Page 7 of The Scot Who Loved Me
The pads of his fingertips were warm and rough grained. With murderous fury in his eyes, it took her a moment to understand. The bruise on her temple. She’d forgotten about it. When they were on the ground, Will couldn’t have seen it for the shadows.
“It happened a few nights ago when I was alone in my warehouse.”
“I didna ask when it happened. I asked who did it.”
She jerked her chin free. “I don’t know.”
Torchlight guttered beside her. Life stopped—no past, no future. No right or wrong. She wasa woman with a man. Will had to feel it. He searched her bruised hairline, her eyes, her mouth until a subtle veil dropped. She lost Will again—if she ever truly had him in the first place. One summer of sex and endearments wasn’t love. It was . . .
A formative experience?
Carnal escape?
Freedom for a young woman expected to put family first?
Within her cloak, papers crinkled. Will’s arrest record. She pulled it from her pocket and fed the document to the fire. Ashes floated bit by bit like fall leaves until it was gone. Will ground those gray scraps under his heel.
“You’re a riddle, madame. What kind of trouble follows you that your head is bruised and you wear a knife up your sleeve?”
Dignity squared her shoulders. “The less you know, the better.”
Will was proud. Forlorn. Mighty as ever, filling the room with his torn shirt and shredded kilt over naked thighs. A quick stride would flash his male parts. The tartan’s untouched back hung long and properly pleated, but if he gave it to a laundress, she’d heave it into a fire. There was no saving it. Could be there was no saving Will.
She grabbed her petticoats and headed up a short stack of stairs. Will wasn’t far behind, his shoulders brushing the door frame. He watched her scrape muck off her shoe, stark hunger lighting his eyes, but he’d made it clear she was not the woman to feed him.
“Shaking off the dust of your feet?” he asked, a touch belligerent.
“What I do is the least of your concern.” She raised her hood with an eye to the moon-drenched road beyond the open gate. “The better question is, what are you going to do now that you are free?”
Chapter Two
Tattered wool slapped Will’s legs, and cold glommed on his skin. Slouching timbered buildings loomed, old plaster smeared on their creviced faces. Southwark was a coarse bawd, and time had not been kind to her. When the Stuarts reigned, crowds teemed her narrow streets to gorge on violent sports, brimming brothels, and colorful theaters. Not anymore. Her soggy lanes were empty. Her reputation in tatters.
Prisons, breweries, and warehouses crammed close quarters now. A place easily forgotten. A place Anne called home?
He kept a respectful dozen paces back to make sure she arrived safe... wherever she was going. The lass was taking a long stretch of her legs on this midnight walk, cutting through low-hanging fog better than a river barge. Swan Alley to Long Lane, a quick turn onto Tanner Street, this last thoroughfare blessedly peaceful save a dog barking at a trio of drunks staggering out of a seedy chophouse.
Two whores idling outside a tavern snickered as he strode past.
“Never mind them, luv,” a henna-haired doxy cooed. “It’s me ye want.” She flashed a winsome smile and scarlet stays.
He grinned and plodded on. “No’ tonight. I’m otherwise engaged.”
“Yer loss.” She snapped her cloak shut and gave Anne’s back the gimlet eye. “I’ll be right ’ere if Miss Stiff Skirts turns ye down.”
Miss Stiff Skirts. A fair description. Done with hanging back, he jogged to Anne’s side, the smell of fresh-cut wood growing stronger. They had to be close to the wharfs. Much of England’s timber and stone trade passed through this part of Southwark.
“You should have taken Red Bess’s offer. She is generous with the occasional man. Allows him to stay all night in her bed.” Two more steps and Anne’s gaze slid to his legs. “She might even have a pair of breeches for you.”
Whistling low, he matched her stride. “Stickin’ a knife at a mon’s baubles, and, if I’m hearin’ right, you’re familiar with the habits of local harlots. Times have changed, Mrs. Neville.”
“Indeed, they have, Mr. MacDonald.”
His midnight rescuer was frosty, her gray hood slipping low when she turned onto Mill Lane where the Iron Bell Tavern lived. Anne was long of leg but more than a head shorter than him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she wanted to shake him off.
“You know you’ve still no’ answered my questions,” he said, trying to be congenial. A congenial man got answers.
“I recall answering a fair number of them.”
