The Witch Of Clan Sinclair (11 page)

Chapter 12

T
he audience disappeared from the ballroom and down the stairs like water spilling over stone. None of the other members of the SLNA lingered to give her commiseration or congratulations. Even Mrs. MacPherson had disappeared in the wake of the fight.

She wished Fenella hadn’t been indisposed this evening. She needed moral support, or a sounding board if nothing else. The speech had been a disaster, and that was a surprise since she thought it started so well.

Should she simply consider it practice? Surely after tonight it would be easier to speak in front of a large group. Or would she be causing a riot each time?

Why had those men insisted on calling her names? Why, because she wanted to become the editor of the
Gazette
in truth, instead of always hiding behind Macrath? Why did that idea—or the idea of a woman doing what she wished—enrage them?

Did they hate women?

None of the women she’d met in the SLNA movement had ever said anything derogatory about a man. In fact, she’d met a great many men who actively supported the organization.

She respected the men in her life. First, Macrath, who was an example of someone dedicated to achieving his dream. He used that same determination in his personal life as well. Then, her father whose memory warmed her heart. James, Robert, and Allan were all men whose presence added to her life. The only male who hadn’t acted in an honorable manner was Calvin.

Even the Lord Provost, as much as she might hate to admit it, was a man to admire.

She stood at the head of the steps, wishing that the mass of people milling around the bottom of the staircase would leave. She didn’t want to endure their compassionate looks. Nor did she wish to encounter any of the men who’d spoiled her speech.

Turning, she walked in the opposite direction, hoping to find the servants’ stairs. Instead of leaving from the front of the house, she would slip out the back, find her carriage, and avoid the crowd.

Humiliation was a bad enough emotion to feel alone, but she didn’t want to be forced to pretend she was fine when it was obvious she wasn’t. Tears were just beneath the surface and she wasn’t the type to cry easily. Her face felt warm. Her hairline was damp and itchy and she wasn’t even wearing that despicable bonnet.

A few minutes later she found the stairs, descended them to find herself in an alcove beside the kitchen. When she asked a passing maid for directions to a back door, the girl didn’t seem surprised at the request. After thanking her, Mairi made her way outside.

The earlier sleet might never have happened. The skies were sprinkled with glittering stars as the wind caressed her face, bringing with it the crisp threat of snow and, below that, the heavy smell of wood smoke. Moonlight spilled over the landscape, transforming the hedges to rounded humps and the grass to a gray swath leading to the gas lamps on the street.

People clustered in small groups in front of the portico, their words indecipherable and their voices only a faint drone. She clung to the shadows, hoping to escape detection. From where she stood, behind a row of hedges, she didn’t see James, but there were a great many carriages in line.

The sound of conversation drifted away as she walked farther, following the drive. The trees cast shadow ghosts over the lawn, the wind making the branches dance a disjointed jig.

She didn’t know the shadows were real until the men were almost on top of her. Her heart skipped a beat as she waited for them to pass. Instead, the three of them stopped a dozen feet away, each man hefting something in his hand.

“So you’d have a woman be like a man, would you? Can you fight like a man?”

She was tempted to respond to him, but some kernel of caution kept her silent.

“A fine sight you are, out in the cold by yourself. No man to protect you?”

She turned to walk back toward the house, but they were suddenly in front of her.

“Let me pass,” she said, clasping her hands beneath her cloak.

When they only laughed, she strode forward, expecting them to give way. They didn’t. Instead, the largest of the three shoved her with both hands.

She staggered but didn’t fall. Taking a few steps back, she measured the distance to the house. Could she make it to safety? If she screamed, would one of the drivers come to her aid?

These men wanted to hurt her, and no one had ever wanted to hurt her before.

“Let me pass,” she said again.

Something struck her on the arm, the blow so unexpected she cried out. Before she could question why he’d thrown something at her, another man raised his arm. The rock struck her shoulder. She turned and began to run but she wasn’t quick enough. Another rock hit her back. A fourth clipped the back of her calf.

Panic gushed from her pores.

She was being pelted by rocks, each the size of her palm. The blood roared in her ears.

Suddenly one of the men was at her side, then in front of her.

She screamed in pain when a rock struck the base of her throat, only to be pummeled by more rocks. She fell to her knees, hands over her head. The world rained rocks. Then she was on the ground, her knees drawn up.

Someone shouted, but the words were meaningless. She heard running footsteps and cowered.

Fear was a sharp sword, cutting a hole through her courage, bloodying her mind. She couldn’t think, could only feel, the pain demanding its share of her attention.

She huddled on the cold ground, waiting to be struck again, her breath coming in harsh gasps, blood bathing the side of her face. She was trembling, her teeth almost chattering. She was colder than she could ever remember being, as if the blood chilled in her veins. Even her heartbeat slowed, seeming to come from a deeper place.

A shape towered over her, making her jerk in fear.

“Mairi?” He knelt beside her. A voice as soft as velvet murmured in her ear. “They’re gone.”

What was Harrison doing here?

She couldn’t bite back her moan when he helped her stand, and when he raised her in his arms she should have protested.

She was not going to whimper.

“I’m here,” he said. “It’s all right.”

She wasn’t sure it would ever be right again.

“You?” she asked as he strode into the darkness with her in his arms. “Was it you?”

“Was I stoning you? Daft woman.”

He opened a carriage door, laying her on the seat. A second later he reached up and opened the window.

“Get us out of here,” he said to the driver.

She needed to tell him about James. She had her own carriage. She couldn’t be seen in his carriage, not unescorted. People would talk. All thoughts that flitted through her mind and back out again, pushed away by pain.

“Where were you struck?” he asked, kneeling beside her.

He unbuttoned her cloak, pulling it apart.

When he began to open the placket of her bodice, she made an effort to grab his wrist. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, easily twisting her hand free. “I need to know whether or not to take you to a physician. You might have been badly injured.”

“Home. Take me home.”

He didn’t answer, merely continued to open her bodice. A second later he was pulling down the top of her shift.

She dug her nails into her palms, closed her eyes and pretended she was home in bed, a delusion that lasted until he prodded the area below her throat. Clamping her mouth shut so she wouldn’t sob, she turned her head away and prayed he’d soon finish.

“You’re going to have a bad bruise,” he said, placing his fingers gently over the area. “But it will take a physician to determine if anything was broken. Where else were you struck?”

She kept her eyes closed.

“So fierce,” he murmured.

She wasn’t feeling very fierce. She was feeling wounded and incredibly frail.

Slowly, she did an inventory of her injuries. Her chest hurt so much it was painful to breathe. Her cheek was bleeding and one of the rocks had struck her back.

“My chest,” she said. “My back.”

“Your face,” he said gently, touching her jaw with the edge of his thumb.

“Home,” she said. “I need to go home.”

“Be still,” he said.

She really should have protested. She should have told him that she was more than capable of caring for herself. That was hardly the truth, though, was it?

For now she kept her eyes closed and let him be the strong one.

“I
feel so guilty for not accompanying Mairi,” Fenella said, snuggling closer to Allan. They sat in his bed in the room that had once been Macrath’s.

“Is it that you feel guilty?” he asked. “Or guilty because you don’t feel guilty?”

She pressed her forehead against his arm and smiled.

“Probably the latter,” she said. “But I knew tonight I would be free to see you.”

“I’ve been there for six months, Fenella,” he said. “I’ve proved myself reliable and a good worker.”

A somber note in his voice warned her.

She sat up, glancing at him in the candlelight.

“Yes, you have. Mairi talks fondly of you.”

Allan had purchased the candles that sat on the grate before the brazier and the small table beside the bed. She’d taken the curtains from the room that used to be hers and hung them on the small window. The room smelled of the verbena potpourri she’d brought from the house. Together, they’d transformed the small room into a haven.

She told him of the years she lived across the hall in the room she’d shared with Mairi and Ceana. How they’d all despaired of making ends meet, but refused to talk about their fear. They’d been inventive in their cooking, the kitchen they once shared now used by Allan to make his meals.

They hadn’t purchased any new garments for years, making do with each other’s clothes, turning hems, collars, and cuffs. For all their penury, the years had been pleasant ones, surrounded by people she loved and who loved her.

“You can survive most things as long as you have love,” she had once told Allan. His answer had been to kiss her, and all thoughts had flown from her head.

Life had changed in the last few years. They no longer had to worry about their survival. Mairi’s focus had never wavered, however, remaining on the
Gazette.

And hers? Until meeting Allan, she’d been content to keep house for Mairi and Robert, concentrate on the duties of each day, offer comfort and coziness in exchange for what she truly wanted: her own home and family.

She wanted a man to love, someone with whom she could share her life. A man who would sleep close to her at night and hold her in his arms.

She didn’t want to change the world. She didn’t want to redress any wrongs. Nor did she want to inspire anyone else unless that inspiration came from the way she lived her life.

Nor was she altogether sure that she wanted to vote.

Mairi was always so certain of what she wanted. So much so that sometimes that determination was difficult to be around and to match. When Fenella wasn’t as certain, other people thought her submissive and retiring. She knew she wasn’t at all. She just didn’t have as much passion as Mairi.

Until she met Allan.

“I will talk to her tomorrow,” she said. She leaned toward him, putting her arms around him. “She needs to know.”

He nodded.

“In the meantime, I’ll write Macrath,” he said. “That’s the proper thing to do.”

“What will you tell him?” she asked, feeling her heartbeat escalate.

Allan pressed a kiss to her temple. “That I love you without measure. That my greatest wish would be to have you as my wife. That I’ll provide for you all the days of your life.”

She raised her hand and placed her palm on his cheek. The candlelight flickered on his face, adding shadows and hollows.

“Then write to him, my dearest Allan,” she said. “Tell the world.”

“Not the world,” he said. “Only Mairi.”

She smiled and promised, then sealed her word with a kiss.

L
ogan had mastered his emotions for a good many years. Being in politics meant he needed to maintain a discipline and a distance from issues. He couldn’t react to things simply because they tugged at his heart or engendered his pity. He needed to look at the bigger picture. What was better for Edinburgh? What was better for Scotland?

Right at the moment, however, he didn’t give a flying farthing for Scotland, Edinburgh, his district, or any of the myriad sad cases brought to him daily.

Someone had hurt Mairi.

He was almost disappointed that the men had dispersed at his arrival. They weren’t the same ones Mrs. MacPherson’s men had cornered in the back of the ballroom.

Mairi moaned as the carriage hit a rough patch of pavement. He remained kneeling at her side, protective of her in a way he hadn’t expected to be. He didn’t want to take her back to her home until he was certain she wasn’t badly injured. Knowing her recalcitrance, she’d refuse to see a physician on her own.

She was still trembling, and he feared she was in shock. He removed his own coat and tucked it around her. Once in his house, he’d place her in front of a roaring fire, give her hot tea, and try to find some way to reduce her pain.