Page 17 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“The door at Bloomsbury Place.”
Her warm hands grazed his. “Yes.”
Cold metal slid between silk and his wrist.
“And I presume you will pass through it,” he said.
“That’s irrelevant.”
A coolsnip, snipand silk slid down his hands. He cuffed one wrist with his hand and rubbed ligaturemarks as pink as the silk ribbon Miss MacDonald tossed into the fire. She set her scissors on the mantel, the flames outlining her slender thigh. The display was not a carnal gambit, not with the serious line of her mouth.
“Why Bloomsbury Place?” he asked.
Miss MacDonald averted her gaze. “I am taking back something that was stolen from people I love.”
“Then plead your case to the courts.”
A soft noise of contempt passed her lips.
“I appreciate what you just shared,” he said. “It’s a daring revelation.”
“But not enough to sway you,” she said tartly.
He rose from his seat, flexing and rubbing his wrist. “In a single day, two people have asked me to skirt the law. I live for the law, Miss MacDonald, to see justice done.”
“So do I, Mr. Sloane. In that, we are similar creatures.”
A bark of laughter and, “I think not.”
Hazel eyes narrowed. “Perhaps if you would suspend your judgment and look beneath the surface.”
“Therein is my dilemma. My judgment. It is my most valued skill. When the Duke of Newcastle suspects a rat, I am the man His Grace calls to review fiscal reports.”
Miss MacDonald was stiff and silent. He wanted to cosset the woman, a befuddling urge since minutes ago he would’ve gladly raised her shift and pounded himself to oblivion in the heaven between her legs.
“I am a barrister with a talent for numbers, Miss MacDonald, and one of the duke’s most trusted men.”
The grim salvo delivered, she clutched her night-robe high on her chest.
“A barrister.”
“His Grace has inferred that I am one assignment away from receiving letters patent.”
She paled. “To be a judge, I collect.”
“Baron of the Exchequer.”
She searched the floor as one does when assimilating information.
“The financial courts... of course. That’s what Fielding has over you.” Miss MacDonald’s guarded gaze met his. “Deliver damaging information on the Jacobite sympathizer, and he’ll help you get what you want.”
His grudging smile spread. Her intelligencewasa sonata.
“Yes.”
Bleached-white fingers squeezed her robe. “Yet, you’ve found nothing, save the fact that I might have dangerous ideas.”
He softened. “Where else can a woman make free with her words but in her mind?”
