The Witch Of Clan Sinclair

by Ranney, Karen

  His smile was at once teasing and tender, an expression that no doubt caused women other than her to think of laughter and seduction in the same breath.

  She was not going to be attracted to the man.

  She forced her lips into a straight line, banished the thought of smiling, and met his eyes.

  “I can’t promise to be circumspect and proper at all times, Harrison. Not when the time has come for women to make a little noise, to demand their rightful place in society.”

  “By marching?”

  She frowned at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “That’s a welcome surprise,” he said.

  Was he trying to be cryptic? If so, he was succeeding.

  “I don’t see anything surprising about a woman wishing to be treated more fairly,” she said. “Or being able to vote.”

  “Why that cause? Why not draft horses or child labor?”

  “Are you saying that women shouldn’t vote?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. I’m merely curious.”

  “Until meeting you,” she said, “I would have been content to be the editor of the Edinburgh Gazette. Now I want to be more active in women’s causes, and the most important of those is the vote.”

  He sat back in his chair, folded his arms and stared at her.

  “And you would lay that transformation at my feet?”

  “Men with whom I’ve done business in the past have pulled their advertising. They have refused to speak to me as a reporter. Solely because I dared criticize an elected official.”

  “It was your decision to publish that broadside, Miss Sinclair. Shouldn’t the ramifications for it be on your head?”

  “Yet you should be exempt from criticism?” she asked, picking up her spoon again. She was probably going to be ushered out of his house at any moment. Why shouldn’t she continue her dinner?

  He didn’t say a word as she finished the rest of her soup. Where had he learned that silence was intimidating?

  “One day,” she said, placing her spoon on the edge of the bowl, “women will run for office, too.”

  He just looked at her, his green eyes intent, as if he’d never seen anyone quite like her. It was altogether possible that he hadn’t.

  She took another sip of the wine he’d poured for her, wondering if it had gone straight to her head. Her pulse raced and she felt deliciously light-headed.

  “Do you dance, Miss Sinclair?”

  Her eyes widened at the question.

  “Do I dance? Yes, I do.”

  “Let me rephrase the question if I may. Do you enjoy dancing?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “No, but does it matter?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, beginning to eat his soup again. “People will have you dance whether you wish it or not, won’t they?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s a ridiculous occupation when you think about it, moving around a dance floor to music.”

  “Like a trained bear,” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  Why were they suddenly in accord? For that matter, why was her skin feeling so tight and her face still so warm? She really should leave.

  The longer she was near him, the greater the danger she was going to say or do something else idiotic.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” she said, hearing the words with something akin to horror. Was she two people? Why bother having a speck of intelligence if she was going to say anything that flew into her mind?

  “Why is that?”

  She took a sip of her wine, wondering if she should tell him that she’d also tasted whiskey. Did she want him to think her shocking?

  How much more shocking than telling him she wasn’t a virgin?

  “Aren’t you getting married?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “One of my sources,” she said, unwilling to expose Mr. Donovan.

  “He’s a poor source, then,” he said.

  “So you aren’t marrying the Drummond girl. Which one are you interested in? They’re both blondes, are they not? Do you have a preference for blond-haired women?”

  He sat back and regarded her somberly. Not a hint of his smile remained, only that chilled gaze of his. As a weapon it was very effective.

  She almost shivered.

  “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t carry tales,” he said. “Especially if they involve an innocent like Barbara Drummond.”

  Now she truly did wish to apologize, but she reached over and plucked a roll from the tray in front of her, and busied herself buttering it.

  “So you do prefer blond-haired women. Must they have a certain color eyes?”

  “Why are you so interested in my preferences, Miss Sinclair? I might ask the same of you. What interests you in a man?”

  A tall, broad Highlander who grins like the devil and whose eyes are glittery shards of emeralds.

  She wanted to slap herself.

  “Perhaps looks don’t interest me at all,” she said, taking a bite of the roll.

  “You’re a more cerebral type, is that it? The physical appearance matters nothing to you as long as the man is intelligent.”

  “I can’t say that,” she said. “There’s something to be said for a certain type of animalistic attraction.”

  “Which is why you’re no longer a virgin.”

  She felt her face heat. Why had she told him that?

  “Another area of disparity in our society, Lord Provost. A man is expected to be experienced, while a woman is castigated if she does the same. Does it not make you wonder with whom the man is getting his experience?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever thought about it, Miss Sinclair.”

  She sat back, her roll forgotten, and studied him.

  “One could only wonder about your experience, Lord Provost. The family maid? A kindly neighbor? A paid companion, perhaps?”

  “A wonderfully wise widow in France,” he said. “I learned a great deal from her.”

  She had the feeling she’d met her match in the art of dueling words.

  “I hope you and Miss Drummond are very happy,” she said. “No doubt she has all the qualities you are looking for in a wife.”

  He studied her without speaking. An interesting experience, being the subject of Harrison’s stare.

  “What would those be?” he finally asked.

  She propped her chin on her hand in violation of table etiquette and pretended to consider the matter.

  “Well versed in politics, I would think,” she said. “Agreeable, certainly.”

  He didn’t say a word, which was a disappointment. She expected—or wanted—him to challenge her assessment.

  “She would think you brilliant,” she added. “That’s almost understood, I think.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Tact,” she said. “The ability to tell someone to go to perdition while smiling.”

  “A good memory.”

  She dropped her hand. “Why?”

  “To remember the names and occupations of all the people I meet from day to day. A good hostess as well. I would be expected to entertain more with a wife.”

  She nodded.

  “All in all, whoever she is must be very talented. Must she play a musical instrument?”

  “Not required.”

  “Must she know how to cook or merely supervise a staff?”

  “Staff alone, I think.”

  “All that’s left is appearance,” she said. “And you’ve already indicated a preference for blondes.” She was tempted to ask about the woman’s figure, but decided she’d tweaked his nose enough on the subject.

  He took a sip of his wine, watching her over the rim. “And your criteria for a husband? Would it not be fair to share it?”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather talk about Edinburgh’s gardens or the weather. Or even your plans for the coming holidays.”

  “I always spend the time with my family,” he said. “I’ve three
brothers, all married. All with an incredible number of children.”

  “I’ve heard from countless people in the last few days how charming you are.”

  “But you don’t find me so?”

  She smiled brightly. “Actually, you are. Although there are times when you forget and become something else entirely.”

  “Perhaps it’s you, Miss Sinclair, that brings out the ‘something else entirely’ in me,” he said, staring at his wine as if transfixed by the ruby color.

  She smiled at him, seeing the glint in his eye and recognizing it for what it truly was, a declaration of war.

  How quickly his charm had vanished.

  Perhaps it would be wise to leave before Harrison lost that tenuous hold on his temper. How she knew he was barely able to keep it in check was another thing she would think about later, when she was safely away.

  Standing, she placed her napkin on the table, then walked to the door, intending to leave before he stood.

  She wasn’t quite that fast.

  He moved to block her exit.

  “Thank you for dinner,” she said, “but I must leave. Please convey my appreciation to your cook.”

  “Mairi,” he said, speaking her name in a way she’d never before heard, drawing out the syllables as if there were hills and valleys between them.

  This time she did shiver.

  “I shall not mention Miss Drummond’s name,” she said. “Nor will I use yours. I trust you will inform your staff that my sources aren’t to be intimidated.”

  “How agreeable you are all of a sudden. Are you afraid of me?”

  “That’s the second time you’ve asked me. Of course I’m not.” She did, however, take a step back, simply as a precautionary measure.

  He was much too close. Too large and much too, well, manly. She could smell him, and that disconcerted her even more than realizing that he smelled of spices. Something his housekeeper sprinkled among his clothing?

  Her face felt hot.

  “I have to leave,” she said, ducking around him and nearly sprinting down the hall. His majordomo moved quickly to avoid her but he wasn’t fast enough. She ignored him as she opened the door herself and raced down the steps.

  Chapter 10

  Logan returned to his library, sitting at the desk that was a gift from his mentor, the previous Lord Provost who’d educated him on all things political. Logan had been born, Dennis McDaniel said, with a knack for making people believe in him.

  “Trust is one of the most difficult commodities to attain, Logan. If people feel it for you, never scorn or waste it. If you do, you’ll never get it back.”

  Perhaps his instinctive abilities and his mentor’s advice had gotten him elected to council and then on to being Lord Provost. To Parliament—that had been his dream and why the perfect wife was such a necessity.

  Then why was he staring at the calendar of his engagements for the next week, not seeing anything but fiery blue eyes and a mouth pursed in temper?

  Mairi Sinclair should not even be a thought. He shouldn’t recall anything she said. Or the look on her face when she stormed into his house, all bluster and blue eyes.

  He’d wanted to kiss her, and the need to do just that had startled him into doing something even more foolish: daring her to touch him.

  He had the idea that no one challenged Mairi Sinclair.

  Contrary to her accusations, he hadn’t advised anyone to avoid her. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as sure of Thomas’s actions. Had his secretary let it be known that cooperating with Mairi Sinclair wouldn’t be seen as wise? Thomas was the master of the veiled threat, the whisper campaign, and the unspoken insult.

  He’d make a point of talking to the man.

  Had Thomas also intercepted her letter? Or had it simply gotten lost in the general confusion that sometimes reigned in council chambers?

  He picked up his pen and studied it, seeing her face before him. She smiled quickly, the flash of humor on her face mirrored in her eyes. Just as easily, she could catapult into temper, her lips thinning while her eyes blazed fire. But when she left his house it had been with a strange and disconcerting expression on her face.

  What made Mairi Sinclair afraid?

  Her mind intrigued him. Twice, tonight, she’d surprised him. Once, when she’d taken his dare and touched him. Had she known how much he wanted to grab her with both hands and haul her up into his arms for a kiss? The second time, she’d asked about Barbara Drummond, and he’d been so startled by her knowledge that he was curt. How had she discovered he was planning on marrying?

  Perhaps he’d underestimated her talent at reporting.

  “She’s gone, then?”

  He looked up to find Mrs. Landers in the doorway.

  Mrs. Landers was as thin as his cook was plump. Her features were angular; her face long and ending in a pointed chin. Even her eyebrows seemed elongated, stretching from over her nose nearly to her temple.

  Her hairline began only an inch above her brows. If he hadn’t overheard her conversation with a maid where she bragged about her healthy head of hair, he would have thought it a wig in a perpetual state of sliding too close to her nose.

  Each emotion shown on her face and was capable of reshaping her features. A smile shortened her nose and widened her mouth. A frown elongated her chin.

  She was, as most housekeepers probably were, an imminently practical woman. She instituted economies that saved him money, advised him on the staff with more insight than Rutherford, and took great care with his possessions.

  She was also one of the most softhearted women he knew. She once hesitantly asked if she could take advantage of his library, and he’d been pleased to give her that freedom.

  More than once, when returning home early, he discovered her reading in the wing chair beside the window.

  “A very touching story,” she said on the last occasion, replacing the book on the shelf and moving out of the room before he could engage her in conversation. He hadn’t looked at what she’d been reading, but now he wished he had, wanting to know more about the women in his life. Perhaps if he were more enlightened he wouldn’t be as confused.

  Now she was looking down at him, her forehead crinkled in a frown, further reducing the space between brow and hairline.

  “She’s a lovely girl,” she said.

  “Yes, she is.” Any other time, he might have looked down at his desk, at the piles of papers stacked to his left. Mrs. Landers would have immediately understood that he wanted to work and would leave him. Tonight he didn’t do that.

  “She runs the Edinburgh Gazette,” he said. “Have you read it?”

  “I have, and the broadside she wrote about you.” She smiled at him.

  The strangest thing happened. He felt the tips of his ears grow hot as if he were embarrassed.

  “Did you really try to keep her out of the club?” she asked, her tone more friendly than chiding.

  He shook his head. “No, but I doubt she believes that.”

  “Then you’ll just have to keep trying to make her see your point of view, won’t you?”

  She sent him a toothy smile, then strode toward the door. “I’ll bring your coffee in, then, shall I?”

  He nodded, a little bemused at the thought of trying to convince Mairi Sinclair of anything.

  However, it might be interesting to try.

  James didn’t say a word when she entered the carriage an hour after she left him. But he gave her a look that indicated he was definitely going to inform Macrath.

  She lay her head back against the seat, staring up at the silk above her.

  Why had she said what she had? Why had she touched him? Why had she felt so strange around him? It was bad enough him witnessing her humiliation at the hands of other people, but to do it to herself hardly seemed fair.

  What was it about the man that had her opening her mouth and all sorts of secrets spewing forth?

  Words had power and she wielded them well. At least she had unti
l meeting the Lord Provost. Around him she was lucky to string two words together and do so without slavering.

  Nor had she ever realized the power of presence. The sight of Harrison dressed in his kilt, looking like a civilized barbarian, took her breath away. He left no doubt of who was in charge.

  She certainly hadn’t been, even of her own mouth.

  What sort of silly and frivolous woman was she, to be so impressed by a man’s appearance?

  Or perhaps it was simply his smile that affected her so strangely. Or the way he had of looking at her, as if she were more important than anything else in the universe.

  She’d gone to Harrison’s home for the purpose of demanding he stop whatever he was doing. The result had been dissatisfying since he refused to admit he’d done anything.

  He could charm the feathers off a bird. All it took was one smile, starting slow and finally reaching his beautiful green eyes. Or a touch of his hand, gentle and almost tender, proving that he knew his own strength and never used it against someone smaller and weaker.

  Was she becoming delirious about the Lord Provost? No, she was not that much of an idiot.

  Yet something about the man pushed her close to the edge of decorum. She’d been irrational and foolish, losing her objectivity and falling into the trap of allowing emotion to dictate her actions.

  He’d been very protective of Barbara Drummond. Was he in love with her?

  Love was a silly reason to marry, all in all. Love involved your loins first, then your heart. Neither area was renowned for reason or judgment.

  What she was feeling now was not jealousy. She didn’t care who Harrison married. Why should she be concerned?

  If she were to marry—an occasion that had never been in her mind much after Calvin—she’d choose a man similar to herself, someone who valued words, who was curious, who always wanted to know the answer to why. With any luck, he’d be handsome and physically appealing, not a great bear of a man who overpowered her with his presence. He would have a wonderful sense of humor, seeing the ridiculous aspects of life. He would be ambitious and want to succeed at whatever endeavor he chose. He would, above all, believe in her, demonstrate his loyalty to her, and cherish her. In return she would honor him above all men, care for him, and share her thoughts with him.