Page 39 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Two wherries closed in on the finish line, which was a rope stretched across the mouth of Gun Wharf’s U-shaped inlet. Bellows and shrieks pitched. The wharf shook. His barrel thumped the warehouse wall.
One wherry nosed ahead.
A small man at the stern, his face to the finish line, yelled to his crew and rowed with all his might. Three rowers, broad-backed men by the look, hunkered down and heaved with all their might. The wherry burst forward, spurting water off the bow.
The first rower reached high for the finish line rope and grabbed it.
The crowd roared their glee. Faces were cheerful, backs slapped, palms out for wagers to be paid. The last of the racing wherries slid into the inlet. The lad next to him hopped spryly off the barrel and tipped his wharf-grimed face toward him.
“Did ye wager on this race, sir?”
“Of a sort.” Alexander scanned the crowd.
The Scotswoman was disappointingly nowhere. His companion on the barrels was a thin, straight-arrow youth of twelve or thirteen years.
“I hope you won something,” the lad said. “I did. Everyone knows smart money’s on Mr. Baines.”
“So I’ve heard,” he said distractedly.
The boy’s chest puffed. “Next year, it’ll be me sitting stern instead of Miss MacDonald.”
“Did you sayMissMacDonald?”
“I did. Rowed, three years now for Mr. Baines in the Gun Wharf Sprint.” The lad sniffed and offered grudging respect. “She’s not bad, scrawny arms and all.”
Scrawny arms indeed. He let this stunning revelation settle as if he’d learned Newton’s apple fell up, not down, and pigs would soon fly over London.
“She’s the only woman who rows,” the lad said.
“A veritable repertoire of talents,” he drawled.
The lad’s brow clouded with suspicion. “If rep-er-twah means she can do things, then yes. Miss MacDonald’s got skills. Do you know her?”
“She asked me to meet her here.”
Tension faded from boyish shoulders. His admission that Miss MacDonald asked him to join her must’ve appeased the lad’s concerns. The bristly protectiveness for the Scotswoman was gratifying. Miss MacDonald must be more to him than a legendary rower.
The lad grinned up at him like a conspirator.
“She’s a different bird, that one... if you catch my meanin’, sir.”
Youthful eyes lit with a man-to-man warning:tread with care.
He tipped his head respectfully. “Thank you for the advice.”
But Alexander’s caution was drifting out to sea. The Scotswoman stirred his blood. Tasting her was the same as tasting recklessness. He had to have more.
The crowd was thinning, and six wherries floated like children’s toys in Gun Wharf’s inlet. Oars were stowed and rowers extended arms in congratulations. He locked on the Scotswoman, a compass arrow finding true north. Exhilarated, she doffed her tricorn, a blond braid tumbling free. Miss MacDonald shaded her eyes and scanned the crowd. He lolled against the warehouse, waiting to be found.His erratic pulse mocked him. His casualness, an act worthy of Drury Lane. Her gaze reached above the crowd and found him.
Lightning might’ve struck, the bolt as kind as a sultry summer storm.
Her hand went over her heart as if to say,You came.
Of course he did. She’d won this day, same as she won both nights he’d spent with her.
A woman like that deserved honor.
Slowly, he lifted his hand and touched his hat, a respectful salute.
