Page 69 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Cautious eyes, so like his own, stared back. Gideon had taken on the dual errand of delivering the wedding invitationandto implore the errant son to return. A daunting task. Alexander would wholeheartedly embrace his family, but not the family business.
Gideon opened the door, gracious in defeat.
“Walk with me to the street, will you? I want to bend your ear while I wait for a hack.”
“Of course.” Alexander glanced at the bedchamber door.
A few minutes more...
He went downstairs with Gideon, and they dissected a legal matter concerning a London bank until a hack materialized. He waved farewell to his brother, dearly tempted to fall back into his old life. His black robes and barrister’s peruke were a familiar path. But a more intriguing adventure called—a certain fair Scotswoman waiting for him in his bedchamber.
He waded through the busy public room, beefsteak and fresh baked bread teasing his nose. A fine dinner to share with Miss MacDonald. They should eat before indulging theirotherappetite. Smiling, he bounded up three flights of stairs, hoping Miss MacDonald was already naked. Instead, he found his door wide open. The bedchamber door was open as well. He sped across the room.
The bedchamber was empty. The window at the same angle, candles flickering over the mysterious Jacobite ledger open on his bedside table.
A chill scratched his nape.
“Miss MacDonald?”
Calling for her was foolish. She was gone.
The man in black.
His mouth went dry. He’d promised to keep her safe.
The possibilities of what happened shot at him like canons unleashing hell. He tamped down fear’s rush and strode to his chest. He searched for his pistol and pouches of ball and shot. Calmly, methodically, he poured the powder, visions of a frightened Miss MacDonald haunting him.
He would grind the cutthroat under his heel.
Who was that man?
A criminal out for thesgian-dubh?
Firm and precise, he rammed the ball home.
Blood pulsing coldly, he wiped his pistol clean. Another dangerous fact—the coded Jacobite ledger was left open, but not taken.Why?His brain set that neatly aside. Miss MacDonald was in danger; he knew it as sure as he breathed.
He donned coat and hat, hellish questions pressing in. Had the man in black followed them, biding his time in the public room, waiting for the right moment to grab Miss MacDonald? But how could a man take a woman against her will through a crowded room?
Chapter Nineteen
By day, London Bridge was choked with commerce. By night, it was the crossroads for drunkards, fools, and thieves. Its narrow road was hardly sufficient, yet the Government dragged its feet on what to do with the dying bridge.
Lady Denton sipped her ale and waited by a stingy-sized casement window overlooking the river. The view was impressive and worth the shilling she paid to secure her seat. The water’s rush was another benefit—it muffled conversations.
Ships listed and wherries darted, the lightermen’s candle lanterns chips of aged gold in the night. Frigates caught her interest, one in particular with a cruel captain who had a love for money. Most men could be bought. The valiant few who couldn’t were a passing interest, save one Scotsman who had branded her heart. Will MacDonald.
Blasted Highlander.She took a long draught of ale, waiting for another Highlander.
“Careful, milady. Mr. Wortley’s no’ here to see you safely home. An’ I didna see any of his men outside.”
Rory MacLeod dropped his tricorn on the table and slid onto the seat opposite her.
“My carriage is at the end of the bridge. No one knows I’m meeting you, and I want to keep it that way.” She smiled from the shadow of her hood. “Servants like to talk.”
“I wouldna know about that.”
She brushed back one side of her hood for a better view of him. Scarred at his eyebrow and chin, his features rugged, a maroon bruise bloomed on his face.
