Page 45 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
She bristled at the unseemly question. “Where did you find him?”
“At the Ram’s Head on London Bridge. Tavern maid said he sauntered in wearing his kilt, demanding ale. She obliged him ’til he was drunk as David’s sow. That’s when the Night Watch was called.”
“Raised the hue and cry, did she?”
“She did, an’ two Watchmen hauled him here in a cart.” Ledwell hiked up sagging breeches and sniffed. “But it was me who bound him to the wall.”
Preening man. There was no need to glory in the downtrodden. It was bad enough the Dress Act of 1746 outlawed kilts.
“If he was tied up, how did you come by those bruises on your face?”
Ledwell’s chin jutted at two large feet covered in loose leather boots, the tops folded under big square knees. “Kicked like a madman, he did, when we tried to cut off his kilt.”
“Try cuttin’ it off again, and I’ll break your nose,” the highlander boomed.
“It’s within my rights.”
The two were ready to brawl, and manacled or not, she knew who’d win. She’d witnessed the former MacDonald enforcer train with one or both hands tied behind his back. Will’s booted feet had probably knocked sense into the Watchmen’s witless heads when they tried to cut off his kilt, but the skirmish was less instructive for Ledwell. He paced the shed’s tight confines, arguing his point.
“The man can’t be gaddin’ about in a torn kilt. It’s an affront to the crown.”
“I daresay the king would be more bothered by a naked man roaming Southwark.” She smiled thinly against her handkerchief. “Now, I believe you owe me a key.”
“It isn’t proper,” he blustered.
Her patience waned. “That is not your concern, sir. It’s mine.”
Ledwell planted his legs wide. “A prisoner died yesterday. Big man, he was.” Squinty-eyed, he sized up Will. “His breeches might be large enough—”
“I’ll no’ wear a dead mon’s clothes.” Will’s snarl was deep.
“Ye will if I say so!”
She tucked away her handkerchief with the utmost care.Men. Strength was their vernacular. They lived and breathed it. She wasn’t born with that knowledge, but being a fast learner, she’d acquired it as one must to survive London. For that reason, casual as you please, she reached into her lacy cuff and freed a knife with lightning speed.
“When you tried to cut off his kilt, did you use something like this?” She buried the knife tip in Ledwell’s soiled neckwear.
Hot breath steamed her blade. Eight inches of sharp metal kept Ledwell against the wall, hands high and his bloodshot stare on the weapon under his chin.
“Here now, miss. I’m only doing what’s proper for women. Keeping a man covered an’ all.”
“Proper?” Now that amused her. “What delicate sensibilities you have.” She dragged the knife down his waistcoat, the metalclack, clack, clackingover wooden buttons. “Let me assure you, any woman roaming the streets at this hour has seen a man's John Thomas or two.”
Ledwell’s eyes bulged when her knife stopped at his John Thomas.
“You, sir, have a problem—my blade on your baubles.”
Throaty laughter rumbled in the dark. “She’s go’ you there.”
Ledwell gulped. “Ye made yer point, miss.”
“I fear I haven’t. You’ve wasted my time carrying on about breeches and kilts. Why, I feel quite ignored, and men who do that do so at their own peril,” she said in a voice one saved for difficult children. “Let me remind you of our arrangement. You get a bag of gold, and I get the key to unlock the prisoner.”
“Y-yes—it’s—it’s here.” Ledwell’s shaky hands searched his waistcoat and produced a time-worn key.
She snatched it. “Leave.”
The warder quit the room, muttering about unruly highlanders and unrighteous women. She sheathed her knife, confident Ledwell wouldn’t return with reinforcements. If he did, the boastful man would have to explain how a woman had bested him.
