Page 87 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Do you think MacLeod was the one spying on us?”
“Very possible.” Cecelia chewed her thumbnail. “Wortley wanted me to know I was being followed. But MacLeod spying on us is a disappointment.”
Mary snorted indelicately. “The bugger. To think we brought him into Neville House.”
“We need to give him a chance. If he recovers, we’ll know the lay of his heart.”
“You’re more forgiving than I am. I’d give him the boot the moment his eyes open.”
“He may be our best weapon... especially if the countess thinks him dead.”
“Ifshe shot him.” Mary’s stern visage was a fair counterpoint.
“I believe she did. It’s a sign the woman is getting desperate and I want to know why.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
A man in her kitchen had to be an anomaly. He prowled the stone floor with the vague familiarity of someone comfortable laboring with his hands. After Miss Fletcher departed, he’d foraged for bread and butter. Cecelia had curled up in her chair, shocked at the bad news her friend had delivered. To soothe her, they talked of benign things. She shared glimpses of her childhood, and he had done the same. But as morning melted into midday, their stomachs rumbled, and he’d led Cecelia into the kitchen.
“I’m not sure what you expect of me,” she’d said. “I can boil water, but that’s it.”
He was already rummaging for the beginnings of a proper meal.
“Have a seat. I’ll take care of you.”
When she witnessed him set a rasher of crisply cooked bacon on the table, her brows steepled a question.
“Where did you learn your kitchen skills?”
“Our family lodge in Cotswold.” He was on one knee, stirring greens in a pan of sizzling bacon fat.“Every year since I was a boy of eight, my father, brother, and I ensconced ourselves for a week of hunting, twice a year. Pheasant, partridge, roebuck, a little fishing when we could.”
“A hunting lodge, that sounds wonderful.”
“Lodgeis a kind word for the primitive cottage we used. No servants attended us. We chopped our wood, cooked our food, and cleaned up after ourselves. A week to be wonderfully dirty, tromping around the countryside.”
She was at the table, sipping tea he’d made for her. Looking after the independent Scotswoman was a badge of honor. The woman was changing the shape of his soul, one smile, one word, one kiss at a time.
He heaped cooked greens on his plate and hers. Bacon, bread, and greens—a feast. He pulled the tax list from his pocket and set that down as well. They would be done with this.
She tipped her chin at the paper. “I see you’re serving up my past.”
He set the fat-glistened pan on the table.
“Stunning finds, don’t you agree?”
“Taxes are never stunning,” she said dryly. “But I salute your excellent powers of investigation. You unearthed what I thought would never see the light of day.”
Did nothing surprise the Scotswoman? Possibly not. Her breasts, after all, had been immortalized on barrels of beer all over London. A woman that audacious would hardly raise an eyebrow at fiduciary findings. More interesting was the distant storm in her eyes. From Miss Fletcher’s distressing news? Possibly. But a niggling voice in his brain challenged the convenient explanation. The same voice proddedhim to share the storm brewing inside him—Cecelia and the Jacobite ledger.
But first things first.
He took a seat on the bench facing her and draped the serviette across his lap. “Why transact business in your father’s name?”
She poked the greens with her fork.
“I did it, in part, to protect the league. But mostly to honor my father and Jacobites thriving in London... a jab at the crown, if you will.”
“Oh, now you’ve really poked ole King George in the eye, paying your taxes.”
