The Witch Of Clan Sinclair by Karen Ranney Page B

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