Page 100 of The Scot Who Loved Me
A horse snort was the answer outside the window.
“We’ve been waiting.” Mary Fletcher’s worried voice rose in the night.
He blocked their muffled conversation from his mind and concentrated on the cabinet. His eyes were fully adjusted to the dark. Brass gleamed the Wilkes Lock and its poetic, scripted warning.
If I had ye gift of tongue
I would declare and do no wrong
Who ye are ye com by stealth
To impare my Master’s wealth
The warning was etched near the head of a man dressed in the garb of another century, his staff pointing to the number ninety-eight. The numbered dial, the lock’s tracking system.
A tiny nob stood out under the figure’s left foot. Will pushed it. The figure’s left leg kicked forward, revealing a keyhole. Will inserted the filigreed key. He set a finger on the back of the figure’s hat and gently tipped the hat while he turned the key.
The bolt released.
The numbered dial turned, and the cabinet clicked open.
It worked!
He released a long gust of air and opened the cabinet door, its oiled hinges quiet. Inside the dark cavern, he found a wooden box and a stack of leather folios. Ancilla’s dark secrets were in there. Perhaps the secrets of other men and women. They were not his concern. The bulging leather bags, stained and well traveled, were. Thebags were heaped in a careless pile, each one the size of Aunt Maude’s pea-shucking bowl.
He grinned at the comparison. He really was a simple man. With a heave, he dragged one out of the cabinet. It clinked heavily on the floor.
“Open it.”
“It’s gold coins, Anne. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”
She stood above him, hands on hips. “I’ve waited a long time to see these coins, Will MacDonald.”
Outside light haloed Anne, a warrior in shimmering silk. Fiercely beautiful, she would not be denied. His pulse picked up, the cost of kneeling before plunder not yet theirs. The treasure was within their grasp, but they were still in Denton House.
He coaxed himself to outer calm. “As you wish, lass. But make it quick.”
He untied one bag, and Anne knelt down to stare into it. He did too, finding reverence in the moment. The gold gathered light, its shine touching Anne’s cheeks. So many French livres. Hard, flat, ready to be of service. These were old coins, their fluted edges worn smooth from use and their metallic tang, dirty. This gold, which was meant to win a war, would help those who’d lost it. Such was the matter of money. The hands that used it made the difference. Oddly, neither he nor Anne dug into the bag. The coins weren’t theirs. Their mission was to return the treasure to their clan chief and then it would be given to those in need.
Never did he imagine the lass he’d loved at the beginning of the war would help him end it. But this was the end—of his losses and hers.
“Ready?” he asked with more hope than he’d felt in a long, long time.
“Yes.”
He knotted the large leather purse, and cupping it with both hands, he carried it to the window where Mary Fletcher waited. Like her sister, she was dressed as a man, hair tucked under a Dutch cap, grime on her face. Margaret Fletcher waved to him from her place on the street where she petted the horses.
With the house’s elevation, Mary Fletcher had to stand in a dray to receive the gold.
“It’s heavy,” he warned.
“I’m a strong woman. I can take it.”
The burden passed, she almost dropped it. The bag slid down the front of her, but she caught it at her knees with a grunt of effort. Her eyes were saucers in her head when she looked at him.
“Uh!The countess could have shown better manners and parsed the gold into smaller bags.” Her dry jest was punctuated with more grunts.
“Got it?”
