A scratch sounded at the door and both he and Winnifred looked up from their respective books. His, a treatise on Scottish history; hers, the King James bible, although her glance frequently drifted to The Times that he’d left on the settee beside her.
“Yes?”
A footman poked his head through. “Milord, Mr. Gavin Fraser is here to see you.”
Sin stood from his armchair. “Send him in, send him in.” He hurried forward, arm outstretched to greet the man. “Gavin. It’s good to see you.”
“I was sorry to have missed you when you were making your rounds the other day.” Gavin rolled up his cap and shoved in the pocket of his jacket. “I was in Glasgow looking for a seed supplier.”
“Gavin, may I introduce you to my wife. Winnifred, this is Gavin Fraser, a friend from childhood and one of the best farmers on the estate.”
“Lady Dunkeld” Gavin inclined his head. He nodded at Sin, his eyes twinkling. “I’d heard that ye’d taken a bride but I didn’t believe it. But now that I see her, I can see why ye’d become leg-shackled to this lass.”
“Yes.” Sin eyed his wife, watched as her cheeks pinkened. “I was most fortunate in my circumstances.” He could have been caught in a compromising situation with a truly boring woman. Not just one who simply pretended to be colorless. She was a puzzle waiting to be deciphered.
“Well, let us sit and I’ll call for refreshments.” Sin strode to the side of the room and pulled the bell for a footman.
Winnifred fiddled with the cuff of her gown. “Might I ask, why you went to Glasgow for seed? Have you no local suppliers?”
“Gavin, here, is particularly fond of the Scotch whisky at the King’s Boar in Glasgow.” He dropped back into his chair and grimaced as its legs squeaked under his weight. “He takes any chance he can of riding to that fair city.”
Gavin glared at him. “I didnae go there for Scotch. Although the brew from that distillery is quite lovely,” he told Winnifred. “The local seed supplier only sells Pole Rivet wheat which is late to ripen. Add that to this confounded endless winter, and I’ll ne’er harvest. I’m going to try another variety, the Losanna red. Mayhap that will put bread in our bellies.”
A maid entered, pushing a serving cart. She placed a tray of berry tarts that Sin knew Winnifred was fond of in front of her mistress, but his wife didn’t spare a glance at the pastries. She scooted to the edge of her seat. “And do you rotate your crops? Do you use any supplements to help aid growth?”
Gavin’s eyebrows shot up.
Winnifred eyes flared as wide as a hunted doe before she rested back on the settee, a tight smile on her face. “My apologies. I only ask because I’m sure it is something my father would be interested in.”
Sin took the decanter the maid had brought and poured Gavin and himself a dram of whisky. “My new father-in-law is a botanist. Worked at the royal gardens for a time. My wife, I believe, was very involved in his research.”
She smoothed her palms down her skirts. “I merely assisted him as best I could.”
Sin snorted, and garnered a reproachful look from his wife in return. Blast it, her interest went far beyond that of a note-taker for her father. Her mind was agile and curious and her father had struck him as neither. Sin wondered how productive Mr. Hannon would be now that his “assistant” was no longer in his service.
An ache grew behind his breastbone, and Sin rubbed his knuckle over it. It was no wonder Winnifred appeared listless at times. Kenmore must appear very dull to her without an occupation to engage her mind.
“There’s naught much to tell at this point.” Gavin rooted through the bowl of nuts until he found one to his liking. He popped it in his mouth. “Even the best seed cannae grow withoot the sun. My barley has barely peeked its head out of the dirt.” He shook his head. “The worst of it is, in three years our barrels will be empty of whisky. Might have to drink that swill coming from the Lowlands.”
Winnifred fiddled her thumbs but remained silent.
“Wife, you were to write your father this afternoon, I believe. Why don’t you ask Gavin the questions you’d think he would?” Sin sipped his whisky, eyeing her over the glass’s rim. “Perhaps he’ll even have a word of advice for the farmers up here.”
“I’d listen to any ideas he has,” Gavin agreed.
“Well….” Winnifred tipped her head to one side, her brow wrinkling slightly as though listening to an unheard voice. Or considering every option she could think of. Hell, his wife could have been running multiplication tables in her head for all he understood of her.
She nodded. “I do know my father is interested in crop management. Do you rotate your crops?”
“Of course. Four-field rotation.” Gavin stared morosely into his glass. “I like to leave one of me fields to lie fallow, but I cannae do it this year. With how poor the harvest is, I need every square inch I can get.”
“And do you spread manure on your fields?” Winnifred asked.
Gavin shot him an uncomfortable look, and Sin bit back a grin. It wasn’t a typical conversation with a marchioness but it was interesting.
“Aye. Fat lot of good it’s doing,” Gavin grumbled.
Winnifred pressed her lips tight, her right knee bobbing up and down.
Sin wondered how long she could keep it in, whatever it was she was wanted to say. She looked near to bursting. But his wife swallowed whatever it was down, her leg stilling, her fingers worrying her cuff again.
Sin pressed his lips flat. Well, if his wife needed prodding, he could do that. “What sort of experiments is your father running with soil supplements?”
“Well,” she said hesitantly, “have you heard of Johann Fredrich Mayer?”
Gavin scratched his head. “Nae, milady. Can’t say that I have.”
“Didn’t he have some new ideas about crop rotation?” Sin asked.
Winnifred nodded. “Yes, but he also believed that gypsum should be used to fertilize the soil. He believed that it sped the growing time of crops.”
“And does it?” Gavin paused, a nut halfway to his mouth.
“Well, no, not as far as our tests went, but his ideas have inspired many chemists to experiment in the same vein.” She poured herself a cup of tea and tapped her thumb on the rim of the cup
Sin waited until he could take it no more. “And? Any results that signified?”
“I’m afraid agriculture will always be a work in progress.” She settled herself back in her seat, her ankles crossed neatly. “There have been promising studies. I— my father believes nitrogen may show the most promise. It is a chemical found in both water and the air, but not in significant enough quantities to increase current yields. A few natural philosophers believe it is also found in the roots of legumes, which is why crop rotation systems that include those plants tend to show better results. Mr. Fraser, if you aren’t growing any legumes currently, I would encourage you to add them to your crops.”
Sin leaned forward. Had his father known this? He didn’t think Kenmore grew peas or beans in any significant quantity, but he’d have to discuss it with Tavish. “And this nitrogen, it travels from the roots into the soil?”
Winnifred nodded. “Just so. But we’ve been investigating whether it is also released when legume plant matter decays. Before …” She blushed and smoothed a hand down her leg. “Before my marriage, my father had been planning to experiment on this theory. I’d created a bin where I put chopped up peas and left it in the sun. I, we, were going to spread a thin layer of it over the soil while growing strawberries to see if it aided the process.”
Peas and beans he could get. “Would that help this harvest?”
Winnifred raised her shoulders. “An experiment like this would take much trial and error. And there would need to be fields left as they were to appropriately measure the variables. It could take years to see any results.”
Sin’s shoulders slumped. So, still no answers. Nothing was bloody growing and no hope in sight for at least a year. His people didn’t have a year.
He rubbed his forehead. “Gavin, were you in Glasgow when the riot broke out? The one where Lord Abercairn was injured?”
His friend blew out his cheeks. “I heard of the incident. I didnae witness it.”
“And?” His friend wasn’t stupid. He knew what Sin was asking.
Gavin shrugged. “Tempers are hot. Especially against the English. And anyone who supports them.” He gave Sin a measuring look. “You need to step lightly, my friend. I know where yer loyalties lie, but a member of the House of Lords, with a new English bride, will be a ripe target.”
“Has it really gotten so bad?” Winnifred set her tea down and clasped her hands together. “Was Lord Abercairn attacked just because he sits in the House of Lords?”
“You don’t have to worry.” Sin fisted his right hand, the knuckles cracking. “No harm will come to you.”
She turned her sky-blue eyes on him. “It wasn’t me I was worried about.”
There was a pregnant silence, until Gavin cleared his throat. “The talk is always there, but it’s louder now. I almost believe it will happen this time.”
“What will happen?” Winnifred asked.
“Rebellion,” Sin said grimly. The dream of every Scot.
“Self-governance,” Gavin moderated. “After the English returned British Java to the Dutch, hope has been renewed. Mayhap the English bit off more than they could chew, trying to control the world.”
“Self-governance won’t put food in our bellies.” Sin ground his jaw. In times of privation, it was necessary to enhance alliances, not break them asunder. The English had many faults, but in times of need they would support their northern brethren.
Unless the Scottish turned on them, inciting violence to the point where they cut off aid.
His mother breezed into the room. “Gavin! Dear, how are you?”
Gavin and Sin stood, and his friend pressed a light kiss on his mother’s upturned cheek. “Better, now that I’ve seen your bonnie face.”
She slapped his shoulder. “You always were such a flirt, even as a lad.” She turned to Sin. “Did you ever tell your wife about the time the two of you climbed through a bog to pick me some wildflowers. You came back covered in muck and smelling worse than the stables.”
“We were eight, mother.” But flowers weren’t a bad idea. Perhaps a bit of wooing would encourage his wife to be more open.
His mother pinched his cheek. “It still showed an unmatched level of devotion.” She shot an undecipherable look at Winnifred.
Gavin set his glass down. “Well, I must be getting back. My Maura will be missing me.”
“Before you leave, can ye take a look at my basil?” His mother gave Gavin the smile that had wrapped his father right around her finger. “You are the best plant doctor around.”
“Of course, milady.” With a nod to Sin and a bow to Winnifred, Gavin followed the dowager marchioness out of the room, leaving Sin and Winnifred alone.
Sin sank back into his seat and picked up his glass. He took a sip, examining his wife over the rim. “You weren’t expecting to face a rebellion upon your marriage, I expect.”
“No.” She shook her head ruefully. “I am sorry to say that my education in political events has been poor. My father rarely even looked at the papers. I didn’t realize there was still such unrest.”
“An unrest that is being encouraged, I fear.” He drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Someone is inciting this. I can feel it.”
Winnifred’s mouth opened in a delightful little O. A knot formed in his gut. That look of surprise was the one she wore when she’d had her first orgasm. It was seductive as hell. He wanted those lips in indecent ways.
“Well, what can you do about it?” she asked.
He crossed one leg over the other. Yes, that was the question. He’d sent out inquiries to every contact he had in Scotland, but had heard nothing yet. And so he sat. And waited.
He hated waiting.
“I don’t know.” He rubbed his jaw. “Tell me what you think.”
***
Tell me what you think. Five dangerous words.
Her husband’s gaze landed on her, the weight of it making it hard for her to breathe. He made the question sound so simple. And so inviting. He made her want to believe she could trust him.
She pressed her hands into her thighs, digging her fingers into the fabric of her skirt. Her heart pounded. Some small part of her knew it shouldn’t be this frightening to speak openly. That the average person didn’t become queasy at the thought of a voicing an opinion.
But Sinclair wasn’t just another person. He was her husband, with the full legal ramifications that position entailed. He held power over her of which she had to be wary. The power to send her away.
She swallowed, trying to bring moisture back to her mouth. But he had asked. Demanded, really. Could the consequences really be so bad if she was following her husband’s directive?
“I think,” she said slowly, watching his expression, “that you cannot do anything about such intrigue/if some element is subverting the masses. If you concentrate on alleviating the food shortages, the resentment and anger will dissipate, at least for your people here.”
He stood. Pacing to the window, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared outside. “What you say is sensible, and with what I’ve ordered from London, my tenants will have a steady supply of food in their belly soon enough. But I cannot feed all of Scotland.”
No, nor the rest of the world. This dark summer was a global epidemic, with reports of crop failures coming in from as far away as the Americas.
Sinclair’s shoulders were as tight as a drum, and she realized just how heavily his responsibilities weighed upon him.
Hesitantly, she stood and inched over to him. She rested her palm on his back, the action seeming somehow more intimate than their marital bed. “There is nothing to be done about people’s anger,” she said quietly. “Nothing that has happened is your responsibility.”
He spun and caught her wrist, setting her heart to pounding. He brought her hand up and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Thank you,” he said, is voice a low rumble that shivered down her spine. “But there are steps I can take. And if these riots are being stirred up as a prelude for rebellion, indeed it is my duty to take action.”
He stroked his thumb along the inner curve of her thumb.
She stared at where their hands met. “Duty?”
He drew his eyebrows together. “There is something I need to tell you, but it must be kept in the strictest confidence. Aside from a few trusted servants who work with me on occasion, no one else at Kenmore knows.”
The tingles along her thumb were starting to spread to other parts of her body. Her breath quickened. “Of course. I would never betray you.”
He examined her face before nodding. “I am not only a member of the House of Lords, but I also aid the British government in another capacity. When threats against the Crown arise, I’m called upon to investigate and eliminate the risk. In short, I’m a spy.”
Winnifred blinked. And blinked again. Of all the things she’d thought he might say, that hadn’t been in her top one hundred imaginings.
“You understand why this can never be spoken of?”
She nodded. “Of course. I am at such a loss for words, I don’t think I can speak of it.”
Her husband was a spy.
It was indeed dangerous information to hold, and the fact he shared it with her sent a flutter to her belly. She licked her lips. But did it make her situation more dangerous or less? The information could be used as a bargaining chip. something to hold over his head in case he ever decided to be rid of her.
Or a reason to make locking her away more attractive. In Bedlam, no one would believe her ravings.
If only she knew if she could trust him.
She pulled her hand from his and circled behind the settee, putting distance between them. “Even knowing this, I’m uncertain what can be done on your part to stop the riots. They seem to be happening all over Scotland. It’s too widespread to be coordinated, surely.”
“I disagree.” The filtered sunlight limned his wide shoulders. “One person or a small organization can coordinate a great deal, have tentacles in many places. If there is a power behind the violence, I intend to find him and put an end to it.”
To him. She saw the violence in his eyes. The hard set of his jaw. If her husband caught this person, he would kill him. Had he killed before? Was that the job of a spy?
The knowledge of such violence in Sinclair didn’t shock her. She should be horrified, but she wasn’t. He had a moral code. She hadn’t mapped it fully yet, but she knew he wouldn’t kill on a whim. That violence was carefully meted out on his part.
Others might not be so discriminating.
“You could get hurt,” she blurted out. Dear Lord, her husband was a spy. Under constant threat of harm. A pit opened in her stomach. She might not have to worry about her husband controlling her. She could be a widow at any moment.
The thought should be comforting. A widow had the most freedom of any woman in society. She ran her gaze from the toe of his muddy boots to the wrinkle in his cravat where he’d tugged on it. No, not even to assure her own safety could she wish harm to him.
“I’ll be fine.”
She huffed. “No man is invincible. Not even one as brawny as you.”
Sin shot her a cocky grin. “Don’t you worry, wife. Your husband hasn’t been bested by any man yet. This soon married, you won’t be getting rid of me so quickly.”
Such arrogance. Everybody was subject to injury, illness, and decay. Burly highlanders were no exception. “That is a myopic opinion.”
His smile faded. “Nevertheless, I’ve made my decision to investigate. The discussion is at an end.”
Of course, it was. Her jaw went stiff from clenching it. He asked for her opinion but didn’t truly wish to hear it. Why had she expected her husband to be any different?
“Of course, my lord.” She inclined her head. “Anything you wish.”
“Damn it!” He kicked the low table, the scones and sandwiches tumbling from their tray. “I didn’t mean it like that. And you don’t have to look at me like I just kicked a wee kitten. Even though I’ve made my decision, I don’t want you buttoning yourself up, hiding yourself away. What is going on in that perverse head of yours?”
A lump rose in her throat, choking her, until the words either had to burst out or she’d choke on them. “You said you wanted a partner in this marriage. That you wanted me to speak my mind. But it’s a lie. You want me to agree with you, not make trouble, never be a cause for embarrassment. I know what happens when a woman dares express herself.”
He stalked towards her and she backed away, trying to keep the settee between them. “What is it that happens, Winnifred? What has put it into your head that you have to hide your true self away?”
The back of her knees hit a corner table and buckled.
Sin leapt forward and grabbed her biceps, pulling her upright. He gave her a small shake. “Tell me what you’re so afraid of?”
“That you’ll send me away.” Her voice broke. “Like my father did my mother.”
A crease appeared in his forehead. “Your father said your mother died a decade ago.”
“She did.” Her pulse pounded in her ears, memories of the last time she’d seen her mother crashing through her brain. “In Bedlam.”
Sinclair stilled. “Your mother was in an asylum? Why?”
Winnifred yanked from his grip. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she’d had years of practice of never letting them fall. “Because she’d become an inconvenience to my father. She laughed too loudly, danced when there was no music, liked to throw feasts in the middle of the night.” She remembered the nights when her mother had come into her room. How she’d held her hands and spun and spun until they’d both fallen down. Even then, she’d known her mother hadn’t been quite right; but had she been so bad as to deserve banishment and death?
“She was high-spirted. Lively.” Until she wasn’t. After days of laughter and cuddles and running through the streets without her shoes, her mother would cave in on herself, become a shadow who wouldn’t leave her bed. The dramatic highs and lows had taught Winnifred the importance of controlling her spirits, of being measured in all things. She balled up her fist and pounded it onto her thigh. “She might have been unwell, but she didn’t deserve to be sent away. I could have looked after her,” she whispered.
Sin closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring. “Sweet mother of God.” When he looked at her, pity was heavy in his eyes. “Your father should have told me this.”
It wasn’t something her father liked to remember. He was riddled with his own doubts. He’d told Winnifred her mother would get better in an institution. Become fixed, as though she were one of his experiments he merely had to tweak to get the desired result.
Instead, she’d died of cholera after only a month.
Winnifred wrapped her arms around her middle, hiding her shaking hands, and raised her chin. “I’m not mad. You don’t have to worry about our children.”
“Christ.” He thrust his hand through his hair, pulling some of the locks from their ribbon. “It’s not them I’m worried about.” He strode to her and gripped her arms, running his hands up and down them. “I don’t believe you’re mad, Winnifred. And I give you my word I would never send you away. But I’d like to get to know my wife. Who you truly are. Not who you want me to see.”
He stepped closer, his chest brushing hers. “Trust is earned, I know this. Being your husband doesn’t give me an inevitable right to it. I hope that soon enough, however, I’ll have earned yours.” He bent his head and pressed a butterfly-soft kiss on her forehead.
Something twisted, fluttered behind her breast. The feeling was strange, uncomfortable, and felt an awful lot like hope.
Instead of squelching the feeling immediately as she’d trained herself to do, she let it dig a tiny root into her heart.
Perhaps, with Sinclair, she’d found a safe place to call home.