Page 104 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“We can figure something out.” She cupped his head, her voice fierce. “I choose you, Will MacDonald. I choose us.”
He dragged her hand to his mouth and shushed her.
He kissed her palm, the plump seat of her thumb, her wrist where her skin was fascinatingly soft. They’d given themselves body and soul to Scotland and their clan. Much had gone into finding the Jacobite gold which hardly jingled thanks to Mary Fletcher’s clever burlap and wool packing. Anne had made her sacrifices, and so had he. If he couldn’t be with Anne in the colonies, he’d be with her in Scotland.
Like an acorn seed must split to become a tree, his heart would have to break too. Only then would they have something better.
He touched a fat tear on her cheek. “As you wish, lass. We’ll go home to Scotland.”
Anne searched his face. The hope lighting hereyes was enough to bring him to his knees. He didn’t deserve her hope, her love but he’d give his all to earn it. The rest of his life, in fact.
“I mean it, Anne.”
She melted onto his chest. Her muffled, sniffling, “We will be happy” tossing the sweetest tether around his heart.
This was the way of love. Compromise was a myth. Sometimes one gave his all and more to win true love. He’d been so set in his need to fight the war, he’d lost the only woman he’d ever loved. His second chance to have love would not be wasted on where he lived. He’d learned a new trade with West and Sons Shipping. He could do the same again.
With Anne’s head near his heart, he closed his eyes and let needful rest come. He drifted off to an impossible vision of the Isle of Benbecula, a gentle wind blowing across a sloping beach, a scruff of land above it, and the sun shining down on his head.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A hand jiggled his shoulder. He grabbed it fast and sat up, blinking. Anne leaned over him, a candle lamp in one hand.
“My hand, if you please,” she said in a husky voice. He did have a death grip on the hand that had shaken him awake, a habit of war and prison that stuck.
Air was stirring cold and unfriendly. He hugged his insufficient velvet coat tighter, closing the ends, turning up the collar. River water slapped, buildings loomed. He cuffed grains of sleep from his eyes, hoping to clear his head. They were at a wharf by the arrangement of buildings, the dock, and the river.
“Where are we?”
“Gun Wharf.” She raised her lamp higher. “Neville Warehouse to be precise.”
He scooted off the dray, taking a fair bit of straw with him. A blue-and-white sign confirmed they were at Neville Warehouse. Anne produced a key and inserted it in an iron padlock.
“You slept like the dead. We decided not to wake you.”
“What about the gold?” he asked, squinting at his environs.
The padlock sprang open. “Mary, Margaret, and I removed it ourselves.” She unhooked the padlock. “A force of habit, living without a man these years. We got used to doing everything ourselves. Besides, you’ve looked exhausted since Marshalsea.”
Anne opened the sun-bleached door, and he was tempted to tell her he’d been exhausted since losing the war. Since seeing Anne again, he’d had the first true, bone-deep rest. Invigorating. Humbling. She was so competent.
He followed her into the near-empty warehouse, his voice echoing, “You do plan on needing me... someday, lass?”
The candle lamp swung merrily, its yellow glow crowning her mussed hair. “I need you every day, Will MacDonald. Close that door behind you and set the bar, if you please.”
He shut the warehouse door and barred it. “We’re sleeping here?”
“Until dawn. That’s when Mr. Baines will take us to Mr. Harrison's sloop,The Grosvenor.” She pushed up on her toes and kissed him. "Fate is a funny thing."
She was leaning so prettily against him, one hand petting his chest, that he couldn’t think straight.
“You met him at the White Lamb.” Anne tugged his coat to follow her through the dark. Three paces ahead, she glanced back coyly, “Youwill be cordial with him? He is, after all, taking us home.”
Home.The word resonated as music to a man once lost but now found. Stamped earth was quiet under his footsteps. He followed Anne, a siren in green silk. Her shoulder was bare. She hadn’t tugged her gown back up.
“We’ll be safe here,” she said.
Mermaid Brewery barrels were stacked against a wall. One of them had to hold Jacobite gold. His Anne was quite a capable woman, rolling barrels with the Fletcher sisters, and him sleeping like the dead.
