Page 85 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“History.”
He picked up the paper, her pink silk shoes a short distance away. Very sobering those shoes. The coded Jacobite ledger came to mind. He couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was standing in Lady Pink’s bedchamber. He was sorely tempted by Cecelia’s scent, by red nipples poking her shift and velvet skin aching to be explored. There was wanting to be with a woman, and there was truly wanting her. To understand the woman, to know her heart, her mind, her past—all to fuel a future with her. Honest, weighty discussions were the only way it would happen.
But a patina of weariness crept back into her eyes.
Cecelia reached into her wardrobe and covered her loveliness with Madame Laurent’s hideous brown creation.
“Shall we?” She stretched an elegant arm toward the tight seating arrangement by the fireplace.
They were about to plant themselves before the cozy fire he’d built when a pounding knock sounded below.
“Cecelia!” A frantic woman’s cries followed a fist banging the front door. “Cecelia! Are you there?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cecelia rushed downstairs with Mr. Sloane behind her. She opened the door and found Mary Fletcher, her face waxen and her head bare of her mobcap.
“Cecelia!” Mary collapsed into her arms. “You are safe!”
“Of course I’m safe. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Mary unfolded herself from a fierce hug. “Mr. MacLeod was shot late last night on London Bridge.”
“Is he alive?”
“Barely. He was shot in the back after he left a tavern. At first, no one called for a doctor because the Night Watch thought him dead.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh no.”
“He lay there for at least an hour while the Night Watch debated if they should take him to St. Magnus or St. Olave’s—”
“How awful!”
St. Magnus and St. Olave’s had grave pits for the poor. Her skin crawled at the notion of MacLeod barely alive while men discussed where to deposithis unwanted body. With rampant crime, the impoverished dead were more nuisance to the government than true concern.
“But heisalive?” she asked.
“Yes, yes. The Night Watch heard him groan. They called for a doctor and carried him to the Ram’s Head.”
She stiffened. “The Ram’s Head... on London Bridge?”
Mary nodded emphatically and rushed on. “Mr. MacLeod is very lucky. The lead ball landed in the meat of his back.”
“MacLeod certainly has a lot of that.”
“The doctor said two inches to the left and it would have hit his spine. He’d be dead for sure.”
“Come, have a seat in my salon.”
“I can’t stay long. I need to get back to Margaret.” Mary began to walk the half dozen steps to the salon when she stopped short, her eyes rounding on Mr. Sloane at the foot of the stairs. “You’re not alone.”
“This is Mr. Sloane.”
Formal introductions were made. Mary’s gaze bounced from Mr. Sloane to Cecelia, her mind cyphering the calculus of a man with a woman in her night-robe.
“Apparently, I don’t have to worry about your safety,” Mary said diplomatically.
Cecelia could feel Mary’s eyes land on the one earbob dangling from her earlobe. She really should’ve taken a moment to remove it, but sensual pursuits and all.
