Page 70 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“How did you manage that?”
He touched his cheek as if remembering the bruise.
“A quick bout at Snow’s Field.”
Scrabbling for farthings from Southwark’s tightfisted folk. Not a smart decision. At their first meeting in Brighton, she’d sized him up, a bare-knuckle brawler of middling talent. After he lost a bout, she’d hired him to entertain her for a time. Vivid blue eyes and flashes of charm saved MacLeod from being just another ruffian.
“You are something of a mystery. A man adrift?”
“Do you really care, milady?”
His voice was graveled and deep. A pleasure to hear in the dark, tangled in silk sheets, until he’d sauntered off, leaving her cold.
She sighed and let go of her hood. Shadows were better.
“No. I want information.”
MacLeod generally rubbed her the wrong way. Her bed was the only place he rubbed her the right way. Otherwise he was a brute with no finesse. Will, at least, had a tender gentlemanly side. He had wanted to learn, and she had been thrilled to offerher tutelage. But those days were gone. Will MacDonald and a sorry band of Jacobites had taken her gold. Jacobite women, in fact, if the whispers were true.
No one messed with her money.
Sitting in the high-back settle, a small table between them should’ve been cozy. MacLeod, however, waved off the tavern maid as if he couldn’t spare more than a few minutes of his time. He planted an elbow on the table, mild tolerance painting his face.
“There’s no’ much to say, milady.”
“Didn’t Cecelia MacDonald hire you?”
Crystalline blue eyes narrowed. “She did. Yesterday.”
“You don’t look happy that I know that.”
The Scot needed a good reminder. She had eyes everywhere.
“Why hire me, if you doona trust me?”
“I don’t trust anyone, Mr. MacLeod.”
His mouth was a grim line.
“I agreed to keep an eye on Cecelia MacDonald and two harmless old Scotswomen for you, and that’s what I’m doing.”
“No, you agreed to do my bidding because of the stunning amount of gold I promised you.” She jabbed an emphatic finger on the table. “You are notkeeping an eyeon children. These women stole from me.”
“Youthinkthey stole from you. As I recall, Cecelia MacDonald was in your salon all night when the theft happened. She couldna have been the one to empty your safe.”
Except the safe wasn’t emptied. Certain documents had been tucked away with the gold.
If anyone read them...
She turned the ring on her finger, refusing to argue the finer points of thievery with him. Mr. Wortley had tracked down rumors of a league of Scotswomen. Part rabid dog and part bloodhound, he had gone over the guest list from the night her gold was stolen. Wortley had honed in on Anne Neville, Will MacDonald, and one Cecelia MacDonald because the blond Scotswoman was seen with Anne. But there had to be more. Scots always banded together.
Hiring MacLeod to investigate Cecelia MacDonald and her compatriots was a gamble. He’d been in her employ less than a month when she approached him with the proposition, but he was a Highlander, which made him a risk as much as it made him her perfect spy. The Scotswomen wouldn’t suspect him.
He was supposed to stay in Southwark and report to her who came and went from Neville House. Miss MacDonald hiring him to repair Neville House was an unexpected boon.
“Have you learned anything about the Jacobite league?” she asked.
“What league?” He leaned forward, his big hands linked on the table. “You really think Jacobites would be fool enough to form a league? In London?”
