Page 8 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“No’ the ones that counted.”
Candle lamps outside the odd door lit Anne’s profile. The other side of the river was well lit, the Southwark side not so much.
Her footsteps quick, she was nose forward. “I won’t tell you more because the two of us working together is a bad idea.”
“So just like that—” he snapped his fingers “—you unlock me from Marshalsea and leave.”
“Yes—” she eyed him and snapped her fingers “—just like that.”
Irritation coiled. She was blood-pumping sauciness and tight lips, a bayonet’s jab and feint in her conversation. Growling at her in the shed hadn’t worked, but he’d keep their skirmish going... for Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora’s sake.
Anne turned onto Bermondsey Wall, the slender road tracing the river’s embankment. An orange tabby cat slinked across the low wall, a mouse wriggling between its teeth. Aside from the cat, its prey, and a veil of fog, not another soul inhabited the road, save him and one headstrong woman. When she stopped at an iron gate askew on its hinges, he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Rusty reflexes.Three days in chains did that. Left his bones cold too.
“This is my home.” Anne’s honeyed smile came with a bite. “If you happen upon a highlander willing to help a woman in need, send him here.”
He chuckled low.Woman in need.Anne never needed anyone. He pushed the squeaky gatewide open and ambled forward, hands on hips into the yard. Weeds grew in the flagstone path. A lonely lamp glowed beside the black-lacquered door of a brick and flint stone house facing the river. An empty lot sat on one side of the house, a burned-out building on the other.
Looking up, he spied a bricked-over window frame on the second floor. “This is no’ the home of a wealthy woman.”
“When did I say I was wealthy?” Her silken voice sent a quiver over choice places.
The moon painted Anne a fey temptress. Cheeks sharper than he remembered, her flesh-pink mouth was the same, a mouth that did shameless things to a man—like convince him to walk midnight streets just to hear her secrets. The bruise. The knife. This run-down house and her bulging bag of gold. Nothing added up to the Edinburgh lass he once knew.
Well, not everything had changed. She was mouthy as ever.
This version of Anne could be otherworldly. Fascinating, beautiful, yet worthy of caution. She’d deceived him years ago. He had no doubt she’d do it again.
Fool that he was, he wanted inside.
“You saw me safely home,” she said. “Your gentleman’s duty is done.”
Her wry tone insulted him as if she found his protective nature amusing.
“I followed you because I wanted to, no’ because I had to.”
Anne jingled a key ring out of her petticoat pocket. “Then I thank you for your kindness.”
“I’m no’ bein’ kind.”
Pale green eyes flashed with irritation. She was older and wiser than the maid who’d kissed him senseless from one side of Scotland to the other. Their kisses had been hot, their tangle of limbs hotter. He couldn’t recall who had seduced whom back then. Young Anne had sported a ramrod spine and give-no-quarter spirit.
Fierce, mouthy lasses... his weakness.
While on the prison hulk, he’d come to believe she’d marked him, a young woman quenching her sexual curiosity before entering a loveless marriage. A nasty chill climbed down his back. Could be she’d marked him again. A woman who wanted something else from him.
Calm as a summer breeze, Anne nodded at London Bridge rising in the distance. “If you cross the bridge, the Night Watch will haul you back to prison.” Brows arching, she eyed his nearly naked thighs. “Or to St. Luke’s.”
“The Night Watch can bugger off.”
Her mouth quirked. “Then it’s a ferryman for you. Go to Marigold Alley and tell Henry Baines I sent you. He’ll oblige you a midnight run to Black Friars. From there, you should be able to dodge your way through dark alleys to your lodgings.”
Staring down at her, he smiled, could feel it growing, wicked and unpleasant.My, my, Mrs. Neville, you’retryin’ verra hard to get rid of me after such a pretty plea in the shed.
“I’m no’ crossing the river, nor do I care if anyone sees me in my kilt.”
“Have you lost your mind, Will MacDonald? Ifit is a matter of paying the ferryman, I will give you the coin.”
