The Witch Of Clan Sinclair (12 page)

He’d never felt as helpless as he did now.

Slowly, she turned her head and opened her eyes, her blue eyes cloudy with pink as if she wept inside.

“Why?”

Why was he tending her? Why was he taking her to his house? Why had she been stoned?

He opted for the latter and answered with the truth, softened a bit due to her pain.

“It’s happened at more than one SLNA gathering. A bunch of men feel threatened and they hurt those who can’t fight back.”

She nodded, closed her eyes and turned away, her fist still resting on her chest. He wanted to reassure her, so he did, with promises that sounded trite and as insubstantial as air.

“I’ll have the authorities look into it,” he said. “We’ll find those responsible.”

She nodded again.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

A soft smile curved her lips.

Did she think his promise ludicrous? He found the idea of being ridiculous to her distasteful.

“How is the pain?”

She made a humming sound but didn’t speak otherwise.

Now was not the time for recriminations, but did she think her position as editor of the
Edinburgh Gazette
made her somehow impervious to danger? Why wasn’t she taking care to keep herself out of harm’s way? Hadn’t anyone at the SLNA told her about the women who’d been attacked? If not, they were as guilty as the men who assaulted her.

He kept watching her, holding her hand in wordless comfort. Her face was pale, and she bit at her bottom lip as if to keep any sounds from escaping.

Was her pride so unflinching? God forbid she allow anyone to see her in a weak moment.

If she weren’t in so much pain, he would have told her what he thought about her going out without a companion. Where was her driver? Why hadn’t she waited for her carriage under the portico like the other guests? Why was she standing in the shadows away from other people?

What would’ve happened if he hadn’t been looking for her? That was the question that disturbed him the most. If he hadn’t arrived, she might have incurred worse injuries than those she’d already suffered.

Or they might have killed her.

That thought stripped the breath from him.

How much longer until they arrived home? Less time than he feared and longer than he wanted. His driver stopped in the back. A good decision, since it would shield him from prying eyes when he carried Mairi inside.

Before he did so, he gave his driver instructions to Dr. Thorburn’s home. The hour was late, but Mark wouldn’t hesitate to come in an emergency.

He lifted Mairi gently, his mouth tightening when she moaned. Any other woman would have screamed in pain. She grabbed his jacket, keeping her eyes shut, biting her lips.

Slowly, he walked from the alley into the back of the house, where Mrs. Landers met him.

“Dear heavens,” she said. “What is it, Mr. Harrison?”

“She’s been injured,” he said.

“It’s the young lady, isn’t it?”

Of course she remembered Mairi from the night she ate dinner with him.

Who could forget Mairi Sinclair?

“I need some hot water,” he said, then changed his mind. “No, a brick, warmed in the stove, then wrapped in flannel.”

Mrs. Landers nodded, turning and giving directions to a maid as he walked down the hall and into the parlor.

Here, he entertained those individuals who weren’t comfortable calling on him at his offices. More than one political favor had been granted or asked for in this room. More than one hint had been made that he would be an ideal candidate to run for Parliament next year.

He’d pictured his wife sitting here in the parlor, occupied with her needlework, as he practiced his speeches. She’d critique him as to delivery, perhaps question him on his points, and act as helpmeet and advisor. To her, he would confess his uncertainties when they came and his irritations when they filled him.

He’d imagined them talking and laughing in this room, enjoying morning tea or evening libations.

He’d never thought that Mairi Sinclair would occupy the settee or that any other vision would pale beneath his concern for her.

He laid her gently on the cushions, moved another pillow to place under her head. Before anyone else arrived, he knelt at her side, pulled her bodice apart, frowning down at the rapidly darkening skin at the base of her throat.

Was the injury to her back as fierce looking? Or her arms? The wound had stopped bleeding, but dried blood coated her cheek. He raised her slightly, so that her uninjured cheek rested against his shoulder. Propping a pillow behind her back, he tried to make her as comfortable as he could, taking the time to refasten her bodice.

In a matter of moments Mrs. Landers appeared with the wrapped brick, handing it to him. He carefully placed it against Mairi’s chest. The heat should ease some of the pain until Dr. Thorburn arrived.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Harrison, but how was the lady injured?”

He hesitated, wondering what to tell his housekeeper. Finally, the decision was made for him by habit. He never told a lie when the truth would suffice.

“Miss Sinclair gave a speech tonight, Mrs. Landers, on why women should be given the vote.”

Mrs. Landers didn’t comment, which surprised him. He glanced up at the older woman, to find that she was frowning down at Mairi.

“She was attacked by some men who thought she shouldn’t be speaking about such things.”

“Ignorant bastards.”

Startled, he glanced at his housekeeper again.

She met his gaze. “Begging your pardon for the language, Mr. Harrison, but don’t you feel the same? Why shouldn’t women be able to vote? We can do everything else. We cook for you. We clean for you. We wiped your faces when you were drooling as babies, and other places, too. We brought you into the world. You’d have us pretend we can’t do all that and more?”

“Are you a suffragette, Mrs. Landers?”

“I’m a woman with a mind, Mr. Harrison.”

“Another for the cause,” Mairi said faintly, looking up at his housekeeper.

He squeezed her hand, praying for Dr. Thorburn’s swift arrival. One more male in the household—even temporarily—would not be amiss. Especially since he had the sudden and surprising thought that he was outnumbered by strong women.

Chapter 13

T
he parlor was such a pleasant place that Mairi was curious if Mrs. Landers had decorated it or if someone in Logan’s family performed the task. She doubted the Lord Provost had anything to do with selecting the fabrics or colors.

Instead of the overbearing crimson that seemed so in vogue, the parlor walls were covered with pale blue wallpaper with a tiny white and brown stripe. The two matching settees were upholstered in a blue to match the wallpaper, and the chairs upholstered in brown velvet.

A gold framed portrait over the mantel was of a severe looking older man with mutton chop whiskers and a sober mien. He wasn’t smiling, but the look in his eyes made her think he wished to. Was the painting of Logan’s father or another relative?

The tables were all heavily carved mahogany, and each of them shone with the care they’d been given. A faint smell of lemon permeated the room. Was it because of the furniture polish or had Mrs. Landers put lemon peel in the potpourri?

The ferns in the windows seemed a feminine touch as well, along with the small porcelain statues on the mantel and pierced urns on the hearth.

“You were very lucky, Miss Sinclair,” Dr. Thorburn said. “I’ve seen strong blows stop the heart. You could have collapsed and died right there.”

Mairi sat on one of the settees, buttoning her bodice with trembling fingers. Shouldn’t there be a rule that a doctor could not converse with a patient until she was completely dressed?

“As you can see, I’m very much alive,” she said.

“And hurting a great deal, if I don’t miss my guess. Take that medicine,” he said, pointing at the bottle he’d placed on the table. “It might give you bad dreams, but it will take away the pain.”

She nodded and smiled politely, acting the part of the good patient. The minute he left the room, she was going to drop his bottle of laudanum in the rubbish. She’d taken it once before and it had given her more than bad dreams. She’d been sick for a week.

“The blow to your back is not as severe as the one to your chest, but you’ll have a great deal of bruising there, as well as on your face. I don’t like the look of your left arm, either. You weren’t hit anywhere else?”

She shook her head, carefully sitting back against a pillow. She would have protested the examination by a strange physician—one handsome as the devil and a friend of Logan’s—had she been feeling better.

“You were speaking at a rally?”

“Hardly that,” she said. “A meeting at Mrs. MacPherson’s home.”

“An SLNA meeting,” he said.

She nodded.

“You would be better served expounding on the necessity of women’s health. Corsets will shorten your life.”

The idea of not wearing her corset was so novel that she didn’t comment. She made a mental note to discuss corsets at a later date with Dr. Thorburn. Perhaps it was something her readers needed to know.

“Have you been friends with Mr. Harrison long?” she asked.

“Ever since he opened his bookstore,” he said, beginning to pack up instruments in his black bag. “I used to frequent it often.”

“His bookstore?”

He glanced at her curiously. “Didn’t you know? He owns Blackwell’s.”

She knew Blackwell’s and frequented one of its three locations often. Blackwell’s? Logan Harrison owned Blackwell’s?

What kind of reporter was she that she hadn’t known that?

She felt like she’d been asleep until meeting Logan. How had she missed him or his reputation in Edinburgh? Now she discovered he was a successful man of business like her brother. Perhaps that’s what made Harrison feel so familiar.

Nothing more than that.

To her surprise, Dr. Thorburn didn’t ask any questions about her relationship with the Lord Provost. She’d expected them and had already prepared an answer. He had simply been attending the lecture at which she spoke and had rescued her.

Dr. Thorburn pointed to the green bottle again.

“I urge you to take the medication, Miss Sinclair. Otherwise, you’re going to be suffering.”

She nodded and smiled, emulating a perfectly conformable woman.

“Do I have your promise?”

She didn’t want to lie to the doctor. She hoped he wouldn’t push the matter.

“Thank you for helping me,” she said. “I would like to talk with you about corsets at a later date.”

He only shook his head, gave her a stern look, and left the room.

A moment later she sat on the edge of the settee, or tried to, before she collapsed back against the pillow.

She felt as if a carriage had run over her. Her leg ached. She closed her eyes and tried to marshal her will. Even though she was in pain, she needed to get home.

Logan would send her home in his carriage, of course, the act of a considerate man. He’d been exceptionally kind earlier. He’d been tender, and that had not only been disconcerting, but dangerous. The man had charm along with a wicked smile. Plus, he was decidedly attractive in a way that was bothersome. She really didn’t want to spend any time thinking about him.

Nor did she want to spend hours in recollection of his every expression and comment.

She had much more important tasks to occupy her time.

Fenella would be worrying. James would be frantic. What would he be thinking when he was unable to find her? What would Robert say?

No, she simply couldn’t wait any longer. She had to get home.

First, she had to sit up. That’s all.

She turned her head and eyed the bottle of laudanum.

Closing her eyes, she thought about it for a moment. Perhaps if she just took a spoonful of it. Or less than that. It would take away the pain while not being enough to make her sick.

“You’re very lucky, the doctor says,” Logan said, entering the room carrying a tray.

She glanced over the contents as he placed it on the table in front of her. A teapot, cups, and three plates of treats sat there. The chocolate cake looked delicious, as did the biscuits and scones.

“Why are you offering me sweets?” she asked. “Are you trying to bribe me to do something?”

“Doctor’s orders,” he said, grinning. “You are to have something sweet and some strong tea. That will keep you from becoming sick after taking the medicine.”

“My stomach is fine,” she said. “It’s everything else that hurts.”

“And you’re not going to take the laudanum,” he said.

She slitted her eyes at him. “How did you know that?”

“Because I feel the same way. Hate the stuff.”

He sat in the chair opposite her. To her surprise, he poured her a cup of tea and brought it to her.

Since he was being such an impeccable host, she had no other choice but to take it from him.

“I don’t like how it makes me feel,” she said. “All woozy and not in control of my functions.”

“Is it necessary for you to feel in control at all times?”

She considered the question for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I believe it is.”

“Another thing we have in common,” he said.

“You’ve been very kind,” she said, eyeing him over her cup. Every movement hurt, even the small lift of the cup to her lips.

The tea was hideous, an odd green color that had a very strange taste, something she normally wouldn’t have drunk. Because she was a guest, however unwilling, in his house, and because he had served it to her, she sipped at it and tried not to make a face.

“I can’t help but wonder why you are being so solicitous,” she said.

“Am I not allowed to be a kind person, Miss Sinclair?”

“You are excessively kind,” she said, willing to concede that point. From the beginning, Logan Harrison had a reputation for being a considerate man, one who genuinely cared for his constituency.

Plus, he was a man of his word.

Her sources had practically genuflected to her when she’d seen them. Even Mr. Donovan had unbent enough to invite her into the back room of his tavern, an invitation he’d never previously offered. She accepted, of course, anything but stand in the freezing wind.

She was probably a loathsome person to be annoyed that the rumors of Harrison’s sainthood were true.

Did she want him to be mean and unkind?

“You’ve been very kind,” she said again. “I would like to go home, however. My household is no doubt concerned, and my driver has been looking for me, I’m certain.”

“After Dr. Thorburn arrived, I sent my driver to find yours,” he said. “I’ve no doubt your household is concerned, but they know where you are.”

Ice settled in her stomach.

She closed her eyes, forced herself to take as deep a breath as she could manage before opening her eyes again.

“What on earth did you tell him?”

“Your reputation is intact, Miss Sinclair. I explained that you had been delayed, that you and several other members of the SLNA were meeting with me at my home.”

“A lie?”

“I have found that it’s advantageous to twist the truth in certain circumstances. This is one of them.”

“Now that is something I would expect a politician to say.”

“Are politicians the only ones who ever lie?”

She gave that question some thought, even though the answer was immediate. “Of course not. It’s just that your lies are so much more important. They involve greater numbers of people. Plans and organizations and money.”

“I have never lied in the conduct of my job, Mairi. I will guarantee you that. I have, however, lied in a social setting. Unfortunately, more often than I would prefer. But when a woman is preening for compliments, what am I to do? Tell her that instead of looking delightful in that new dress, the color doesn’t flatter her? Have you never done the same?”

She really didn’t like the way he turned questions back on her all the time. She always felt as if she were drowning conversationally around him, when she’d always been able to tread water with anyone. Why was Logan Harrison so different?

He stood and walked to the sideboard, turning his back to her. When he returned to the chair, he was holding a glass filled with an amber liquid.

“I’ve tasted whiskey before.”

“I’m sure you have,” he said, sipping.

“You’re not going to ask me if I wish any whiskey?”

“I am not.”

“Why, because it would be unladylike? A woman isn’t supposed to drink whiskey?”

His frown was really quite extraordinary and very off-putting. If she hadn’t witnessed it before, she might have been intimidated by it.

“Given the events of the evening, I could understand how you might feel that way, but not all men are like those who hurt you. Not everything a man says or does is designed to subjugate a woman.”

She took another sip of her tea, wishing it didn’t taste quite so green.

“You’re right,” she said.

One of his brows arched upward, as did the corner of his mouth. She wondered if they were connected somehow.

“I’m capable of identifying my own mistakes, Lord Provost.”

She took another sip of the tea. Although she didn’t like the taste of whiskey, she thought she might prefer it to this concoction.

She yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. To her surprise, Harrison stood, placing his glass on the table beside the chair. In the next instant he was raising her legs up on the settee and covering them with a throw. She really should have protested but it felt so good to be warm that she didn’t say a word.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said. “Why do they hate me so much?”

“You scare them,” he said, surprising her by raising her to sit up a little.

“I’m not scary.”

“But you are,” he said, sitting at one end of the settee and arranging her so that she leaned against him. One arm was around her, holding her in place, almost like an embrace.

She really should protest.

“You’re a sincere woman with a message. Granted, you need to work on your speaking skills. But what you had to say was scary enough to them.”

“What do you mean, my speaking skills?”

“I’ve had a lot of experience speaking in public. I’d be happy to coach you.”

“Why are you being so nice to me? I don’t like you.”

“Ach,” he said, humor lacing his words. “That’s the first lie you’ve told tonight, Mairi.”

“I don’t care how nice you are to me,” she said. “I’m not reaching under your kilt again.”

“There you go again, another lie.”

She really didn’t know what to say to him. Silence might be the best recourse. Besides, he was so warm and comfortable that she could easily fall asleep. But she knew she couldn’t fall asleep in the Lord Provost’s arms. Not in his house.

What a foolish time to weep.

He drew her back to him, gently cradling her. Her tears felt like acid on her cheeks but they wouldn’t stop. Embarrassed, she tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let her.

“I’m not the crying kind,” she said.

“I know.”

“I never cry. You’ll think I’m a fool.”

“Never. I know you better than that.”

“You don’t know me at all.”

“Oh, but I do,” he said. “I know you feel as if you have a calling. That you want to enlighten the populace, and inform them of what goes on around them. I know you care for the paper like ink is in your blood. I know you’re impatient and want perfection from yourself and others you deal with. I know you have a temper and it sometimes slips its reins. I know that life has not been particularly easy, but you don’t whine. Nor do you demand that anyone owes you anything beyond fairness.”