Page 12 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“I am an admirer, Miss MacDonald. Surely, you have had smitten men follow you.”
A brittle smile spread. How disappointing, after having made such fine progress.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Which part?”
There was challenge in his voice, still smoky with lust.Audacious man.Definitely a second son. They had to work for everything, and Mr. Sloane eyed her as if he’d welcome a battle of wits. A third son would have rallied his charm.
“Your motives are suspect,” she said at last and stretched her arm at two chairs by the fire. “Please do have a seat, Mr. Sloane.”
With his hands tied, he stepped with care toward the tall-backed leather chair while she wetted a hand cloth at her washstand.
“That one is mine.”
“My pardon.” He swiveled in the confined space and dropped into the four-square wooden chair facing it. His arms flexed as if he was testing his bindings. “Has your maid gone for the Night Watch?”
She wrung the cloth. “The Night Watch won’t be called.”
“No?” A corner of his mouth curved politely.
A flutter tickled her belly. She did her best to quash it: men with polite smiles never affected her. Why did her body suddenly change its mind tonight? Damp linen in hand, she settled into her favorite chair. With the pistol and pocket journal nestled in her lap, she crossed one ankle over her knee and found his stare glued to her foot.
“Nasty business having to run barefoot outside,” she said. “But shoes would have alerted you and I refuse to ruin my stockings.”
“Yet, you won’t call for the Night Watch?” He dragged his gaze upward. “I could be a terrible criminal.”
“We both know you’re not. A criminal wouldn’t offer his coat, no matter how much I shivered. A true gentleman would.”
“And you’ve come to this conclusion because you have ample experience finding men in your mews late at night?”
She scrubbed a stubborn smudge on her heel.Interesting, his deflection.
“Mr. Sloane, are you going to be that obvious? And here I had such hopes for a more invigorating conversation with you.”
His mouth dented in the same guarded politeness he’d offered earlier. “I shall endeavor not to disappoint.”
Her foot free of grit, she commenced cleaning her other foot, expecting more rebuttal. Instead, Mr. Sloane was like a hawk, staring at the cloth dancing over her arch and the bright pink balls of her toes.
“Your ankles, there’s a shine to your skin,” he said gruffly. “They are hairless.”
“I wax my legs and rub oil over them when I’m done.”
His glower sharpened. She raised her hem a few inches, giving a scandalous view of glossy, smooth-skinned calves.
“I am not calling for the Night Watch because it would be useless.” She dropped her hem. “Sniffing my barrels is not a crime.”
His hawklike stare shot up. “What if I sniffed elsewhere?”
Intensity melted into mischief. She sat up, washed by it.
“You cannot make free with my barrels, Mr. Sloane, or any other parts.”
He sat back, a half smile forming.
“There aren’t many like you,” he said. “Pretty as you are, flattery won’t work.”
She, too, sat back and tossed the washcloth onto the hearth.
