Page 102 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“I caught a Spruce Prig lifting her ladyship’s porcelain shepherdess. The two of you have anything to do with that?” MacLeod asked as if he needed to cross-reference the evening’s criminal activity.
“Not... precisely.” Anne was splitting hairs.
MacLeodtskedher. “A crime within a crime. Brilliant move, Mrs. Neville.”
“I’m afraid I personally cannot take credit for the Spruce Prigs currently roaming Denton House.”
“But you will take credit for lifting her ladyship’s gold.”
“Jacobite gold, yes,” she said emphatically. “I most certainly do.”
A stalemate stretched and by the set of Anne’s profile, the lass wasn’t giving an inch.
MacLeod didn’t care about the gold. He was too busy staring at Anne, sizing her up, appreciating her. She had the look of a well-kissed woman with her hair in disarray. His flintlock-holding arm relaxed, and MacLeod pointed the muzzle at the floor.
“If you ever tire of Mr. MacDonald, come find me, Mrs. Neville. You and I would have a good time.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. MacLeod, but my affections are otherwise taken.” She faced Will, her voice gentling. “For the rest of my life.”
MacLeod’s smile faded, small and sad. “Then you and Mr. MacDonald had better disappear through that window and find the rest of your life.” When they didn’t move quickly, he nodded a reassurance. “Go on, I’ll watch the door.”
Will lugged the last coin bag to the window and sucked in cool night air. A drop of sweat was trickling in his hairline. He’d fought with pistols and fists but never with the love of his life beside him. That interlude could’ve gone badly. He breathed a prayer of thanks it didn’t.
At the window, Mary Fletcher was ghost white and her eyes round as dishes again. Horse hooves clattered in the distance and the confusion of men sounded in Grosvenor Square. Another lamp came to life in the mews.
“Please hurry,” Miss Fletcher hissed.
He passed the bag into her hands. Anne was at his back.
“It’s done, Mary. It’s done,” she said, a quiver in her voice.
Anne lifted her petticoats knee-high, and he helped her navigate out the window to the dray below. He was one leg over the casement frame when MacLeod called him.
“Mr. MacDonald.”
MacLeod’s head was cocked to the hall, anominous light shining on his flintlock’s metal work.
Will balanced one foot on the floor, his other leg on the bottom of the window frame. A deuced place to be. Half in, half out, compromised as he was and with no weapon. Anne might’ve temporarily won MacLeod with her prickly wit, but that didn’t mean the man wouldn’t change his mind. They’d never learned much about him or his motives. The unlit room and falling into the dray were Will’s best chance for a quick escape.
MacLeod took two steps into the dark study. “The Night Watch is on their way. Bow Street won’t be far behind. Her ladyship has a few of them on a hook, I hear. You’ll avoid them if you take Tiburn Lane.”
“Thank you.” Will leaped to the dray below. “The Night Watch is coming. Take Tiburn Lane and we’ll avoid them.”
Mary Fletcher snapped the reins and the vehicle lurched forward. He stretched out beside Anne in between barrels filled with gold and held her close. She gripped his waistcoat as if she’d never let go. He was coiled up inside, tighter than a child’s wind-up toy. Much had gone wrong this night, but they were together. And they were free. For now.
House lights faded when the dray rumbled onto less refined Tiburn Lane. A turn to the right would take them to Tiburn Tree. He untied his cravat, the irony not lost on him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
They made it to Southwark. He knew this because star-strewn skies shed the best light where fewer streetlights were to be had. All the same, he was still on a bed of straw and out of sight. Mermaid Brewery barrels rattled, twin walls hiding him and Anne. The roads were less friendly but there was no other place he’d rather be. The woman he loved was tangled nicely with him, her head in the crook of his shoulder and her hand currently wandering to unsafe places.
He sent a prayer of thanks for the dark and the barrels between the Fletcher sisters and the goings-on in the back of the dray. It was torture because they still had a fair distance to go.
Anne’s hand drifted lower. She rucked up the bottom of his waistcoat. A slow rumple of cloth and... her fingertips slid into the top of his placket. She played there. Little circles. Quiet. Soft. Just the feel of her body braided with his.
An image of her bending over and kissing his arse in broad daylight bloomed.
He hugged her closer and murmured in her ear,“Careful, lass. I canna say what my tackle will do if your hand keeps doing that.”
