Page 77 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Her heart is her true beauty. She’s certainly won mine.” He cleared his throat. “My heart, that is. Which is why I thought it best to return her hat to her.”
The benefit of talking to a woman standing in the sun was witnessing her lashes flutter and her delicate swallow—small tells to bolster a man declaring himself. His admission, however, poured more misery on her.
“Oh, Mr. Sloane, this—us... it cannot be.”
Her formality jabbed him. He was Mr. Sloane again.
“Why not?” he asked patiently.
“Because you shouldn’t be seen with me.” She rushed forward. “Didn’t you get my note?”
“Are you referring to the unsigned note left on my mantel?”
“Yes.” Miss MacDonald fished for a key in her petticoat pocket, her rose scent heavenly. Birds chirped, and a door creaked open down the lane. Someone doused a flowerpot on their doorstep.
“I found it after I loaded my pistol.”
She paled. He wanted to succor her, but there were consequences to a woman running away and truths that needed to be told.
“The woman who kissed me passionately yesterday couldn’t have written it. That woman would tell a man face-to-face she didn’t want to see him.”
She fit an iron key in the lock, her profile lifeless.
“Please. It’s... better that I not see you again.”
“I don’t want better. I want you.”
They were so, so close yet not touching. Her hand trembled, the tiny movement quaking him to the marrow of his bones. Miss MacDonald was a woman to change the shape of a man’s soul, yet he floundered in reaching hers. She was cloaked in secrets and purpose, her history devastating but her heart braver despite it.
He touched her hand gently and breathed in her rosewater perfume. Her resolve was fracturing; he could feel it.
“I thought the worst when you weren’t in my room.I ran downstairs half out of my mind, thinking the man in black at Artillery Ground had something to do with your sudden disappearance. Except when I ran downstairs to search for you, one of the serving maids said you left the public room, alone. It made no sense.” He quieted his voice. “Even after discovering your note. It seemed . . . cowardly.”
Her profile pinched in pain.
“Therefore, I concluded a stranger scorched a path out the back door of the White Hart yesterday, not the Scotswoman I’ve come to know.”
Her forehead touched the door. “Mr. Sloane, I am poison to you.”
“I will be the judge of that.”
“What a fool you are.” She looked at him, agony haunting her eyes. “Continuing our connection puts you in peril.”
“Why? Does Jenny mean to gut me?”
His jest fell flat.
“She’s not here. I sent a note warning her off.” She turned the key. “Jenny had the good sense to listen to me.”
The door gave way and he followed her inside. Plain white paper covered the entry walls except for a garden tableau at the center. Vibrant blue birds matched a chipped Bristol blue vase on a table beneath it. He put his tricorn and her straw hat beside it.
“Are you going to tell me about the man in black?”
Miss MacDonald barred the door. “His name is Mr. Wortley, a cutthroat for hire.”
“Who hired him?”
Light wavered in her eyes. As a barrister, he’d seen the same expression on the faces of those he defended—people deciding how much to tell. Theirony branded him. Truth was light and freeing, while lies and half-truths crushed one’s soul. The once vibrant goddess of Swan Lane was painfully subdued.
