Page 40 of A Scot Is Not Enough
To which she unleashed a peal of laughter. Sweet, sweet music, it was. His ear caught and memorized the notes above the chatter. Miss MacDonald was just as enthralled, her vermillion smile shining for him alone.
He jumped off the barrel, spry as a lad. Oarsmen clambered up rope ladders tied to the pilings. Brawny young men and a half dozen older, salty sailors and rivermen. Calls were lobbed to meet at a tavern, while he waited hands on hips for Miss MacDonald. Her blond crown popped up between two pilings. Dressed in breeches, she ascended the rope ladder and hoisted herself onto the wharf. The goddess of Swan Lane, stealer of men’s hearts. Half-mermaid and all woman, he was sure. Definitely a mythical creature. This woman with an untamed spirit and her grand smile was the reason he’d sprinted from London Bridge.
He didn’t need a fortune-teller to augur what was plain as day—the Scotswoman would be his undoing. However, the lad beside him said it best.
“There’s none like Miss MacDonald, sir. None a’tall.”
Chapter Eleven
“Why, Mr. Sloane, how fitting that I, once again, find you on a barrel,” Miss MacDonald said.
“Thankfully, I was on top of this one.”
She laughed, music he wanted to hear over and over again.
The Dutch-capped lad eyed him oddly. “Is it bad, being on a barrel?”
“Never mind, Peter. Mr. Baines told me you’re minding the wherry.” Miss MacDonald dug inside a pocket and tossed a shiny coin into the air. “Something for your trouble.”
Peter caught it in his open palm. “A half guinea. Thank you, miss.”
“Consider it advance payment for the work you’ll do tomorrow. Mr. Baines will need help cleaning the hull.” She eyed him sternly. “Be a good lad and give that coin I just gave you to your mam.” When a frown clouded the young man’s face, she added, “Don’t worry. More work is coming, and that will be coin you can keep for yourself like the wager you placed with Mr. Tuttle.”
The lad was sheepish, slipping the half guinea into his shoe. “Didn’t think you knew about that, miss.”
“Oh, Peter...”
Hers was a gentle scold set to squawking seagulls, circling and landing. Though she spoke to young Peter, her eyes sparkled for Alexander. He basked in their warmth, deciphering what he could from their unusual rendezvous. Sun-grayed docks perfumed with eau-de-Thames, not the stuff of romance. The Scotswoman shined prettily, but on closer inspection, a man would find grit on her palms and strength in her frame, scrawny arms and all.
“Promise me you won’t conveniently forget that the coin in your shoe is for your mam,” she said.
Peter’s chin dipped. “I won’t, miss. You have my word.”
“Good lad,” she said with a wink. “Off with you now.”
Peter strode toward the inlet. Alexander watched him disappear below the dock and reappear, hopping nimbly from wherry to wherry until he landed in what must’ve been Mr. Baines’s vessel.
His gaze arrowed to the Scotswoman. “Half a guinea... generous of you.”
Miss MacDonald’s shoulder twitched vaguely. A breeze knocked a curl across her cheek which she wordlessly brushed back.
Was she a tad reticent?
Feminine lips softened. He tried to read their subtle shift. Every woman’s body spoke a language all her own for the man who cared to watch. A deep study of the Scotswoman was in order. An evening worshipping her, perhaps. They were alone, saveseagulls roosting on pilings, and a warehouseman padlocking a door on the west side of the wharf. Though it was half past one o’clock, the workday in this part of Southwark was done, while Alexander’s had just begun. His labor wouldn’t be tedious. With Miss MacDonald bedecked in men’s garb, how could it?
He ambled closer. “Do you conduct all business assignations like this?”
She pointed her right toe and swept a courtly bow. “Whether business or pleasure, I aim to please.”
Her braid swung forward, a rope of cream and gold. Windblown wisps rebelled and stuck to her damp cheeks. Her plain black frock coat and fitted breeches dressed her staidly until he looked lower.
“The color on your legs...”
“Robin’s egg blue.”
The stockings gleamed on shapely calves. He was riveted.
“Silk?”
