Page 104 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Cecelia sipped chocolate, ambrosia against the world’s ills.
“See them laundered.”
“That’s new.” Jenny was an obelisk of disapproval. “Men have tarried here, miss, and I never batted an eye. A day or two and they were gone. But doing a man’s laundry is...” She hesitated. “Domestic.”
The maid sliced that last word with holy fervor. A puzzling turn. Jenny had never shirked fun where males were concerned. Jenny was pretty with a mind of her own and Cecelia was aware of a butcher, a footman, and a sailor who shared a pint with her now and then. What she did with her free time belonged to her. But the maid worried a corner of the brown-and-white-checked towel tucked at her waist.
Cecelia set down her chocolate. “Jenny—”
“I know, miss. It’s not my business. You’ve done a kindness by me and Morag, something I can never repay.”
“Jenny—”
“And I shouldn’t play the scold.” The maid was busy, filling her arms with laundry. “It’s—it’s... I worry about you.”
Jenny was an anxious face over a mass of laundry. There were troubles galore here. The maid might be fretting over Alexander’s growing importance in their small home. Or the maid read events of late as a portent of disaster. Blood on the floor, a knife with it, and a gentleman caller staying long enough for his clothes to mingle with hers in the laundry. The scene in the salon could be a sign of more trouble ahead.
With MacLeod shot in the back and Alexander shot in the arm, things were getting desperate. Cecelia had to plan accordingly.
She hugged the blanket close. “Do you remember the documents I asked you to take to Morag’s house?”
Jenny’s eyes rounded. “Yes.”
“Good. Why don’t you take those smelly clothes to the laundress and spend the rest of the day with Morag? While you’re visiting her, make sure you have those documents on hand.”
“But I’d rather look after you, miss, and—and the house is a terrible mess... and what about the dishes?” the maid cried.
“It will all be here tomorrow. Unless I convince a certain gentleman to wash the dishes with me.”
Jenny harrumphed. “You doing dishes? The world is coming to an end.”
The jest erased the tension furrowing Jenny’s brow. They’d named the papers hidden in Morag’s home Cecelia’s Doomsday Documents. Instructions and legal writs for her business partnerships—documents Jenny was to take to a solicitor on Little Ormond Street if anything happened to Cecelia. She’d had no cause to worry, not really. But she’d never worn Clanranald MacDonald plaid colors in London, or masqueraded as Betty Burke, or stolen a relic theGovernment considered theirs. On Wednesday, she would do all those things.
But today was Monday.
Three days and two nights stretched before her. If the world was going to end, she knew exactly how she’d spend them.
Chapter Thirty
The door to her bedchamber was ajar. Light pinched through the opening. With the tray in her arms and the blanket a loose cloak, she bumped her bottom against the door and headed in, back first. It was a careful negotiation, her eye on the tray, and the blanket hiked indecently high.
She backed into the room. “After last night, I’ve come to the conclusion every woman should shoot something. It’s very freeing.”
She swung around and her command of the king’s English stalled. Alexander stood in profile, a dark tuft of hair showing at the apex of his legs. Daylight limned his nakedness. As in, not a stitch of clothes covered him.
“What was that?” His smile dented.
Wicked, wicked man. He likes having the element of surprise.
And she liked the wonder of seeing him. Lean, marbled perfection. Her Roman senator philosopher at a standing bath. Dark hair loose, his jaw unshaved, a touch wild he was. Uninhibited, beautiful. Paleeverywhere, save the ombre hue of his forearms and face. His confident, breast-saluting hand was dragging a washcloth over his chest.
What a crime to cover all that glorious male flesh with clothes.
Especially his penis stirring to life.
She watched it, the cogs and wheels of her mind cranking slowly.
“Well, good morning to me,” she said.
