Chapter 19
James was asleep inside the carriage.
The morning was frosty with curls of chilled fog winding around her legs. Last night had been cold, but James had remained at his post.
Her conscience scraped at her.
She hesitated before opening the door. What could she say in explanation? There was nothing more to be done than to face the situation as it was. As her father used to say, nothing ever came of trying to avoid a problem.
This was most definitely a problem.
She opened the carriage door, watching as James awoke with a suddenness that surprised her. One moment he was deeply asleep or feigning it well, and the next he was staring at her.
She entered the carriage, sitting opposite him.
“What do you want to forget about this?” she asked.
“To keep quiet? I don’t think there’s enough food in the world, Mairi.”
She was afraid of that.
“You’re going to write Macrath, aren’t you?”
He remained silent. Perhaps that was better than a lie.
“Very well,” she said. “Write my brother and tell him anything you want. Tell him the truth. Everything I’ve done.”
“It’s my job, Miss Sinclair. I’m to let him know anything that affects your well-being.”
She was not an infant. Nor a toddler who needed to be guided not to cross the street in front of a carriage. Yet her actions of the night before were hardly those of a mature, rational woman, were they?
Still, she was annoyed both at James for being so intent to fulfill his tasks and Macrath for assigning them to him. What would her brother have thought if she’d announced he needed a keeper?
James opened the door again, but before he could slip from the carriage, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was inconsiderate. You shouldn’t have had to spend the night sleeping in the carriage.”
She wasn’t going to apologize for any of her other actions.
Besides, she wasn’t truly sorry that she’d wholeheartedly participated in passion. How could she regret something she would recall for the rest of her life? Last night was a memory to tuck away like a precious letter in a beribboned box. She’d open it once in a while in the future, to recall when she felt desired, when she’d acted with abandon and little sense.
Surely everyone had a memory like that? She couldn’t be the only foolish woman in existence. Or certainly not the only one in Logan Harrison’s world.
He’d held her tenderly at the door, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He’d gently said her name but added nothing more. No promises, reassurances, or hints about the future.
She was most definitely not disappointed. He hadn’t hinted at a continued relationship and she didn’t want one.
Last night, as delightful a memory as it was, would stand as an instance of her impulsiveness. If she were to be taken seriously as a reporter and an editor, she would have to act in a manner that inspired confidence and approbation. She would not long for the Lord Provost. She would not be his momentary mistress. She would not be in thrall to him.
He was going to offer for one of his women and become a bridegroom.
To his credit, James didn’t say another word, but he glanced at her as he left the carriage and mounted the driver’s perch.
She didn’t look back at Logan’s house. If he was still in the doorway, she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to see him again. Doing so wouldn’t be wise, and she’d always tried to have a modicum of common sense.
None of which she’d demonstrated since meeting Logan. She’d acted like a fool from the very beginning.
Did every woman have a man like that in her life? One who would talk her into behavior she’d never otherwise condone? Did every woman know a man who only had to look at her in a certain way to warm her blood and send her heartbeat singing?
She fervently hoped she was not alone in her stupidity.
Her cheek and chin were tender where his night beard had abraded her skin. Her breasts felt full, and unexpected soreness in other places reminded her of an active night.
She couldn’t be around him anymore. Whenever he was close and bent his head, she would think he was about to kiss her. She’d be instantly aflame, her lips parting, her toes curling in response before he ever touched her. Her palms would grow moist when he smiled, and other parts of her body, quiescent and obedient until now, would tingle in absolute and unfettered delight.
Was he right? Had she only used the letter as an excuse to see him again?
What a foolish woman she was if that was the case.
Yes, she would see Logan from time to time throughout Edinburgh. She might even talk to him again, face-to-face. When she did, she would be agreeable and as charming as she knew how to be. She would talk to him about the weather. Later, after he’d selected his bride, she’d congratulate him on his marriage. Still later, she might note that he was a father.
A man with Logan’s ambition was no doubt going to rise far in the world. Of course she’d be sure to mention any future achievements. She could even feature him in a column in the paper. Or if he attained some greater rank, she would do a special edition to honor him.
All her life, she tried to think ahead, to take a cautious path, see the hurdles she needed to conquer. Around Logan Harrison emotion always got the better of her. Circumstances simply happened. She, who so prided herself on her intelligence, lost it in his presence.
There, the truth, as unpalatable as it was.
Nothing had been the same since the day she met him. He’d turned her life upside down. She’d acted the idiot around him. She’d found herself in impossible situations, doing insane things, making outlandish remarks.
It would be a relief to avoid him from this moment forward. She wasn’t going to think about him or his soon-to-be wife.
She had no right to be jealous, and it served no purpose whatsoever to be sad.
His habit of rising at dawn was proving to be decidedly unhelpful.
Despite the early hour, his staff was already moving about. He could hear them beyond the baize-lined door. No doubt he’d already been seen dressed only in his robe, escorting Mairi to the front door.
He’d kissed her there, with the door open to the cold November morning. His breath had transformed into clouds. He’d wanted to utter improvident words that were no wiser on this morning than his actions had been the night before.
Don’t go. Stay with me today. We’ll sit together in the garden, wrapped up in our coats, watching as the leaves freeze on the trees and the gray morning gives way to a slate-colored afternoon. We’ll talk and I’ll tell you foolish thoughts that ricochet around my mind even now. How I was as a boy, my bookstores, what I want to do with my life. I’ll learn of the paper, how it drives you, what you wish for your life as well.
But he didn’t say anything. He remained silent, giving her a quick hug before releasing her. She walked away from him, stood at the side of her carriage for a moment before opening the door and entering.
Feeling a discordant tug on his emotions, he wanted to stop her, coax her back into his house, talk to her about a hundred different subjects. Ask her opinion about a dozen different items before the council. Instead, he turned, slowly mounted the stairs and went to his room.
There, he closed the door, leaning against it, telling himself it wasn’t wise to walk across the room to the window, where he could see her one last time. Like a boy in the throes of his first love, he nonetheless did, placing his fingers against a pane of glass, willing her to turn and look up at him.
A last smile was all he wanted. Or her saying his name in that way of hers, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be sarcastic or charming and the result was a mixture of both. He wanted to hear her laughter again. Or that startled, abortive sound when her own body surprised her.
She’d been as swamped by passion as he, and the sheer surprise of it startled him.
What kind of situations was she going to put herself in, walking through the wynds and closes of Edinburgh? He wanted to caution her to be more careful, to know that daylight could be as dangerous as darkness.
Mairi Sinclair, however, was a force unto herself. She would say or do whatever she wished. She’d go wherever she wanted and there was nothing he could do about it.
He wanted to tether her to him in some fashion, but knew he couldn’t. A sense of powerlessness fell over him like the fog that rose as her carriage pulled away. As if the wheels churned up a cloud and she simply disappeared into it.
Or maybe she’d never existed at all and his memories of the night before had been merely wishful thinking.
James didn’t pull to the front of the house. Instead, he drove around to the stables in back, letting her out before pulling the carriage into one of the bays.
She left him, opening the gate to the garden. The shape of it was a square with a copse of trees plopped in the middle. Tall brick walls bordered the property on three sides, with the back of the house forming the fourth side of the square. At the rear of the garden was a wooden gate with a carved archway over the top, the design of Celtic letters spelling out a bit of whimsy: SEE THE BEAUTY IN ALL THINGS.
She picked up her skirts, walked the flagstone path along the mulched beds prepared for winter, past the fountain drained and filled with sand lest it crack in the cold. In the summer, sunlight sparkled through the trees, teasing her to come and walk slowly through the garden, smelling all the various blossoms. Now, remnants of fog clung to the grass, being blown away by a wind that chilled her ears and neck.
Perhaps she should have engaged in some subterfuge, hidden herself in the shadows and crept into the house.
No doubt everyone in the household knew she had been gone all night, and if they didn’t know now, James was certain to tell them. The maids would look at her and no doubt titter behind their hands. Fenella would be shocked. Robert would lecture her on her duties to the Sinclair name.
Very well, she’d brought disgrace on the family. Why weren’t men judged in the same fashion as women? She doubted that anything would happen to Logan because of last night even if his staff had happened to see her. No one would consider him fallen. No one in his employ, not even Mrs. Landers, would look sideways at him.
She approached the kitchen door slowly, took a deep breath and opened it, expecting the whole household to be standing in the kitchen waiting for her.
To her great surprise, no one was there.
A kettle simmered on the stove, but the room was empty.
Had she been fortunate beyond belief?
The wonder of the night before wouldn’t be ruined by recriminations. No one would fuss at her.
She didn’t need lectures. She knew very well what she’d done. She’d acted the part of a loose woman. She’d been no better than a doxy. There, she’d excoriate herself in the absence of anyone else. She’d been loose. She’d not respected herself or her position as editor of the Gazette. She’d been tossed to the carpet and had not once screamed for help. The only screaming she’d done had been another type entirely.
Now, she needed to forget last night and get on with the business of living. Her real life, not the one she’d allowed to happen for a few hours.
Her steps, loud on the polished wood floor, sent caution hurtling through her. She stopped and unlaced her shoes and removed them, carrying them in one hand while the other held her bonnet.
She made her way to the back stairs without seeing another soul, only to look up to find Fenella standing at the top of the steps.
Her cousin stood there in her wrapper, her arms folded, her chin jutting out. Her hair was wrapped in strips of cloth, the only way Fenella could coax a little curl into her hair. The whites of her eyes were curiously gray, as if she hadn’t slept all night.
Had she kept Fenella up all night with worry?
Shame raced through her, not simply for her actions of the night before but now, standing a few steps below Fenella and not wanting to go farther.
Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself to give her cousin an explanation.