The Witch Of Clan Sinclair

by Ranney, Karen

  All these years she’d been very careful to act behind the scenes, to allow Macrath to be the figurehead. He was more than willing to cede the power to her and intervene when it was necessary. But now she no longer wanted anyone, even Macrath, to fight her battles for her.

  Yesterday she’d received a letter from the Scottish Ladies National Association. The woman had written:

  Miss Sinclair, it is imperative that women such as you, in positions of power and influence, come out to support other women. I am gratified to know another woman in publishing, as my dear friend Mary Louise Booth is the editor of Harper’s Bazar in New York . . .

  The letter writer went on to ask her to speak publicly. Until this morning she had every intention of writing the woman and telling her she couldn’t possibly do so. Her forte was in the written word. Besides, she wanted to remain in the background.

  That was before the meeting with Mr. Donovan. Now she was determined to go through with it.

  Just as intent as she was in stopping Logan Harrison.

  His house was of deep red brick trimmed in black, with a peaked roof and three rows of small paned windows. On either side of the black door was a brass lantern now flickering a yellow welcome against the gray sky.

  Stately and magnificent, the house lorded it over the rest of the neighborhood. She had the sudden and inexplicable image of the emblem of Scotland itself, a lion rampant, right paw raised, claws extended.

  She should have brought Fenella with her. Or Abigail at the very least. But either woman would probably have tried to talk her out of confronting the Lord Provost.

  If he were a gentleman, she wouldn’t be here. She’d sent him a letter, asking him to call on her at the paper. While she would have preferred to meet him on her home ground, the man had ignored her. She was forced to go to him, either to his office or his home. She’d chosen the house simply because there would be fewer people present.

  Her humiliation was already at grandiose levels.

  The carriage door opened and James stood there.

  “Are you certain about this, Mairi? Do you think it wise?”

  “Probably not,” she said.

  She could admit that writing the broadside had resulted in consequences she hadn’t considered. Logan Harrison had to be persuaded not to continue to punish her. Otherwise, the Gazette would go bankrupt.

  If she had to apologize, she would.

  James shook his head, but he didn’t say anything as she left the carriage.

  To her surprise, he accompanied her across the street and stood at the bottom of the steps.

  “I’ll just wait for you here,” he said.

  She clasped her reticule in her hands and faced him. “Do you never grow tired of minding me?” she asked.

  A sliver of a smile curved his lips but he didn’t answer.

  “Will you tell Macrath?”

  “Mr. Sinclair doesn’t want to know what you do each day. I only inform him of circumstances that might prove important or a danger to you and your cousin.”

  “Would this be one of those circumstances?”

  He only smiled at her.

  With a roll of her eyes, she turned and went up the steps, her gaze intent on the crimson velvet curtains behind the sparkling glass of the nearest window.

  The brass knocker was in the shape of a wolf’s head, with its open jaws revealing very sharp teeth.

  She grabbed the wolf’s snout and let the knocker fall.

  Logan’s favorite room in his house was the library, a place where those books he loved were featured among those things he treasured. Bits of his past sat on the shelves along with items he’d discovered on his travels: a bowl from the set of china his mother had loved, purloined from his sister-in-law and now used to hold potpourri scented with oranges and cinnamon; a bit of coral he’d taken from a Spanish shoreline; a corner of crumbled brick from a thousand-year-old Italian church, and a shard of stained glass from the same church, given to him by the priest in remembrance of his visit.

  Periodically, Mrs. Landers would go through his shelves and straighten the books, but he’d invariably take one out and lay it down on his desk. Or make his own sort of order through the stacks. He never organized by title or author, but by subject or interest. Did he like the book? Did it make him smile in some way? Incite a hunger or a need for further knowledge? Those books were always closest at hand.

  He often worked in his library, finding it a more peaceful place than his office in council chambers. There, anyone was liable to knock on the door and ask for his time. Here, only two people did so—his majordomo and his housekeeper—and neither bothered him without a good reason.

  When Rutherford interrupted him, he was surprised.

  “You have a visitor, sir.”

  Rutherford’s grayish face was arranged in a disapproving look. His shock of thick white hair was never in disarray. His suit was never marred by a speck of lint; his shoes always bore a mirror shine. He was the perfect majordomo, as proper as a Queen’s servant.

  Logan had the feeling that he often disappointed Rutherford.

  Now the man’s mouth was turned down and his eyes narrowed so much, Logan was surprised the man could see.

  “A visitor?” He’d dismissed Thomas an hour earlier and he wasn’t expecting anyone. “Who is it?”

  “A woman, sir,” Rutherford said, trembling with disapproval. “Who was quite rude when I stated I would have to announce her.”

  He put down his pen, made a neat stack of his correspondence, and placed it on the left side of his desk.

  He didn’t know any woman who would call on him at his home. No, he knew one who might dare.

  “Does she have brown hair and piercing blue eyes?”

  “She has an aggressive manner, sir, and was quite ill-mannered. I believe she does have blue eyes and unremarkable brown hair.”

  “Show her in, Rutherford,” he said, wondering at the surge of anticipation he felt.

  Rutherford nodded, his mouth looking even more grim as he bowed, stiff with dignity, and left the doorway.

  He heard footsteps, sat back in his chair and waited for her.

  She didn’t disappoint.

  Mairi Sinclair stood in the doorway frowning at him in much the same manner Rutherford had only a moment earlier. This time, however, Logan smiled.

  “Why aren’t you wearing a bonnet?” he asked.

  “I hate them. Why do you care?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “About me? Shall I be overjoyed that the Right Honorable Lord Provost evinces some interest in the hoi polloi? Mark this as a day of—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting you, but why are you here?”

  She stared at him.

  Did no one ever stop Mairi Sinclair in mid-tirade?

  “It’s not fair to use your position to try to intimidate me,” she said.

  He settled back against the chair. “All I asked was why you were here.”

  She huffed out a breath. “I don’t mean now,” she said. “I meant in the last two days.”

  “What have I done in the last two days?”

  She had the most remarkable eyes. They animated her face. Angry, she was even more impressive. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes flashing, and that full-lipped mouth thinned.

  “My sources refuse to speak to me,” she said. “My revenue has dropped to what it was five years ago. I’ve lost subscribers. You can’t threaten my sources. You can’t tell people not to talk to me.”

  “Have you had dinner?” he asked.

  She stared at him as if he’d lost his sanity. Perhaps he had.

  “Would you care to eat dinner with me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You don’t break bread with your enemies? Sometimes, it’s the best way to form an accord.”

  Her eyes darted around the room. “Am I supposed to form an accord with you?”

  “Take the opportunity,” he said.

  “I’m not here to eat wit
h you, Harrison.”

  “No, you’re here to chide me for something I haven’t done.”

  Her words had evidently seared her tongue because she didn’t speak.

  “Come have dinner with me. A peace offering, if you will.”

  “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Who’s to know? You’re already here.”

  “My driver. Your staff.”

  “My staff is the essence of discretion. Would you like me to talk to your driver?”

  Her eyes blazed at him. “Why is it that men think they can do something a woman can’t do? If I wanted my driver’s discretion, I would certainly be able to convey that to him.”

  “Then will you?”

  One hand fluttered in the air as if to dismiss him with a gesture. He liked seeing Mairi Sinclair annoyed, and somehow inviting her to dinner had done just that.

  “It’s not a large meal,” he said. “We’re having potato soup. Do you like it? It’s my favorite.”

  He stood and came around his desk.

  “You’re wearing a kilt again,” she said.

  He was still wearing a black jacket atop a blue and green kilt, his sporran hanging from a gold chain. His stockings were white, the cuffs of which were lined with the same blue and green tartan. He’d been required to open a hospital this afternoon and people liked seeing him in formal regalia.

  “Are you wearing anything beneath it?” she asked, tilting her head back to smile thinly at him. “Custom would dictate not, but I can’t envision the Lord Provost bare-arsed for all to see. What if a wind blew?”

  Her smile was edged with daring, as if she expected him to be shocked by her comment.

  “Why don’t you see, lass?”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised when her smile broadened and she took a step toward him, but he was.

  Her hand stretched out, trembled just a little as she touched his hip.

  His smile faded.

  Silence stretched between them, marked by the soft whir of the mantel clock.

  She gathered up the material of his kilt with one hand. When her fingers touched his bare leg, he felt a current passing between them. Did her fingers scorch his skin or was that only foolishness?

  His eyes never left hers.

  In a second she would touch him, yet he didn’t pull away or caution her.

  She moved her hand, her fingers trailing over leather.

  Her eyes widened.

  So did his smile.

  She jerked her hand back.

  “It’s a truss of a sort,” he said.

  Clasping her hands together, she stared down at his sporran. Covered in rabbit fur, it was adorned with three large tassels, each bearing an identical crest, that of his office.

  “Have you been injured?”

  His laughter swept through the room like a wave.

  “No, but if I didn’t wear one, I’d be bruised.”

  She frowned up at him.

  “I’m large enough that I can’t be swinging about,” he said. “Now, shall we go in to dinner?”

  While she looked a little dazed, he bit back his laughter, took her arm and headed toward the dining room.

  Chapter 9

  Dear God in heaven, what had she done?

  She’d touched a man.

  She’d only touched one man in her life. Calvin had been so surprised at her exploration that he’d drawn away. She’d been disappointed and more than a little embarrassed at his reaction. Wasn’t discovery part of love? She’d found out, not too much later, that she was the only one who’d been in love. He’d only felt lust or maybe not even that.

  What did Harrison feel?

  Amusement, she decided, looking at his face. His eyes were dancing and his mouth was pursed. Was he trying not to smile?

  A truss? What on earth did that mean? He was too large to be swinging about?

  Her face warmed.

  If she’d been the innocent she should have been, she wouldn’t have known anything about a man’s anatomy. How, then, did she pretend a virtue she no longer possessed?

  “I’m not a virgin,” she said as they left his library and walked down a wide hallway. The moment the words left her lips, she was horrified. Turning to him, she took a step back, one hand in the air between them.

  Why on earth had she said such an idiotic thing? He didn’t need to know whether or not she was a virgin. That information should be held in reserve for the man she married, if she ever married.

  “Just in case you thought I should be shocked,” she said, floundering for some reasonable explanation for her verbal excess.

  “That’s good to know,” he said, the smile finally escaping from its mooring to make his face even more attractive. “I’m not a virgin, either.”

  She nodded, so humiliated she would have been grateful if the floor opened up beneath her. Instead, it stayed firm as rock.

  At the dining room door he stepped aside so she could precede him.

  What was she doing even thinking of eating a meal with Harrison? But here she was, being led to a chair like she had no will of her own. Maybe that, too, was because of him.

  The dining room was as richly appointed as the rest of the Lord Provost’s home. A long mahogany table sat atop a patterned carpet of emerald and pale green. Two sideboards sat on either end of the room with a fireplace occupying a third wall, the black mantel elaborately carved with thistles and berries.

  She only had a moment to note the plaster frieze on the ceiling and the lovely painting of a bowl of fruit before he pulled out the chair for her.

  She sat, bemused.

  He was a single man. She was a single woman. The very fact she was here, in his home, was untoward behavior. Now she was eating a meal with him? What would James think? He was certain to tell Macrath about this episode, if not Robert.

  “You look as terrified as a rabbit in a trap, Miss Sinclair.”

  She blinked over at him. Not one word came to mind. Perhaps that was for the best, because the door on the far wall swung open and a woman of middle years entered the room.

  Stopping abruptly, she looked from Harrison to Mairi, and back again.

  “You’ll be having company, then,” she said with a jerk of her chin toward Mairi.

  Harrison nodded but didn’t offer any explanation. Nor did the woman seem to need one. She simply went to the sideboard, gathered up extra silver, and arranged it before Mairi. A goblet and water glass were taken from the hutch, set in front of her knife, and seconds later a butter dish and charger were in place as well.

  The minute the woman left the dining room, she was replaced by two other females. One carried a large white tureen. Another held a tray on which there were various serving dishes.

  Mairi stared down into the bowl she’d been served. The soup smelled and looked wonderful, thick and butter-colored with chunks of potato, onions, and beans.

  She was already here plus it had been a very long time since lunch, and that had consisted of only a piece of dry bread with mustard and a bit of ham.

  The soup tasted as wonderful as it looked. She closed her eyes after the first mouthful, the better to savor it. Half the bowl was gone by the time she glanced over at the Lord Provost again. When she did, it was to find him smiling at her.

  “It’s my favorite,” he said again.

  “I can see why. It’s wonderful.”

  “I’ll have my cook give you the recipe.”

  “Thank you, that would be very nice.”

  Now they were conversing as pleasantly as if they had just met and knew nothing about each other. As if she hadn’t touched his truss after his dare.

  “You don’t look as frightened. I’ll have to remember that in the future. Keep you fed and you won’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, putting her spoon carefully down on the side of the bowl. “Do you think I’m afraid of you?” She allowed herself a small laugh.

  “My error,” he said, sipping at his wine. He sat back
in the chair, his green eyes intent over the goblet.

  She sat back as well, grateful that she’d had a chance to eat some of the soup before the battle began. She rubbed her fingertips over the napkin in her lap, not at all surprised at the tight weave of the linen. The Lord Provost evidently liked fine things.

  “Why didn’t you agree to meet with me?” she asked.

  He frowned at her. “Meet with you?”

  “I wrote you a letter,” she said. “I delivered it to council chambers myself and asked that it be given to you.”

  He shook his head. “I never received it.”

  “Have you truly not tried to keep people from talking to me?” she asked.

  He studied her over the rim of his goblet. When he finally put it down on the table, he blotted his lips and looked at her again.

  “I have not.”

  “Can I have your word on that?”

  “Miss Sinclair, if I were the type of man to do such a thing, what makes you think my word could be trusted?”

  Not quite an answer, though, was it?

  “No,” he said in the face of her silence, “I haven’t. However, it’s entirely possible someone on my staff did. Even so, I do not absolve myself of responsibility. I am responsible for the actions of those I employ.”

  Now was the time for her to apologize for her own behavior, but she remained stubbornly mute. She was not quite ready to concede anything to the Lord Provost. Nor was she willing to admit he was as charming as everyone believed.

  The look in his eye said he was capable of being as wicked as anyone. She had proof of that. Her fingers still tingled from touching him.

  “I will ensure that the matter is investigated. No one will say a word against you, Miss Sinclair. Can I say the same about you?”

  She glanced over at him again, then focused on the painting on the wall. The artist was very skilled, enough that sunlight seemed to be dancing on the cobalt blue bowl.

  “I see no reason to bring up your name,” she said. “Unless you act in a matter unbefitting your position.”

  Why was he smiling at her?

  “I shall attempt to be circumspect and proper at all times. And you?”

  Was he referring to that moment in his library? Was she blushing? Please don’t let her be blushing. That would simply be too much.