Page 14 of A Scot Is Not Enough
His gaze cut, gentle yet precise.
“The fire is best and brightest in here. All the better to read your notes.”
She raised his notebook, his wry smile allowing her deflection. A patient hunter, this Mr. Sloane, in their unfolding game of cat and mouse.
“Let’s see... You write that I possess small breasts (as judged by my meager bodice) and I have lush locks, and my hair is all my own (as judged by the quantity falling about my shoulders). There are some musings about my source of income and a hack doing my bidding. But this part...” Finger to the page, she read directly from his notebook. “‘Can Miss MacDonald bend the will of men to her own? Evidence would prove that, yes, she can. I am a perfect example (as judged by my freezing stones while I stand in her mews without my greatcoat).’”
She lowered the notebook.
“Quite a lot of judgment,” she said with mock disapproval.
Mr. Sloane grimaced.
“I was too free with my words.”
“It’s your journal, Mr. Sloane. Where else can a man make free with his words?” She hesitated, a playful grin forming. “Though I am very sorry about your stones. I do hope they’ve warmed up.”
His warm smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “They have, thank you.”
Excitement hummed in her limbs. She’d waxed her legs, read pages of notes, and captured an interesting man. All in all, a good night’s work. Tomorrow the league would meet in her house. Their gathering would be a delight and a drudge as they would plow through several matters, some of which they might not find common ground. Anne had led by consensus; she would rather dictate.
One thing her late-night visitor had right was her need for intelligence. She devoured newspapers, pamphlets, and books. She listened and learned with the same skill she gave to flirting. Most times, hers was overt friendliness. True flirting, the sensual kind, like now, crackled dangerously. An odd response to a man she suspected trod the straight and narrow by habit and by choice.
Of course, a man like that would ask, “If the Night Watch isn’t coming, what are your plans for me?”
“My plans...”
She tucked the notebook in her lap and drummed her fingers on it. This was her moment, take a grand risk or play it safe. Setting Mr. Sloane free would mean she’d have to be more careful watching her back. Hiring a dockside ruffler, perhaps, or a bareknuckle brawler in need of extra coin.
Or she could take what she wanted.
She scooted forward, hair falling about her shoulders. Light glinted on Mr. Sloane’s roguish whiskers. This close, fire revealed auburn and three shades of brown framing his mouth.
“I await your pleasure, Miss MacDonald.” His words were smoke and silk and his eyes provocative.
She was tempted to drag a fingertip over Mr. Sloane’s whiskers and see what happened. Her body certainly knew what it wanted. Another time, another night, she would’ve explored the polite dent of his mouth and the taste of mist on his skin. But this was clan business, and her life marched to its drum.
“One invaluable lesson has stayed with me over the years. It is that men always want something in return for services rendered, and this”—she held up the journal—“is evidence that you are investigating me. A task which you are ill-equipped to perform, if you’ll forgive my bluntness.”
Mr. Sloane’s smile cooled. She studied him, choosing her words with care.
“I can’t imagine the Duke of Newcastle worrying over a Scotswoman in Dowgate, and definitely not his brother, the Honorable Chancellor. Both men have more important things to do. Fielding, on the other hand, would.” She tapped the notebook. “The man likes digging up dirt on hapless souls and putting it in his ledgers.”
Mr. Sloane’s face was a stiff, practiced mask.
Incredulous laughter huffed from her. “Does Fielding think I’m running a gang of cutthroats?”
“You hardly look the type.”
“Small comfort.” She studied her gentleman adversary, his careful wording leaving her with more questions than answers. “The magistrate has some leverage over you, doesn’t he?”
Her arrow struck true. Mr. Sloane was positively arctic, trying to reveal nothing yet revealing everything.
“Your silence is rather telling.” She sat back in her chair. “I have studied men far too long, Mr. Sloane.”
“Perhaps if you used your intellect more, you wouldn’t have tostudymen.”
He could draw blood with his razor-sharp syllables. It had been forever since she gave a fig what people thought. No reason to awaken that unwelcome habit with Mr. Sloane, yet she heard her voice pitching defensibly.
