Page 78 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Whatever raged inside the Scotswoman was tearing her apart.
“Come with me,” she said at last.
They took the stairs to her bedchamber. The room was chilly, the mood distant. They both could use some warming up. He knelt before the fireplace, finding stacked coals on the grate. He concentrated on striking firesteel to flint, choosing not to press her for information about Wortley. Miss MacDonald was moving about, opening and shutting her wardrobe.
“I came to London four years ago as part of a covert league of Scotswomen. Our mission was varied. Mine was to get Clanranald’ssgian-dubh.”
“So you’ve told me.” He struck the flint, sparks flaring, but not catching fire.
“We helped Highlanders.”
He focused on the unlit coals.
Miss MacDonald was a sylph in his side vision. Water splashing, cloth rustling.
“Most of all we came to take back Jacobite treasure.”
Hairs raised on his arms.The coded Jacobite ledger.
“The Lost Treasure of Arkaig,” he said.
Miss MacDonald was by the window, pouring water into a porcelain bowl.
“Yes. The Countess of Denton stole some of it.”
Little embers sparked the tinder. He nursed the flame, letting her talk.
“Not all of it, mind you,” she said. “We learned the countess was hiding seventeen hundred livres in her Grosvenor Square home.”
He stilled. “Did you say seventeen hundred livres of gold?”
The pieces of a complex puzzle were falling into place, and he the unwitting witness. Miss MacDonald had surely read the coded Jacobite ledger in his rooms at the White Hart.
The more difficult question: Was she in it?
Daylight behind her was so bright his eyes hurt looking at her. A cake of soap sat on a small stack of linens. She was preparing for ablutions. With him in the room?
Breath caught in his lungs. It would be heaven to see her bare skin.
“Thank you for starting the fire.” Her voice was sweet and smoky.
He pushed himself off the floor and dusted off his hands and his lustful thoughts. This was sobering business.
“Forgive me, but you’ve just accused a high-ranking woman of a serious crime.”
It was a safe place to start.
She set the pitcher on the floor. “The Countess of Denton is a dangerous and terrible woman.”
“And running off yesterday... That was out of some misguided effort to protect me?”
A woman looking after him? It should’ve nicked his pride, but he fancied a partnership was forming. Two people on equal standing. The Scotswoman, he imagined, wouldn’t have it any other way.
At the moment, she was touching the curtain and checking outside. Pearled light splashed her despite wool-thick clouds smudging the sky. She was beautiful and contemplative in the same gown she wore yesterday. Had she slept in it? More importantly,where had she slept? Frustration nipped him. The mystery of her, her secrets and stunning revelations. He couldn’t rush this or she’d shy away for good. But one fact was clear: the more he talked to Miss MacDonald, the less he knew of the complex woman.
He crossed the room to her bedpost. “I can’t help you if you withhold information.”
“I don’t want your help.” She let the curtain drop and faced him. “As it is, you’ve been unable to fulfill my one request.”
