sacrificing one soul for the sake of all the others, truly worth it? Placing one soul above another did not figure into the values he’d been raised by. Not to mention he also had Mariah to consider in all this. She was doomed regardless of the outcome and that sin was fully on him no matter how many prayers of penance he’d recite.
Resting his elbows on the desk, Campbell steepled his fingers.
A faint wisp of rose, tinged with notes of bergamot, lifted from his hands. He was already falling into sin, as he had no right to enjoy Sarina Ogilvy’s exquisite scent. But he couldn’t help himself. The woman’s fragrance was all over her damn letter—in the ink, in the paper’s fibers, even in the wax that sealed the note.
Visions of Sarina wearing a gown accented with green embroidery, flashed through Campbell’s mind. As did the image of a desk, its highly polished burled walnut clear as day.
His hand twitched. The soft caress of goose feather kissed his fingers.
He gasped. Never in all his thirty years, had he been able to imagine a person so clearly when they were so far away. Which meant only one thing—his preternatural instincts, specifically those related to recognizing his mate, were heightening. It hadn’t mattered that he and Sarina had never met in person. One’s scent meant more to a MacHendrie than had anything else, as fragrance spoke to the soul. And MacHendries recognized their mates on instant, solely by their unique scent.
He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, filled his nose with that tempting rose perfume. With the exception of Mariah’s fragrance, Lycansay Hall rarely smelled of such exquisite aromas, its usual odors leaning more toward mold, dust and blood. Though the latter did have the good sense to remain in the dungeon—most days. If only he could say the same for the mold and the dust. Living within the crumbling remnants of Lycansay Hall was barely tolerable thanks to his keen sense of smell, just one of the conditions of his lifelong affliction. And now that affliction was about to be aggravated even further. If justice had any decency, Sarina Ogilvy would turn out to be a plain-faced woman with an unpleasant demeanor and a stick-like shape. In the least, she’d have a single characteristic that he’d consider abhorrible. Anything to keep him from finding her attractive and accepting her scent.
He opened his eyes and stared at the stack of diaries piled on the desk. While he considered it rude to read another man’s private thoughts, he could do nothing to stop himself from sensing the fear that permeated the pages of Charles Ogilvy’s personal ledgers. Dread, mixed with pure terror, peeled from the books as if they’d been soaked in both.
His nose itched. Usually, only the smells of the dungeons burned his nostrils. And rightfully so as they were most brutal as of late. But never would he blame their maker, for he, too, would give off the essence of raw fear if he knew he was to live out his days chained to a wall, his sole refuge a dank, stone chamber.
He shook his head, his nerves too frayed to focus more on the torment that existed below ground.
Bloody hell.
For once he just wished he could enjoy a single day without the bane of his lineage hovering over his every breath.
Campbell grabbed the diaries and dropped them into the open trunk at his foot. He slammed the lid.
Damn Charles. What man puts his own children at risk? Certainly nae one who cares, as he couldnae even begin to imagine doing the same had he a son or daughter. Hell, he wouldn’t endanger any kin, never mind just those born to him. In fact, if he were more like Charles Ogilvy, he’d never have put his life on the line extracting Ian from Mariah’s clutches all those years ago. And that eejit was merely a cousin. No. Thrusting family into danger just didn’t seem plausible to him.
He sat back and wished he’d never agreed to fulfill Charles’s dying wish. Research into the MacHendrie curse should have ended with Ogilvy’s death.
The rustle of a watch fob dangling from the front of a silk waistcoat, pricked his ears.
Campbell glanced across the library.
Ian appeared in the doorway, his black hair slightly disheveled and his cravat more tilted than Pisa’s famed tower. “So here ye are, Cousin.” He sauntered into the library; top hat in one hand, wolf-headed walking stick in the