Page 115 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Mary’s elbow gave way, and her arm dropped to her side. Her body didn’t feel like hers anymore. Shock, fear, worry. Wave after wave of distraught was taking control. She had to grip the chair to stay standing. It was all she could do to hold back stinging tears.
She swallowed hard and sought Thomas. “For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to do.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“If you both put your pistols on the table, I’m prepared to offer my help.” Ranleigh. His hands were down but his tone was severe.
Mary set the pistol on the baize with a heavyclunk. Thomas was reticent, eyeing Ranleigh. Strange details started coming into focus. Little things like how tired Ranleigh looked, and Maison Bedwell’s gaming room, an ugly place by day. The stench of lost fortunes and ruined families clung to its walls.
How many nights had he gambled in this room? At this very table in front of him? Or any of the tables just like it? He’d left too much hard-earned money in the bowels of this godforsaken place. He’d almost lost his business.
Even worse, he’d almost lost his soul—to Ranleigh.
The dark lord prodded him. “West... put down your pistol.”
Thomas studied Mr. Sloane’s excellent weapon. French made, brass fittings throughout. A flintlock Holster pistol befitting a French officer and a gentleman. He smiled fondly at it.
“It’s like Mary said. Your mouth still works evenif you’ve got a flesh wound.” Thomas grunted. “Of course, a hole in your foul heart might be just the thing to make my day.”
“Shooting me won’t help your lady love. And it definitely won’t get her sister back.”
Thomas gusted a sigh. He didn’t like Ranleigh being the voice of reason, but he couldn’t argue with the man’s logic.
“Just so we’re clear. This isn’t for you.” He put his weapon on the table with care. “I’m doing this for the Scot’s heart only.”
Ranleigh’s shoulder sank in relief. They were a motley foursome, gathering around the table. The baize had seen better days. Stains smudged the green, and small burn holes dotted the table where Ilsa Thelen took her seat.
Thomas took a seat and bounced his knee under the table. This was bitter medicine, working with Ranleigh. This morning he was gambling for higher stakes. They all were, with Ranleigh and his henchwoman on one side of the table, Thomas and Mary on the other, pistols in front of them.
Ranleigh steepled his fingers. “We need to know what Ancilla wants.”
“I thought she was all about revenge,” Mary said. “This was the crux of your late-night tale.”
Under the table, Thomas squeezed his thigh. He’d come to terms with certain truths this morning: he was breaking his vow to never return to Bedwell’s, and Mary left him asleep after a rousing tumble to meet with the dark turd facing them. Not an excellent morning, as it were.
He gritted his teeth, tempted to shoot the smug bastard after all.
“Forgive me for saying so, Miss Fletcher, but your sister is of no consequence,” Ranleigh said. “Ergo my cousin taking her is for a greater end.”
“You speak as though Margaret is a pawn on your chessboard.”
“It is the game we play.”
Mary was pensive. A game of chess or a game of chance, someone would win and another would lose.
“Does this have anything to do with the papers you want me to steal?” she asked.
Ranleigh’s mouth twisted. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
“What’s the matter, Ranleigh? You look constipated.” Thomas couldn’t regret the jibe.
Mary reached for him under the table. “Thomas is with me. No matter what.”
He clasped hands with her. Her intervention was full of bravado. He knew the truth. Her palms were damp and her hand a little shaky. She owed him an explanation about nighttime meetings and papers, and when the time came, he’d put his foot down. But this moment had its sweetness—Mary Fletcher needed him.
He gave her hand a tender squeeze. Mary’s gray gaze slid to his, softer and reassured.
“The most likely reason Ancilla took your sister is she wants something from you,” Ranleigh said.
