Page 49 of A Scot Is Not Enough
A fortnight ago, MacLeod had caught Anne and Will taking seventeen hundred livres—a fraction of the treasure—from the Countess of Denton’s study. He didn’t stop them, nor did he go out of his way to help them. It was never clear if MacLeod hunted the gold for himself, or if he hunted something else.
“I’m counting on your honor as a Highlander to help us,” she said stiffly.
“Even though I am a MacLeod.” His brogue dipped, smooth and humored. “Your spinster aunts might no’ want a MacLeod protecting them.”
She wanted to laugh. How absurd. Clan feuds in London? When they needed each other? At least he was amused and not affronted at the idea of living under the same roof as two MacDonald spinsters.
“They will love you, especially when you repair Neville House and Neville Warehouse. And trust me, they will love feeding you.”
His mouth quirked. “That’s a lot of work for three shillings, two pence a month. I’d have better luck with O’Shea... slippery mon that he is.”
“Working for me, you will have a roof over your head with your own bedchamber, as much food as you can eat, and your clothes washed and mended. Can O’Shea give you that?”
When he didn’t rush to say yes, she petted his unbuttoned waistcoat. The ridged parts of his flat belly were visible under his shirt’s threadbare linen. Tall and dark-haired, he was appealing.
“Four months, that’s all I need.”
His blue-eyed stare latched on to her adventurous hand.
“Let’s say I give you four months. What will you do for me?”
This was exactly what she needed, a salacious invitation to erase Mr. Sloane from her mind, her vocabulary, her body.
She held her breath, and... nothing.
No flutter in her chest, no flush on her skin, andwhen she opened her mouth, her voice was decidedly crisp and businesslike.
“Come the new year, I will introduce you to the right men.”
“I’m no’ sure that’s enough.”
MacLeod’s gaze flitted to O’Shea, who engaged in lively discourse with the Royal Marines and naval gunners. She touched his navel. Under his shirt, muscles rippled, iron-hewn, like furrows they were.
“Men who can arrange fights in Moor Fields’ fairs, Artillery Ground, the White Lamb... all the choice places where you can make a name for yourself. I can give that to you.”
Chin tipped high, she exuded confidence.
MacLeod grunted. “Quite sure of yourself.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” And because his insight goaded her and she was that much closer to proving her grit to the Highlander, she added, “If the first part of my offer isn’t enough, consider this: I will see to it that you get a position in one of London’s finest sporting clubs for gentlemen.”
“What kind of sporting clubs?”
“Gentleman John’s on Duke Street. Where nobs with no sense and too much money pay ridiculous coin to learn how to fight.”
“Fight school?” Head shaking, he laughed. “Nobs payin’ to get their heads bashed? When do I start?”
“Your four months for me starts today.”
Eyes rounding incredulously, the Highlander couldn’t believe his luck. She, however, was thoroughly dismayed. Somewhere in their conversation, she’d stopped petting him. The body always sensed what the mind took its sweet time to grasp.
She tried to erase all memory of Mr. Sloane and his hot kisses. She truly did, but her body betrayed her. Here was a braw, blue-eyed Highlander with a nice bulge in his breeches, and she couldn’t rouse a single urge to flirt.
Not even one.
Chapter Thirteen
Alexander slid onto the pine settle, confident the seat wouldn’t give him splinters and the beer wouldn’t ravage his bowels. Such was the Five Bells—a haven for Covent Garden’s quieter, well-mannered nymphs and the men who wished to find them. Not that he wanted to engage in Cytherean rites. The goddess of Swan Lane had a firm, if unseen, claim on his placket and the flesh behind it. Only the hazel-eyed siren would unmoor those buttons.
