Page 92 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“Details, man. What was this woman like?”
The woman could’ve been Ancilla, though he doubted it. She’d never set foot in Wapping Wall. But Anne? He was on tenterhooks. The possibilities of crossing paths with her exploded in his mind. He’d always thought she was living somewhere in Scotland, a woman done with him.
Anne, here in London... checking on his welfare? He couldn’t breathe.
“Well . . .” Pidcock’s caterpillar brows pinched a line. “She was a serious sort. Came in a time or two your first year here. I knew she wasn’t looking to buy an exotic pet. She’d be all casual like, petting Fat George, asking about the Scot renting the room above my shop.”
“And you never thought to tell me?” He was aghast.
“What am I? A messenger boy? If you remember, Mr. MacDonald, your first month here, barmaids, laundresses, and a married woman or two made the rounds to my shop.” Pidcock batted his eyes and spoke in falsetto, “Oh, Mr. Pidcock, do ye know when Mr. MacDonald will return? Did Mr. MacDonald say he’ll stop by the Three Sails today? Oh, Mr. Pidcock, please tell Mr. MacDonald that I’ll launder his clothes at half price.” A snort and, “You’d’ve got more than your laundry done if your head wasn’t in your arse half the time.” Another snort and Pidcock waggled a bony finger at him. “You, sir, told me to send those women away, and I did.”
“Apparently, Mrs. Neville didn’t get your message.”
“Ehhhh. She’s not St. James but she is quality by Wapping Wall standards. A pretty woman like that elevates my shop.”
What would Pidcock have done if Countess Denton had come to call? Probably swooned. A bit woozy himself, he braced a hand on the window. Anne had been here, regularly by the sound of it, to check on his welfare. Wind scuttled a faded broadside past his feet. Ships listed gently in the Thames. He checked the skies and found lush clouds tumbling in. A storm was coming. He talked with Pidcock, of his plans and Pidcock’s plans, the gusts picking up around them. Untilthe farewell came to its end, Pidcock hugged his coat shut. The thing was missing half its buttons.
“What was it your father’s said? ‘Wind is nature’s way of saying it has somewhere else to be.’” Pidcock opened his shop door. “Looks like the wind is telling you and me, it’s time to go, Mr. MacDonald.”
They shook hands once more. Will walked along the river, his coattails blowing this way and that. Wind was indeed telling him it was time to move on.
But where to?
Chapter Thirty
What does a man do with a woman full of secrets?
Kiss her?
Woo her?
Tease them out one at a time by building trust?
Answers were coming like wind-tumbled leaves, clusters of them spinning fast. It was his task to pluck them one at a time. Though they traveled in the night, he saw Anne clearly as if someone had swiped a cloth across misted glass and the woman on the other side was waiting to be seen. This might be the tale of all women, the desire to be seen, to be understood. He couldn’t do that for all of the fair sex. He could do it for Anne.
Her heart had been established on a foundation of women and built in a world of men. The signs were there. A man didn’t need to look hard to see them. Her grandmother’s garnet earrings, swinging proudly from her ears. Her league’s profound unity, evident in Cecelia’s hand clasping Anne’s at the moment. They were headinginto sweet victory or foul disaster. The outcome was up to them, though many staggering factors were beyond their control.
It was the art of chaos. Control what one can control. It’s what he’d learned since the rebellion. Prison’s chiseling effect. A body learned quickly what to let go of and what to hold on to... and there was precious little worth holding fast to in this world. Anne, he was sure, had learned the power of secrets and trust. They were currency to her in the way silver and gold was to Ancilla and information was to his cousin.
His cousin, who at present, pushed back a velvet curtain of robin’s egg blue to study the world outside.
“We’re almost there.” His cousin’s red stomacher sank from her slow exhale. “Look at the line of carriages. Twelve deep. Bored of the country already, are you?”
Face to the glass, Cecelia chattered about crests on carriages, while he and Anne carried on a silent, needful conversation. They had not had a moment alone since his return from visiting Mr. Pidcock. He had things to say, questions to ask. She carried on a conversation of a different sort, twirling a lock of hair.
Her grazing stare was like hot coals raking his skin. Legs opened, shoulders back, his hands confident on the squab, he was a king on a throne. The barest upturn of Anne’s carmine-shaded lips was a tome’s worth of approval. The glint in her eye, a night’s worth of seduction. That was the way it was with Anne. More said in quiet moments than a thousand spoken words, but lovecouldn’t live by silence alone. Things needed to be said. Their first moment alone, he would.
“Oh look, Mr. Williamson is wearing scarlet stockings.” Cecelia grimaced. “With shins like that, a travesty.” She flopped back on her seat and looked at Will’s shins. “Your choice of stockings, however, might set a new trend. That shade of gold matches your waistcoat, and with your calves, perfection.”
“I bought them today. The haberdasher said it’d be a handsome pairing.”
“Did he?” His cousin assessed the unseasonal black velvet he wore, its color broken with the burnished gold of his stockings and waistcoat and a plain white cravat. “When your coat opens, I thinkancient warrior with a plate of gold armor about the chest.” She winked at him and spoke in a Western Isles brogue. “Verra handsome, cousin, verra handsome indeed.”
He ran a hand over the waistcoat. The silk was liquid gold spun into cloth.
“How handsome, would you say?” Anne asked.
Cecelia’s mouth puckered. “I was thinking Alexander the Great come back to life.”
