Page 39 of The Scot Who Loved Her

By blemishes, her mother meant the freckles that often dotted her nose and cheeks in the summer sun. “Of course, Mother.”

“Their carriage should be arriving soon.”

No sooner had her mother said it than a knock sounded at the door, and the footman informed them that the Duchess of Sutherland’s carriage awaited.

“Olivia, I’m so glad you could join us,” Caroline said, giving her hand a friendly squeeze.

“Your Grace,” Olivia said to the duchess after greeting her friend.

“Please do call me Jaime,” the duchess said. “I was no’ nobly born, and to be frank, I prefer no’ to be so formal with friends.” Jaime leaned closer. “But keep that a secret between us, as some of the highborns are all about propriety and are always looking for a way to knock me down a peg.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Secrets are good between friends,” Jaime observed, and Olivia had a faint idea that perhaps Malcolm had arranged this shopping trip if only to have Jaime dig up whatever he sought. Which, of course, brought to mind their encounter the night before, and a fresh flush of heat filled her face.

Their first stop was the milliner’s shop and then a cobbler. All the while, Olivia was careful about what she said, finding herself overly self-conscious that any answer or opinion might be taken for something it wasn’t.

The morning wore on and when they stopped at a confectioner’s shop, Olivia couldn’t help the feeling that she was being watched. That same prickling of the hair on the back of her neck that she’d had before. Everywhere she looked, she saw no one suspicious.

Jaime pressed a hand to her forearm. “Are ye quite all right, Olivia?” Concern etched her brow, making the lilt in her voice softer.

“Oh, yes, I just…” But she didn’t know how to answer. She justwhat? Could have sworn someone was lurking, staring, except everyone around them appeared to be minding their own business?

And then she caught sight of someone, a shrouded figure across the way, their face cast in shadow, unmoving. She had the unsettling feeling this person was looking pointedly in her direction. As Olivia considered the figure, a carriage rolled in front of them, and once it had passed, the person was gone.

11

At a certain point in the night, men’s tongues loosened, their inner thoughts and confessions spilled from their lips the same way their liquor spilled over the rim of their cup. And tonight, Malcolm had timed his mission perfectly.

Rather than going with friends to The New Club for the evening, he’d dressed like a dockworker and gone to the pub by the quay where he’d seen a good share of the men who slung crates all day headed.

Sitting in the back of the pub, cloaked in shadows, and pretending to nurse his ale, Malcolm listened to the conversations around him. This was much more his element, the silent observer, and infinitely more interesting than the dinner party he’d been at earlier, chaperoning his sister amongst the Edinburgh elite and consistently shooing away the Earl of Paisley, who was too interested in her for his own good. The man looked like a hungry little puppy waiting for Caroline to offer an arm to chew on.

Caroline was too young to wed, and she didn’t want to at any rate, despite what their mother believed. When they’d been in London and again in the carriage ride to Edinburgh, she’d said as much. This season was all about exploring a new-to-her world. Not having to find a man to take care of her for the rest of her life had been a reprieve he was all too happy to provide. She’d let him know when she was ready, and he’d be certain to hold to his promise.

Although Caroline didn’t seem to mind Paisley’s flirtations, Malcolm minded very much. But that didn’t stop the man. He’d whimper and scamper as though Malcolm had kicked him, but then he’d crawl back, hoping Caroline would save him.

It was so incredibly aggravating.

Before they’d left the soiree earlier this evening, Paisley had asked Caroline—and not Malcolm, for Paisley had specifically avoided eye contact—if he could pay her a visit the next morning. Caroline had quickly agreed before Malcolm could stop her. The loud “nay” on his tongue melted into a disproving low growl. Everyone ignored him. There was another option—

only duels were illegal, so Malcolm bit back his desire to call the man out.

Alas, he was skulking now and needed to focus on his mission, not on the pathetic weakling, Paisley, contriving is way into Caroline’s good graces.

Malcolm cracked his knuckles beneath the table in the ale-sodden, stinking pub. Up until this moment, the conversations had been mild, boring even.

But then, a few tables over, one of the dockworkers nudged another with his elbow and said a tin above the rest, “If I had ten strong men, we could rob ‘em blind.”

That piqued Malcolm’s attention.

“What did ye see?” the dockhand’s consort asked.

“Dropped one of the crates, and the side cracked. The contents gleamed in the sun.” With that, the dockhand put both his hands by his face and moved them away in a circular motion, as if he were uncovering the sun, and his face was the bloody ball of fire.

“What was it?” his friend asked.

“Gold.” This, he whispered, but Malcolm could read lips, so he’d “heard” him perfectly.

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