Page 49 of The Scot Who Loved Me
Cecelia fell back against the squab. “Oh dear.”
Will scratched a pattern in his velvet breeches. Perhaps a celebration was premature. MacLeods and MacDonalds, be they Clanranald or another branch, shared a long strident history. Centuries’ worth.
When God made the earth, He’d formed isles aplenty inAnCuanBarrach, the Sea of Hebrides. More than enough for two clans, yet the two could never share. Dominance had been their watchword. A recent eruption came in ’39 when he was a lad of fourteen. Norman MacLeod, 23rd chief of the MacLeods of Dunvegan had kidnapped nearly a hundred seaside crofters with a plan to sell them as slaves, three pounds a person. MacLeod had done it with the help of that slithering bastard Sir Alexander MacDonald of Sleat. Most of the stolen spoke only Gaelic and most were MacDonald. A storm had wrecked the MacLeod’s iniquitous vessel on Ireland’s north coast, ending the ugly venture.
Lore claimed somewhere between Scotland and Ireland’s coast, the MacLeod was having second thoughts. It didn’t matter. Damage was done.
Will untied his cravat, hoping Mr. Rory MacLeod wasn’t a young man seeking his fortune with the MacLeod chief in ’39.
“I will ask about him,” Cecelia said.
“His presence won’t change our plans.” Anne ripped off her gossamer neckerchief and used it to dab her nape. Her medallion rested high on her stomacher. Sunlight glinted harshly on inscribed gold.
“We work each problem,” he said. “One at a time.”
Anne’s dabbing slowed. “Yes. One problem at a time.”
The blessing of joint-loosening heat was its ability to sap fiery emotions. Anger was simply too much work. He unmoored the top three buttons of his waistcoat, all the better for his skin to breathe.
“Do you think the MacDonald has been working with the MacLeod of Lewis?”
“I don’t know. Our chief hasn’t written a letter since June,” Anne said.
Cecelia pinched the fingertips of her lacy glove. “Maybe Mr. MacLeod is here to help bring sheep back to the highlands?”
Will chuckled. “The mon we met is no’ sheep herder. He’d cuff the wee beasts afore leading them through green pastures. No’ like a good shepherd... or shepherdess would.”
Anne gifted him with a grateful smile. Sun rays cutting through the carriage bathed her skin and bleached her blue-green bruise. “MacLeod bears watching, but we keep to what’s next. Creating a new key.”
A knee bumped his. Anne’s. So innocent that contact, like a promise of more to come. They trundled across Westminster Bridge, late afternoon sun casting gold on the water. It felt good to feel good. A daft observation, but he grinned all the same. Anne and his cousin were deep in conversation while peach-colored petticoats brushed his legs. He tempted fate and slid his shoe under her hem. Intimate heat washed thetop of his foot, the center of a private world. A man found different balmy heat under mounds of silk skirts. A woman’s heat. Anne’s. Sensual, sweet, a scent and warmth unique to her.
The carriage’s gentle sway rocked him nicely, putting him in a fine mood. Best of all, he’d given Anne what she wanted—the key—something only he could give. A victory roar was in order, but he’d settle for a victory kiss.
Chapter Sixteen
A rattle jolted him. He opened his eyes to his cousin staring out the window and Anne tucking her medallion between her breasts.
“You napped all the way across Lambeth Road and Blackman Street,” she said.
“Did I?” He scrubbed his face and looked outside.
They were in the bowels of Southwark. While they’d managed a good day’s work, others labored at theirs. More traffic. More people who couldn’t flee the City for grouse hunts and house parties: costermongers, their vegetables half gone, and carters and drays rolling by. A golden tassel danced beside his head when they approached the Iron Bell. He caught it and held on. Harlots roamed the walkways like colorful birds in drab cages. Their custom was coming: clerks, sailors, warehouse men whose workday ended soon. For these women, work was just beginning... if it ever honored set hours.
Red Bess lounged hip cocked, her calculating gaze climbing all over their passing vehicle untilher stare met his. Sharpness faded from her visage and she blew a kiss. Flirty thing. A woman like that would be a fount of information. She’d know who came and went off the docks and who might have been inclined to raid Anne’s warehouse.
He’d talk to her. Tonight.
When they rolled up to Anne’s brick-and-flint stone house, a cut on his back throbbed. He reached around and gingerly touched a sticky spot under his waistcoat. Blood and bodily humors coated his fingertips from a wound re-opened when he banged against the desk’s edge. The countess had left her mark again.
“During the Uprising, did you fight alongside any MacLeods?” his cousin asked.
“None that I recall.” He gathered his things and followed her out of the carriage.
The MacLeod of Harris had stood with the Government, the same as their clan chief, but like Clanranald MacDonald, the MacLeods had their dissenters who fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Anne’s heels were firm clicks on flagstone. “You have friends in the City who might know, don’t you?”
“No’ many. I kept to myself.”
