He made note of the fact he was having that thought fairly often.
A quarter hour later he was in front of the Sinclair Printing Company. He’d passed this building countless times, and never thought about it. Of yellow brick, it was neither an excessively prosperous appearing structure nor one that looked like it suffered a financial hardship. Somewhere in the middle, like most of the businesses he frequented, run by civil people who wanted a decent life.
The lettering on the wooden sign above the door read: THE SINCLAIR PRINTING COMPANY, ESTABLISHED 1843. Beneath it were the words: THE EDINBURGH GAZETTE.
Nowhere did it feature the words “incendiary broadsides” or “scurrilous opinions offered for a penny.” Or even “bad poetry featured here.”
He took his time leaving the carriage.
Mairi Sinclair’s name wasn’t mentioned anywhere. Nor had she signed the broadside. Wasn’t an author normally proud of his authorship? Unless, of course, it was libelous. In that case, she was right not to have signed her name.
He opened the door, surprised when no one greeted him. He left the front office, walked down a narrow hall, and found himself in a cavernous room smelling of paper and something sharply chemical—the ink? The sound of metal slapping against metal from the press in the center of the room was loud enough to drown out any conversation between the two people working there.
One of them was a stranger, a bearded man with a shock of brown hair who operated the press. The other was almost unrecognizable as a woman at first. Her hair was tied back and a full black apron stretched from neck to ankle. A smudge of ink marred her cheek, and as he watched, she rubbed the back of her gloved wrist on her forehead.
She didn’t look like an anarchist.
But she didn’t look like any of the women he knew, either.
He advanced on Mairi Sinclair.
Chapter 7
Mairi grabbed a stack of printed pages, placing them on one of the long tables against the wall, and returned to the press. As fast as Allan was turning the wheel, they would have the paper printed and assembled in an hour or two.
Allan was curiously silent this afternoon. Twice he started to say something, and twice stopped himself.
She could only wonder if he wanted to talk about the broadside about the Lord Provost.
Fenella had made her opinion known well enough.
“Are you sure that’s the wisest thing to do?” she had asked when Mairi told her what she’d done. “Won’t some people retaliate against the paper?”
“They may,” Mairi said. “Then again, maybe they’ll notice the Gazette. Perhaps we’ll get more subscribers because of it.”
Fenella communicated more with her gestures than any person Mairi had ever met. Compassion was visible with a simple look of her hazel eyes, curiosity with a tilt of her head, and anger in the stiff stillness of her face.
When she only pursed her lips in disapproval, Mairi turned away, disappointed.
And there he was.
The Lord Provost of Edinburgh stood in the doorway, dressed in a long coat over a severe black suit. His face was firm and fixed, his green eyes as cold as the deepest loch.
She took a step backward then chastised herself for doing so.
She should have realized he would come in person. He wasn’t the type to send a member of his staff to complain about the broadside. No, the Lord Provost was the type for confrontation. He wasn’t long-suffering, and she doubted if he ever turned the other cheek.
No, he’d stand toe-to-toe with any opponent, even her. Most especially her, since he’d already done so once.
She deposited another armload of papers on the table. Only then did she face him again, removing her gloves and tucking her hands under her arms.
She didn’t look away, refusing to allow the man to intimidate her.
Allan stopped turning the wheel of the press. Gradually the noise level diminished. At least she didn’t have to raise her voice to be heard.
“People are not allowed in the press room,” she said. “It’s a dangerous place.”
He didn’t say a word, only continued to stare at her.
Her pulse raced and her palms felt damp. Were her legs trembling? Nonsense, she was not afraid of the man.
Slowly, he withdrew something from an inside pocket, unfolded and held it up with two fingers, almost as if he didn’t want to be contaminated by it.
She knew it was her broadside.
“Did you write this?”
“Yes,” she said.
When one eyebrow arched upward, she frowned. Had he expected her to deny it?
“I thought it quite clever myself,” she said. “A bit of doggerel, perhaps, but I was pressed for time.”
“Does your brother know what you’ve done?”
She couldn’t speak for the rage bubbling up in her chest. Who was he to call her to task like that, then remind her that Macrath was the real owner of the paper?
She turned to Allan. “If you’ll give us a few minutes,” she said.
“Are you sure, Mairi?”
She nodded, grateful for his protective impulse. She doubted, however, if Allan would have been a match for Harrison.
When he’d left the room, she turned to the provost again.
“Do you go about threatening people all the time?”
He smiled, an expression that had the effect of startling her, since it reminded her that the man was too handsome for his own good.
“I’m not threatening you, Miss Sinclair. I’m just asking if the owner of this paper was aware of the actions of his employees.”
She wasn’t an employee and the fact he’d called her one made her doubly angry. She studied the press, wiped off a smear of ink with a rag located nearby, and glanced at the first sheets of the newspaper set aside to dry before being folded. Another stack was ready for distribution the next day.
He evidently didn’t like being ignored.
“How can I get in touch with your brother?”
“Do you use that officious tone often?” she asked. “Does it work most of the time? Do people bow and scrape before you?”
“Or to you? Has the power of the press gone to your head, Miss Sinclair?”
“Shouldn’t people be able to point out to their elected officials when they’re in the wrong? Or are you too high up on your pedestal to hear us?”
“I thought you didn’t involve yourself in politics? Or is it only defamation?”
“I haven’t defamed you one bit,” she said. “I merely told the truth.”
“Your version of it.”
“If you don’t mind,” she said, looking pointedly at the press, “I’m very busy. I’ll send word to my brother that you wish to speak to him. But I doubt he’ll care. He’s a very busy man who doesn’t waste his time.”
She wasn’t just Macrath’s employee. Her brother didn’t take any interest in the paper and was only a figurehead she used when she must.
Right at the moment, however, she was annoyed to have to stand behind Macrath.
Why should she?
Harrison took two steps toward her, and she almost moved so the press was between them. She would have felt safer had she done so. Instead, they were toe-to-toe, so close she was forced to tilt her head back to look at his face. Another intimidation gesture of his that only ratcheted up her temper.
“My brother has nothing to do with the running of the Edinburgh Gazette, Lord Provost. If you have any complaints, bring them to me. I’m responsible for the broadside and for the paper.”
His smile changed subtly, shifting the expression in his eyes to calculation. She had the oddest thought that the Lord Provost was a more dangerous man than she’d first thought.
“Are you responsible for calling me a bully, Miss Sinclair?”
“You were a bully, Lord Provost.”
“My title is not my name, Miss Sinclair. You may refer to me as Mr. Harrison.”
She was sharply aware of him. He was lightning,
bright, hot, and frightening. His gaze was direct, difficult to maintain, but she willed herself not to look away.
“Thank you for the lesson in etiquette. However, I believe that I have quite a few names for you. None of which would please you any more than being addressed as Lord Provost. Misogynist, officious, just to name two.”
He took another step closer until her foot was sandwiched between his. His breath smelled of mint and his coat of sandalwood. Perhaps he had a housekeeper as assiduous as Fenella.
“You know quite well that I didn’t refuse you admittance to the press club. Their rules did so. You know quite well that I did not attempt, in any way, to keep you from the lecture. Or, as you so eloquently wrote, put you in your place. Although the idea has merit.”
She stepped back, folded her arms and regarded him with what she hoped was a placid look. Inside, her stomach was churning and words bubbled in her mind, demanding to burst free.
“And how do you think I should be put in my place, Lord Provost? Chains? A gag, perhaps?”
“A chaperone,” he said.
“A chaperone?”
“Someone who could help you restrain your speech. The idea of a gag has merit. A bodyguard, perhaps. Someone who could keep you from those events where you are certain to be banned.”
“You could have used your influence,” she said, breathless with irritation. “You could have convinced the press club to allow me entrance. Instead, you merely fell back on the excuse that it was the organization’s rules and not yours. You are, Lord Provost, the worst kind of coward.”
He leaned forward until his nose was only inches from hers.
“And you hide behind pseudonyms, Miss Sinclair. You are at turns Macrath Sinclair, Donald MacTavish, or Grant Cameron. Who’s more afraid?”
His deep voice skittered along her spine, enough that she didn’t pay attention to his words at first.
“What?” She glared at him. “Did you just call me a coward?”
He didn’t answer, merely folded his arms in a pose to mirror hers and regarded her.
“I am not a coward.”
As if she’d said nothing, he continued, “Besides, why should I convince them to admit you? You would, no doubt, have criticized the lecture, found fault with the club’s decor, fussed at the fact only whiskey was served, and generally been difficult.”
“All I wanted was to hear what Mr. Hampstead had to say,” she said, feeling an absurd desire to defend herself. Why she should want Harrison to have a better opinion of her, she didn’t know. “I liked his book very much.”
He unfolded his arms. “It was a tedious hour,” he said. “You would have been bored.”
“I doubt you know me sufficiently to decide if I would have been bored, Harrison. I never got the opportunity.” She frowned at him again.
His smile had completely disappeared, replaced by a predatory expression in his eyes. He truly didn’t like being challenged.
She relished a good argument and it was evident the Lord Provost didn’t. How boring it must be to have everyone bend to your will so easily.
“Will you cease in your efforts to impugn me?” His charming smile was back in place.
She wasn’t surprised at his change of tack. The man was a master of manipulation, something she hadn’t known until now. He pushed at people until they had no choice but to submit to him. If that didn’t work, he tried something else.
No doubt most people melted beneath the force of his personality.
She was not, however, most people.
Taking another step back, she said, “Thank you for visiting. I trust you don’t need me to escort you to the door.”
“Do not write about me any further, Miss Sinclair.”
“Or?” she asked, wondering if she was daring a mad dog to bite her.
“Or I will have to take other measures.”
“Such as?”
He studied her for a minute, the seconds ticking by on a clock measured by her heartbeats.
Finally he moved to stand close to her again.
“I find it reprehensible to threaten women,” he said. “Even a woman as annoying as you.”
“If I’m annoying,” she said, speaking past the constriction in her throat, “it’s because you’ve pushed me to it.”
“Do you not take responsibility for your own actions, Miss Sinclair? Do you, instead, blame others for your deeds?”
“I take full responsibility, Lord Provost, for any action I’ve taken against you. Not my brother. Not anyone else. Blame me.”
His hand reached out and in a gesture so strange she was frozen in disbelief, he removed the scarf that she’d tied around her hair. It was dangerous working near the press without taking precautions since her hair could easily get caught in one of the gears.
“Then I shall, Miss Sinclair,” he said, his voice rough. “What a pity I’m not a magistrate. I would decree a punishment severe enough for the crime.”
He dropped his hand and stepped away. Only then could she breathe again.
“What punishment would that be, Lord Provost?”
He didn’t answer, only smiled. In the next moment he left the room, and it was like the wind stopped blowing. The sudden silence made the space around her feel hollow.
She bent to retrieve her scarf, feeling absurdly dizzy. Grabbing the press wheel, she stared at her white knuckles until her heart stopped galloping and her breath returned to normal.
Chapter 8
“Yes, Mrs. Hargrove, I understand your concerns. I must repeat, however, that the Gazette did not intentionally insult Provost Harrison.”
“He is a great man, Miss Sinclair. A credit to Edinburgh. We are fortunate to have him. Your brother should have known that. I’m disappointed. Very disappointed.”
Mrs. Hargrove was wrapped up against the cold in a frayed black coat that hung below her ankles and looked to have belonged to her late husband. Along with a succession of multicolored knitted scarves, she wore a black bonnet from another decade, adorned with blowsy black fabric flowers that needed desperately to be dusted or replaced.
Despite her penury, the septuagenarian stopped into the paper every week to purchase either a broadside or the newest edition.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, dipping her head in a gesture of subservience.
She walked Mrs. Hargrove to the door. When she saw James pull the carriage to the curb, she grabbed her cloak, deciding that something must be done.
She marched into the press room. “I’m leaving,” she told Allan.
He only nodded, not saying a word about the number of people still outside.
“I’ll put a sign on the door that we’re closed,” she said. That way, he wouldn’t be forced to stop tinkering on the press.
He only nodded.
When she told James their destination, he raised his eyebrows. She readied herself for an argument, but to her surprise he only shrugged.
A few minutes later they were parked outside Logan Harrison’s home.
That morning a gear had shattered on the press. They wouldn’t be able to publish any broadsides or the weekly edition of the paper until the part was available.
Fenella was acting oddly around her.
She wasn’t sleeping well.
None of which she could lay at Harrison’s feet.
But the other? Yes, he was most definitely responsible for that.
Between fielding questions and hearing complaints, for two days she hadn’t been able to get much work done. Long lines of people had appeared first thing in the morning and they didn’t stop coming until dark, all of them complaining about the broadside she’d written about the saintly Lord Provost.
For the first time in her life, she dreaded going to work. Nothing she’d ever written or reported had created as much ire as that poem.
They’d lost twenty subscribers, and they only had three hundred to start. She was never going to make a success of the newspaper this way.
Why had she nev
er realized that, to the citizens of Edinburgh, Logan Harrison was nearly a saint? She hadn’t lied to him. She had never, at least not until meeting him, been involved in politics. But surely she should have known about his reputation. According to the people who had come to the paper, he was concerned about people’s welfare. He enacted reforms. He ensured that each individual who had ever come in contact with him—and from the number of people in her office, that was a great many—remembered him not only for his generosity of spirit but also his charm.
Was she the only person in the world who hadn’t been charmed by the Lord Provost?
She wished she’d never encountered the man.
But the very last straw had come this morning when she visited Mr. Donovan, only to have the man nearly slam the door in her face.
“I’ve nothing for you today,” he said, his chin jutting out.
He was turning back to the interior of the tavern when she stopped him.
“I haven’t seen you for a few days, Mr. Donovan. For you not to have any information is odd.”
“Would you be having me make up things, then?” he asked, frowning. “Like you do?”
That’s when she knew.
“The Lord Provost told you not to talk to me, didn’t he?”
“A finer soul you’ll never know. I’d watch your words before you start imagining stories about him.”
Logan Harrison had evidently threatened Mr. Donovan, and probably most of the men who’d been too busy to speak with her in the last two days.
Tucking her notebook into her reticule, she frowned back at him. “You’ll not be advertising with me either, then?”
“I’ll not,” he said, his gaze focused on the neighboring building, the yard of which adjoined the alley.
“I never wrote anything untrue, Mr. Donovan. You know I don’t do that.”
He finally looked directly at her. “I used to think that, Miss Sinclair. I wonder, now, if being a woman has changed your thinking.”
It was beginning to, in ways he probably didn’t realize. His prejudice, and that of the other men, was cementing her resolve.
She was declaring war on stupidity.
The Witch Of Clan Sinclair Page 6
