Page 52 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“We all wear a nine etched in Jacobite gold,” Anne said. “As a reminder.”
Anne’s unflinching sense of duty gained new meaning. They’d not stood on the same side when the rebellion began, but they stood on the same side now. He acknowledged this with a solemn nod, the slim black ribbon a gentle tether from her neck to his hand.
He couldn’t let go. He was undeniably tied to Anne and her league.
Her eyes shined with gratitude. “I shall have a care when I negotiate with you. Last time I labored under false assumptions.”
A rumbling chuckle vibrated in his chest. “You talking like a proper woman-of-business does things to me. Makes me want to unwrap everylayer covering you and find out what’s underneath.”
Her breasts grazed his knuckles from a slight inhale. He noticed them and he noticed her eyes glossy and sensual. It was the curse of a man in love, wanting to spend equal time on a woman’s breasts and her eyes. Both augured good fortune and happiness and all the lustful things that made him tick.
“You already know what’s underneath,” she said.
He could feel a wicked grin spreading. “That was young Anne. The wiser woman you are today offers a new and better reward.”
Her mouth’s sweet wobble gratified him. He said something right.
“Yet, for all my wisdom, I can’t seem to get one stubborn highlander to do what I want.”
“You mean chase down information about MacLeod.”
“Yes.”
“We’re of one accord, lass. I’ll ask about MacLeod, no new terms required.”
He was becoming putty in her hands. He’d worked with the stuff, sealing windowpanes on ships. It was pliable and formless one moment, useful and strong the next. It stood against the fiercest gales and angry squalls, all that the seven seas could throw at it.
“There is another reason I want the matter of MacLeod settled,” she said.
“Mmm... what is it?”
“Once we have the gold, I will deliver it to Clanranald lands. Two days after we take it.”
Her lips parted, a hesitation, as if words refused to form.
“I won’t come back to London.” Anne squeezed his medallion-holding hand and looked into his eyes. “I will stay on Clanranald lands for good.”
Queasiness sailed into his stomach. The floor was less straight, possibly slanted. Anne let go of his hand as surely as she’d let go of him at Castle Tioram years ago when she thought he’d deserted her. To her, he’d turned his back on her for the good of Scotland. How ironic, this ugly twist. Anne would depart for Clanranald lands, while he would set sail for Virginia. She was the one people counted on. She’d been at the heart of her father’s home, taking care of him and her brothers. She was the hub of this league, and like a good shepherdess, Anne didn’t want the women preyed on by MacLeod—if the man was a wolf.
Now she dared to make plans for her future.
Chairs scraped in Anne’s absurdly small dining room. Shy Margaret Fletcher poked her head around the corner. Cheeks blushing, she eyed their intimate stance.
“Dinner is ready.” And the young woman slipped from view.
He was sure he’d arrive at the table and find her face a shade of scarlet.
“Your requests will be honored,” he said, tucking the medallion into her pretty cleavage. “I want them done more than I want all the Jacobite gold in England.”
Chapter Seventeen
His shoes were off and he was shirtless again in Anne’s kitchen, nursing a Mortlake jug stamped with windmills on its glazed brown belly. He needed the jug to quench his thirst. Aunt Flora was at his back, her touch like wasps stinging his flesh.
“Oh, wee Will, yer back is a mess.” Her kindly face popped into view. “Brace yerself.”
She daubed her greasy unguent on a new spot low on his back. He winced. Searing pain peaked and then,ahhhhh. The viscous slime oozed into his skin, leaving a tolerable simmer and an awful stench in its wake.
“Healing is it?” he teased. “Then why do you torture me with a foul potion?”
