Page 96 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Who are you?” she asked.
Fire’s molten shadows carved Lord Ranleigh’s face. He was pensive, opening his palm, the horse head game piece still there.
“I am the Dark Knight. I keep chaos at bay.”
Her vision narrowed. What a cryptic answer. “A code name, is it?”
His lordship rolled his shoulder and kept his focus on the game piece in hand. Mary suspected he wasn’t keen on painting vivid details nor was he bothered by false impressions. Was he a bawd? A libertine? A common thief? A leader of thieves?
Lines of tension circled his mouth. “Ilsa, give us the room.”
Flames shined on the Swede’s guinea-gold ringlets. She was gold and iron. Lots and lots of polished iron... on the butt of her pistol, on her knives (one visible in each sleeve), and a small, oiled ax tied to her left thigh. The woman was a walking arsenal.
“Are you sure?” Ilsa asked.
“Quite.”
The henchwoman checked Mary a split second before her long, leather-clad legs took her swiftly across the room. If she was upset, she hid it well, shutting the door ever so carefully behind her.
“She’s headstrong, but I trust her with my life,” he mused.
“If you consider that headstrong, my lord, then you’ll find me positively ungovernable.”
His short laugh was comforting. “Such directness. It is one of the reasons why I like you, Miss Fletcher.”
“Thank you, my lord, but... I’m not so sure that I like you.”
Lord Ranleigh was a guarded creature. A twinge in her chest warned her to pay attention to every facet of the man. They were burning dross from gold in their conversation and finally getting to why she was alone with him in an empty house. Yet, these flares of attraction—his mostly—would only get in the way.
“You don’t have to like me for an assignation,” he said gingerly.
“You didn’t bring me here for a night of swiving.”
He was rubbing the chess piece in his hand. “No, I didn’t. I brought you here for something far better.”
“And that would be?”
“Power.”
Lord Ranleigh shifted to the table, its chessboard painted on the surface. He set about arranging pieces in a very un-chess-like array as though a tutoring session was in progress.
“You asked who I am.” He set the king in the middle of the board. “What you ought to ask is what do I do?”
A hand fisted behind his back, Lord Ranleigh bent to his task, quietly moving pawns. Tucking hair behind her ear, she focused. There was an object lesson here. His offer, his veiled threat, the slim ledger on the table, and its contents all came into play.
Power is better than moneykept running through her head.
She swiveled around to the rain-drenched window. All those stately homes.
King’s Square hosted foreign envoys.
The charwoman’s quip about the Russians. Hislordship’s casual watch on his neighbors when he took her to Maison Bedwell’s study.Poland, Bavaria, Genoa, to name a few...That’s what he’d said.
How many dignitaries visited this well-placed brothel?
She huffed softly.Of course.Money, power, and passion were currencies exchanged all under one roof. She turned to face him.
“Are you a spy?”
