The Scot Who Loved Me

by Gina Conkle

  “We know. We’ve been through this a thousand times.” Anne reached for Cecelia’s glove-worrying hand. “We’ll be fine. When the countess checks on the herd of guests gathering in the retiring rooms, that’s our cue. Will and I will go to the study and get our gold.”

  In a matter of minutes, Cecelia would signal their arrival to Aunt Flora, who had been in the Countess of Denton’s kitchen since noon. Aunt Flora would add drops of a stomach-upsetting tincture in red wine, which footmen would serve on shiny silver trays. Aunt Maude, who was working the retiring room, would tell a footman to alert the countess about the growing, indelicate situation. The threat of her event going awry would impel her to investigate. Once Lady Denton entered her ground-floor retiring room to check on her guests, the theft was in play.

  Will patted his chest. “I’ve go’ the Wilkes Lock key.”

  “Right over your heart,” Anne said.

  The carriage rolled to a stop and the door’s click could be a pistol shot.

  The race was on.

  Cecelia took a bracing breath and exited first. She fairly glittered, a fireworks display of red and blond. She swept up the steps to Denton House, glomming on to a man’s arm with a small laugh. No butler would announce the guests. The art salon was that kind of event—elegance with a hint of loose morals.

  Anne decamped the carriage, a languid roll to her hips. Dark peacock green dressed her. If her gown had other embellishments, he couldn’t say. He was following her silken hips to their place in line.

  Anne craned her neck for a look ahead. “It appears Lady Denton is alone in the receiving line.”

  “She would be.” Will offered his arm, and Anne set her gloveless fingers on his black velvet sleeve.

  “But Mr. MacLeod—”

  “Is either tucked away in a pub, or he’s go’ his feet up in his room, minding his own business.”

  “And you know this because . . . ?”

  “It’s what I did. Lady Denton’s bold about keeping a private footman, but she doesna flaunt them. But you already know this, Mrs. Neville.”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Because my cousin isn’t the only person cultivating information, is she?”

  Anne’s head angled toward him, and door lamps cast her face in a half light. She was shadows, softness, and secrets. But her eyes were emeralds, the fire and depth of which he’d yet to fathom.

  “What do you mean?”

  Ah, there it was. The velvet blade of her voice.

  “I mean your visits to Mr. Pidcock to check on me these past five years. Were you checking on me when I lived here at Denton House?”

  Her lips parted. The tiny opening between them was the most tempting spot on her body, and that was a feat because her breasts were pearled fruit spilling from her bodice, the ever-present medallion tucked between them.

  “I was still in Scotland when you lived here. I could hardly check on you.”

  They were fourth in line from the countess. He’d get this out now because these words were years overdue and this was as close to being alone as he could get. Despite the league’s well-laid plans, there was no telling how this night would end. He wasn’t taking a chance, not with what needed saying.

  “You managed to check on me while I lived above Mr. Pidcock’s shop.”

  Anne’s mouth firmed, and the small opening he coveted gone. He felt its absence all the way to his toes. It was a sorry victory he enjoyed, unfolding her secret. His feelings were mixed. Exultant and sad at five years . . . wasted.

  “Why didna you come to me?” he asked.

  There was fragile movement in her neck. A guilty swallow.

  “I couldn’t.”

  A polite cough yanked him from looking into her eyes. A gap swelled between them and the next pair greeting the countess. He led Anne over the threshold into the light. Fifty candles burned circles of light in a crystal chandelier above their heads. Light bounced off white marble floors, the effect breathtaking. It was a message from the Countess of Denton: I’m a wealthy, powerful collector of beauty.

  Anne’s profile was proud beside him.

  “Why did you never come to me?” he asked again. “All this time, I thought you’d forgotten me.”

  “I have never forgotten about you because I have never, never stopped loving you.” Shoulders square and chin proud, Anne was in high spirits, though her voice throbbed low. “I sought news of your whereabouts since the war. Any scraps I could find. Your time in the prison hulk, your time here at Denton House, and your time on the docks. All of it. But that’s not what you want. You want to know why I didn’t seek you out, and it’s simple. I didn’t think you wanted me.”

  Anne’s eyes glossed wetly at the admission, and the beast that drove him to follow her out of Marshalsea sank greedy claws into his heart. The same beast which laughed at his rejection was cruelly laughing again.

  “I pledged my troth to Mr. Neville. An old man who did no more than touch my hand. It was not a true marriage, Will MacDonald, but my vows were. And they always will be,” she said fervently, quietly for his ears alone. “If I swear an oath before God and man to be faithful, it will be done . . .’til death do we part.”

  Anne’s pain pierced him. He was stunned and unaccountably angry. Life had been unusually cruel, stealing all that he had held dear. As a boy, his mother, gone. Then clan, country, and his father who he’d not seen since the war. And Anne, the most confounding woman to ever win his heart. She’d known where he was, yet she married another man to help their clan.

  What a tangled web.

  This woman he loved was layers upon layers of complexity.

  Her loyalty was fierce and glorious. It rocked his soul, because wrapped within it was the real treasure he found in Denton House. Anne had never stopped loving him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Molten gold eyes burned with hunger. Anne ripped herself away from Will. She liked her arm entwined with his, but he pulsed with emotion. Anger, amazement, true, true amazement, and love. She’d take them all, though there were enough to make a woman forget where she was standing or if she was breathing. Naught else mattered. They would be together.

  Not a war or a woman would come between them.

  She touched Will’s sleeve, a promise in it.

  Later . . .

  They had but one task tonight—take the gold. In that, they were united. Lightness rippled inside her. It felt like . . . victory.

  She watched Will step forward in the marble entry. A fist curled against his midsection. He bowed from the waist.

  “Countess, thank you for inviting us.”

  Anne’s heart fluttered with pride. She needed to heal. They needed to heal. But true love was pliable and stalwart. She saw it in Will’s handsome profile, more beautiful and perfect for his goodness. He smiled graciously at a woman who didn’t deserve it. The countess basked in it. Anne took the moment to force herself back into the present. To hear voices cluttering, laughter spilling, the footmen scurrying with perfectly balanced trays. Music played somewhere too. Will was concluding the bland chatter one gave to a host. Hearts would quiver for Will MacDonald well into his advanced years, but she would be the one to walk beside him.

  When he stepped aside, Lady Denton buried her hands in dramatic panniers, her wistful gaze following him. Perhaps love for the highlander lived in the woman’s gilded heart. If it did, all hints of gentle emotions faded when Anne sashayed forward.

  “Mrs. Neville. How kind of you to come.” The Countess of Denton’s voice dripped with ice.

  Anne bowed her head and sank into a deep elegant curtsey. She held it longer than necessary, and her medallion swung forward, a golden pendulum.

  “Mrs. Neville . . . must you?” Lady Denton’s patience wore thin.

  She rose slowly, her skirts a green silk froth. “I must, my lady. As a tribute to my grandmother, you see.”

  A politely bored, “Your grandmother?”

  “Yes, the late Mrs. Eliza
beth Wilcox. She taught me to show deference to my betters. Especially those of . . . experienced years.”

  A brittle smile stretched. Countess Denton was a vision of good breeding and perfect style. Thanks to expensive creams and fastidious avoidance of the sun, she glowed with beauty and fine health. Her current gown of coppered silk and cream did wonders for the woman. Candlelight caressed the fabric and her sherry-colored eyes. Truly stunning. Her characteristic silver-white lock vanished in piles of curled black hair. The countess apparently had her unusual streak dyed to match the rest of her hair.

  Imperious fingers flicked a summons. “Come closer.”

  Anne could hardly resist. She stepped into her ladyship’s sphere of perfume and power. Countess Denton’s head tipped forward and she dropped her voice for Anne’s ears alone.

  “You are swimming in dangerous waters, Mrs. Neville.”

  “Am I?”

  “I know what you’re about.”

  Dread seized Anne. With her ear cocked to the woman, guests traipsing the stairs and mingling in the entry would think the countess shared a secret with a friend. It was intimate, as only enemies in skirts would do battle.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, my lady,” Anne said lightly, but her palms dampened.

  “You disappoint me, Mrs. Neville. I was prepared to open doors for you, to give you an opportunity. One that any other woman in the City would kill to have.”

  “I am not any other woman.”

  She parted from their tête-à-tête with a healthy dose of fear. She’d lived too long with its ability to separate the wheat from the chaff as it were. The countess, a creature of comfort, had not. The countess had lived too much with her confidence. It was making her careless with details. Thus, the upstart widow of Bermondsey Wall was one step ahead in their uneven race. It was an advantage Anne would enjoy while she could.

  “I must decline your gracious offer, milady.”

  Spite flickered in the countess’s eyes. They both knew why: all six foot, four inches of handsome highlander was why.

  “Any doors opened will be of my doing and mine alone.” Anne quieted her voice, lending the smallest smirk to it. “Another lesson from my grandmother, the late Mrs. Wilcox.”

  The Countess of Denton looked ready to smite her, yet the woman managed a polite, glacial, “Enjoy tonight, Mrs. Neville, for tomorrow, I shall crush you.”

  “Not if I crush you first, Lady Denton.” Cold words delivered with knifelike precision.

  Anne turned her back on the woman and swanned off with all the bravado a body could muster. She linked arms with Will. “Champagne. Now.”

  He kissed her bruised temple and whispered, “Whatever you said, lass, has go’ her ladyship glaring daggers at your back.”

  “Good.” She walked as close to him as her panniers allowed.

  Will led them past gilt-trimmed doors flung wide. The drawing room–cum–art salon number one. The salacious art lived in the ballroom on another floor, where not surprisingly, most of the guests had migrated.

  In this room, a quartet hid behind a wall of greenery, their stringed music serenading guests. Gorgeous paintings sat on easels placed around the room. For those who wanted to linger, damask upholstered chairs and settees had been arranged for comfortable viewing. Cecelia was planted on a beige settee. Her face tipped high while she conversed with an ardent, bespectacled admirer who owned neatly queued chestnut hair.

  Anne dropped on the seat beside Cecelia. She was grateful the admirer answered a viscount’s summons about a seascape, and even more grateful for the footman who stopped with a tray of champagne, not red wine. Anne took two glasses. The footman didn’t bat an eye.

  “Thank you.” She emptied the first glass and tucked it under the settee.

  Cecelia blinked at her. “Thirsty work greeting the countess?”

  Anne gulped champagne from her second glass. She would’ve kept going, but Will slid onto the seat next to her.

  “Calm down and tell us what happened.” His voice was her lodestone. She could listen to it all night.

  “Something happened?” Cecelia’s brows pinched. She was fierce and exquisite with her piles of blond hair and artful cosmetics.

  Her fingers were icy on the glass. “The countess knows.”

  “Knows what?” Will asked.

  “When I greeted her, she said, ‘I know what you’re about,’ which was followed with a threat to destroy me.” A swallow of sparkling liquid courage helped. The first glass of champagne was already seeping into her limbs, uncoiling tight nerves. At least she imagined it to be so.

  “Is that all?”

  She looked into his face, each feature more prominent from his neat queue and smooth-shaved jaw. “She told me to enjoy the evening because tomorrow she would crush me.”

  Will’s hand covered hers digging into expensive silk. His dockside callouses gently scraped her skin. His hand was a safe harbor in this new storm. They linked fingers, and he led their joined hands into his lap and cupped his other hand over hers for good measure. She would have to tell him about the countess’s offer. Privately. Because that’s what true love did.

  “Crush you tomorrow, you say?” Cecelia’s eyes narrowed. “Those are words of fear and jealousy said after you entered her house on Will’s arm. I wouldn’t be afraid of the woman, if I were you.”

  “I’m inclined to take her seriously. Call it an aversion to prison,” she said and emptied the second glass.

  Cecelia unwound Anne’s fingers from that glass and she was struck by the notion of Will holding one hand and Cecelia holding the other. What a trio they made.

  “I think that’s enough champagne for you, dear.” Cecelia tipped her closed fan at the doorway. “Look over there. Would you say that’s the face of a woman who knows about our plan?”

  More guests clustered in the ground-floor salon. The Countess of Denton, framed by gilt-trimmed doors flung wide, was in command of all she surveyed. She was laughing, a handsome artist at her side. A herd of pastel silks and velvets traveled upstairs. The countess and the young artist followed.

  Footmen circulated, but not a single tray of red wine was in sight. Behind the latest gaggle of footmen, a fresh throng of guests appeared. Young, handsome upstarts. Well dressed, though at second glance, the coats were three seasons old and the shoes of one man scuffed. Anne studied these newcomers carefully, new dread landing in her stomach.

  “Cecelia, what are Mr. James Hadley and friends doing here?”

  “What do you think?” Defiance flashed in Cecelia’s eyes.

  “You invited them?”

  Her peace of mind took another tumble. First, the countess’s threat, which could or could not mean the woman knew their intentions. Now a gang of well-dressed thieves, Spruce Prigs as it were, had invaded Denton House, and Cecelia’s mutinous frown told her who invited them.

  Cecelia eyed Will. “Would you give us a moment?”

  Will kissed Anne’s temple and murmured against her skin, “Call me when you need me.”

  Tonight wasn’t his battle to lead. It was hers, and he was a foot soldier. How comforting that Will didn’t try to take over, another sign of his respect for her. He rambled the room, his thickly muscled shoulders filling black velvet. A sturdy back, a sturdy man. Calmer now, she turned her attention to Cecelia.

  “What are you about?”

  “I am about our mission. The one we vowed to accomplish since we left Clanranald MacDonald lands. What are you about, getting scared and such?” Scorn twisted Cecelia’s features. “Where’s the woman I nursed after she was knifed in St. Giles?”

  She touched her rib. A scar was the badge she carried from that night. Only Cecelia knew what had happened. She’d tracked down a source who might know who else in London hoarded Jacobite gold. After that night, she began to wear double stays. Not a perfect solution, but a helpful one. Her double stays had spared her another vicious cut when men attacked her in her warehouse. The very same atta
ck before she freed Will from Marshalsea. Cecelia was her keeper of secrets . . . most of them. She was the one who’d take charge of the league in her absence.

  She was certainly done with the City. When a woman wore double corsets for added protection, it was time to leave.

  Cecelia’s eyes softened. “Is your fear about Will?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I see the way you look at him. You are in love and that, my dear, has compromised you.” Cecelia patted her hand. “Before you were a fearless woman, the most fearless one I have had the privilege to know. You had nothing to lose before. Now you do.”

  A small inhale and, “You’re right.”

  Fear would not get the best of her. But that wasn’t all. Cecelia’s grasp tightened on Anne’s hand. Cecelia of frivolous shopping and the endless pursuit of pleasure and men had become very serious.

  “There is something else.”

  Anne scrutinized hazel eyes. “You’re not leaving for Bath tonight, are you?”

  “I am not. I am staying in London.”

  Cecelia was staying to make sure Anne left safely with the gold.

  She locked both hands with Cecelia. Faithful friend, ally, confidante. No finer woman walked the earth. If the Jacobite rebels had let Cecelia fight, they might have won on her tenacity alone. A fierce, loving streak a mile wide ran through her. She would be the first and last foot soldier on the field of battle. At present, her battle visage sterned, pretty and blond, her carmine lips curving with vicious determination.

  “Tell me, Anne. Don’t you want to grind the countess under your heel and ruin her?”

  God help her, she did.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  He was perusing paintings of places he’d never seen and likely never would. Lush English landscapes, hedgerows, horses leaping over hedgerows, a manse vast enough to house a small village, and a quaint river with a folly beside it. He’d never actually seen a folly, but he knew of them. By virtue of their name, the men who built them and the men who paid others to build them, had to know it was foolish.