Page 10 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“I won’t. You have my word.”
To which Jenny grumbled a salty curse and jerked his hands behind his back.
Eyes stretching wide, he found Miss MacDonald in the courtyard, fog curling around her bare feet. She battled autumn’s bite in a white shift, a flimsy untied night-robe of the same fabric, and a skein of unbound hair. Her rigid nipples and a door lamp illuminating her shivering body told him she was cold.
His gaze drifted lower.
A flaming bolt seared him.
Did he see a shadowed wedge...there?
His thoughts went up in smoke. Hot lust shuddered his loins, hungry and persuasive, a reminder that he was flesh and blood, a man who could be lured, a man in danger of losing his mortal soul to the goddess of Swan Lane despite the fact she pointed a biting glare and polished pistol at him.
The Scotswoman had a fierce, take-no-prisoners look about her.
Just how fierce, his wanton self would gladly explore. His eyes boldly pursued a jeopardous triangle—a carnal line drawn leisurely from breast to breast to the hint of gold curls between her legs. Legs that were shaking.
“You’re cold. You should take my coat.”
Gruff and sensual, he hardly recognized his voice.
Her blond-crowned head canted sideways as if this was a new development.
“Very gentlemanly of you. But my house is a few steps away.”
Behind him, a wide slippery ribbon was looped around his wrists. A shiver wandered down his back. Miss MacDonald had ordered him bound by silk.
“All done, miss.” Jenny gave the knot a final tug. “Want me to put him in the mews and tie his ankles?”
Little clouds puffed from the goddess of Swan Lane’s lips. Her perusal wandered over him like a curious touch.
“No. Bring him to me.”
Incendiary words. He should’ve argued for the mews, a plan his feet rejected. His body wanted to be closer to the Scotswoman and took him forward until he was an arm’s length from her. A truce, of sorts. He studied the contours of her face, matching them to Fielding’s ledger, while she studied his coat draped over the maid-cum-servant’s arm.
Blond brows slashed a befuddled line. “Were you at White Cross Street today?”
He hesitated.In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I was.”
A half smile formed on quivering lips. “And before you departed, did you...?”
“Salute your cleavage? Yes. I did.” Lust roughed his words.
That twitch of her lips did things to him.
“Quite an introduction, you and I.”
“Memorable to say the least.” Amusement grained his voice.
Night treated Miss MacDonald’s creamy skin as kindly as daylight. Her confidence was equally appealing, something Bow Street’s sketch couldn’tarticulate. He’d happily debate which of her qualities—self-assurance or attractiveness—was greater, but the woman pointing a pistol at him was inclined to discusshim.
“And how do I know you are Mr. Alexander Sloane of London?”
Her voice lilted mildly humored. Of all the questions to ask, it was oddly comforting and practical.
“In my right waistcoat pocket, you will find a Bank of England cheque with my name preprinted on it.”
