, Freya is a smart young lady who can make her own decisions about these things.”
“Aye,” Sinclair grumbled reluctantly. His little sister was slowly becoming her own woman, whether he liked it or not.
Just then Young Thomas appeared, whistling “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” He looked so cheerful and hale—a sharp contrast to the wan lad he’d been upon his return from the war. Rose was right. The nineteen-year-old needed to be out in the spring sunshine.
“Are you coming?” Rose cocked her head in Sinclair’s direction.
“You know I am, lass.” Sinclair then turned and called over to the pony, “Charlie, don’t you go giving Young Thomas a hard time. You listen to him.”
The horse shook his flank in Sinclair’s direction and showed his teeth.
“I don’t think your horse likes you.” Rose linked her arm with Sinclair’s as they headed over to the beach. The tide was low, so they could simply walk to Muckle Skaill.
“The beastie doesn’t like anyone.”
“I could charm him.” She grinned at Sinclair. Then, after peering around just as he’d done to make sure no one was watching, she planteda kiss on his cheek. His left eyelid drifted closed for a moment as he savored the innocent sweetness of the gesture.
“Aye, that you could, lass. That you could.”
As they reached the front steps to Muckle Skaill, Sinclair hesitated. The few times he’d called upon Rose regarding the estate, he’d always used the staff entrance. The side door was near to Rose’s office, so he’d used the servants’ corridor to get there. He hadn’t been in the main part of the structure since he and his mother had fled all those years ago.
“What’s wrong?” Rose asked as he began to slip his arm from hers.
“This isn’t proper. I’ll go in my normal way. Are we gathering in your study?”
“Which way have you been entering my house?” Rose knit her brows together.
“The servants’ entrance, of course.”
“That’s absurd.” Rose held on to Sinclair’s arm as she started to march up the first step, leaving him no choice but to follow. “From now on, come in the front door. Youarethe estate manager.”
His stomach roiled as he ascended the grand stairs to the ornately engraved wooden door, and he swore that his scar burned as much as when the wound had been fresh. The oak—rare to Hamarray—was carved with romanticized images from Orcadian folklore. Selkies transformed into beautiful maidens. Coquettish mermaids beckoned. Cheeky trows peeked out of corners while mysterious finmen paddled in their animal-skin boats. The carpenter had turned their harsh stories into some damn fairy tale.
Rose pushed on the heavy wood, revealing a foyer at once familiar and foreign. The mansion always had a musty odor about it—a decay that seemed rooted in its very walls. But fresh scents greeted him—the smell of new paint, a whiff of wallpaper glue, even the crisp scent of sea air. The formerly dark, imposing space was starting to be transformed into something airy. Gone were the thick draperies that choked out any light brave enough to try to enter the mullioned windows. Instead,gauzy fabrics drifted in the breeze. The gruesome statues showing Zeus with his various conquests had vanished.
Sinclair had expected to find the specter of the earl lurking in Muckle Skaill, but he saw only the touches Rose had made.
“What do you think?” Rose asked, and Sinclair realized he’d been staring slack jawed, his feet rooted to the freshly polished parquet floor.
“I wouldn’t have believed that anyone could even begin to change this place,” Sinclair admitted.
“Perhaps I can convince you yet that turning Muckle Skaill into a resort is a capital idea!” Rose gave him a flirty nudge.
But her words only released ghosts of the past. Cruel laughter drifted through the halls. A scream. The breaking of glass. Drunken guffaws. The clink of dice. The smell of liquor. Fists hitting flesh. A rifle shot. The cry of a wounded animal. The snarl of a dog. The screech of a cock.
Memories like that could not simply be painted over.
“Are you sure nothing is bothering you?” Rose asked as she brushed her hand over his bicep while she led him through the main corridor.
The hall retained more of the earl’s overly masculine influences, including the dark-bloodred rugs, but Sinclair could already detect subtle influences from Rose. The most apparent was the removal of the salacious artwork that Mar was so fond of. In its place were rough, economical sketches of the broch, which he supposed that Miss Morningstar had drawn.
“Thorfinn,” Rose asked again. “It seems like somethingiswrong.”
