The Virgin's War (Tudor Legacy #3)(31)
“How?”
“His name was Christopher Wheeler.”
“Ah,” she said in a burst of amused understanding. “So that’s where Kit’s name came from.”
“Yes.” He tightened his fingers around her hand. “The only way to have a life without pain, my darling girl, is to also have a life without love. And that is no life at all.”
—
By the time Maisie made her official bid to lead her grandfather’s company, she was fairly certain that the entire city of Edinburgh knew what she intended. And half the ports of Europe as well. When a merchant and banking concern as large and wealthy as the Sinclair Company made a move to reorganize its leadership, people noticed. The board came together in full strength the second week of May to vote on whether to retain or dismiss Robert Sinclair as company head; at this point possibly the only person surprised by the entire affair was Robert himself.
Her brother shouted abuse at her for a while, until Stephen Courtenay took it upon himself to escort Robert out of the reception chamber of the Canongate house where she paced. Stomping feet and slamming doors followed in the wake of his departure.
“Thank you,” Maisie said distractedly.
“If he weren’t your brother, I would have silenced him in a more straightforward manner.”
“Don’t hold back for my sake.” But her retorts were mechanical, for every beat of her heart was locked fast in the council room three streets away.
She was as sure as she could be that they would vote in her favour—which was not as sure as she would like. Her plans and presentations had been flawless. The company had steadily lost money and influence since her grandfather’s death five years ago. Left to Robert, the Sinclair Company might well cease to exist within another ten years. Maisie knew she could change that. And if the board members allowed themselves to decide based on logic and sound business sense, then she would prevail. If, however, they allowed their conservative natures to dictate that a woman—particularly a young and unmarried woman—could not possibly run a concern of this size…
She had made her gamble. All that waited now was the fall of the dice.
“Mariota.”
Stephen stepped into her path, putting a hand out to stop her restless pacing before she walked straight into him.
She blinked and looked up at him. Such a long ways she always had to look—it never failed to disconcert her. Then she smiled. “Am I making you uncomfortable? I apologize.”
“No need.”
“Stephen,” she said, and impulsively reached for his hand. “Distract me. Tell me a story.” Holding his hand, she pulled him to the carved wooden settle built into the wall next to the fireplace.
“What sort of story?” he asked warily.
“Tell me about growing up in a noble household. What was it like being raised as the son of the Duke of Exeter?”
“Those are two different requests,” he said. “For I believe my family is not wholly representative of nobility.”
“Do you miss it? Not your family, of course you miss them—your title, I meant. Do you miss being Lord Somerset, with all its position and responsibilities?”
“Sometimes. The responsibilities more than the position…or maybe that is simply what I want to believe of myself. All my life I knew who I was and where I belonged. Now?” He shrugged.
“Your title did not make you who you are, Stephen Courtenay. And you could belong wherever you cared to try.”
“Like Scotland?” he half teased. “If so, one can only hope I make a better job of it than I did in Ireland.”
His immediate future, as much as Maisie’s, rested upon the board’s decision. Stephen had promised her that if she were named head of her grandfather’s company, he would take command of her mercenary force. If not, then he would go to the Netherlands.
At the thought of losing Stephen as well as her grandfather’s company, Maisie jumped again to pace. This time he stopped her by encircling one of her wrists with his fingers. Keeping her thus lightly caught, he said nothing. He just looked at her.
She had seen that sort of focused look before, in Ireland. It had never been turned on her. It had always been the gorgeous, sensuous Ailis Kavanaugh who had captured Stephen’s attention to such an intense degree.
Instantly, Maisie corrected herself. This is not the same look at all. It’s simply that I’m susceptible to any man who manages to actually see me.
Well, perhaps not just any man.
“Mariota,” he said softly. “If there were any justice in this world, you would not only be running the Sinclair Company already, but the whole of Scotland as well. I have never met a woman with the force of character to equal you—except perhaps Queen Elizabeth.”
“Being the good Scot that I am, I’m not sure I take that as a compliment.”
Stephen Courtenay had the most beautiful smile—perhaps because he so rarely bothered to produce it. Maisie’s head spun a little and she remembered that she hadn’t eaten today. Where his hand touched her wrist, she felt her skin burn. His hazel eyes didn’t waver from hers.
Just when Maisie knew she couldn’t stand another second of that charged silence, the door to the corridor was flung open. She snatched her hand away the moment Stephen released her. Maisie whirled round, expecting to see Robert returning to throw more tantrums.