Page 80 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“You won’t do that,” she said quietly.
“Because I’d rather hear it from you. As is customary when two people care about each other.”
Her eyes were luminous.
“You presume much.”
She walked to her washstand, every swish of silk ruining him. Everything faded in the wake of this woman. Fielding... the Jacobite ledger... the judge’s seat as Baron of the Exchequer.
Cecelia pulled a pin from her hair, and his breath caught. A lock tumbled across her shoulder. The one he’d kissed. She was a portrait of debauchery, petticoats wrinkled, her hands rummaging through her curls.I could do that for youwas on the tip of his tongue, but temptation was the Scotswoman’s currency.
Who would they be if they couldn’t get past this? Thus, he glued his spine to her bedpost and endured the torture of her undressing.
Lithe arms raised, she removed hairpins and dropped them in a small bowl on a bedside table.
“For what it’s worth, I do trust you. More than you’ll ever know.”
Aching words that tore him. There was distance in them. He was a government man, secretly tasked to follow her, to dig up dirt. Perhaps he wanted too much, too soon. Their bridge of trust had begun the moment the Scotswoman pointed her pistol at him. Control was of the essence—mostly hers. The facts sketched her in one light, yet being with her sketched her differently. Innocent and saucy, clever and strong. An admitted thief with a tender heart. What was he to make of her?
He was surprised when she removed her stomacher and began an astonishing tale. She told him of her home burned to the ground, of two English soldiers who’d tried to violate her, and their quick demise. Of coming to London and starting a new life. The league, each woman in it, and the Jacobite gold they searched for. She shared future plans to smuggle sheep—sheep!—of all things back to the Highlands. An entire herd, minus paying the excise man because you can’t build a herd with one ram and one ewe. And she repeated the most stunning news: until last month, the Countess of Denton had hidden a portion of the lost treasure of Arkaig in her house.
Cecelia was half-dressed, her back proud.
Every word by turns scandalous, dangerous, and treasonous.
Men met their end on Tiburn Tree for much less.
She ended her tale with an elegant flourish of her hand. “Last month, our league took back the treasure and returned it to our clan.” Chin tipped, she added, “And I refuse to say we stole it since by rights, it’s ours.”
“Is that all?” He wouldn’t quibble over the crown’s claim to the gold.
“Don’t you think that’s quite enough?”
How alluring she was in her loose gown and angelic white stays. Her shift bunched above her stays as if she’d cinched herself in a hurry. A woman hastily armed for the day. Faint shadows darkened skin under her eyes. His fierce Scotswoman, her armor was breaking.
And there was no mention of a larger group beyond her humble league of Scotswomen.
“What I meant is, have you told me everything?” he asked pointedly.
She examined her torn sleeve. “Yes.”
He quashed his disappointment. Moments ago, she had poured out shocking revelations, each word a brushstroke. The public and private portrait of Cecelia MacDonald. He’d add another—the secret woman. The one whose heart was hidden. Had she buried it in Scotland? Not out of love, but for protection?
Was Miss MacDonald a scared Highland lass, putting on a brave face?
She took threats in stride. A cutthroat dressed in black, her newest frightening dilemma.
Alexander reached into his pocket. Could be she still viewed him as another dilemma to be dealtwith—a government man, a barrister, Fielding’s covert investigator. The odds of her trusting him were not favorable, and the paper in hand damning evidence. He held it up. She eyed the paper wearily and began to stretch free of herrobe à la française.
“What is that?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“It is evidence that your father, a dead Jacobite rebel, has been paying your taxes.”
She stopped undressing. Time stalled as Alexander unfolded the paper, its webbed creases proof he’d carried the note for several days. In less than a week, the cunning man had done what Bow Street’s best couldn’t. He’d followed the money.
She wore her best pasted-on smile.
