Free The Witch Of Clan Sinclair by Karen Ranney

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.

 
    Chapter 8

    “Y es, Mrs. Hargrove, I understand your concerns. I must repeat, however, that the Gazette did not intentionally insult Provost Harrison.”
    “He is a great man, Miss Sinclair. A credit to Edinburgh. We are fortunate to have him. Your brother should have known that. I’m disappointed. Very disappointed.”
    Mrs. Hargrove was wrapped up against the cold in a frayed black coat that hung below her ankles and looked to have belonged to her late husband. Along with a succession of multicolored knitted scarves, she wore a black bonnet from another decade, adorned with blowsy black fabric flowers that needed desperately to be dusted or replaced.
    Despite her penury, the septuagenarian stopped into the paper every week to purchase either a broadside or the newest edition.
    “Yes, ma’am,” she said, dipping her head in a gesture of subservience.
    She walked Mrs. Hargrove to the door. When she saw James pull the carriage to the curb, she grabbed her cloak, deciding that something must be done.
    She marched into the press room. “I’m leaving,” she told Allan.
    He only nodded, not saying a word about the number of people still outside.
    “I’ll put a sign on the door that we’re closed,” she said. That way, he wouldn’t be forced to stop tinkering on the press.
    He only nodded.
    When she told James their destination, he raised his eyebrows. She readied herself for an argument, but to her surprise he only shrugged.
    A few minutes later they were parked outside Logan Harrison’s home.
    That morning a gear had shattered on the press. They wouldn’t be able to publish any broadsides or the weekly edition of the paper until the part was available.
    Fenella was acting oddly around her.
    She wasn’t sleeping well.
    None of which she could lay at Harrison’s feet.
    But the other? Yes, he was most definitely responsible for that.
    Between fielding questions and hearing complaints, for two days she hadn’t been able to get much work done. Long lines of people had appeared first thing in the morning and they didn’t stop coming until dark, all of them complaining about the broadside she’d