Page 112 of The Scot Who Loved Me
Anne eyed the warder, lounging in the doorway, a big bald man named Mr. Bixby, who enjoyed picking his teeth and showing how little he cared about visitors to the shed. The warder had made a fine speech about truth, justice, and the Marshalsea way. But his eyes slanted when he spied Anne’s earrings from the depths of her hood.
Word was, Southwark got the occasional high-value prisoner, and the highlander dressed in black velvet fit that description. She didn’t blame Bixby. He was trying to play his cards right, and go home a wealthy man. He was cut from the same mold as Ledwell, which at the moment was not of interest to her. All she could do was look at Will, his legs sprawled and hair down. No visible bruises this time. A fair crop of new whiskers growing. The velvet coat fell open from his widespread arms. He still wore the burnished gold silk waistcoat, but no cravat, and his stockings were torn and filthy.
“Inspecting the goods, madame?” he asked.
“Last time I saw a good deal of the man I purchased. What do I get to see this time?”
His mouth dented sideways. “My charm?”
“It’s rough at best.”
“My steady devotion?”
“You’re getting warmer, sir.”
His lips parted, soft with emotion. “Would you take my undying love?”
“Sold.” Her gaze on Will, she addressed the warder. “What will it take for you to part with this incorrigible prisoner, Mr. Bixby?”
“Well now, ma’am . . .” he began. “I’m thinking he ought to go before the magistrate.”
“For what? He’s done nothing wrong.”
Bixby jerked his thumb in the general direction of the wharfs. “There’s three dead men—that’s enough.”
“Vicious men, every one of them. Mr. MacDonald was trying to save me.”
“Then you and he can tell yer story to the magistrate, ma’am.”
And give the Countess of Denton time to retaliate? Hardly.
“What will it take for you to release this man to me?”
“Well, hispossiblecrimes are a bit more serious than kilt wearin’, ma’am.” Bixby scratched his ear. “With the summer’s spate of violent housebreakers and the crown looking to stop it, well...” His eloquent shrug signaled this transaction would be harder to seal than her first visit to Marshalsea.
“I’m no’ a housebreaker, Mr. Bixby,” Will said.
“Tell it to the magistrate.”
Anne sighed and addressed Mr. Bixby. “You heard about my last visit, did you?”
“Ledwell likes to talk.”
“Then you know I will pay very well for this man.”
His stare landed greedily on her earbobs. “I might be able to accommodate you but, ma’am, you have to accommodate me.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t sell his arrest record. Not for murder, but I could sell it to you for a lesser crime—”
“Such as kilt wearing.”
“—such as kilt wearing. But if you could, say,find a body to replace him . . .” Mr. Bixby’s words trailed off on a lighter note.
“A dead body?”
“That would work, ma’am.”
