The Scot Who Loved Me

by Gina Conkle

  “You two know each other?” Will couldn’t curb his astonishment.

  There were layers upon layers Anne wanted to explain, but the countess home early was a rug swept out from under her. She was battered and off center. She should’ve prepared him. She would have . . . before the art salon.

  “Why, yes.” The countess’s pink fingertips grazed Will’s sleeve. “Earlier this summer, Mrs. Neville and I were in discussions regarding my purchase of the Neville Warehouse on Gun Wharf.” She looked benignly at Anne. “Why ever did we stop our negotiations?”

  “You had business at your country home.”

  “Yes, summer.” The countess wrinkled her nose. “The City is abominable in July. The smells and such.” She looked gently to Mr. Styles. “You are well enough to . . . travel?”

  “I am much better, milady.” He touched his forelock and Mr. MacLeod held out a battered tricorn.

  “I believe this is yours.”

  “Thank you, my good man.” Mr. Styles exchanged the cup for his hat.

  What a motley band they were. Anne forced her spine upright. Perhaps the corset was just the thing to keep her standing and prevent her from becoming a crumpled heap. Mr. Styles smiled to all, touched his hat, and trod with care down the steps. He performed well under pressure, having stalled the Countess of Denton from entering her home. Anne owed him dearly.

  The housekeeper bounded up the front steps with age-defying agility and reached for the cup. “Let me take that, Mr. MacLeod.” To the countess, “Shall I arrange for tea and refreshments, milady?”

  “Excellent idea, Mrs. Brown.” To Will and Anne, “Where are my manners? Dawdling on the front door like a rustic.” The countess claimed Will’s arm. “You will join me for tea especially—” her feline smile touched Anne first and Mr. Styles second, watching him grab his cart “—after what must have been a trying interlude.”

  “We wouldn’t dream of bothering you, Lady Denton,” Anne said.

  “No bother at all. We have reason to celebrate. Mr. MacDonald informed me a moment ago that the two of you are betrothed. Does that make this . . . marriage number three, Mrs. Neville?”

  “It is. Perhaps third time’s a charm.”

  Will was again Mr. MacDonald and the ungentle barbs were out. Anne wanted to parry her ladyship’s verbal thrust, but she had nothing. Nothing at all. Speaking her mind was a talent she possessed, but cruel wit was a level to which she’d never stoop. Words mattered, even in the face of overwhelming odds. But all was not lost. She breathed in Will’s presence, his sunshine and steadiness. He had an imprint of the key and he had her secret. Both were in his safekeeping.

  Hope lifted her chin. “Tea might be just the thing, my lady.”

  The countess’s brows rose a fraction. Anne smiled back. She’d studied her adversary. Agile in the art of set downs and intrigue, her ladyship knew when to regroup and retreat. The countess watched Mr. Styles drive his handcart down North Audley Street.

  “How odd. A rag-n-bone man coming to the front door.” A regal hand settled in the crook of Will’s elbow. “Shall we?”

  The countess had staked her claim. From the doorstep, Anne watched their amble. Only a sliver of light squeaked between her ladyship’s head and Will’s upper arm. Wretched emotions and late summer’s warmth coated Anne’s skin. She needed a bath and a brandy and to unpeel that woman from Will.

  “I prefer beer.” MacLeod’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “But tea it is.”

  A flirt, a ruffian, and he was her ladyship’s very new private footman.

  “Indeed.” She set a hand on his sleeve, and they stepped inside the cool marble entry.

  Why wasn’t Will putting distance between himself and the countess?

  An inner voice taunted, Why do you care? You’ve got the key, now get the gold. Just make sure the countess doesn’t ask too many questions. Anything to divert her ladyship was good. Wasn’t it?

  Low laughter rumbled beside her. “Careful, Mrs. Neville. Your glare could melt ice.”

  She willed her legs and her attitude to match MacLeod’s relaxed nature. This was only tea. She could do this. When they passed through a gilt-trimmed doorway, her face was forward but her gaze dropped to MacLeod’s dusty boots. He must’ve ridden the bay. Could he not tolerate long stints alone with the countess in her carriage? Or was her new private footman simply an outrider? Mr. MacLeod’s role with the countess didn’t matter. One singular fact did. A new actor—a highlander—had entered the stage, and he was probably after the gold.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Will folded himself into the small carriage, gusting a long exhale.

  “I was afraid I’d have to send a search party to find you.” His cousin scooted over for Anne, who was presently squashing herself onto the shared seat. Cecelia’s bright smile faded at Anne’s grim visage. “Something went wrong.”

  “Verra wrong. Lady Denton returned home earlier than expected.” He tossed aside his tricorn and planted himself beside it. “Something about poor grouse hunting.”

  His cousin banged the ceiling, and the vehicle lurched forward.

  “The countess,” Anne said, ripping off her straw hat. “Couldn’t find creatures to hunt in the countryside. So, she came to the City with a mind to hunt for something—or someone—else.”

  Her gaze pinned him. She was in a mood with tendrils sticking to her cheeks, and stray hairs haloing her head. One side of her gown was off . . . wilted, he’d say. Her skirt drooped off one hip while puffing properly on the other. Anne was in a tiff and the walk back to St. George’s Chapel didn’t burn her ire. Their walk fueled it.

  Conversation had been a balancing act, him soothing her ruffled feathers while otherwise holding his tongue. Grosvenor Square, and by extension South Audley Street, swarmed with servants returning from their half day. They had to be careful. Anne, however, had been a hissing cat once they left Denton House. In her anger, she’d thrown caution to the wind, while the countess, in the safety of her home, had thrown veiled insults over tea. Sharp darts. Subtle digs. The Countess of Denton had hunted for Anne’s weak spot during their brief respite—all delicately done as was her ladyship’s way. Anne’s clothes, her station, her lack of wealth, and classic beauty. Anne had gamely absorbed them all, smiling blandly, engaging in a verbal swerve and deflect. He knew why. She focused on the prize: taking back Jacobite gold.

  Ancilla was another story—a woman crossing paths with the man who’d scorned her.

  Her poor behavior was pride, simple as that.

  Both women would recover. More importantly, with the wax mold in his pocket, their task was done. A good day’s work.

  “We should celebrate.” He shrugged off his coat. The carriage was stifling.

  Cecelia clapped. “Yes, let’s do!”

  “No, let’s not.” Anne’s mouth pursed.

  “Do we have an imprint of the key, or not?”

  “We do, but there’s a new wrinkle. Lady Denton has a new private footman,” Anne said. “One Mr. Rory MacLeod.”

  Cecelia fell back against the squab. “Oh dear.”

  Will scratched a pattern in his velvet breeches. Perhaps a celebration was premature. MacLeods and MacDonalds, be they Clanranald or another branch, shared a long strident history. Centuries’ worth.

  When God made the earth, He’d formed isles aplenty in An Cuan Barrach, the Sea of Hebrides. More than enough for two clans, yet the two could never share. Dominance had been their watchword. A recent eruption came in ’39 when he was a lad of fourteen. Norman MacLeod, 23rd chief of the MacLeods of Dunvegan had kidnapped nearly a hundred seaside crofters with a plan to sell them as slaves, three pounds a person. MacLeod had done it with the help of that slithering bastard Sir Alexander MacDonald of Sleat. Most of the stolen spoke only Gaelic and most were MacDonald. A storm had wrecked the MacLeod’s iniquitous vessel on Ireland’s north coast, ending the ugly venture.

  Lore claimed somewhere between Scotland and Ireland’s coast, the MacLeod w
as having second thoughts. It didn’t matter. Damage was done.

  Will untied his cravat, hoping Mr. Rory MacLeod wasn’t a young man seeking his fortune with the MacLeod chief in ’39.

  “I will ask about him,” Cecelia said.

  “His presence won’t change our plans.” Anne ripped off her gossamer neckerchief and used it to dab her nape. Her medallion rested high on her stomacher. Sunlight glinted harshly on inscribed gold.

  “We work each problem,” he said. “One at a time.”

  Anne’s dabbing slowed. “Yes. One problem at a time.”

  The blessing of joint-loosening heat was its ability to sap fiery emotions. Anger was simply too much work. He unmoored the top three buttons of his waistcoat, all the better for his skin to breathe.

  “Do you think the MacDonald has been working with the MacLeod of Lewis?”

  “I don’t know. Our chief hasn’t written a letter since June,” Anne said.

  Cecelia pinched the fingertips of her lacy glove. “Maybe Mr. MacLeod is here to help bring sheep back to the highlands?”

  Will chuckled. “The mon we met is no’ sheep herder. He’d cuff the wee beasts afore leading them through green pastures. No’ like a good shepherd . . . or shepherdess would.”

  Anne gifted him with a grateful smile. Sun rays cutting through the carriage bathed her skin and bleached her blue-green bruise. “MacLeod bears watching, but we keep to what’s next. Creating a new key.”

  A knee bumped his. Anne’s. So innocent that contact, like a promise of more to come. They trundled across Westminster Bridge, late afternoon sun casting gold on the water. It felt good to feel good. A daft observation, but he grinned all the same. Anne and his cousin were deep in conversation while peach-colored petticoats brushed his legs. He tempted fate and slid his shoe under her hem. Intimate heat washed the top of his foot, the center of a private world. A man found different balmy heat under mounds of silk skirts. A woman’s heat. Anne’s. Sensual, sweet, a scent and warmth unique to her.

  The carriage’s gentle sway rocked him nicely, putting him in a fine mood. Best of all, he’d given Anne what she wanted—the key—something only he could give. A victory roar was in order, but he’d settle for a victory kiss.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A rattle jolted him. He opened his eyes to his cousin staring out the window and Anne tucking her medallion between her breasts.

  “You napped all the way across Lambeth Road and Blackman Street,” she said.

  “Did I?” He scrubbed his face and looked outside.

  They were in the bowels of Southwark. While they’d managed a good day’s work, others labored at theirs. More traffic. More people who couldn’t flee the City for grouse hunts and house parties: costermongers, their vegetables half gone, and carters and drays rolling by. A golden tassel danced beside his head when they approached the Iron Bell. He caught it and held on. Harlots roamed the walkways like colorful birds in drab cages. Their custom was coming: clerks, sailors, warehouse men whose workday ended soon. For these women, work was just beginning . . . if it ever honored set hours.

  Red Bess lounged hip cocked, her calculating gaze climbing all over their passing vehicle until her stare met his. Sharpness faded from her visage and she blew a kiss. Flirty thing. A woman like that would be a fount of information. She’d know who came and went off the docks and who might have been inclined to raid Anne’s warehouse.

  He’d talk to her. Tonight.

  When they rolled up to Anne’s brick-and-flint stone house, a cut on his back throbbed. He reached around and gingerly touched a sticky spot under his waistcoat. Blood and bodily humors coated his fingertips from a wound re-opened when he banged against the desk’s edge. The countess had left her mark again.

  “During the Uprising, did you fight alongside any MacLeods?” his cousin asked.

  “None that I recall.” He gathered his things and followed her out of the carriage.

  The MacLeod of Harris had stood with the Government, the same as their clan chief, but like Clanranald MacDonald, the MacLeods had their dissenters who fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie.

  Anne’s heels were firm clicks on flagstone. “You have friends in the City who might know, don’t you?”

  “No’ many. I kept to myself.”

  She opened her front door, a magician of sorts. More sunshine flooded the house but not what the eye could see. It was in the pristine feel and the aromas of beef stew and baked bread, in the friendly feminine voices, a peculiar music with the power to knit bones and heal souls. He’d carried on in his room above an exotic animal dealer with wafts of unseemly smells. A word with his landlord fixed that, but no amount of scrubbing could match this.

  His hand curled against the velvet coat draped over his arm. This was . . . longing.

  All the king’s riches could buy a house, but never a home.

  A home was made with gentle hearts and acts of kindness. Anne and her seditious league had made one. Women, young and old, caring for one another. It took a moment before he crossed the threshold and shut the door. This was hallowed ground.

  The ladies tossed hats and sundry on the entry table, their chatter dancing between league business to his cousin’s staunch belief a day of cricket would be good for all. He was subdued, withdrawing the wax from his coat.

  Anne pivoted to him. “Surely you have a few.”

  “A few what?” He added coat and hat to the pile.

  “Friends in the City,” she said patiently.

  He smiled. When men built a conversation, it was a ladder, one rung to the next. Women built theirs as a rambling garden, planting seeds here and there. The listener was expected to jump nimbly from one patch to the next.

  “I’d count Mr. Pidcock, my former landlord. A few men at West and Sons Shipping.”

  “Funny little man, your landlord,” Cecelia said. “I’d ask him about MacLeod.”

  After today, he wasn’t surprised she knew Mr. Pidcock.

  “Five years, I minded my business, and Mr. Pidcock minded his.”

  “Yes, well, time to change that.” She was bright and encouraging. “Just talk to him. A man like that knows a lot of people, but you’ll have to be friendly.”

  “I am friendly.”

  “And don’t be so . . . broody.” His cousin wrinkled her nose. “That and your size puts people off.”

  “I don’t brood.” But he knew no truer words had ever been said. “And why am I all of a sudden asking about MacLeod?”

  “Because while you napped, I decided two heads are better than one.” Anne smiled, but he didn’t miss firm notes in her voice.

  “You decided, madame?”

  He could argue he wasn’t part of her league, more employee than partner. He had things to do—a former employer to see and men with T-branded thumbs to hunt. He wanted to begin his hunt tonight at the Iron Bell. Red Bess knew him, if he counted her flashed stays. He was sure the lass would be happy to share a pint and conversation if he paid for her time.

  His cousin pinched her skirts and tossed back an airy, “I shall leave you both to sort the details, all this lurking about has made me positively famished.”

  Anne waited until Cecelia’s footsteps crossed the dining room into the kitchen. A lack of privacy was both a blessing and a curse in cozy homes. Anne’s mouth was soft but set, a combination only she could achieve.

  “Lady Denton’s party is on the twenty-eighth. Less than five days. We cannot afford to be caught off guard again.”

  “Despite the countess’s early return, we made it work. Today was a success.”

  A slight nod. “It was a victory.”

  “You don’t have the look of a victorious woman.”

  Heat flowered on her cheeks. Wrinkled skirts and messy wisps from ripping off her hat betrayed her normal mien. This victory came at a cost: a verbal flogging done by the countess. Anne had to have been gritting her teeth while the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

  When her gaze met h
is, a pang bottomed inside him. She was vulnerable. Another chink in the armor of Anne Fletcher MacDonald Neville.

  “I won’t feel victorious. Not until I have the gold and am on a ship bound for the Western Isles.”

  The league. The clan. Couldn’t she be a little needy for him? Just once?

  He was wooing a complex woman. He had to remember that. Brash emotion defined their past. Anne’s heart, the heart of an older and wiser woman, would have to be won a little at a time.

  “Then, you’ll need this.” He took her hand in his and set the wax mold in her palm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Celebrate your victories, lass.”

  Her head bowed, she was almost angelic, looking at the block of wax, its center an empty shape of a key. It was like Anne, a woman fully formed in wisdom and character, yet void in certain parts. He wanted very much to be the one to fill those parts.

  Patience, mon, patience.

  “Did you know, I am in the midst of negotiating the purchase of our clan’s sheep from a Frenchman?” Her voice was small and quiet.

  “That makes you a true shepherdess.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  She lifted her head, her smile blessing him better than the noonday sun. A shared secret, something of a positive nature, broke through her ever-present armor of duty to the clan. Her face tipped to his, her lips free of carmine’s emphatic color. More black wisps fell forward, and this time he gave in to the temptation to brush them back. Her hair was silken onyx threads. Lock by lock, he tucked them behind the peach-soft shell of her ear. The tiniest hairs inhabited her earlobe. He gloried in touching them. Soft and sweet. Tender as summer fruit. Why didn’t men spend more time on a woman’s ears?

  Anne’s breasts strained against her bodice.

  Because men were slathering hounds there.

  “I—we, the lot of us—have met with success because we’ve worked every detail,” she said. “But the countess coming home early and Mr. MacLeod’s sudden appearance cannot be good. Especially when we are so close to getting the gold.”