Page 55 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“They were kind tae each other. Mr. Neville had affection for her. He was glad tae have the three of us here. Anne managed the warehouse. Took care of him. She made his last years pleasant.” Her voice touched a respectful note. “With no family, Mr. Neville didna want tae die alone.”
“And Anne?”
Aunt Flora sighed. “She married him for our clan. With few funds tae our name, it made things go faster. Our league needed tae be in London. Tae track down thesgian-dubhand the gold. What livres we have only came tae us this summer.”
And the league had spent a hefty share of them to free his foolish kilt-wearing arse.
He stared into the hearth’s dying embers. Marriage to Mr. Neville meant the clan gained a foothold in London. Without it, their progress would have been stunted.
Anne. Ever sacrificing quietly for others.
Aunt Flora rose from the bench. “I’ve seen her eyes shine only once with love. Her summer with you. After that? No more.”
He drowned his gullet with watery ale, but nothing drowned his pain.
He climbed the steps two at a time in stockinged feet, a waistcoat in one hand, a candle stub in the other. He’d finished the Mortlake jug, plyingAunt Maude and Aunt Flora with questions of Anne’s whereabouts. She shouldn’t be out alone in the City, even with that blade up her sleeve.
Did they not trust him?
They chuckled, while tending light evening chores, and reminded him, “Anne is—”
“I know,” he grumbled before quoting their refrain. “‘A grown woman twice widowed. She can come and go as she pleases.’”
He considered searching for her, his odorous back be damned, but on the top floor landing, he got his answer to Anne’s whereabouts. Light glowed under her bedchamber door. A shadow moved, plank floors creaked. He studied the sliver of light like a hawk.
Had she sneaked in? Or had she been here all night?
“Anne,” he said from the hallway.
Fool! Go knock on her door.
Then what? Ask where she’d gone? What had she done this evening that was so secretive even sweet Aunt Flora all but told him to mind his own business while she slathered the devil’s brew on his back?
Which begged a better question: Did he have the right to ask?
If he did, he was far from presentable. He smelled and his back was sticky and there was an oozing wound. Not a woman’s dream of romance and courtship. Nor did Anne answer his first call. Unless her ears were stuffed with wool, she heard him. The house was quiet and their bedchambers the only rooms on this floor.
She was avoiding him.
He padded to his bedchamber and shut the door. Anne couldn’t miss that noise either. He cocked an ear, and... nothing save those infernal muffled thumps. Light under their adjoining door shined brilliantly. Anne had to be burning a month’s worth of candles. He tossed his waistcoat onto the bed and jammed his candle stub onto an empty iron candle holder at his bedside table. Plank floors groaned anew from Anne’s bedchamber because the Neville household possessed no cloud-thick wool carpets to hush one’s feet.
Another thump came, louder this time.
“That’s it.” He walked to the adjoining door and knocked. “Anne.”
He rolled his eyes.Fine, romantic greeting.
“It’s Will.” He rested forehead and hands on the door. “Of course, it’s me because you put me in this bedchamber and you’re in that one... doing whatever it is that you’re doing.”
He cringed. Love turned men into utter blathering fools who talked nonsensically to closed doors.
“Do you need something?” she asked.
He lifted his head off the door and grabbed the latch. “I’d like to talk with you.”
It was bolted.
Against him? He tried it again.
