The Witch Of Clan Sinclair (8 page)

“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

D
ear 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.

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.