Page 105 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“What about the Fletcher sisters? Aunt Maude? And Aunt Flora?”
“I said my goodbyes to the Fletcher sisters. They unhitched the horses and rode them across the bridge where a hostelry has agreed to take them. They should already be at an inn at the edge of the City where they will meet Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora. From there, the four of them will travel to Brighton. They’ll stay there until it’s safe to return to the City.”
“You mean when or if the countess cannot draw a line from you to them.”
She set a hand on the rough bannister, her skirts snagging on rough wood. “It is the reality of our league. I put myself in first position as a possible target. Next will be Cecelia.”
“Who is not leaving the City.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“You’re worried about her.”
“I am but there’s nothing I can do. The hazard of our choices, I’m afraid.” Carmine had fadedon her lips, but they were a definitive line. A determined woman, this lass from Edinburgh he loved.
Her smile curved seductively. “Follow me. I’ve something to show you.”
She headed upstairs. He knew where they were going—her counting room. He crested the stairs and found a makeshift mattress covered in blankets, his satchel and boots (cleaned and oiled, the toes pointing out), another satchel (Anne’s?), and a basket of victuals.
“What do you think?” Anne’s smile was like the sun.
“It’s good for the night.”
There was a treadwheel, the smell of the river, of wood and labor and sweat. Home in many ways. Not a place for seduction but their love had been nurtured on less.
Anne groaned. “Take another look, Will MacDonald.” She arced her arm over the simple bed.
His kilt.
It was folded in a big square in the middle of the bed. He went to the bed and dropped to his knees. He touched the tartan, raised it reverently, and held it up to scant light. The cloth had been repaired, some stitches neat and even, others jagged. Most places the thread matched the weave where the warders had done their worst. Other stitches were childlike... every one of them a stitch to put his heart and his life back together.
He stared at his kilt, marveling at it and marveling at the woman who cared enough to do this. For him.
Anne hooked the lamp to the wall. When she turned around, her eyes were vulnerable pools.
“It’s why I bolted my door. I wanted to surprise you.”
The thumping, the late-night candle burning, enough to break a Bermondsey Wall house budget. For him.
He fingered a long red stitch. “I will treasure it for the rest of my life.”
Candlelight haloed Will. He was Hades on his knees before her. She caressed his golden head and pulled the black silk ribbon which bound his hair. His awe at her gift faded to one she’d seen on the faces of men in taverns and the streets when hungry for a woman. A scowl slashed his mouth. She knew how to tease and how to drive him mad. It would be a torture and a pleasure, a night journey to indulge for years to come.
Finally, finally they would be together. She would feed his needs and in the doing feed hers. Emboldened, she slid a hand over her stomacher, the silk whispering against her hand. Lower her hand went. To her petticoats. To the place between her legs.
Will followed her hand, his scowl twisting tighter.
She cupped her mons and rubbed. Rich, dark silk slithered, the only noise.
A triangle imprint formed in the silk. Will’s molten eyes grew darker and blacker and hungrier the more she rubbed that triangle inches from his face.
Her heart pounded with thrashing wildness. The pressure that wanted out was back, the fuse lit. Fireworks indeed. Sparking, crackling, heat building.
She kept her hand working the delta between her legs, her fingers swirling over the tender mound.
“Lift your skirt, lass.”
His rough command thrilled her.
