Page 6 of The Scot Who Loved Her

Of the ships in port, one was carrying weapons, gold and various other commodities sold to England’s enemies—likely the French—by a mysterious Englishman hoping to start a war.

Malcolm needed to know which ship, the name of the captain and when it was set to depart. There was no time to lose, and if he had to pluck every fingernail, every eyelash, from the rotten sod standing in front of him, he would. Then he’d have to fly like hell to get the information to London and the Duke of Wellington at the War Office—for they’d have to intercept the ship at sea.

“Like bloody hell, I will.” Mr. Irving drew his sword. He held it at arm’s length, but unfortunately for him, he was not as tall as Malcolm, and therefore his arms were not as long, so his sword came about mid-way up Malcolm’s arm instead of near his throat. Overhead the oil lamp flickered, and outside, the wind from the quay sent a sudden sharp gust heartily against the wooden walls. “How did ye find me? Who sent ye?”

Malcolm laughed at that. “Is that a serious question, lad? Or do ye honestly believe I’ll tell ye?”

The man growled, and tried to wriggle away. Malcolm let him, just to see what he would do. Maybe lead him right where the information was being kept. Mr. Irving twisted to the left in a move that should have been more graceful, except for the fact that Malcolm stuck out his foot, tripping the blackguard. He fell flat on his arse with a loudoomphand was quickly red in the face with embarrassment and anger. Sending a glower toward Malcolm that might have scared a lesser man—a much lesser man—Mr. Irving let out a bellow. “Lads! Intruder!”

“Bloody hell,” Malcolm murmured. They never made it easy, now did they? Taking lives came with his position, and though it left its toll on him, he’d taken a vow to rid Scotland and England of the men who would see her fall.

Three large, burly dockhands, who’d seen better decades judging from their offensive stench, stormed through the door of the shipping office.

“Good God, the lot of ye stink.” Malcolm yanked out his dirk, a weapon now in each hand, prepared to fight the four of them. Having fought heartily in the Peninsular War against battle-hardened men, a few drunken sots were nothing. “Come on then, let’s get this over with.”

Malcolm waved the first man closer, a wide grin on his face as the jackanapes loped toward him. The dockhand’s street fighting ability appeared quite pathetic. Even the men in boxing rings knew not to run at an opponent with their middle exposed. Malcolm kicked out, sending the lout flying backward into the other two, who had a slower start. All three scrambled to stay upright.

Behind him, Mr. Irving pulled a pistol from a drawer, aimed it and fired. Malcolm, ducked just in time, feeling the wind of the bullet pass over his head and then the sickeningthunkas it landed in the man’s head behind him.

Malcolm shook his head. “Ye missed. And killed your lackey.”

Mr. Irving sputtered, the red splotches on his face turning purple. “Och, ye bloody wastrel! I’ll kill ye next!” The man started to reload his pistol, a task that would take longer than it would for Malcolm to aim and fire.

“Ye do realize that’s going to take a while, aye?” Malcolm asked, waving at the pistol in his hands. ’Twas as if these fools had never actually fought in a skirmish, let alone a battle to the death.

A fist landed a solid punch in Malcolm’s ribs from the rear. Ballocks, but it hurt!

Malcolm whirled around to face the man bouncing from foot to foot with his fists up in the air. Did the blackguards have no weapons? With a shake of his head, he returned the punch. “I’ll put ye out of your misery, lad.” Malcolm gritted his teeth, and then proceeded to slam his forehead against the varlet’s.

The man stumbled backward, his eyes rolling in his eye sockets before falling to the floor beside his bleeding friend.

By that moment, Irving had his flintlock reloaded and was once more targeting Malcolm. With a man barreling toward his back—this time brandishing a sharp dagger—Malcolm had no choice but to take aim, and throw his dirk at Irving’s chest, then to swivel to fend off the other bloke with his sword.

The pistol fired, the sound ricocheting off the inside of his skull in the small office. Malcolm prayed the bullet didn’t hit its mark—him—and his prayers were answered as wood paneling on the far wall splintered.

Malcolm dispatched the third thug quickly with a shake of his head, then turned to see Irving clutching the dagger buried in his chest.

Poor bastards. Whoever they’d gotten involved with hadn’t sufficiently warned them of the danger.

Malcolm approached Mr. Irving, a frown marring his brow, and bent down to look the man in the eye. “Do ye know what they call me, Mr. Irving?”

The man shook his head, his jowls jiggling, sweat beading on his brow and blood trickling from his lips.

“And ye never will,” Malcolm whispered, taking hold of the dagger and yanking it free. He stared into the weepy, rheumy eyes of Mr. Irving, a man that of his own accord had chosen coin over his country.

Malcolm didn’t waste a moment to assess the damage done. Three dead, one that would wake with an awful headache come morning. There was no point in doing away with the fourth man for three reasons. One, he didn’t know who Malcolm was. Two, he didn’t know why Malcolm had come. And three, Malcolm never killed unconscious men. But that didn’t mean the man was going to go unpunished.

After tying up the unconscious man, Malcolm cleaned his weapons, then strapped them back onto his belt. With the heel of his boot, he crushed the locked wooden chest that held the various ship manifestoes, finding the one he’d been looking for.

Captain Pratt of theBluebell. Gunpowder. Muskets. Flintlock pistols—single and double-barreled. Percussion revolvers. Ammunition. Iron ammunition molds. Blocks of iron. Blocks of lead. Bayonets. Swords. Daggers. Gold and silver. Banknotes. The list was telling. And the ship set sail in two days’ time. Edinburgh to Calais. Damn.

They had sold out to the French.

After rolling up the manifesto, he hoisted his boot onto the desk and clicked the latch that opened the compartment running the length of the sole. He tucked the manifesto inside and then closed it, stomping it on the floor to make sure the latch had caught.

“Bastard traitors,” he said to the men lying on the ground.

Outside the office, his horse, Kelpie, remained where Malcolm had left him. A damned good horse he was. Malcolm mounted swiftly, feeling the sturdy leather beneath his seat.

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