The Scot Who Loved Me

by Gina Conkle

  It meant going hat in hand to his employer, Mr. Thomas West. Being four days gone without so much as a by-your-leave didn’t put him in good stead. Five years of honorable service and solid friendship might. He’d earned his keep and then some, laboring for Mr. West’s modest whaling concern. Now, all that good will was probably lost.

  His world was out of sorts . . . because of a woman.

  “With your hair uncombed and that sheet around your hips,” she said, “you look like a foreign prince in those tales Aunt Flora reads in the Gentleman’s Monthly Intelligencer.”

  “Yet, my comforts are far from princely.” His voice scraped low.

  Anne’s stare skimmed his navel, and the tingle on his skin reminded him You are naked under this sheet. Her eyes were fascinated by the place where skin and bedsheet met. The mystery wasn’t in what was behind the linen, but how that landscape of skin might’ve changed—if at all. He’d wondered the same about flesh hidden under swishing green skirts.

  Their past was a third person in the room, a reckless visitor stoking a fire that had no business burning. Anne had to sense it.

  “I hope you will feel at home here for the duration of your stay.” She looked at the world outside. “However long that might be.”

  He drank in the sight of her. Midnight was for shadows and secrets, daytime for honest folk. Different intimacy. Especially those with shared history. Daylight christened Anne a fine lady in a lace-trimmed gown and fat garnets swaying from peach-soft earlobes. Her attention was on the road, the corner of her mouth curling up.

  “You’re staring at me, which means you must be deep in thought and have forgotten where you’re looking because we both know you’re not a besotted man.”

  Male pride beat a new drum in his chest. If this was a game, Anne just made a play, possibly the second one since she opened the drapes. His sleep-grogged mind had some catching up to do.

  Shoulder braced on the window frame, he hooked a thumb in his makeshift garment. “I’m considering my options.”

  “About meeting the league? Or something else?”

  A small hitch broke her confident voice. Anne didn’t ruffle easily. Could be him, or the pressure to make sure he met with the seditious league gathering in her house today. For some reason, she wanted him there, ardently so, despite their pained history.

  He’d never been one for coy games. It’s why he decided to deal honestly with her.

  “It’s the gold,” he said at last.

  “What about the gold?”

  “I’ve no’ acquired your comfort with theft.”

  The road outside forgotten, she looked at him, her eyes brimming with hauteur. “But murderous rebellion is quite acceptable?”

  There’s the woman with fire in her veins. He couldn’t stop his smile. “Battle is face-to-face. Straightforward effort. Theft? Work done in the dark.”

  “All of it done without violence or bloodshed.”

  You have a bruise on your head, lass. But he’d keep quiet about that, for now.

  “I’ve earned my keep with honest hands. Life is better that way. A mon can go to bed content he’s done his best.”

  “You followed me last night because you wanted the truth. I gave it to you. Do you wish me to take it back?” Anne’s chin tipped higher. Hauteur delivered with smooth, defensive tones.

  That was just like her, combative even when currying favor. The woman never gave up.

  “I wouldna dream of asking you to hold back.”

  “You will at least keep your word,” she pressed. “And meet the league.”

  Her hand was almost hidden in her petticoats, but there it was. Her thumb worrying her finger. An arrow of need shot through his heart, gluing his feet to Anne’s floor. He couldn’t leave now if he tried.

  “Have I given you reason to doubt me?” Want thickened his voice.

  “No, you haven’t,” she said softly but something flickered in her eyes.

  He was at once aroused and irritated by his ferocious appetite for this woman and her inborn calm. Couldn’t she look just a little affected? Skin flushed, eyes darkening with desire, the hint of a quickened pulse?

  Something? Anything?

  Hair swept high off her forehead and curls perfectly pinned, Anne was poised. She’d maneuvered things to suit her needs. Could be she was maneuvering him. He had to be careful, but with his boots cleaned, the leather oiled, and the square toes pointing at him beside his satchel, Anne had him neatly in place. A well-traveled edition of Dante’s Inferno and his collection of pamphlets were stacked on the mantel. Near the washstand, a familiar stropping leather hung, ready for the day.

  His things, here. It was the splash of cold water he needed.

  “I see you’ve gathered my personal effects.”

  “A sunrise ferry ride to Wapping Wall. Easy enough.”

  He considered asking how she’d gained entry to his lodgings, but at five shillings, two pence a month, his meanly furnished room above an exotic animal dealer’s shop was no palace. His randy landlord would let her in for the price of a flashed ankle.

  “You took liberties, madame.”

  “And you are naked in my home. After I rescued you from prison, thank you very much.”

  She was tart tongued and tetchy, but there was more at stake than a satchel of measly belongings. Pride, maybe. Yearning, perhaps. Or something else deep, deep within, something refusing to retract its claws so firmly embedded in him that there wasn’t enough ale to drown it.

  He knew that fact with ale to be true because he’d tried.

  And now he and Anne were in an awkward standoff, last night’s progress on shaky ground.

  How was it they managed to be honest in the dark and skittish by day?

  He was at a disadvantage to answer his own question—hungry, undressed, and facing the one woman who’d ripped his youthful heart to shreds. When his stomach rumbled, she stepped aside to reveal a steaming bowl of porridge on a mahogany table with a single chair facing the window.

  “Your breakfast.” Anne announced the meal as if announcing a truce.

  He walked to the table, his arm a hair’s breadth from hers. She stiffened. Heat leaped off her body but her mouth pressed a firm line that brooked no compromise. Definitely tetchy. He’d said he’d listen to her league, but he was his own man. Best she understood that.

  Grinning, he picked up the bowl and gripped the spoon like an oaf for no other reason than to goad. Anne was a reservoir of control that needed stirring.

  “My boots cleaned, my clothes delivered. Are you making my bed next?”

  “Make your own bed.”

  “You’re sparing with your tender mercies, Mrs. Neville.”

  She crossed the chamber, tossing words over her shoulder. “You want tender mercies? Go find Red Bess.”

  “But the companionship wouldna be nearly as stimulating.”

  Miss Stiff Skirts, indeed. He laughed low and shoveled food into his mouth. Hot porridge dusted with nutmeg and sugar melted on his tongue. Just the way he liked it.

  She remembered.

  He traced her movements through narrowed eyes, taking one bite after another. Anne was fidgety, adjusting the mantel’s clock just so and wiping her flawless sleeve, twice. Her thoughtfulness gave him something else to chew on. Why the small kindness with his morning meal? She got what she wanted—he was here and he was going to meet her seditious league. Could be the room was making him twitchy. He was certain he’d spent the night in her late husband’s bedchamber. Portraits of sloops and frigates lined the walls, and there was the adjoining door. The brass handle showed the patina of use.

  His spoon clinked overloud on porcelain. How often did Mr. Neville pass through that door?

  Molars clamping, he didn’t want to know.

  Anne fished inside her petticoat pocket and pulled out a black ribbon. She was winding it when her gaze caught his in the mirror above the washstand.

  “It’s for you. To club your hair.” Her chin�
�s tilt set blood-red earbobs swinging.

  He took another bite, but the porridge lost its flavor. Years ago, she had wound another black ribbon for his hair—the day she’d promised him, Wherever you go, I am with you. Anne’s vow to run away with him had soothed his brash heart. Enough to make him believe they’d be together forever.

  How wrong he was.

  She placed the coiled silk on the washstand. Did she remember that day? Feel the pang of loss? It was hard to say. The woman before him was supple and confident. A vision of fortitude. Untouchable. Not war nor widowhood or youthful indiscretion had crushed her.

  “When you are ready,” she said. “Come find us in the salon.”

  Anne quit the room, a whisper of silk and sedition. Belowstairs, muffled voices carried in her house of secrets. Muffled voices with dangerous plans and Anne hosted them.

  His porridge forgotten, he stared at the Custom House a good long while. He was no greenhorn to grand hopes and crushing disappointments. What he couldn’t overcome, he made peace with in his way, the blessing of imprisonment. A sharpened mind and stilled spirit were unexpected gifts he found while living with two hundred men in a prison hulk. Watching London’s somber sky, he drank from that well again.

  A stubborn creature had indeed hooked its claws in him, a hungry creature climbing to the surface, hunting a single need—the part of his past left undone. He wouldn’t fight it. Since stumbling out of Tilbury Fort, life had been a haze of regrettable decisions and hard labor, all to numb wounds slow to heal. But heal they did, and for the first time in years, he knew what he wanted.

  And damn his eyes, he’d sell his soul to get it.

  Chapter Four

  “Are you good at spotting lies? We can’t presume Will MacDonald’s motives are—shall we say—pure.” Cecelia. With lips painted an intractable shade of carmine red and her character limber, she served the league well.

  “I haven’t acquired your particular talents with men. If that’s what you mean,” Anne said.

  She was standing by the salon window, red serge drapes grazing her cheek and curious stares grazing her back. Above her head was a casement with the city’s arms in stained glass. Square panes the size of her hand offered small views of a larger world outside. Another dray passed her home, this one loaded with Mermaid Brewery casks. The third one today.

  Gathered in her salon were her cousins Mary and Margaret Fletcher, Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora, mother hens to their band of thieves, and of course, Cecelia MacDonald. The tight-knit group was on tenterhooks at footfalls overhead—Will, the interloper they badly needed.

  It was a tad ironic, Cecelia, his nearest flesh and blood, was the one to cast doubts about him.

  “Cecelia makes a fair point.” Mary sipped tea, her gray eyes pools of self-possession. “You said this morning, the man you found at Marshalsea struck you as mildly unhinged. He could very well hie off to the colonies with our gold.”

  “‘Mildly unhinged’?” Cecelia smirked. “Either one is or is not.”

  Anne’s breath steamed a circle on the window. Tension camped between her shoulder blades and nothing could unwind it. She badly wanted to reach around and rub the spot.

  “A fortnight ago, the lot of you argued for Will to join us—against my wishes. Now you’re singing a different tune.”

  She had been the lone voice against seeking Will, though Aunt Maude abstained from that debate before grudgingly admitting they did need Will. Then there was Will’s surprise imprisonment. Like her, they would not tolerate him in chains for donning a kilt. There’d been a scramble to gather resources and find the right warder with the right offer at the right place and time. Bribery was a delicate skill and should never be rushed. Hence, Will’s three days in Marshalsea’s shed instead of one.

  Stepping away from her vigil, she addressed Mary. “Speaking of gold, the purse you gave me was full of 1703 VIGO-stamped half guineas.” She arched her brows in reprimand. “Really? Must you?”

  “I must.” Mary set down her cup with a firm clink. “It’s nothing more than giving the English a dose of their own medicine.”

  “A dose, I think, that’s quite lost on them.”

  Mary reached for the teapot, an I don’t care moue on her mouth.

  Anne sighed. VIGO minted coins celebrated England’s seizure of Spanish gold boldly taken in Spanish waters. It wasn’t an exact analogy, but she understood the message. The English had crowed about plundered gold with minted coins; Mary, in her way, crowed about French livres in their possession. There was no need to argue the point. Instead, she’d try a measured approach.

  “Would you consider stamping a more recent date?”

  “I will not. If the Government arrests me, it will be for coins struck before the union, never after.”

  Mary. Elegant, meticulous, well educated. A dear friend and cousin who excelled at nearly everything she touched. She was the staunchest Jacobite in their fold. But, oh, once her mind was set, heaven help the body who got in her way. It took certain skill to shepherd the woman.

  “Then at least make the coins look as if they were minted in 1703. Ledwell, daft man that he is, commented on their polished state.” She ventured across the room, side-stepping a battered sea chest. “We have got to do better. All of us. No detail is too small.”

  A frown etched Mary’s forehead. The admonition struck a chord.

  “I could tumble the finished coins with rocks, but the noise . . .”

  “Dears, Mary and I are in a precarious state,” Margaret chimed in. “The coal boy asked if we were eating our lumps of coal. It is August, after all.”

  Mary and Margaret were sister proprietors of Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays. By day, stays and corsets were their shop’s custom. But Mary, the daughter of one of Edinburgh’s finest silversmiths, was skilled with more than needle and thread. By night, she converted French livres into guineas and half guineas. A tedious, but necessary, process done in the back of her shop. Passing French coins, they’d feared, would attract attention.

  After Dr. Cameron’s arrest, the MacPherson of Cluny had contributed to their cause. Anne’s knife at his ballocks convinced him. He’d smiled through clenched teeth and given up one hundred thirty-five gold livres, the last of the money he’d filched while supposedly guarding it for the Bonnie Prince. Dr. Cameron had already taken the rest.

  Where he hid the money was the question.

  At Callich burn, in a fresh grave he’d found in Murlaggan private burial grounds?

  In the woods near Loch Arkaig?

  Or right under Clanranald noses in Arisaig’s beaches, fields, and woods?

  None of them had answers until shortly after Dr. Cameron’s death. That’s when an explosive rumor reached the league: Jacobite gold had traveled south to London.

  Anne had returned to the City with the MacPherson of Cluny’s one hundred thirty-five gold livres to fund their hunt for the rest of the treasure. Their chief, Ranald, 17th of Clanranald, was supposed to search in Scotland while she and the league searched for stolen gold in London. But, she suspected the burden of old age and managing the clan wore on their chief. Thus, hunting for the treasure fell squarely on the women presently seated in her salon.

  And hunt, they did. Like lionesses.

  One by one, Mary Fletcher melted their cache of coins, poured them into a small bronze cast, and stamped them with a new identity.

  Recasting gold. Not quite counterfeiting.

  Anne reached into a cracked vase on the mantel and retrieved foolscap folded at the bottom. The crown would hold a different opinion, but the dye was cast. No sense in worrying over the past, youthful love included. She had a duty to fulfill. She was on a mission and God spare the man or woman who got in her way.

  “Ladies, these doubts are nothing more than our collective nerves talking.” The foolscap in hand, her gaze traveled to each woman perched in her salon. “We are ready.”

  “But can ye say the same of Will?” Aunt Maude. Iron haired an
d iron willed. She’d been the first to question Will’s residence in London. Many of his kin had left for the colony of Virginia.

  Why did he stay?

  The room groaned a peculiar silence. Will was the unknown. By the apprehensive eyes peering at her, one might think the ceiling would fall. Once or twice, she’d checked the plaster medallion overhead for fear it would fall on her head. She’d checked doors and windows too—for English soldiers.

  She dusted off the seditious piece in hand. “He doesn’t know everything.”

  “Then this would be a good time to tell me.” Will’s voice shot across the salon.

  Shock bolted through her.

  “If you want my help,” he added.

  Will lingered in the unlit hall, a beast transformed into a Greek god. A sculptor had chiseled his square, clean-shaven jaw to perfection. Ditto, his lips. With his hair clubbed and imposing height, Will would turn heads. Burgundy velvet stretched across wide shoulders. Threadbare and well traveled, the wrinkled coat might be an effort to blend in with mere mortals. The same could be said of his shirt opened carelessly at his neck.

  Both ploys would never work. The women stirred like harried hens.

  “Mrs. Neville.” His nod was spare.

  “Mr. MacDonald.”

  She was equally cool, though the pulse in her ears beat louder. Hands clasped behind him, Will was baptized in shadows. A dark blond Hades, deity of the Underworld, come to pay a call. Tan and virile. Thoroughly in command.

  The exposed flesh at his neck irritated her.

  Truly, Will? No neckcloth? For a meeting this important?

  His lack of neckwear was pure defiance. Neither a woman nor proper decorum could contain him. He stared into the room, a man with all the time in the world, while in hers a clock was ticking. Cecelia coughed delicately. One glance and she was smacked by Cecelia’s smug smile. Introductions were expected.