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IN THE WIND’S EYE Chapter Four
But true love is a durable fire, In the mind ever burning, Never sick, never old, never dead, From itself never turning. Sir Walter Ralegh
Brendan looked up and smiled hesitantly. "You all right?" he asked. "Yeah," Sinclair grunted. He swiped a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and downed it in one gulp. "That looks like a good idea," Leland quipped. Snaking out a hand, he grabbed the waiter's arm. "Find us an unopened bottle of this French spit, will you, Thomas?" The black waiter nodded elegantly and moved on. Music was playing from the pavilion where Conor and Tina were waltzing gaily across the mahogany floor. Her white gown swept against her new husband's legs as he twirled about and their merry laughter rang out over the assembled guests. "Gods-be-damned nuisance!" Sinclair snarled as he yanked his cravat from around his throat and tossed it contemptuously behind one of the oleander bushes. "Oh, aren't we in a pleasant mood," Leland announced. "Go to hell," Sinclair replied. "Been there, my good man," Leland reminded him. "As have you." "Wish I'd stayed," Sinclair mumbled. Brendan and his brother exchanged a look then the younger man moved away, too excited and happy on C.J.'s wedding day to stay around his embittered cousin. Thomas returned carrying a large bottle of champagne. "Miss Grace Vivienne asked that you behave, Mr. Leland," the black waiter cautioned. He cast a worried glance at Sinclair. "And she asked me to tell you she would like to see you in the drawing room, Mr. Sinclair." Sinclair waved a hand in acknowledgment of the black man's message, but had no intention of going to his grandmother at the moment. The last thing he needed was a lecture from the hateful old woman. "Let's get ripped," Leland suggested pleasantly. With some difficulty, he sat down in one of the many chairs that had been arranged artfully around the yard and stretched out his wooden leg. "Getting drunk won't solve a gods-be-damned thing," Sinclair stated, taking the bottle from Thomas and swilling the expensive wine as though it were water. "Lord, Lord, Lord," Thomas muttered. He rolled his eyes and walked off. He'd known these two men since they were young boys and neither one of them would be fit company by nightfall. "She is one of the sweetest women in the county , don't you think, cuz?" Leland sighed. Sinclair lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Who?" he grated, ready to jump on Leland Brell if the man dared mention Ivonne. "Miss Leonie," he said, sighing again. He pointed at a middle age woman who was speaking to Tina's brother, Jonah. Glancing toward the woman of whom his cousin was speaking, Sinclair shrugged. "I guess so. If you like overweight spinsters." Leland's jaw hardened. "Not her fault she had to take care of her ailing mother all those years. Don't you think that was the Christian thing to do?" "The old woman was a selfish bitch like our grandmother," Sinclair snorted. "She didn't want Leonie to marry because then she couldn't control her." Leland sighed once more. "A damned shame, really." He jerked the champagne bottle out of Sinclair's hand. "Had notions of asking her when we was younger, you know." Sinclair turned and looked at Leland. "You never told me that," he accused. Leland grinned around a mouthful of wine. He nodded, swallowed, then rested the bottle on his good thigh. "Sure I did. You just don't remember." Sinclair couldn't ever remember discussing Leonie Emerson with anyone, let alone Lee, but he let it pass. "So why didn't you?" "Miss Gertrude was a mean-spirited old biddy. I got up the courage one time to go ask the bitch if I could take Leonie to Denton Herndon's wedding, but she said no. I'd go by there, hoping to see Leonie out by herself, but Gerty seemed to always know I was there. Never would let me alone with Leonie long enough for me to court her," Leland replied. "Would have asked her had I been given the chance." His eyes took on a dark, hopeless look, then he took a long drink of the French wine, then passed the almost-empty bottle back to his cousin. "I surely would have asked her," he sighed deeply. "Ask her now," Sinclair advised. The hopeless look in Leland's dark eyes became wounded pain. "Not now," he said quietly. "Why not?" Leland tore his attention from Leonie Dawn Emerson and pierced his cousin with a knowing look. "She deserves a whole man, Sinclair, not a piece of one." There it was again, Sinclair thought. Leland had developed this habit of feeling sorry for himself and it was starting to wear thin. Not that the man didn't have a legitimate excuse for feeling down, but Leland could rise above it if he wanted to. The thing was: Leland didn't seem to want to. "As long as you think of yourself as a piece of a man," Sinclair said through clenched teeth, "I guess that's what you will be!" "You aint gonna get a rise outta me so stop your baiting, brat," Leland snorted. He reached over and took the bottle from Sinclair, lifted it and finished off the contents. "Does she know how you feel about her?" Sinclair pressed. Leland nodded. "Don't see how she couldn't know," he responded. He glanced over at Sinclair. "At that cotillion 'fore we all rode off, I kind of hinted that I wanted her to wait for me." This was another revelation to stun Sinclair. How could he have been so blind not to notice his older cousin's interest in the Emerson spinster. Or anyone's interest in the mousy woman, Sinclair amended in his mind. "What did she say?" Leland closed his eyes. "I don't remember exactly." There was something strange in Brell's tone that told Sinclair the man was lying. Whatever the woman had said to him had obviously not been what Lee had wanted to hear. "I would think in the absence of any other suitors, she would certainly consider you a prime candidate for a husband," Sinclair put forth. "Absence," Leland said flatly. "Aye, that is why she certainly won't consider me now. It is a true case of absence NOT making the heart grow fonder." Sinclair's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?" Leland opened his eyes. There was a dark, far away look in the cinnamon-brown orbs and deep, wounded sadness. "The absence of my leg, cuz," he said quietly. "Oh, hell!" Sinclair snapped. "I'm sick to death of hearing you spout all this gods-be-damned self-pity! Grow up, Brell!" He sprang up from his chair and strode off, his shoulders tight with annoyance. "Arrogant pissant!" Leland called after him. He watched the tall, dark figure of his cousin striding away and thought what a magnificent-looking man was Rory Sinclair McGregor and he wished with all his heart the two of them could trade places. Sinclair could feel Lee's eyes on him and he tried to shrug off the sensation. He was as put out with his oldest cousin as any man could ever be and rather than say all the mean things rolling around inside his head, he'd just leave Lee alone. A few couples were strolling about, arm in arm, and their smiling faces and soft conversations as he passed them only seemed to underscore his loneliness. He greeted a few by name, but most he ignored although he could feel them turning to look at him as he walked toward the stream which separated Willow Glen from WindLass. Evening was coming on and fireflies were flitting among the cherry laurels growing along the stream's shallow bank. The rich, intoxicating scent of jasmine was thick in the air as Sinclair plopped down on the bank and leaned against the rough bark of a live oak tree. He rested his wrists on his crooked knees and stared blindly at the slowly-moving stream. God, he hurt, he thought. He ached so badly it was a wonder he didn't begin to disintegrate where he sat. The scar on his cheek throbbed although the injury had happened three years earlier. The bullet wound, two years old and fully healed, seemed to burn all the way through his chest as though the lead had been shot through him only a moment before. His head hurt; his stomach hurt; and his heart was close to breaking. "Ivonne," he whispered and closed his eyes to the beautiful name. How glorious she had been at the wedding, he thought. That mysterious glow that all expectant women have had turned her flawless complexion into rose-tinted ivory. Even though he knew her to be in the seventh month of her pregnancy, the gown she had worn had hidden the fact with its empire waist and yards of Aleçon lace. The gown had only enhanced her beauty and her beauty had only enhanced the pain in his heart. "Don't think about it!" he said aloud and his hands curled into fists. "Mr. Sinclair?" With a snarl of anger, Sinclair swiveled his head up and around and saw Thomas standing a few feet away. "Have you no care for a man's privacy, Thom?" he spat. The black man inclined his head politely. "Yes, Sir, I do, but I was sent to fetch you and.........." "I am not ready to be lectured by my grandmother!" Sinclair snapped. "I wasn't sent by Miss Grace Vivienne, Sir," Thomas reported. "Mr. Conor and Miss Tina are getting ready to retire to their cottage, Sir, and Mr. Leland sent me to fetch you because you have to do the toasting before they leave." Sinclair squeezed his eyes shut. "Damn," he sighed and pushed up from the ground. "I'd forgotten all about that nonsense." Thomas lifted one snow-cropped brow. "Aren't you happy for him, Mr. Sinclair?" Sinclair felt as though the weight of the world had been settled on his shoulders. Through the rapidly-dimming light, he could see the disapproval on Thomas' dark face. "Yes," he replied with a long sigh, "I am very happy for C.J., Thom." "Then perhaps you should act like it, Sir," Thomas admonished. Sinclair nodded. "Perhaps I should," he answered. He pushed up from the ground, wiped the seat of his pants with his hand. "It's better than feeling sorry for myself, aint it, Thom?" He smiled to let the black man know he wasn't altogether serious. Thomas smiled gently and held out a hand, indicating he would follow Sinclair. "Did you know Lee was sweet on old maid Emerson?" Sinclair asked as the two of them started back to the house. "I have heard Mr. Lee singing the lady's praises," Thomas answered. "And he makes a point of riding toward the Emerson place each morning." Sinclair's left brow crooked up. "That so?" Thomas was not in the least surprised when the white man draped a companionable arm around his shoulders. "So," Sinclair stated. "What are we gonna do about it, Thommy?" Sinclair looked at the newlyweds and smiled. "C.J., Tina. Samuel Rogers said it better than I ever could." He cleared his throat and lifted his glass. "'Across the threshold led, and every tear kissed off as soon as shed, his house she enters, there to be a light shining within when all without is night; a guardian-angel o'er his life presiding, doubling his pleasure, and his cares dividing!' To Conor James and Christina Brell: May all their troubles be little ones!" "HERE! HERE!" those assembled agreed. Grace Vivienne Brell nodded her own approval--not only of the newlyweds, but of her grandson's toast. She had feared bitterness from Rory Sinclair and was relieved that the boy was not so engrossed in his own misery that he would spoil Conor's wedding day. A long expulsion of breath from the elderly woman was the only sign she allowed to show her relief. As it was, she was still angry, furious in fact, that Ivonne had not come to the reception. Angrier still that Delacroix had sent a messenger instead of coming himself as etiquette dictated to say his wife was ill-disposed. A snort of unladylike irritation came from Grave Vivienne. "Ill-disposed my wrinkled ass!" she said beneath her breath. The only illness Ivonne Bouchard was feeling was a guilty conscience. The little slut deserved to suffer! Grace Vivienne's sharp gaze latched onto Sinclair and held. She could only hope Sinclair was man enough to make Ivonne pay for hurting him. Sinclair felt the hairs stirring on his neck and knew someone was staring at him. He looked toward the throne-like chair that had been provided for his grandmother's comfort and found her attention riveted on him. He looked away quickly, not wanting to give the old woman a chance to beckon him over to her. Instead, he shut out the toasts being made by other family members and ducked behind an enormous lady who could shield two of him. "Welcome home, Colonel McGregor," the fat lady called to him. "Captain, Ma'am," Sinclair responded automatically and gave the woman no further chance to engage him in conversation. He couldn't remember her name, but he knew her to be one of Savannah's most notorious gossips. Skirting the crowd, he made his way toward the gazebo, hoping no one had ventured that way to hide in the darker shadows. He climbed the four steps up into the octagonal structure and was happy to find he was alone. But he wasn't alone for long. "Are you hiding, Captain McGregor?" an amused feminine voice spoke to him from behind the gazebo. Sinclair jumped. He turned and peered out into the darkness. He could see no one, but then again, night had fallen with a cool crispness and the rain which had been threatening all day was beginning to fall in fat little drops. "Are you?" he returned. Soft laughter came from off to his right and he turned that way. The rustle of silk aimed his search in the right direction and he saw an unaccompanied lady walking toward him from the high banks of azaleas, holding her voluminous skirts up from contact with the wet grass. "I find solitude absolutely necessary at times," the lady said as she came around the side of the gazebo. She looked up as Sinclair walked to the steps. "Am I intruding upon yours?" he asked, trying to see the lady's face through the darkness. "No, Sir," she replied. "Am I upon …yours?" "Not at all." He held out his hand to help her up the steps for the rain was beginning to fall a bit heavier and off toward where the wedding party was gathered, he could hear squeals of surprise. The lady lifted her left hand and placed it in Sinclair's. She came up the steps gracefully and allowed him to lead her toward the wicker swing that was well out of the path of the steadily-falling rain. "I fear there will be a few unhappy ladies," she quipped. Sinclair grinned. "But there will be chivalrous gentlemen to come to their aide." He helped her to sit in the swing, then stood beside it, his hand on the chain from which the wicker seat was suspended. "Oh, I am sure there will be," she laughed. Sinclair wondered who this woman was and why no gentleman was protecting her. She was obviously of quality else she would not have been invited to the wedding reception. He squinted, striving to focus on her face in the shadows. "You are trying to place me," she said playfully. "We are acquainted?" he responded. "How soon they forget," she sighed deeply. "I can only beg time and distance, Milady," he said gallantly, "for misplacing your name." For the life of him, he couldn't ever remember talking to this woman before tonight. "Leonie," she prompted. "Leonie Emerson?" Sinclair blinked. The light was dim, but he didn't think it was so dim that he hadn't been able to recognize Gerty Emerson's old maid daughter. "My apologies, Ma'am," he said quickly. "It's been awhile, but I certainly …should have recognized you." Leonie smiled shyly at him. "I don't see why you should have, Captain," she replied. "We did not move in the same circles before the war." Sinclair felt the slight barb--intended or not--that Leonie Emerson knew he would never have looked at someone like her. He didn't know how to respond, but she must have sensed that for she spoke again, her voice very warm. "I am thankful you returned to Savannah in good health, Captain." "Sinclair," he urged, still feeling the sting of her censure. "Sinclair," she repeated and his name on her tongue sounded exotic. "That was your great grandmother's maiden name, wasn't it?" "Yes, Ma'am, it was," he allowed. "Do you know we are distant kin?" she inquired. Sinclair grinned. "I think all of us Irish are kin to one another in some way," he quipped. "I suppose that's true," she laughed. "On which side of the family?" he asked for he had always been intrigued by his roots. "Your mother's," Leonie answered. We have a great aunt in common. We are, if I remember correctly, fourth cousins." "I never knew that," he stated. "I wonder why no one ever mentioned it." Leonie shrugged. "My mother was not well liked in Chatham County, Captain. She......" "Sinclair," he corrected. She ducked her head. "I can't quite get use to calling you that, but I will try." She looked up at him. "You knew her, of course?" "Miss Gertrude?" He grimaced. "Yes, Ma'am, I knew her." Leonie smoothed the skirt around her legs. "My grandfather was very strict on her when she was growing up and she was very strict in return. Her manners put people off I suppose." Her 'manner', Sinclair thought, put the fear of God in most people. Gertrude O'Brien Emerson, daughter of the local blacksmith and widowed wife of a foundry owner, could forge iron with her scathing tongue, it was said. "She wasn't as harsh as most people believed her," Leonie remarked. "I remember she was ill," Sinclair said. "Consumption, wasn't it?" Leonie nodded. "We should have moved to a dryer climate, but Mother loved Savannah," she replied. "Her Irish heritage came from the sea, from generations of Galway fisherfolk, she use to say, and she would live her life within sound of the waves." "You took care of her for many years," he said and winced for he had made it sound like an accusation. "What I meant to say was......." "People believe," she said, cutting him off gently, "that Mother did not wish for me to ever marry. They believe she was selfishly keeping me at home so I could look after her." "Miss Leonie," he said, embarrassed, "I did not....." "The truth is, Captain," she interrupted his apology, "I stayed single because no man ever asked me to go out walking with him." That was more than he wanted to know, Sinclair thought, acutely uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. Not because the woman didn't interest him, but because she interested his cousin Leland. He should tell her, he thought, but he couldn't help wonder how she would react to the suggestion that Leland be allowed to pay court. "Perhaps they feared Mother," he heard her say. "A lot of us, ah, did," he muttered, not knowing how else to respond. She was looking up at him, seeming to search his eyes in the darkness. "I had always hoped one young man would find the courage to come calling." Sinclair shifted uneasily. "I, ah, believe there was one who wished to," he told her. Leonie drew in a breath. "Why did he not tell me?" Damn you to the Abyss, Leland Brell! Sinclair thought. Why had the man ever told him how he felt about the old maid? "Why didn't he speak to my mother?" she prompted. "He did," Sinclair responded, his jaw clenched. "But your mother turned him away." For a long moment, Leonie just stared at him, then she said, "Oh," very quietly and looked down at her skirt. "And he never tried again?" "Well, Lee's a.........." Leonie's head snapped up. "Lee?" she questioned. Sinclair nodded. "Leland." He was unaware of the crestfallen look that suddenly came over the plump woman's face for he could not see her clearly in the shadows. "He was quite taken with you, but now......." He shrugged. She lowered her head. "Now?" she queried, her voice devoid of the lightness that had been there a moment before. Sinclair could have bitten off his tongue. He shifted again, wishing he were anywhere else but there. "He, well, he feels......That is to say he......." He lifted his hand and plowed it through his dark curls. "Lord, Miss Leonie, I shouldn't be telling you this." She stood up. "No, Sir, you should not." She started toward the gazebo's entrance. "It's still raining, Miss Leonie," he cautioned. "Rain never hurt anyone, Captain," she replied and began down the steps, hurrying away from him. "Miss Leonie, wait!" he called out, going after her. "I'll be all right!" "Miss Leonie!" he shouted, but already the woman had disappeared into the cascading rain. Overhead, a bolt of lightning streaked across the night sky, lighting up the gazebo and the surrounding garden in an eerie blue-white light. Summer storms were dangerous on the coast and it was foolhardy to be outside when one was building up a full head of steam. From the flares of lighting off in the distance and the cracks of thunder already beginning to shake the ground on which he stood, Sinclair knew he should head for the house. But his southern heritage, the rules of chivalry so deeply ingrained it was hard to overlook them, prodded him into going after the Emerson woman to make sure she was safely inside by the time the brunt of the storm was upon them. With a snarl of irritation, he set out in the direction she had ran and within seconds was drenched thoroughly. "You had nothing better to do than go traipsing out in weather such as this?" Grace Vivienne questioned. She pierced her grandson with a steely look that should have dropped him where he stood. "Strip those clothes off, boy, before you catch your death of cold." "I will undress when I get to my room," Sinclair grated and would have passed the elderly woman, but she surprised him with a strength and quickness he would not have guessed she possessed as she snaked out a hand and grabbed his arm, preventing him from walking away. "You will remove them here and now," she stated. She held out her hand for the cummerbund he was gripping fiercely in his hand and looked pointedly down at his mud-caked boots. She was too upset with him to ask what he had done with the expensive coat and silk cravat he had been wearing when she last saw him. "I do not want you sloshing mud and water on my good Aubuson carpet!" It was on the tip of Sinclair's tongue to tell her that it wasn't her carpet, but rather her sister-in-law's family heirloom brought over from Paris when Angelique Dupree married Grace Vivienne's twin brother, Galen. Willow Glen, like everything in it, actually belonged to Leland as firstborn. Sinclair exhaled loudly, then sat down in the kitchen chair and pulled off his muddy boots. Bossie, who was standing off to one side, hurried forward and took them from him. "Do as your granny says," Bossie whispered. "She aint gonna let you up them stairs 'til you do. "Sinclair drew in a long, angry breath, then bolted out of the chair wanting his grandmother to know how irritated he was by her demand. His hands went to his shirt and he began to unbutton it with no care for the buttons or fabric. "I can not imagine what you thought you were doing running after that woman," Grace Vivienne stated. She watched her grandson jerk the shirt from his trousers, then flick the cufflinks open before dragging the wet fabric from his chest. She frowned as he threw the shirt on the kitchen table and the cufflinks bounced along the floor. "I didn't want her to fall and get hurt," he said as he unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down over his hips. Bossie turned away as he stepped out of the sopping wet trousers, stooping down to retrieve the errant cufflinks, but Grace Vivienne continued to watch Sinclair. There was no discomfort on her face as he flicked a glance in her direction, almost as if to ask if she intended to see him butt naked. "Go on," his grandmother snapped, fanning her hand at him. "I've seen you without clothes before." The muscles in Sinclair's jaw bunched. "Not since I have been a grown man," he replied. He was shivering as he stood there in just the bottoms of his union suit and the soaking-wet socks. Grace Vivienne's eyes narrowed. "Get out of those clothes, boy! NOW!" A perverse little imp reared its ugly head and Sinclair shoved the wet breeches down over his legs and yanked off his wet socks. He stood there, hands on his hips, in all his glory and turned so that he faced his grandmother squarely, hoping she, like Bossie, would turn away in shock and embarrassment. She didn't. Instead, Grace Vivienne walked to him and looked him up and down, her attention sharp on the bullet wound in his chest. She put out a hand and touched it, ignoring her grandson's flinch. Before he could say anything, she turned him around to study his backside. With his teeth grating audibly together, he allowed her inspection, tensing as her fingers trailed across his shoulders then down his spine and along his right hip. "What caused this?" he heard her ask. "A bullwhip," he replied, the muscles in his jaw working. "Who dared to lay a whip to you?" she demanded. "He was a Union soldier. I never knew his name." There was a beat or two of silence then: "Why was this done?" "I stopped him from raping a little girl," Sinclair stated. "He took exception to my interference." The cool touch of his grandmother's fingers left his flesh and he sensed her moving away from him. He twisted his neck and looked around, surprised to see her standing off to one side, her eyes wet with moisture. "Damn his cowardly soul to hell," Grace Vivienne cursed. "Damn him to hell and beyond for daring to do that to you!" Never would he have guessed that his grandmother would care one way or another what had been done to him during his imprisonment. She had never shown the least interest in him when he was growing up and only tolerated him now because he was the last of her daughter Maeve's children. He knew she believed him to be her only hope of having WindLass returned to the family. Bossie was just as stunned as Sinclair was when tears slid silently down Grace Vivienne's cheeks. "Miss Gracey, maybe you should go on up to bed, now. It's late." She handed Sinclair the robe Thomas had been sent to fetch when Sinclair had been heard running up to the house. Grace Vivienne lifted her chin. "I have guests," she said, looking toward that part of Willow Glen where the wedding party had ran when the storm began. Sinclair put on the robe and belted it tightly around his waist. "Then perhaps you should go bid them good night, Ma'am," he suggested. Despite himself, he was touched by the unexpected show of feeling his grandmother had exhibited. For the first time in a long time, he felt gently toward her. The old woman nodded. She turned, her back stiff, and started to leave the room, then she stopped, looked around and locked her eyes with Sinclair's. "You are a McGregor," she stated as though she had to remind him of his ancestry. "You are Devon McGregor's only living relative." Her eyes hardened. "Do not ever forget that, boy!" "No, Ma'am," he assured her. "I will not." Grace Vivienne nodded curtly, then pushed out of the kitchen.
THE LEGENDS BEGIN WITH THE KEEPER OF THE WIND
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