Page 48 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“As it happens, I need Mr. MacLeod’s services.”
MacLeod’s shirt tucking stopped. “What kind of service?”
“Something less violent, I assure you.”
“Have ye lost yer mind?” The Irishman pacedtwo, three agitated steps. “A woman flashes a pair of pretty legs and ye leave me offer danglin’?”
“Her legs are damned sight prettier than yours, and I havena said yes. To her or to you.”
“Would a finder’s fee appease you?” she asked O’Shea. “Because we both know Mr. MacLeod will say yes to me. I am equipped to offer him better terms.”
“Equipped.”O’Shea snorted. “I know what happens when ye come round here, Miss MacDonald. All and sundry jump to the snap of yer fingers.”
The Irishman spun around and sped toward the beefy naval gunners.
“Wait... O’Shea,” MacLeod called after him. “I want to fight.”
O’Shea tossed back a surly, “Ye know where to find me.”
MacLeod picked up his waistcoat. “Women,” he said good-naturedly. “Always ruining my prospects.”
“Then you will be delighted to hear that this job means spending time with not one but two women.”
“Two, is it?” His blue eyes glinted with mischief. “You and your maid?”
“I’m afraid not.”
MacLeod slid on his waistcoat. “I’m listening.”
The Scot was thick muscles and rugged appeal. Rough around the edges, definitely. Faint lines flared from the outer corners of his eyes. Smile marks, perhaps. Soldiers who squinted in the sun had them too. Every man’s face was a story, and MacLeod’s a bonny tale. Yet she couldn’t stir up an ounce of attraction. Not even an erratic pulse.
Oh, this was dreadful. Her body had mutinied.
It wanted more question-and-answer games in thedark. More sleeves lowered naughty inches. More queues untied and silk-bound wrists.
Her nipples tingled.Mr. Sloane and his enigmatic touches.
She was in the vicinity of an appealing man and... nothing.
MacLeod donned his coat. “I need details, lass.”
She blinked. Had she lost precious seconds thinking about Mr. Sloane? MacLeod’s expectant gaze told her that, yes, she had. She shook her head as one might shake off an irritating insect buzzing close.
“I will pay you three shillings, two pence a month to protect Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora. They’re not really my aunts, they are—”
“I know about the MacDonald spinsters,” he said, gruff and abrupt.
Well, this was a surprise.
“And I know what you’ve been doing.” He tipped his head at the field. “Helping the Scots and Irish stuck here.”
Herewas a disorganized hodgepodge of tents, makeshift structures, and random fire rings—an army sergeant’s nightmare bivouac.
“But you’ve no’ been handing out gold.” MacLeod reached for his boots.
Alarm spiked her pulse. She glanced over her shoulder. No one was in earshot.
“Please. Can we not talk aboutthathere?”
