Page 48 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
She braced herself. “Yes.”
Teeth bared, he blistered her ears with a string of Gaelic curses. She flinched but held her ground. Having spent much of her childhood in London with her English grandmother, tutors had scrubbed her diction clean, though not her vocabulary. Her brothers had made sure of that.
Will’s face was inches from hers. “Ask your English husband to protect you.”
“I can’t. He’s dead.”
“Like the first one?” Wildness glittered in his eyes.
The jibe struck hard. She quaked with emotion stuffed behind a cool facade, an inborn skill she’d honed to perfection. By the sour sentiment twisting Will’s rugged features, she could no more talk sensibly with him now than she could eight years ago.
If her heart had turned to ice, rage had flamed in his.
“We share too many secrets,” she said.
“Secrets, you say?” His laugh drew blood. “No’ secrets, lass. We share mistakes. Too many of them.”
Torchlight lit half of Will’s face. The other half was murky and hostile, belonging to a feral creature who should be left alone to lick his wounds. But this was the beast she needed, a man to exact justice. Little by little, tendons on his neck relaxed. Will slumped against the brick wall, his mouth set but calmer. Anger taxed a body, even a dauntless warrior. Humbled, she stuffed the arrest papers in her pocket and fingered the crude medallion hanging from her neck. Memories of distant, tear-stained faces seared her.
Their suffering . . .
Never forget.
Will had borne his share of suffering too. A wee bit of compassion would not be out of order. A bucket of what looked to be barely touched water sat near his hip. She filled the ladle and set a peace offering to his lips.
“I will have to burn these skirts, you know.”
Will guzzled water, his vivid eyes singeing her. He finished and shook his head at having more. “Too much, too fast and I’ll retch.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
“The night I was arrested. Though I recall more ale than food goin’ down my gullet.” His brogue was heartwarming and his half grin cocky.
“That would be three nights past. And now, though it pains me, I am asking for your help. In return, I can help you.”
“No.” He shook his chains. “I’m otherwise detained.”
His jaw was mulish behind a mud-flecked beard. The truth was he’d rather not be indebted to her. The jaunty angle of his head told her as much. Though sorely tempted, now was not the time to respond in kind. She set the ladle in the bucket and chose her words with care.
“You understand, if you stay here, you will be dragged before the magistrate, and you will be given six months imprisonment. Wear the kilt again, and you will be transported to the colonies—to serve seven years on one of the king’s plantations.”
“No’ a bad idea,” he said, studying the ceiling. “Been thinking about going to the colonies. My father’s there.” Will met her gaze with a taunting glint. “It’ll be my pleasure to sail on King George’s coin.”
“We shall make it worth your while.”
“Weis it?” His brows shot high. “Go’ another Englishmon waitin’? Husband number three?”
She massaged her forehead. “No.”
The lavender oil smeared under her nose was losing its effectiveness. Whiffs of Marshalsea and Will’s unwashed body assaulted her. Not half an hour in the shed and she was in danger of casting up her accounts. How did he survive three days? He’d not stay, not if she had any say in the matter. The Dress Act was too bitter an edict to swallow.
“Be as stubborn as you like,” she muttered. “But I will set you free.”
She rammed the key in the manacle, and their bodies brushed.
Fine hairs on her arms lifted, a rush, delicate and soft. Very out of place for the man she was nose to nose with. She did her best to quash the flutter.
“You truly want to go to the colonies?”
