Page 15 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“If I lived in your world of privilege and dominance, perhaps I might. But since this is the one I inhabit, I make do with what I have.” Her Western Isles accent tripped off her tongue, the lax vowels and hint of Gaelic rising with her ire. “And since you are in my house, show a little respect.Sir.”
Mr. Sloane sat rigidly, his whiskered jaw working. His apology, if one could call it that, came as brief as his words.
“I might have been too forward.”
She rested both elbows on her chair. Mr. Sloane would be a worthy adversary or an excellent ally. What he lacked in streetwise talent, he more than made up for with his intellect.
One entry in his notebook haunted her:Miss MacDonald has no known source of income. How is she funded? This needs further investigation.
The damage he could do.
“The hour is late,” she said. “You’re tired, I’m tired. All is forgiven.”
“Does this mean you’re letting me go?”
“Not yet.”
“You intend to hold me here?”
Shock more than anger shaded his face and, on its heels, an alarming question sprang forward.
“Do you have someone waiting for you at home?” she asked.
An ache lit the back of his eyes.
“Home, at the moment, is an empty room at the White Hart off King Street.”
“Not far from Bow Street.”
“I assure you, I am not a thief taker. If I were, we both know I would be a very bad one.”
To the contrary, Mr. Sloane would be the smartest man in service. A rapier among blunt instruments. She inched closer and touched one of his waistcoat’s buttons, a warm-as-honey feeling gentling her voice.
“Fielding has some kind of hold over you, which means you need something from me. Information, perhaps? While I need help—shall we say—gaining entry to a certain place.”
His chest expanded and contracted under her finger circling his button. If she ensorcelled men, this was how it was done. Faint touches, whispered words, intoxicating nearness. Flirtation was desire’s lifeblood and touch the air it breathed.
His eyes slanted.
“You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours,” he said tersely. “That’s what you want.”
Her finger stopped and she folded her hands in her lap.
“Aptly stated.”
Mr. Sloane’s lips parted like a man hungry for a kiss while anger burned in his eyes, a dangerous concoction of emotions and wants. Their knees bumped and their faces were lit by the fire’s glow. Neither moved.
The hook was baited, and both wanted a bite.
“You have the night to think about it,” she said.
His gaze scraped her like a blade.
“And where am I spending this valuable thinking time?”
Chapter Five
“Where would you like to spend it, Mr. Sloane?”
