Page 2 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“It’s within my rights.”
The two were ready to brawl, and manacled or not, she knew who’d win. She’d witnessed the former MacDonald enforcer train with one or both hands tied behind his back. Will’s booted feet had probably knocked sense into the Watchmen’s witless heads when they tried to cut off his kilt, but the skirmish was less instructive for Ledwell. He paced the shed’s tight confines, arguing his point.
“The man can’t be gaddin’ about in a torn kilt. It’s an affront to the crown.”
“I daresay the king would be more bothered by a naked man roaming Southwark.” She smiled thinly against her handkerchief. “Now, I believe you owe me a key.”
“It isn’t proper,” he blustered.
Her patience waned. “That is not your concern, sir. It’s mine.”
Ledwell planted his legs wide. “A prisoner died yesterday. Big man, he was.” Squinty-eyed, he sized up Will. “His breeches might be large enough—”
“I’ll no’ wear a dead mon’s clothes.” Will’s snarl was deep.
“Ye will if I say so!”
She tucked away her handkerchief with the utmost care.Men.Strength was their vernacular. They lived and breathed it. She wasn’t born with that knowledge, but being a fast learner, she’d acquired it as one must to survive London. For that reason, casual as you please, she reached into her lacy cuff and freed a knife with lightning speed.
“When you tried to cut off his kilt, did you use something like this?” She buried the knife tip in Ledwell’s soiled neckwear.
Hot breath steamed her blade. Eight inches of sharp metal kept Ledwell against the wall, hands high and his bloodshot stare on the weapon under his chin.
“Here now, miss. I’m only doing what’s proper for women. Keeping a man covered an’ all.”
“Proper?” Now that amused her. “What delicate sensibilities you have.” She dragged the knife down his waistcoat, the metalclack, clack, clackingover wooden buttons. “Let me assure you, any woman roaming the streets at this hour has seen a Man Thomas or two.”
Ledwell’s eyes bulged when her knife stopped at his Man Thomas.
“You, sir, have a problem—my blade on your baubles.”
Throaty laughter rumbled in the dark. “She’s go’ you there.”
Ledwell gulped. “Ye made yer point, miss.”
“I fear I haven’t. You’ve wasted my time carrying on about breeches and kilts. Why, I feel quite ignored, and men who do that do so at their own peril,” she said in a voice one saved for difficultchildren. “Let me remind you of our arrangement. You get a bag of gold, and I get the key to unlock the prisoner.”
“Y-yes—it’s—it’s here.” Ledwell’s shaky hands searched his waistcoat and produced a time-worn key.
She snatched it. “Leave.”
The warder quit the room, muttering about unruly highlanders and unrighteous women. She sheathed her knife, confident Ledwell wouldn’t return with reinforcements. If he did, the boastful man would have to explain how a woman had bested him.
Beyond the shed, terse footfalls echoed in the night. She listened, head cocked, until a door banged shut.
Finally. She was alone with the former enforcer of Clan MacDonald of Clanranald.
Steel infused her spine. She’d need it to face the man whose stare burned holes in her back. Foggy wisps curled through the doorway, the damp chill welcome. It’d keep her alert. Her purpose was clear: his freedom, her proposition, and a promising future for the people who depended on her. Well-laid plans, all of them, yet they wavered like a stack of children’s blocks about to fall when she swung around and faced the smirking highlander.
“Go’ any more weapons I should know about?” he asked.
“Only the knife.”
The weapon was snug against her skin, security in an insecure world. The blade left an awful slashfor those who didn’t understand the wordno. Tonight she needed the former enforcer to sayyes, a Herculean task since she would do the asking.
“You’ve gone to an awful lo’ of trouble to see me, lass. Why no’ come closer?” Head lolling on the wall, he hitched up a knee, and shorn wool separated over a swath of hairy thigh.
A spark burst inside her. The boorwanted to scare her off.
