Page 76 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“I’ll wear an apron pinned to my gown. It will cover my plaid-painted stomacher and petticoat. Once you have thesgian-dubh, I’ll remove the apron in the women’s retiring room. That should create a diversion.”
“Ensuring that I get away.”
She took a deep breath. “And in a way, so will I.”
“That makes no sense.”
She began folding her ruined shawl, an emblem of a cataclysmic day. “The rebellion has been our constant companion. Isn’t it time we let go of a war we lost?”
Eyes wide, Mary fell back against the wall. “You’re—you’re leaving us.”
“The league, yes.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“We will always be friends. That will not end.”
Stained silk was on her lap, the shawl ruined like her. She’d long ago made her peace with that scrawny Highlands girl. That girl became a woman who fought hard to honor a father who’d died in a prison hulk and to honor a clan chief who’d given her a home when Cumberland’s men had burned hers to the ground. She’d fought hard against the memory of two dead soldiers who’d tried to violate her, and she’d fought very hard against one living, greedy countess. But the time had come to let go—the league, her past, and her present delight, Mr. Sloane. She was poison to him.
Every choice had a price; Mr. Alexander Sloane was hers.
Lashes heavy, she fingered damaged silk. He was the first man to truly see her, his eyes kind and intelligent. Her eyes burned, their sting dripping salt to her mouth.
Her new freedom tasted bittersweet.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sunday morning in Dowgate was an obvious mix of those who churched and those who didn’t. Clean-cheeked families migrating to St. Michael’s Lane, hair combed and breeches pressed, were the former. Solitary males slinking along, hats pulled low and cravats askew, were the latter. Men who’d sold their souls. Like him. He’d come to take it back. A respectable place, Dowgate was. Dyers, fishmongers, clerks lived here.
And one slippery Scotswoman.
He knocked on her door and waited as a gentleman does when returning a woman’s hat, except Miss MacDonald wasn’t inside. She was turning onto Swan Lane, her blue petticoats shimmering. Footsteps clicking fast, she mulled the ground on her quick journey home.
When she was closer, he called to her, “Is this a new fashion? Greeting guests outside the front door?”
She stopped short, startled.
“Mr. Sloane. What are you doing here?”
Her morning alto was sensual to his ears. Her hair,he noticed, was more down than up, a just-tumbled-from-bed look while she stood an aching six paces away, staring at him sadly.
“I found this in my room”—he held up her hat—“red ribbons, not quite my shade.”
A reluctant smile bowed her mouth. Promising, that. But she was quiet, almost awkward with morning sun shining on her.
“I recall the hat belonged to a headstrong seductress who visited my room at the White Hart. Twice, in fact,” he said. “She bore a striking resemblance to the goddess of Swan Lane.”
“A goddess? In Dowgate?” Her head cocked. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of her.”
This was the opening he needed.
“A pretty blonde...” He held his hand just below shoulder level. “About this tall. Flirty thing with a clever, clever mind, though her fierce heart is...”
Words dried in his throat. Miss MacDonald’s grip on her shawl whitened. Her hazel gaze wouldn’t let him go.
“Is what?” she asked softly.
His mouth quirked. He would tell her what she deserved to hear.
