The Scot Who Loved Me

by Gina Conkle

  “You don’t need this gold,” she said.

  “And you do?”

  Not a knife. Anne was gripping Ancilla’s crystal ink pot. A heavy thing. It would do damage. MacLeod’s flintlock would do worse.

  “Let’s calm down.” Will raised his hands in a show of peace.

  “I am calm. It’s your lady friend who’s about to throw that thing at my head.”

  Anne lifted the makeshift weapon. “It is at your peril, Mr. MacLeod. Never bring a flintlock to an inkwell fight.”

  MacLeod’s smile cracked unevenly, its cheer matched by his low chuckle. “You’re a rare piece, Mrs. Neville. Wherever did he find you?”

  “Lothian Street in Edinburgh. My father’s doorstep to be exact.” She was clipped and efficient, his Anne. “I hope to go back there someday . . . after I deliver this gold to the people who need it most. Highlanders, if you must know.”

  “Regular Robin Hood are you?”

  “I am afraid you’ve missed the mark again, Mr. MacLeod. Robin Hood was a man, while I am a woman.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  Will did not care for the sensual note in MacLeod’s voice.

  “I caught a Spruce Prig lifting her ladyship’s porcelain shepherdess. The two of you have anything to do with that?” MacLeod asked as if he needed to cross-reference the evening’s criminal activity.

  “Not . . . precisely.” Anne was splitting hairs.

  MacLeod tsked her. “A crime within a crime. Brilliant move, Mrs. Neville.”

  “I’m afraid I personally cannot take credit for the Spruce Prigs currently roaming Denton House.”

  “But you will take credit for lifting her ladyship’s gold.”

  “Jacobite gold, yes,” she said emphatically. “I most certainly do.”

  A stalemate stretched and by the set of Anne’s profile, the lass wasn’t giving an inch.

  MacLeod didn’t care about the gold. He was too busy staring at Anne, sizing her up, appreciating her. She had the look of a well-kissed woman with her hair in disarray. His flintlock-holding arm relaxed, and MacLeod pointed the muzzle at the floor.

  “If you ever tire of Mr. MacDonald, come find me, Mrs. Neville. You and I would have a good time.”

  “That is very kind of you, Mr. MacLeod, but my affections are otherwise taken.” She faced Will, her voice gentling. “For the rest of my life.”

  MacLeod’s smile faded, small and sad. “Then you and Mr. MacDonald had better disappear through that window and find the rest of your life.” When they didn’t move quickly, he nodded a reassurance. “Go on, I’ll watch the door.”

  Will lugged the last coin bag to the window and sucked in cool night air. A drop of sweat was trickling in his hairline. He’d fought with pistols and fists but never with the love of his life beside him. That interlude could’ve gone badly. He breathed a prayer of thanks it didn’t.

  At the window, Mary Fletcher was ghost white and her eyes round as dishes again. Horse hooves clattered in the distance and the confusion of men sounded in Grosvenor Square. Another lamp came to life in the mews.

  “Please hurry,” Miss Fletcher hissed.

  He passed the bag into her hands. Anne was at his back.

  “It’s done, Mary. It’s done,” she said, a quiver in her voice.

  Anne lifted her petticoats knee-high, and he helped her navigate out the window to the dray below. He was one leg over the casement frame when MacLeod called him.

  “Mr. MacDonald.”

  MacLeod’s head was cocked to the hall, an ominous light shining on his flintlock’s metal work.

  Will balanced one foot on the floor, his other leg on the bottom of the window frame. A deuced place to be. Half in, half out, compromised as he was and with no weapon. Anne might’ve temporarily won MacLeod with her prickly wit, but that didn’t mean the man wouldn’t change his mind. They’d never learned much about him or his motives. The unlit room and falling into the dray were Will’s best chance for a quick escape.

  MacLeod took two steps into the dark study. “The Night Watch is on their way. Bow Street won’t be far behind. Her ladyship has a few of them on a hook, I hear. You’ll avoid them if you take Tiburn Lane.”

  “Thank you.” Will leaped to the dray below. “The Night Watch is coming. Take Tiburn Lane and we’ll avoid them.”

  Mary Fletcher snapped the reins and the vehicle lurched forward. He stretched out beside Anne in between barrels filled with gold and held her close. She gripped his waistcoat as if she’d never let go. He was coiled up inside, tighter than a child’s wind-up toy. Much had gone wrong this night, but they were together. And they were free. For now.

  House lights faded when the dray rumbled onto less refined Tiburn Lane. A turn to the right would take them to Tiburn Tree. He untied his cravat, the irony not lost on him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  They made it to Southwark. He knew this because star-strewn skies shed the best light where fewer streetlights were to be had. All the same, he was still on a bed of straw and out of sight. Mermaid Brewery barrels rattled, twin walls hiding him and Anne. The roads were less friendly but there was no other place he’d rather be. The woman he loved was tangled nicely with him, her head in the crook of his shoulder and her hand currently wandering to unsafe places.

  He sent a prayer of thanks for the dark and the barrels between the Fletcher sisters and the goings-on in the back of the dray. It was torture because they still had a fair distance to go.

  Anne’s hand drifted lower. She rucked up the bottom of his waistcoat. A slow rumple of cloth and . . . her fingertips slid into the top of his placket. She played there. Little circles. Quiet. Soft. Just the feel of her body braided with his.

  An image of her bending over and kissing his arse in broad daylight bloomed.

  He hugged her closer and murmured in her ear, “Careful, lass. I canna say what my tackle will do if your hand keeps doing that.”

  Her giggle was sweet. Her hand drifted with the same sluggishness out of his placket. “I cannot stop touching you, Will MacDonald.”

  “Because I’m the brawest mon you’ve ever met.”

  “By far.”

  “How handsome? Mr. Rory MacLeod handsome?”

  Her head lifted and black wisps tickled his ear. She angled her head to see him better, the same as he was angling for a compliment.

  She tipped her head this way and that. “It’s a close contest to be sure, but we may need to go and find Mr. MacLeod . . . for comparison’s sake only.”

  “You wound me, lass. Right here.” He pointed to his heart.

  Impish light sparked in her eyes. “For the best comparison, I may ask him to drop his breech—”

  Will dragged her close and kissed her soundly. Hands in her hair, he nestled Anne between his legs . . . that stopped her tart tongue. It was a long kiss, sweet and dark, her tongue, her lips tasting of champagne. Anne was a mystery he’d barely plumbed. The young man had foolishly raised his fists in victory after their first kiss. His Yes! bellowed to the sky. A hard-earned first kiss, it was.

  This was a mending of souls. Kindness, passion, love. An open-mouthed kiss melting into gentle nibbles, lips grazing, and tender noises lacing them together.

  Heaven on earth. He’d find it wherever he was . . . as long as Anne was there.

  Which begged a new, difficult conversation: she was leaving at dawn to go north.

  Not a word had passed between them about him. Anne must’ve sensed his hesitation. She broke their kiss, folded her arm over his chest, and rested her chin there.

  “Out with it, Will.”

  This was nice, the weight of her on top of him. Anne belonged there, her legs lolling against his while the dray rumbled on.

  He hooked an arm under his head. “You’re leaving at dawn.”

  “I am. To take the gold back to Clanranald lands. It’s been my mission for years. You know that.”

  This was the next skirmish. The night seemed full of them, but if he had
to do battle, he’d do it with Anne and for Anne. She was pretty, the stars a crown to her head. Her eyes big emeralds, her cosmetics smudged. His landlocked mermaid, her green skirts a tail flipping her impatience. Black curls fell in sensual disarray. He plucked straw from one and tossed it aside.

  “We havena discussed you and me, lass.”

  He traced her collarbone to her shoulder.

  “Because there’s nothing to discuss.”

  He hooked a finger in her gown and tugged. Moonlight kissed her bared shoulder. The onyx curl slid lazily forward. It begged to be touched. He was fascinated with it, coiling and uncoiling her hair.

  “We’re together. Forever. You heard what I said to Mr. MacLeod.” Anne’s strong voice thinned. “I cannot . . . I will not—”

  A catch in her throat stopped her. Anne’s face crumpled.

  “Will? You cannot mean to go to . . .”

  The woman he loved more than life was about to cry and he would have none of that.

  “Shhhhh . . .”

  This wasn’t easy for either of them.

  Her cheek on his chest, Anne grabbed handfuls of his coat. “I saw the way you looked at that painting. The beach at Benbecula.” Her head lifted heavily. “How can you not want to go home?”

  “It’s no’ so easy, lass.” He brushed his knuckles on her wet cheek. “My father . . .”

  “We can figure something out.” She cupped his head, her voice fierce. “I choose you, Will MacDonald. I choose us.”

  He dragged her hand to his mouth and shushed her.

  He kissed her palm, the plump seat of her thumb, her wrist where her skin was fascinatingly soft. They’d given themselves body and soul to Scotland and their clan. Much had gone into finding the Jacobite gold which hardly jingled thanks to Mary Fletcher’s clever burlap and wool packing. Anne had made her sacrifices, and so had he. If he couldn’t be with Anne in the colonies, he’d be with her in Scotland.

  Like an acorn seed must split to become a tree, his heart would have to break too. Only then would they have something better.

  He touched a fat tear on her cheek. “As you wish, lass. We’ll go home to Scotland.”

  Anne searched his face. The hope lighting her eyes was enough to bring him to his knees. He didn’t deserve her hope, her love but he’d give his all to earn it. The rest of his life, in fact.

  “I mean it, Anne.”

  She melted onto his chest. Her muffled, sniffling, “We will be happy” tossing the sweetest tether around his heart.

  This was the way of love. Compromise was a myth. Sometimes one gave his all and more to win true love. He’d been so set in his need to fight the war, he’d lost the only woman he’d ever loved. His second chance to have love would not be wasted on where he lived. He’d learned a new trade with West and Sons Shipping. He could do the same again.

  With Anne’s head near his heart, he closed his eyes and let needful rest come. He drifted off to an impossible vision of the Isle of Benbecula, a gentle wind blowing across a sloping beach, a scruff of land above it, and the sun shining down on his head.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  A hand jiggled his shoulder. He grabbed it fast and sat up, blinking. Anne leaned over him, a candle lamp in one hand.

  “My hand, if you please,” she said in a husky voice. He did have a death grip on the hand that had shaken him awake, a habit of war and prison that stuck.

  Air was stirring cold and unfriendly. He hugged his insufficient velvet coat tighter, closing the ends, turning up the collar. River water slapped, buildings loomed. He cuffed grains of sleep from his eyes, hoping to clear his head. They were at a wharf by the arrangement of buildings, the dock, and the river.

  “Where are we?”

  “Gun Wharf.” She raised her lamp higher. “Neville Warehouse to be precise.”

  He scooted off the dray, taking a fair bit of straw with him. A blue-and-white sign confirmed they were at Neville Warehouse. Anne produced a key and inserted it in an iron padlock.

  “You slept like the dead. We decided not to wake you.”

  “What about the gold?” he asked, squinting at his environs.

  The padlock sprang open. “Mary, Margaret, and I removed it ourselves.” She unhooked the padlock. “A force of habit, living without a man these years. We got used to doing everything ourselves. Besides, you’ve looked exhausted since Marshalsea.”

  Anne opened the sun-bleached door, and he was tempted to tell her he’d been exhausted since losing the war. Since seeing Anne again, he’d had the first true, bone-deep rest. Invigorating. Humbling. She was so competent.

  He followed her into the near-empty warehouse, his voice echoing, “You do plan on needing me . . . someday, lass?”

  The candle lamp swung merrily, its yellow glow crowning her mussed hair. “I need you every day, Will MacDonald. Close that door behind you and set the bar, if you please.”

  He shut the warehouse door and barred it. “We’re sleeping here?”

  “Until dawn. That’s when Mr. Baines will take us to Mr. Harrison's sloop, The Grosvenor.” She pushed up on her toes and kissed him. "Fate is a funny thing."

  She was leaning so prettily against him, one hand petting his chest, that he couldn’t think straight.

  “You met him at the White Lamb.” Anne tugged his coat to follow her through the dark. Three paces ahead, she glanced back coyly, “You will be cordial with him? He is, after all, taking us home.”

  Home. The word resonated as music to a man once lost but now found. Stamped earth was quiet under his footsteps. He followed Anne, a siren in green silk. Her shoulder was bare. She hadn’t tugged her gown back up.

  “We’ll be safe here,” she said.

  Mermaid Brewery barrels were stacked against a wall. One of them had to hold Jacobite gold. His Anne was quite a capable woman, rolling barrels with the Fletcher sisters, and him sleeping like the dead.

  “What about the Fletcher sisters? Aunt Maude? And Aunt Flora?”

  “I said my goodbyes to the Fletcher sisters. They unhitched the horses and rode them across the bridge where a hostelry has agreed to take them. They should already be at an inn at the edge of the City where they will meet Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora. From there, the four of them will travel to Brighton. They’ll stay there until it’s safe to return to the City.”

  “You mean when or if the countess cannot draw a line from you to them.”

  She set a hand on the rough bannister, her skirts snagging on rough wood. “It is the reality of our league. I put myself in first position as a possible target. Next will be Cecelia.”

  “Who is not leaving the City.”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “You’re worried about her.”

  “I am but there’s nothing I can do. The hazard of our choices, I’m afraid.” Carmine had faded on her lips, but they were a definitive line. A determined woman, this lass from Edinburgh he loved.

  Her smile curved seductively. “Follow me. I’ve something to show you.”

  She headed upstairs. He knew where they were going—her counting room. He crested the stairs and found a makeshift mattress covered in blankets, his satchel and boots (cleaned and oiled, the toes pointing out), another satchel (Anne’s?), and a basket of victuals.

  “What do you think?” Anne’s smile was like the sun.

  “It’s good for the night.”

  There was a treadwheel, the smell of the river, of wood and labor and sweat. Home in many ways. Not a place for seduction but their love had been nurtured on less.

  Anne groaned. “Take another look, Will MacDonald.” She arced her arm over the simple bed.

  His kilt.

  It was folded in a big square in the middle of the bed. He went to the bed and dropped to his knees. He touched the tartan, raised it reverently, and held it up to scant light. The cloth had been repaired, some stitches neat and even, others jagged. Most places the thread matched the weave where the warders had done their worst. Other stitches we
re childlike . . . every one of them a stitch to put his heart and his life back together.

  He stared at his kilt, marveling at it and marveling at the woman who cared enough to do this. For him.

  Anne hooked the lamp to the wall. When she turned around, her eyes were vulnerable pools.

  “It’s why I bolted my door. I wanted to surprise you.”

  The thumping, the late-night candle burning, enough to break a Bermondsey Wall house budget. For him.

  He fingered a long red stitch. “I will treasure it for the rest of my life.”

  Candlelight haloed Will. He was Hades on his knees before her. She caressed his golden head and pulled the black silk ribbon which bound his hair. His awe at her gift faded to one she’d seen on the faces of men in taverns and the streets when hungry for a woman. A scowl slashed his mouth. She knew how to tease and how to drive him mad. It would be a torture and a pleasure, a night journey to indulge for years to come.

  Finally, finally they would be together. She would feed his needs and in the doing feed hers. Emboldened, she slid a hand over her stomacher, the silk whispering against her hand. Lower her hand went. To her petticoats. To the place between her legs.

  Will followed her hand, his scowl twisting tighter.

  She cupped her mons and rubbed. Rich, dark silk slithered, the only noise.

  A triangle imprint formed in the silk. Will’s molten eyes grew darker and blacker and hungrier the more she rubbed that triangle inches from his face.

  Her heart pounded with thrashing wildness. The pressure that wanted out was back, the fuse lit. Fireworks indeed. Sparking, crackling, heat building.

  She kept her hand working the delta between her legs, her fingers swirling over the tender mound.

  “Lift your skirt, lass.”

  His rough command thrilled her.

  “Fine words for a man on his knees before me.”

  His heart-melting grin slid sideways. “Seductive, teasing lasses . . . my weakness.”

  For that, she obliged him. Yards of peacock green silk swam upward, shimmering, dancing, a pretty cloud. Behind this cloud, her legs stretched. One of her finer features, her legs.