Page 55 of The Scot Who Loved Her

“Aye.”

“How much danger are our wives in?” Alec asked.

“At the moment, none. But as soon as the rat, or rats as I suspect there are more than one working together here, find out I’m on to them, things could get ugly. I will warn ye before that happens. But for now, we must all pretend that we’re having a good time.”

Alec snickered. “Is that no’ what we do every time?”

The four of them had a good laugh at that. “Aye,” Malcolm said, then grew more serious. “I have possibly three suspects here, in the house.”

Euan pointed to the three of them, a taunting grin on his face, trying to make light of the dark situation. “Us?”

“Ha!” Malcolm shook his head. “I hope never to have to haul any of ye to the War Office.”

“This is more than a petty crime then,” Lorne said, the laughter disappearing from his eyes.

“Aye. We’ve traitors to the country in our midst.” Malcolm locked the door now, not wanting to be interrupted as he explained everything that had happened up to this morning.

An hour later, the men split from the ladies for a hunt, and there was no way that Malcolm wasn’t going to keep to Thirlestane, Paisley and Helvellyn like a thistle stuck on wool. They’d barely be able to take a piss without Malcolm at their backs.

But the three bastards barely spoke, so focused on the hunt that it was maddening. They hardly even looked at each other. And knowing how close Paisley and Thirlestane were made it increasingly irritating. This was practiced—this ignoring of each other. And well done.

By the time they returned, dinner was approaching, and they had to get dressed to appear in the dining room. The meal was mundane—boring jokes, uninspiring stories, and Malcolm waited for hints, anything that would cue him into the guilty party. Before he’d come down, he’d tasked Jeremiah with searching the men’s rooms for any clues, with the express promise he wouldn’t steal anything that would arouse suspicions.

After dinner, they separated again. Men to the smoking room, women to the drawing room. Malcolm sipped his whisky slowly, chatting in low tones with his friends while he watched the men that he suspected of treason do nothing out of the ordinary.

At last, they rejoined the women in the drawing room for card games. But Olivia’s mother would not leave her side, and he never had the opportunity to address her. Every time he approached, Lady Helvellyn would call Thirlestane’s name, making it more than obvious who she thought was the appropriate suitor for her daughter.

And then they were all being whisked off to bed, and he had to make sure his sister made it safely to her room without Paisley pursuing her up there. The weasel had been a bloody leech all night, sucking the life out of Caroline, though she seemed to be enjoying it quite a lot.

Back in Malcolm’s room, Jeremiah was bouncing on his heels. “My lord, I found something.”

Olivia untiedthe knot at her middle, and was about to remove her dressing gown, when a light scratch sounded at her door. Good God, but if that was Thirlestane, she would murder him. The idiot had been following her around like a thirsty puppy all day long. Her mother, of course, had been nothing but encouraging, and now Olivia felt as though she needed a week away from all humans to readjust herself.

The scratching sounded again, and with a huff and a tight tug on the belt of her dressing gown, she marched over to the door and yanked it open. Only the light from her room spilling into the dim corridor shone on Malcolm—not Thirlestane.

Her heart pounded in her chest, clanging so hard against her ribs he was sure to hear it.

Before she could say anything, he slipped into her room and shut the door. Olivia backed up a pace, still shocked at his presence in her bedroom. Like every place he went, he took up all the room, sucking the air from her lungs and replacing it with his spicy, woodsy scent.

“I’ve been trying to speak with ye all day,” he said, his voice a low caress. He sauntered over to one of the chairs before the banked hearth and sat down, stretching his strong legs out and leaning his head back.

She watched him do this. His movements, shared in this intimate space, seemed natural for a second. As if they did this often. She could almost imagine this was their bedroom, and no one else was at home. But she quickly shoved away the thought, needing to focus on why he was here. What he wanted. Listening too for footsteps outside the door as her mother or father came bursting in.

And then she looked at Malcolm’s face. His lips were pressed together, eyes scanning over her as if he’d just realized she was only dressed in her nightclothes. The second time they’d been alone like this. When his gaze met hers, there was a fire in their depths. A heat that singed every part of her and that came alive when he kissed her.

It was better if she stayed back by the door.

If she pretended this wasn’t her borrowed bedroom. That she wasn’t in a nightgown and dressing gown. Pretended that she didn’t want him to kiss her.

Yes, that was what she should do, pretend they were in a crowded ballroom, and she had on not only one corset but two. And they were sewn together and never coming off, keeping her flesh from his view.

Except the heat of his gaze was doing things to her body that were far too obvious. Her nipples tightened, pressing to the front of her silk nightclothes. She dared not look down to see if it was noticeable.

But he did.

And that was when she knew he could see.

Malcolm stood abruptly, stalked toward her, stopping when he was only a couple of inches away.

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