Chapter 7
Mairi grabbed a stack of printed pages, placing them on one of the long tables against the wall, and returned to the press. As fast as Allan was turning the wheel, they would have the paper printed and assembled in an hour or two.
Allan was curiously silent this afternoon. Twice he started to say something, and twice stopped himself.
She could only wonder if he wanted to talk about the broadside about the Lord Provost.
Fenella had made her opinion known well enough.
“Are you sure that’s the wisest thing to do?” she had asked when Mairi told her what she’d done. “Won’t some people retaliate against the paper?”
“They may,” Mairi said. “Then again, maybe they’ll notice the Gazette. Perhaps we’ll get more subscribers because of it.”
Fenella communicated more with her gestures than any person Mairi had ever met. Compassion was visible with a simple look of her hazel eyes, curiosity with a tilt of her head, and anger in the stiff stillness of her face.
When she only pursed her lips in disapproval, Mairi turned away, disappointed.
And there he was.
The Lord Provost of Edinburgh stood in the doorway, dressed in a long coat over a severe black suit. His face was firm and fixed, his green eyes as cold as the deepest loch.
She took a step backward then chastised herself for doing so.
She should have realized he would come in person. He wasn’t the type to send a member of his staff to complain about the broadside. No, the Lord Provost was the type for confrontation. He wasn’t long-suffering, and she doubted if he ever turned the other cheek.
No, he’d stand toe-to-toe with any opponent, even her. Most especially her, since he’d already done so once.
She deposited another armload of papers on the table. Only then did she face him again, removing her gloves and tucking her hands under her arms.
She didn’t look away, refusing to allow the man to intimidate her.
Allan stopped turning the wheel of the press. Gradually the noise level diminished. At least she didn’t have to raise her voice to be heard.
“People are not allowed in the press room,” she said. “It’s a dangerous place.”
He didn’t say a word, only continued to stare at her.
Her pulse raced and her palms felt damp. Were her legs trembling? Nonsense, she was not afraid of the man.
Slowly, he withdrew something from an inside pocket, unfolded and held it up with two fingers, almost as if he didn’t want to be contaminated by it.
She knew it was her broadside.
“Did you write this?”
“Yes,” she said.
When one eyebrow arched upward, she frowned. Had he expected her to deny it?
“I thought it quite clever myself,” she said. “A bit of doggerel, perhaps, but I was pressed for time.”
“Does your brother know what you’ve done?”
She couldn’t speak for the rage bubbling up in her chest. Who was he to call her to task like that, then remind her that Macrath was the real owner of the paper?
She turned to Allan. “If you’ll give us a few minutes,” she said.
“Are you sure, Mairi?”
She nodded, grateful for his protective impulse. She doubted, however, if Allan would have been a match for Harrison.
When he’d left the room, she turned to the provost again.
“Do you go about threatening people all the time?”
He smiled, an expression that had the effect of startling her, since it reminded her that the man was too handsome for his own good.
“I’m not threatening you, Miss Sinclair. I’m just asking if the owner of this paper was aware of the actions of his employees.”
She wasn’t an employee and the fact he’d called her one made her doubly angry. She studied the press, wiped off a smear of ink with a rag located nearby, and glanced at the first sheets of the newspaper set aside to dry before being folded. Another stack was ready for distribution the next day.
He evidently didn’t like being ignored.
“How can I get in touch with your brother?”
“Do you use that officious tone often?” she asked. “Does it work most of the time? Do people bow and scrape before you?”
“Or to you? Has the power of the press gone to your head, Miss Sinclair?”
“Shouldn’t people be able to point out to their elected officials when they’re in the wrong? Or are you too high up on your pedestal to hear us?”
“I thought you didn’t involve yourself in politics? Or is it only defamation?”
“I haven’t defamed you one bit,” she said. “I merely told the truth.”
“Your version of it.”
“If you don’t mind,” she said, looking pointedly at the press, “I’m very busy. I’ll send word to my brother that you wish to speak to him. But I doubt he’ll care. He’s a very busy man who doesn’t waste his time.”
She wasn’t just Macrath’s employee. Her brother didn’t take any interest in the paper and was only a figurehead she used when she must.
Right at the moment, however, she was annoyed to have to stand behind Macrath.
Why should she?
Harrison took two steps toward her, and she almost moved so the press was between them. She would have felt safer had she done so. Instead, they were toe-to-toe, so close she was forced to tilt her head back to look at his face. Another intimidation gesture of his that only ratcheted up her temper.
“My brother has nothing to do with the running of the Edinburgh Gazette, Lord Provost. If you have any complaints, bring them to me. I’m responsible for the broadside and for the paper.”
His smile changed subtly, shifting the expression in his eyes to calculation. She had the oddest thought that the Lord Provost was a more dangerous man than she’d first thought.
“Are you responsible for calling me a bully, Miss Sinclair?”
“You were a bully, Lord Provost.”
“My title is not my name, Miss Sinclair. You may refer to me as Mr. Harrison.”
She was sharply aware of him. He was lightning, bright, hot, and frightening. His gaze was direct, difficult to maintain, but she willed herself not to look away.
“Thank you for the lesson in etiquette. However, I believe that I have quite a few names for you. None of which would please you any more than being addressed as Lord Provost. Misogynist, officious, just to name two.”
He took another step closer until her foot was sandwiched between his. His breath smelled of mint and his coat of sandalwood. Perhaps he had a housekeeper as assiduous as Fenella.
“You know quite well that I didn’t refuse you admittance to the press club. Their rules did so. You know quite well that I did not attempt, in any way, to keep you from the lecture. Or, as you so eloquently wrote, put you in your place. Although the idea has merit.”
She stepped back, folded her arms and regarded him with what she hoped was a placid look. Inside, her stomach was churning and words bubbled in her mind, demanding to burst free.
“And how do you think I should be put in my place, Lord Provost? Chains? A gag, perhaps?”
“A chaperone,” he said.
“A chaperone?”
“Someone who could help you restrain your speech. The idea of a gag has merit. A bodyguard, perhaps. Someone who could keep you from those events where you are certain to be banned.”
“You could have used your influence,” she said, breathless with irritation. “You could have convinced the press club to allow me entrance. Instead, you merely fell back on the excuse that it was the organization’s rules and not yours. You are, Lord Provost, the worst kind of coward.”
He leaned forward until his nose was only inches from hers.
“And you hide behind pseudonyms, Miss Sinclair. You are at turns Macrath Sinclair, Donald MacTavish, or Grant Cameron. Who’s more afraid?”
His deep voice skittered along her spine, enough that she didn’t pay attention to his words at first.
“What?” She glared at him. “Did you just call me a coward?”
He didn’t answer, merely folded his arms in a pose to mirror hers and regarded her.
“I am not a coward.”
As if she’d said nothing, he continued, “Besides, why should I convince them to admit you? You would, no doubt, have criticized the lecture, found fault with the club’s decor, fussed at the fact only whiskey was served, and generally been difficult.”
“All I wanted was to hear what Mr. Hampstead had to say,” she said, feeling an absurd desire to defend herself. Why she should want Harrison to have a better opinion of her, she didn’t know. “I liked his book very much.”
He unfolded his arms. “It was a tedious hour,” he said. “You would have been bored.”
“I doubt you know me sufficiently to decide if I would have been bored, Harrison. I never got the opportunity.” She frowned at him again.
His smile had completely disappeared, replaced by a predatory expression in his eyes. He truly didn’t like being challenged.
She relished a good argument and it was evident the Lord Provost didn’t. How boring it must be to have everyone bend to your will so easily.
“Will you cease in your efforts to impugn me?” His charming smile was back in place.
She wasn’t surprised at his change of tack. The man was a master of manipulation, something she hadn’t known until now. He pushed at people until they had no choice but to submit to him. If that didn’t work, he tried something else.
No doubt most people melted beneath the force of his personality.
She was not, however, most people.
Taking another step back, she said, “Thank you for visiting. I trust you don’t need me to escort you to the door.”
“Do not write about me any further, Miss Sinclair.”
“Or?” she asked, wondering if she was daring a mad dog to bite her.
“Or I will have to take other measures.”
“Such as?”
He studied her for a minute, the seconds ticking by on a clock measured by her heartbeats.
Finally he moved to stand close to her again.
“I find it reprehensible to threaten women,” he said. “Even a woman as annoying as you.”
“If I’m annoying,” she said, speaking past the constriction in her throat, “it’s because you’ve pushed me to it.”
“Do you not take responsibility for your own actions, Miss Sinclair? Do you, instead, blame others for your deeds?”
“I take full responsibility, Lord Provost, for any action I’ve taken against you. Not my brother. Not anyone else. Blame me.”
His hand reached out and in a gesture so strange she was frozen in disbelief, he removed the scarf that she’d tied around her hair. It was dangerous working near the press without taking precautions since her hair could easily get caught in one of the gears.
“Then I shall, Miss Sinclair,” he said, his voice rough. “What a pity I’m not a magistrate. I would decree a punishment severe enough for the crime.”
He dropped his hand and stepped away. Only then could she breathe again.
“What punishment would that be, Lord Provost?”
He didn’t answer, only smiled. In the next moment he left the room, and it was like the wind stopped blowing. The sudden silence made the space around her feel hollow.
She bent to retrieve her scarf, feeling absurdly dizzy. Grabbing the press wheel, she stared at her white knuckles until her heart stopped galloping and her breath returned to normal.