Page 47 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Will’s smile went cold. “State your business, or I’ll yell for that bodach Ledwell to give you the boot.”
A warning twitched inside her. They both wore old wounds. What good was there in poking them? Will had done what he had to do to survive, so had she. Everyone, rebel or not, had paid a price for the Uprising.
“My business?” She checked the door, survival’s reflex. “I dare not explain all the details here. But the truth is you need me as much as I need you.”
By the devil-take-you shine in his eyes, Will didn’t share the same conviction.
She held up the key. “You are mine now.”
He snorted and gave her the once-over. “You’re a scrap of a lass with nothin’ more than a needle up your sleeve. What makes you think I’d give you the time o’ day?”
“Because you are a man of intelligence who knows the wisdom of listening before rendering judgment.”
Lines bracketing his nose deepened. A moment crawled by, but her fine appeal must have struck the right note.
“It’s your gold.” Iron-clad wrists knocked the wall. “I’m a captive audience. Start talkin’.”
An ugly shiver skipped across her back when a beady-eyed rat tottered out from a pile of straw. Before setting out for Marshalsea, she’d thought about what to say and how to say it. Facing Will, those practiced words crumbled on her tongue. Nothing was right. Her gaze slid over hair in need of washing, a jaw in need of a shave, and eyes a touch fevered.
All she could manage was, “I want to hire you.”
His glower was monstrous. “Those days are over. I won’ work for a woman.”
Insufferable man. “This is not about you warming my bed. I need your talent for... finding things.”
“Finding things?” Disdain twisted his mouth. “You go’ to do better than that.”
“You would be well paid. Ten times your earnings from the docks.”
Torchlight flickered on unconvinced features.
“Ledwell gave me your arrest record.” She rummaged for the rolled-up document tucked inside her pocket. “I can burn it tonight, and you would be free.”
“Free is a questionable word these days.” A shake of his head and, “Find another mon.”
“No. It must be you.”
His scowl deepened. “Why me?”
“Because only a highlander will do.”
Tension thrummed in her veins. Fierce, knowing eyes searched her hood pulled low as if he had an inkling of her identity. Beside her, one thigh shook a wide strip of tartan to cover Will decently. The beast was getting down to business.
“Now why would a Sassenach ask so prettily for my help?” His tone was deceptively soft. “Time to show your face, lass.”
Her soul’s frayed parts called for readiness.
She scraped back her hood. “Because a Sassenach isn’t doing the asking.”
His gaze smashed into hers. Startling. Incendiary. A glare to blast her back into the night. The shed’s wretched air suffocated, yet Will’s nostrils flared and his chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. His only sign of life. Otherwise, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t blink.
She was hanging by a thread.
“Anne Fletcher MacDonald,” he said at last.
“Anne Fletcher MacDonald . . . Neville. Mrs. Neville to you.”
Will’s brows thundered. “You married an Englishmon?”
