Page 26 of The Scot Who Loved Me
A ginger-haired man tossed a laughing, comely maid high in the air. Flowers crowned her head, and pink ribbons twined blond locks.
“He looks happily leg shackled.”
His cousin leaned against him, her visage wistful and soft. “He most certainly is. Mr. Hadley was part of a company of rogues. The best Spruce Prigs in London, and he gave it all up. For her.” She sighed. “Now he’s going to help Mr. Gladwell, owner and proprietor of this establishment.”
“True love, I’m sure.”
She eyed him. “Too quaint an emotion for you?”
“Too costly.”
His cousin’s mouth curved, worldly and wise.“Well, you’re sure to find whatever your heart desires . . . to the extent your purse can pay for it.”
Was that a warning?Did she see him as a sheep among wolves? Could be he still exuded rustic highlander, the kind who spent more time hunting wild game than chasing pretty women. Or his cousin swam regularly in a pool of iniquity and was quite jaded.
A pair of smiling blondes ambled by. Lips rouged, cheeks flushed, and one with a red flower in her hair. She gave him a come-hither look before blending into a cluster of friends. Her blue-eyed stare cut across the room past bobbing heads and found him once more.
His cousin’s voice floated artfully beside him. “And there are plenty of women willing to oblige your company without benefit of payment. I could make introductions.”
He briefly held that blue-eyed connection, then severed it to watch a smiling groom dance with his joyous bride. Blue-eyed women were everywhere and not so desirable.
“I’m here to watch over you and Anne.”
“Of course. The night’s business,” his cousin said, smiling coyly. “You’ll need a drink for that.” She tugged his sleeve and led the way, speaking over her shoulder. “While you’re watching over us, have a care with your coin purse.”
He patted his pocket, the coin purse still there.
Spruce Prigs were a cunning lot. Pickpocketing wasn’t their usual mode, but one could never be too careful. Well dressed and well mannered, the rogues sneaked into the City’s best social events and robbed the master of the house blind. A particularly bold band of Spruce Prigs had opened a store off Threadneedle and sold the goods back to the owners for twice their value.
Smart and pretty or scarred and vile, the White Lamb hosted rogues of every order.
His cousin cut a path through the hive-ish mob when her arm slipped free. A clutch of thrum-capped sailors claimed her. She smiled grandly and pointed at a corner, “Over there!” before melting into the crowd.
He hesitated, but her full-throated laughter was the sign he needed. Cecelia MacDonald was just fine, which was a good thing. Another woman called him, one with firm command of her life and a vexing way of stirring his.
Something happened when they were alone in the salon today, and he hungered to finish it.
Slogging through the crowd, he was hot and impatient. The music loud, the voices louder. Ale was spilled on the toes of his boots. Elbows jabbed his back. He plowed on, scanning faces as if he’d waited eight years for this night. His journey had taken him through rebellion, imprisonment, and a string of unwise days frittered in London. Now it landed him here, his final steps in this boisterous public house.
Until he saw what he wanted. Anne tucked in a corner, hair tumbled, skin sheened.
Dumbstruck, he breathed in her magic.
Could a man see a woman for the first time, twice in his life?
Anne must’ve danced a reel or three or four. Ruby-red lips parted, and she drank from a pewter cup. He would feast on this picture excepthis vision expanded. Two men flanked her, the taller one whispering in her ear. A first mate, he guessed, by the cut of the man’s coat and his stance.
A peal of laughter was her answer.
Both hands curled into fists. The men would leave, or he’d hammer them.
Patrons jostled, and he moved, the planked floor sticky against the soles of his boots. Hands clapped in time to the music. The beat matched his pulse. Winding around giggling harlots, he waited for Anne to feel his presence. He felt hers, the fey night creature exposed, her darkness brightly fascinating.
She made everything vivid. Songs were spirited, colors clear, and touch...
His mouth quirked.
Lasses with the right touch... his weakness.
