Page 11 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Jenny’s arm stretched to retrieve it. Miss MacDonald’s gaze locked with his.
“No. I’ll get it.”
Lamplight frayed her hair’s blond edges, spun threads come to life. She took a half step closer, a soft rosewater scent clouding him. Almost innocent and gentle as the mist-dampened curl stuck to her cheek. It wasn’t the perfume of a sensual goddess.
His mind painted a dual portrait of her. By day, a worldly young woman. By night, a village lass trapped in London. When Miss MacDonald reached into his pocket, she as good as reached into him. A woman testing his mettle, curious for what she might find. He stood rigid as a duke’s man should, staring above her head, absorbing the pleasurable shiver that followed her fingers in his pocket.
She unfolded the cheque, the slip of paper proof that he was a man of means, a responsible citizen, and this was all a terrible misunderstanding. But Miss MacDonald didn’t take it that way. A quick read and she stuffed the cheque back in his waistcoat pocket, her eyes betraying nothing.
“Let’s go inside, shall we?”
Miss MacDonald gathered flimsy white linen andscurried to the door, the soles of her feet flashing pink and white.
She wanted him in her home?
A man could easily wait inside or out for the Night Watch to haul him away, but in the scant real estate between where he stood and the door, a new plan formed. Collect what was left of his brain and use it. Gather whatever information he could on Miss MacDonald and her maid-cum-servant, Jenny. And avoid lust like the plague.
Chapter Four
Her house was small, four rooms in all if one didn’t count the cramped scullery which Jenny had transformed into her own quarters. The whole of it was easy to navigate in the dark, and Mr. Sloane’s agile movements all the more interesting. Warped steps groaned under the burden of his feet and hers with Mr. Sloane leading a reluctant charge upstairs.
“You could let me go. No harm was done,” he said over his shoulder.
She nudged her pistol against the small of his back. “We’ll see about that.”
Mr. Sloane was in her house for one reason. An itch needed scratching—to see her gentleman hunter in full light. To know his intent. To know him. His startling forthrightness was a badge worth pinning on his coat the way soldiers wore medals. How intriguing, his lack of deflection. Equally intriguing was the back of him. Tight arse muscles bunching in black wool. Strong arms and shoulders, though not the heavy, meaty variety. Lean and taut, Mr. Sloanelooked as if he was given to running or sprinting. Or a man who hunted on foot.
“Take the door to the left,” she said when they crested the narrow stairs.
Mr. Sloane entered her bedchamber and stopped in the middle, a pink ribbon swaying from his bound wrists. She rubbed her arms for warmth while Mr. Sloane spun an easy circle to survey the room. The roaring fire and eight candles exposed clothes cluttering an open wardrobe and an unmade bed. Her mattress and counterpane were costly, snow-white clouds of comfort—ideal for baiting the curious man. Certainly better than holding up pretty stockings in a window.
Her bare toes pressed the floor. She wanted to see him in full light.
The inspection done, Mr. Sloane faced her. Fire’s amber glow caressed firm lines and open features. By day, a man to take tea with your great-aunt; by night, a man to kiss and laugh with in bed. A refined gentleman far from her reach. There was pain in knowing that, as if she took a kick to her ribs. For too long she’d cavorted with men who straddled a world of right and wrong, but Mr. Sloane was not one of them.
His goodness singed her. This was a man who’d court a woman of excellent status, not the daughter of a Jacobite rebel.
“Mr. Sloane.” His name slid off her tongue, warm and redolent.
“Miss MacDonald.”
His bow was cordial, his voice sensual.
Beautiful, honest eyes stared at her, more bronze than brown. Crystalline and captivating. Life dancedin them. Intelligence, however, was the greater light. It was his calling card and his weapon. She could fool herself and say Mr. Sloane was passably attractive, but her leaping pulse had a mind of its own. So did her nipples.Pointy, treasonous things.
This time Mr. Sloane looked into her eyes, not her nipples, unlike his ravenous consumption of her body outside.
“This is your bedchamber.”
“As you would know, having watched it.”
His smile was an affable crease used by all well-bred men. “Very ungentlemanly of me.” Then, “How did you know?”
His first response was ingrained; the second was sincere. A man who wanted answers but wouldn’t demand them.A second son, perhaps? But not ennobled.Arrogance sometimes dripped down on those who might inherit. None that she knew would even stoop to house a mistress here in Dowgate. She trusted Mr. Sloane, an instinct borne of years meeting men. Her hand already seemed to know, holding the pistol loosely at her side, the muzzle pointed at the floor as if it couldn’t wait to be rid of the burden. Ironic how the body sensed right away what the mind took minutes, if not hours or days, to grasp.
“The cold air revealed you,” she said. “You puffed like a dragon, and since I keep no animals, mythical or otherwise, I knew someone was standing in my mews.”
His head dipped, trying to hide a boyish smile. Firelight caressed rich chestnut hair and a blunt-cut queue scraping pristine neckwear.
