Page 113 of For a Scot's Heart Only
His unfinished question hung awkwardly. She couldn’t bear that he felt the need to ask if she’d been intimate with Lord Ranleigh. She stopped their progress by the empty gaming room and tipped her face to his.
“There is only one non-suitor for me.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “The French Pox. That was clever.”
She touched a button on his waistcoat. “Thank you.”
“It was forward of me asking, but you’ve not said much and...” His shrug was eloquent. “These are strange times.”
Thomas’s voice scraped with contained emotions. She was miserable, being the cause of his uncertainty and he a staunch ally. But he had to know, beneath her calm, emotions seethed like a kettle about to boil over.
“You are very, very dear to me, but please understand... Imustget Margaret back. I’ll do anything—anything to save her.”
Thomas covered her hand with his. Solid, tanned from the sun, and scarred like hers and so, so strong.
“I am with you, Mary. In full measure, for whatever it takes.”
Her lips parted and her throat was parched from worry. She would’ve soaked up more of his strength but heel strikes broke the silence. Ranleigh was crossing the entry hall.
“Miss Fletcher, back so soon and with the most interesting news about my health.”
She pulled away from Thomas, the pistol still hidden from view. Miss Thelen was donning a man’s black frock coat, trailing Ranleigh. Mary was relieved. The henchwoman packed only one weapon this morning, a knife tied to her thigh.
“Bad news is one way to flush out a rat,” Mary shot back.
The dark lord sauntered forward, lace cuffs feathering his hands. “What’s this? And here I thought you were anxious to begin our connection.”
Air stirred beside her. Dear Thomas. Waves of irritation were rolling off him.
“Is there someplace we can talk discreetly?” she asked.
“In a brothel?” Ranleigh laughed. “Of course.” He gestured to the empty gaming room. “This should suffice.”
The dark lord was casual this morning, his shirt open at the neck and his queue plainly tied. He wore black velvet and dark circles under his eyes, the price of late hours. The four of them formed aline and went into the long chamber ripe with lingering smells of unwashed men and stale air. Miss Thelen tossed back a loose braid and stood hip-cocked against the wall. Lord Ranleigh dispensed with niceties and took the chair at a gaming table in front of her. Thomas was strategic, closing the door.
Mary swallowed hard. Fear and anger competed inside her. Both emotions could be helpful if handled properly—like the pistol in her trembling hand. To calm herself, she gripped the butt until the metal filigree bit her skin.
“Where is Margaret?”
Ranleigh linked both hands on the baize. “Margaret who?”
“Don’t play coy with me.” She raised her pistol and pointed it at him.
Ranleigh blanched and his henchwoman sprang off the wall as though she’d leap over the table and end this threat. Mary had no doubt she could. To make sure the henchwoman understood the gravity, Mary pointed the pistol at her heart.
“Don’t. Move.”
Ranleigh raised his hands in a show of peace. “Easy now. I thought you were here for friendlier reasons.”
“Clearly not,” she snapped. “I don’t have patience for you, my lord. I’ve had a bad day.”
Ranleigh’s gaze traveled over her. “I can see that.”
Her hair was loose from clutching her skull, her eyes pained with unshed tears, and her stomacher boasted a tiny rip from her fretting fingers, which would be visible where her untied cloak had parted. She didn’t care.
“It’s the new look for women hunting rats.” Sheadvanced on him, frustrated and angry. “Where is Margaret?”
“Who is Margaret?” Ranleigh asked, agitated.
