Winnifred tucked her cloak more tightly about her thighs, but the damp still crept through. The umbrella she held above her and Sinclair’s head was next to useless when the very air was heavy with moisture.
“This mist might help the crops at least,” she said, injecting cheer into her voice.
Sinclair grunted and slapped the reins onto the back of the cart horse soundly.
She smothered her sigh. He’d barely spoken all day. Ever since she’d answered his inquiries last night with bland placations. She’d been tempted, so very tempted, to tell him her fears She knew her marriage didn’t have a chance of being a truly happy one unless she was honest with her husband.
But an average marriage, where the husband and wife were merely civil companions, was far better than most alternatives.
Sinclair drove their cart down the next drive, a stone cottage rounding into view. The thatched roof was worn thin in a couple of spots and a bare-footed child chased chickens in the yard. The girl caught sight of the cart. “Mam! Da! Someuns comin’.”
A middle-aged couple emerged from the cottage, both looking as faded as unpicked hay. The woman’s eyes opened wide and she dropped a deep curtsy as they pulled to a stop. The man gave a brusque nod.
Sinclair jumped from the cart, landing heavily. He reached up and grasped her waist, swinging her down. “Farmer Beattie. How fare you?”
The man spit into the dirt, his saliva dark and thick, turning Winnifred’s stomach. “Aboot as well as ever’one else.” He looked Sinclair up and down and turned his gaze on Winnifred. “Not as well-fed as some.” The disgust in his look had Winnifred taking a step back.
So many of the tenants they’d visited today had shown the same anger. Nothing that could be classified as outright disrespect, but nothing polite in their manner, either.
Sinclair shifted his body partway between her and the farmer. “I’m sorry to hear that. This is my new bride, the Marchioness of Dunkeld.”
Winnifred nodded to the couple, and the man, grudgingly, returned it.
Sinclair swept his hand out, indicating the cart. “I’ve ordered supplies to be sent up from London but until they arrive, my cart is full of food from Kenmore. Take what you need.”
Beattie huffed. “From London, ye say. We dunnae want the help of the English.”
His wife elbowed his side. “Hush. The marquess is bringing us food.” She dipped another curtsy. “Thank’ee, milord. We’re ever so grateful.”
Her husband harrumphed, but followed Sinclair to the rear of the cart.
Sinclair flipped back the canvas covering the baskets and crates of goods they’d brought. The farmer’s shoulders unbunched when he saw the array of goods in front of him. “Fresh bread? And meat pies?” He grabbed a crate. “Thanks,” he said roughly.
Sinclair handed his wife a bag of oranges. “The fruit isn’t fully ripe, but they can still be a good treat.”
She clutched the bag to her chest. “They’re perfect. Colleen,” she called to the girl. “Look what the marquess and marchioness brought us.” She gave the girl a small orange. “Say thank’ee.”
“Thank’ee.”
Sinclair ruffled her hair. “We’ll let everyone know as more food arrives. And if you need anything, you know where we are.”
“Aye.” Farmer Beattie dropped the crate by his front door. “That we do.”
Winnifred shifted from boot to boot. That … hadn’t sounded friendly.
Apparently, Sinclair didn’t think so, either. Jaw hard, he turned and lifted Winnifred back into the cart. He hefted himself up beside her, bobbed his chin at Beattie, and slapped the reins against the horse’s back.
They turned down the path and rode in silence for several minutes. Sinclair shifted on the bench, the wood creaking. “It didn’t use to be like this.”
She looked up at him. “How so?”
“The tenants. They didn’t use to be so angry. Or disrespectful.” He tugged the brim of his hat lower over his head. “We had good relationships with them. We worked together. There were summer festivals and games where the barrier between peer and tenant disappeared and we’d have a good time together.”
“Some of the people we visited today were happy to see you.”
He snorted. “Happy to see the food we brought.”
The closely-built huts of a village drew into view, with some two-story structures sprinkled in between. More cottages were scattered off the main road, the gardens in the front yards brown or barren. A blacksmith looked up from his irons and watched them as they drove past.
Sinclair cleared his throat. “This is Inver, by the by. There’s a draper and haberdasher’s shop that some of my guests have said is well stocked. A hat shop that sells ribbons and the like that mother is quite fond of.” He pointed to a glass-fronted building. “And that pastrycook there sells passable ices and tarts.”
She nudged him with her elbow. “Passable? That’s quite the ringing endorsement,” she teased. Sinclair’s spirits had lowered with each tenant they’d visited, and a melancholy husband wasn’t to her liking. She didn’t particularly favor him prodding and curious, either, but that at least didn’t make her heart heavy to see.
Her words had their desired effect. One side of his mouth twitched upwards. “It’s a good village, full of hard-working and honest folk. I just—”
“Winnie!”
She jerked her head around, searching for the voice. No one had called her Winnie since—
“It is you!” A young man trotted over to walk alongside the cart, his freckled face grinning up at her. “What on earth are you doing in Inver? In Scotland, for that matter?”
“Donald.” Her stomach squeezed at the sight of her old friend. “Is this your home? I always thought you were from Edinburgh.”
Sinclair pulled the cart to a stop.
She turned to him. “This is an old friend of mine and my father’s, Donald Innes MacConnell. Donald, this is my husband, the Marquess of Dunkeld.”
“Winnie.” Donald’s shoulders drooped. He gave her a look of such disappointment that she couldn’t help but blush, even without knowing his cause. “You married the marquess?”
***
What the bloody hell did that mean?
Sinclair draped his arm along the back seat of the cart, letting his palm settle against his wife’s waist. “Yes, Mr. MacConnell. Luckily for me, I captured my prize.”
Winnifred stiffened slightly, and gave him a questioning look.
Sin’s gut hardened at the blush that covered her cheeks. The blush Donald had inspired. She’d mentioned once a Scottish friend from childhood. At the time he’d paid it no mind. But now he wondered, just how close had the two of them been?
“Congratulations.” The boy bowed stiffly. His apricot curls scraped against his starched collar. He had the sort of face women would consider pretty, Sin supposed. Delicate like a poet’s. Extremely punchable. “Excuse the surprise. I didn’t think my Winnie was the sort to run in the same circles as the likes of you.”
“My father is a friend of Lord Stamworth’s,” she said faintly. “We met at one of his routs.”
“And you caught the eye of the marquess.” Was there disbelief in the man’s voice? Sinclair tightened his grip on the reins. He didn’t know if MacConnell was casting aspersions on him or Winnifred, but it was an insult to Sin either way.
“What can I say?” He gave MacConnell a hard look. “When I see something I want, I take it. And once I have it, I keep it.”
“Yes,” Winnifred said brightly. She smoothed a hand down her skirts. “It was all quite romantic. Now, tell me what brings you to Inver? And how have you been since we last met?” Her cheeks burned so bright, the blacksmith could have used her to heat his iron.
Sin turned his head to glare at her.
“I’m visiting friends in the area.” MacConnell patted the cart horse’s rump and rested his hand there. “As to how I’ve been”—he shrugged—“these are troubled times in Scotland. The working man has it rough.” He slid a glance at Sinclair. “Fortunate for you, you’ll never have to experience our privations.”
Like he didn’t work? Sin tossed the reins down. All right, he’d had enough. The disrespect from his tenants he could tolerate. It was his responsibility to shelter and support them. But from this guttersnipe? Touching his horse, eyeing his wife, making her blush. A growl rumbled about in his chest. Like hell he’d sit here and take it.
Winnifred scooped the reins into her hand. “Well, it was lovely seeing you.” She rested her palm on Sin’s thigh and squeezed. A warning? A plea? Whichever, it had its desired effect. The irritation burbling behind his breastbone eased away. Sin sniffed. He’d wait to remove MacConnell’s head from his neck until another time.
MacConnell wasn’t as smart as his wife. Didn’t know when it was best to escape Sin’s presence. He put his hand over the reins that lay on the horse’s back, preventing their departure. “Have you heard aboot the fight that broke out at a coffeehouse in Glasgow? The guard was called in, killed two of our men. Just boys really. Students. I even heard the Earl of Abercairn got pushed around a wee bit. Nasty business.”
Sin stilled. He hadn’t heard about that incident yet. The paper from Glasgow lay folded on his desk, unread. But according to Tavish, fights were breaking out more and more across Scotland. Riots flaring and no one seemed to know the exact cause. “Yes, it is. But what business is it of yours?”
MacConnell shook his head, making annoying tutting sounds. “Just correcting myself from earlier. When I said the peerage won’t be affected by the troubles. With tempers running so high, no one is safe,” he said, looking right at Sin. The man’s freckled face didn’t look so innocent as he gazed at Sin, a message hidden in his smirk.
The hairs on the back of Sin’s neck stood on end.
MacConnell blinked, and the strange moment disappeared. He turned a sad smile on Winnifred. “I would hate for anything to happen to you, Winnie. Be sure to take care.”
“Rest assured,” Sin said coldly, “I’d never allow harm to come to my wife. Anyone who attempts it, won’t live to regret it.”
MacConnell tipped his hat. “As you say. Goodbye, Winnie.” With one last pat to the horse’s rump, he turned and strolled away, whistling a Scottish jig.
Sin smacked the reins down and the horse pulled into motion. As they rolled out of the village and towards the next farm, he said, “I don’t think I like your friends, Winnie.”
She worried the fraying hem of her gloves. At this rate, he’d need to buy her a new pair each week. “I haven’t seen Donald in many years. He did seem … changed.”
He seemed like a snake, was what he seemed. And one who knew more than he was letting on.
Sin turned the cart down the drive of his next tenant. Something was afoot in his Scotland. Something bubbly just under the surface that he couldn’t see. It was more than just hungry people becoming angry. Sin couldn’t pin down his suspicions, but it was time he stopped ignoring the problem.
His tenant, a sheep herder named Clacher, raised a hand in greeting and trudged toward them.
In times of distress, his people used to pull together, not turn on each other. Was someone inflaming the mob as Liverpool suspected? To what end?
His home was tearing apart at the seams. He might not be able to feed all the hungry, but he did know how to investigate conspiracies. And put an end to them.
He squared his shoulders. His honeymoon was over.
It was time to go to work.