The Witch Of Clan Sinclair

by Ranney, Karen

  “I’m not going to tell you. You’ll drug me again.”

  “Which means you are. Where?”

  She didn’t answer but she also didn’t protest when he repositioned the scarf closer around her throat. She was going to take a chill if she sat out here much longer.

  He should be about his work. He had the voluminous paperwork of the Edinburgh and Leith Sewerage Act to study. The river was in bad condition, worse than it had been before the passing of the act. He’d been petitioned to bring the matter before the Government Commissioners on the Pollution of Rivers who were due to visit Edinburgh this week.

  He had a full schedule, subject to last minute appearances by constituents, royal appointees, or commissions whose sole mission in life was to clog council meetings with their own personal projects.

  Still, he wasn’t leaving until he got his answers.

  “Tell me how you feel.”

  When she remained stubbornly silent, he smiled.

  “You haven’t been producing any broadsides lately,” he said. “My reputation hasn’t been assailed once. I came to reassure myself that you are well. I’m staying until you tell me.”

  Her eyes snapped at him. “Do you invade people’s homes to check on each of the citizens of Edinburgh? How fortunate we are to have such a caring Lord Provost.”

  “Thank you,” he said, studying the darkness beneath her eyes. “Why haven’t you been sleeping? Is it pain? Or have you been having nightmares?”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s what’s normal in this case. Especially for a woman like you.”

  She scowled at him. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re used to coping with situations on your own, handling matters. When you can’t, it must be frustrating. Frustration has to be expressed in some way, such as being unable to sleep and being rude.”

  “Rude?”

  “Argumentative,” he said with a smile. “Belligerent. Antagonistic. Are you that way with everyone or is it just me?”

  She frowned at him again but didn’t answer, choosing, instead, to stare pointedly at the house. Was she summoning someone to her rescue with the power of her thoughts? If anyone could do it, it would be Mairi Sinclair.

  Why did she feel so singular, unique among his acquaintances? Why did he anticipate seeing her, when it would’ve been so much wiser to ignore her presence, even to pretending she didn’t live in the same city?

  She argued like any councilman he knew, cogently and yet with a challenge. A tilt of her head, a glimmer of smile, her blue eyes lighting on him and then away—they all fascinated him.

  He wanted to frame her face in his hands to study it in more detail, find the reason he was bewitched. Although her mouth was lush and inviting, he’d never been enthralled because of a mouth before. Her deep blue eyes were beautiful, her lashes thick and long. Not once in his life had he ever been so intrigued by a woman’s eyes that he acted the idiot. Her figure, hinted at by the very proper clothing she wore, was enough to fuel his dreams, but not sufficient to render him foolish. Her mind was quick, her words sharp and biting or sweet and kind.

  He realized what it was, finally. It was the whole of her, the totality of Mairi Sinclair that ensnared him from the first.

  Her smile made him want to laugh.

  He had the strangest thought that she was freedom. She was a breath of wind in a stuffy room, a Highland chill after a heated summer. She was everything that shocked him, startled him, and was alien to him.

  Being with her made him feel alive and more himself than at any other time.

  He leaned closer until their faces were only inches apart.

  “Why don’t you want to see me, Mairi?”

  Why didn’t she want to see him?

  Because he weakened her. Because seeing him standing there, hatless, his cheeks bronzed by the cold, his eyes twinkling at her, was just too much.

  He made her want to cry.

  He made her want to lean into him and let him protect her again.

  She wanted to kiss him, and wasn’t that senseless?

  “Does it matter now? You’ve burst in where you weren’t wanted.”

  “You could offer me tea and hospitality,” he said.

  “I have no intention of doing that.”

  He only nodded, still too close. “I didn’t think you would.”

  Why should that remark annoy her so?

  How, for that matter, had he known she hadn’t been sleeping well?

  “Why are you sitting out here in the cold?”

  “I wanted a little solitude,” she said. A remark that made the corners of his mouth turn up.

  What an impossibly handsome man he was.

  “I wish you’d leave,” she said. “You can use the gate this time.”

  To her disappointment, he straightened. He smiled at her, showing white, even teeth, the grin of a predator. She had the sudden thought that she was his prey. Shouldn’t that have made her call out for James or Robert? Instead, she remained silent.

  “I’ll leave if you go inside,” he said. “Besides, I want to see you walk.”

  “You want to see me walk?”

  He nodded, the smile slipping from his face. “Your leg was injured. How is your chest?”

  She looked at the gray and unremarkable winter sky, wishing a lightning bolt would strike him. Very well, not a direct strike, but perhaps something close enough that he would be startled or would flee.

  No, Logan Harrison would never run away from anything.

  “I know where I was injured,” she said. “I’m fine. I’m healing well. I’m cared for with the greatest concern. I’m absolutely sotted with kindness.”

  “It’s loathsome, isn’t it?”

  To her surprise he was smiling at her again. The expression should not be able to lighten her mood but it strangely did.

  She nodded. “I do wish people would go away,” she said. “Fenella is the kindest person. She’s too kind. She’s forever hovering. Are my pillows plump enough? Do I want something to eat, drink, read?”

  “Is it difficult to be grateful?” he asked.

  She sighed. “I’m forever apologizing. I shouldn’t have spoken at the meeting. I shouldn’t have put myself in danger. The only reason I haven’t had to apologize for being at your house is because no one knows about that.” She frowned at him. “You won’t say anything, will you?”

  He shook his head.

  She lay her head back against the chair. “Good.”

  “Will you go inside now?”

  “Yes, since my nose is numb. I was going before you suggested it.”

  He only grinned.

  “Did you really come just to see how I was?”

  She shouldn’t have asked the question. She knew that the minute it left her mouth, but he didn’t ridicule her for it.

  Instead, he extended both of his hands. She unwrapped her arms from beneath the blankets and placed her fingers on his palms, feeling his heat against the chill of her skin.

  “I am going to be fine,” she said, allowing him to pull her up. “Truly.”

  “I’m glad,” he said.

  He was standing much too close.

  “I would hate for my nemesis to be ailing in any way.”

  “Am I your nemesis?” she asked faintly.

  “I’ve never thought so, but I believe that was your intent.”

  “You’re an obstinate man,” she said. “Much too used to getting your own way.”

  “Not with you, though.”

  “No, not with me.”

  Then why was she standing there, close enough to feel his breath on her forehead, close enough to see the pulse pounding in his neck?

  Reaching up, she gathered his muffler, ensured his throat was covered, the mirror of his earlier gesture.

  The man changed her. He made the air feel charged like just before a thunderstorm.

  When she turned and walked away, leaving the blankets in a puddle on the lawn chair,
she was conscious of his gaze on her. She refused to limp. But the ache in her chest wasn’t caused by her assailants. No, that was something else entirely, and all because of Logan Harrison.

  Chapter 15

  “I must admit, Mr. McElwee, that I’ve been unable to get your comments out of my mind.”

  Frank McElwee nodded and took a sip of his whiskey.

  The Lord Provost’s office consisted of two rooms. Attached to Logan’s office was a small parlor where he sometimes entertained guests. More than one concession had been made in this room, more than one arrangement for the betterment of both parties.

  The two men sat in the two chairs arranged in front of the fireplace. Each man held a tumbler of whiskey and both stared at the fire as if the answer to their mutual problem was to be found in the flames.

  “I was very surprised when you asked me to come and speak with you this afternoon.”

  Logan sat back. “I’ve a personal reason, Mr. McElwee.”

  The other man glanced at him. “That’s how it normally starts, sir. A woman in your life will challenge all you hold dear. She’ll demand that you open your mind and your eyes. Look at her life. When you do,” he said, smiling into his tumbler, “it’s amazing what you see.”

  “What do you see, Mr. McElwee?”

  “A life wasted, sir.”

  Startled, Logan looked at his visitor.

  “Let us consider that a woman is equal to a man in intelligence and heart.” McElwee held up a hand to forestall objections Logan had no intention of making. “Then, you quell that spirit and muzzle that intelligence. It’s a form of slavery, sir. The deliberate restraint of another human being.”

  He’d never considered the matter in that light. “And you think your march through Edinburgh will help cure that?”

  “Not one iota, Mr. Harrison. Abolition did not happen in a day or a year. It was a painstaking process of illuminating the situation, gaining supporters and advocates, moving one step at a time.”

  Logan nodded. He’d done the same with his campaign against reformatory dormitories. The law stated that juvenile offenders should be incarcerated no matter the infraction. To his mind, jailing children would lead to a life of crime, but it had taken a great deal of effort to convince his fellow councilmen that the law was too harsh.

  “Perhaps you could allow yourself to be convinced on the side of women.”

  “Mr. McElwee, is there not some other way they can achieve their aims without being strident?”

  McElwee sat his tumbler down on the table between them. He studied Logan for a long moment. “For years, women have been polite. They have petitioned. They have suggested. At no time did they demand to march or even raise their voice. Why should they not now make some type of noise?”

  He realized he didn’t have an answer.

  “Can you not support them in their quest? All they want, sir, is to be treated with the same dignity as a man. It seems not too much to ask.”

  McElwee leaned forward.

  “I’ve asked someone who’s very influential in Edinburgh to join us, Provost. With your permission, of course. I didn’t wish to invite her without your approval. She’s waiting in the carriage. Shall I bring her here?”

  “Please do,” he said. “I’m open to discussion on the matter.”

  He stood, walked to the window, wishing he were home. He’d be sitting in front of a fire, contemplating his life, thoughts that were troubling at best.

  Mairi Sinclair would be at the forefront.

  She’d bewitched him. Whatever spell she’d chanted, whatever potion she’d given him, somehow Mairi Sinclair had played the witch and enchanted him.

  He’d never before been so fascinated with a woman. She was contrary, opinionated, fierce, and determined. Probably the closest to his own personality than anyone he’d ever met.

  Around her, his thoughts were rash and improvident. He wanted to be reckless. With her, he felt free.

  He missed her. His schedule had been brutal in the last week but he thought of her often. How was she faring? He’d sent her a note but she hadn’t written back. He would call on her tomorrow, and if she didn’t agree to see him he’d simply climb over the garden wall again.

  If she hid in her room, he’d find which window was hers and toss pebbles at the panes.

  He’d act the idiot so she would have to see him, if for no other reason than to chastise him for his behavior.

  How the hell did he court someone who’d bewitched him?

  “Lord Provost,” Mr. McElwee said from behind him. “I’d like you to meet Miss Mairi Sinclair.”

  When Mr. McElwee asked her to accompany him to the council offices, Mairi considered the matter for all of five minutes.

  Now, standing in the doorway, she knew it wasn’t to get a look at the provost’s offices or meet his secretary. She couldn’t care less about the man sniffling behind her or the luxurious appointments of the large room or this smaller parlor.

  No, the reason she was here was because of him. The man standing at the window, the one walking toward her with his eyes bright and his lips hinting at a smile.

  It wasn’t fear she felt in his presence but anticipation.

  “Miss Sinclair and I are acquainted,” he said, coming to stand in front of her. “Thomas will take your cloak.” He held out his hands as if to strip it from her himself.

  Mr. McElwee was looking at her curiously. Did he wonder why she hadn’t mentioned that she knew the provost? Or was she betraying something by her expression?

  Her cheeks felt warm but that could easily be the blaze of the fire after the cold of the afternoon.

  The fact her heart was racing so furiously, however, was not due to the weather.

  He was dressed in severe black again, the white of his shirt attesting to the skills of his laundress. At least he wasn’t attired in his kilt, although she didn’t see how she could ever forget that sight.

  She sat on one of the two chairs in front of the fire, watching as he carried a straight-back chair in from the other room. She hadn’t expected him to do something like that himself. A moment later he introduced her to his secretary, another gesture she hadn’t anticipated.

  Thomas Finly didn’t seem pleased to meet her. He nodded, looked down his long nose at her, then vanished as quickly as he could, leaving behind a palpable chill.

  Had the Lord Provost told his secretary something about her? Was that the reason for the man’s obvious disapproval?

  She wasn’t given much time to consider the matter because Logan closed the door to his office, returning to where she and Mr. McElwee sat. She was having difficulty reconciling the official Lord Provost to the man who had climbed her garden wall then so solicitously wrapped a blanket around her and held her when she was in pain.

  They seemed to be two different men. Or perhaps the pose of Lord Provost was only surface deep. Could the kind and considerate man be the true Logan Harrison? Or was it just the opposite?

  “You didn’t tell me you knew the Lord Provost, Miss Sinclair,” Mr. McElwee said, disapproval lacing his tone.

  “It is not an acquaintance of long standing, sir,” Logan said. “But I’m more than happy to meet with Miss Sinclair again. As you said, she is a well-respected woman in Edinburgh. A quite accomplished one, too.”

  She felt a rush of warmth from his words.

  “I’m sorry we have no tea, Miss Sinclair.”

  Was he remembering that night in his house when she told him she’d sampled whiskey?

  There was nothing to be gained, however, by trying to be shocking now, especially in front of Mr. McElwee. Besides, Logan had already seen her at her worst. Perhaps it was time for him to see a better side of her.

  “I would like to add my words to those of Mr. McElwee,” she said, folding her hands one atop the other. “I hope you consider our proposal to march through Edinburgh. It will bring some attention to our cause.”

  “I have heard of women being attacked because of your
cause,” Logan said.

  Thankfully, he didn’t go into detail or mention her by name. Mr. McElwee was aware of the incident but he didn’t know of Logan’s involvement.

  “More attention might bring about more danger,” he added.

  “Has any just cause been without risk, Lord Provost?” she asked. “Any time you change something that has been in place for a great many years, there are people who are frightened of change, who want things to remain the same.”

  “By people you mean men,” he said.

  “By people I mean men.” She glanced at Mr. McElwee. “Most men do not want change. Some men, those more intelligent, see the reason for it.

  “Scottish women have a reason to be dissatisfied with the current law,” she went on. “They are citizens of Edinburgh, Mr. Harrison. But they are not given the same privileges as women in England. Why is it, for example, that English women can vote yet Scottish women cannot?”

  “I didn’t know you had an interest in politics, Miss Sinclair.”

  She warmed at the look in his eyes, a reminder of their earlier conversation.

  “The Municipal Franchise Act,” she said. “Women who head households in England can vote in local elections. It doesn’t apply to Scottish women. Why is that?”

  “Because it is an English law, Miss Sinclair.”

  Under the silky accent were shards of glass.

  “Why haven’t you proposed a Scottish law? Is it because you do not care about the plight of Scottish women?”

  To her delight, she could tell she’d flummoxed him.

  Mr. McElwee’s frown kept her from saying more. Evidently, she was to fawn a bit more and argue less.

  Very well, she could fawn a little. She smiled brightly at Logan then deliberately batted her eyelashes at him.

  He only stared at her. She wondered what words trembled on his lips.

  They were constrained by the presence of the earnest Mr. McElwee, who was glancing between the two of them as if they were a puzzle he needed to piece together.

  For the rest of the meeting, Logan kept his attention on Mr. McElwee, only glancing at her from time to time. Whenever he did, his gaze seemed to scorch her. She couldn’t help recall what it felt like to be held in his arms.