The Scot Who Loved Me

by Gina Conkle

  “Oh yes, we did.” Eyes closing, her spine hit the door. “It was glorious.”

  “Then why are you in my house smelling of smoke?”

  “Because the countess sent men to the warehouse. There was a fire, three men are dead, and the Night Watch hauled Will away. I saw that from the river.”

  “You’ve had quite a morning. Something tells me The Grosvenor will depart the City without you.”

  Anne groaned. “I can’t leave without Will. I won’t leave without him.” She covered her mouth to smother a howl that wanted out. “I should’ve stayed with him.”

  Cecelia rushed forward and grabbed Anne’s arms. “No, you should not have.”

  “But . . . Will . . .”

  Cecelia’s gaze locked with hers. “Will did the right thing. He got you out of there.”

  “But, the Night Watch . . . they’re sure to take him back to Marshalsea.”

  “And you wanted to . . . what? Molder in chains with him? As if they’d put you two together.” Cecelia huffed impatiently. “What is the first thing we learned when we came to the City?” She paused, then answered her own question. “That it’s easier to bribe one person out of prison, than two. I, for one, am glad they took Will and not you.”

  “Oh . . . don’t say that.”

  “This is hardly over, dear.” Cecelia stepped back and called out, “Jenny?”

  Jenny, the maid-cum-servant walked in, rag curls still in her hair. “Yes, miss?”

  “Two morning chocolates. Extra silky smooth please.”

  “I’ve already started it, miss.”

  “Excellent.” Cecelia took Anne’s hand and pulled her into a salon cozier and far prettier than anything Anne could envision.

  “Now, sit here and tell me everything.”

  Anne sank into a green damask chair and put her feet on the stool that matched it. Cecelia curled up on a floral print settee and wrapped a large shawl around her shoulders. They sat quietly for a time. Anne needed it. She covered her eyes, the strain seeping out of her.

  “You anticipated this. The countess attacking so soon. You should’ve taken charge of our league.”

  “Me? In charge of the league. You have courage in spades. You run into a knife fight while I . . .” Cecelia waved a manicured hand. “I get wonky at the sight of blood. And yes, we both knew the countess would strike. So soon? I hoped it’d come after dawn when you and Will were on The Grosvenor, but that didn’t happen. Shall we stop useless recriminations and figure out how to get you and Will and the gold safely out of London?”

  “I don’t care about the gold.” Her hand dropped to her lap and a fresh wave of misery swamped her. She searched the wall, looking at but not seeing the birds and flowers printed on it. “I don’t care about duty and responsibility or having a mission. I want Will.”

  Arms crossed, she was quite mulish. Cecelia pulled the shawl tighter and listened.

  “He sacrificed himself for me . . . for the gold . . . when he never wanted anything to do with it in the first place.”

  Jenny entered with a tray of two dishes of chocolate. Anne took one dish, its heat nursing her.

  “I should go to the magistrate and let him know Will is innocent.”

  “You cannot. For all my complaints of Mr. Fielding, he is fair. But Southwark is another story. You will not find justice in Southwark. The countess will dig her claws in Marshalsea, if she hears you’re there. Will did the right thing in sparing you.” Cecelia sipped her chocolate. “Did anyone see you?”

  “Only Mr. Baines. A few wharfmen. The smoke was still thick in the warehouse and the fire was at the small north door.”

  “That’s good.” Cecelia sipped more chocolate. “Let’s think this through.”

  Birds chirped their morning song outside Cecelia’s window. One could almost feel hopeful from the sound. Until Cecelia set her cup on a satinwood table with a decisive clunk.

  “I have a wonderful idea, but we must find a dead body first.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Torchlight flickered over a beast of a man sitting on the ground dressed in black velvet. His braw arms were manacled to the wall of Marshalsea Prison’s strong room, the shed as it was known to many a troublesome criminal. Midnight was the hardest hour. Light danced on the walls, dipping and swaying over scratches left by men driven to madness.

  Anne stepped into the shed’s close confines, scarcely believing how her life had changed since her last visit here. Will’s eyes were molten gold but clearer this time, tender and lively. His whole person stirred to attention, the chains jingling as if his limbs leaped for joy at the sight of the woman cloaked in gray.

  She lowered her hood, her gaze meeting his.

  The beast smiled. “Well, well, Mrs. Neville, back again, I see.”

  “You know I couldn’t stay away.”

  Will’s chest expanded. “You shouldna be here. It’s no’ . . . safe.”

  Anne eyed the warder, lounging in the doorway, a big bald man named Mr. Bixby, who enjoyed picking his teeth and showing how little he cared about visitors to the shed. The warder had made a fine speech about truth, justice, and the Marshalsea way. But his eyes slanted when he spied Anne’s earrings from the depths of her hood.

  Word was, Southwark got the occasional high-value prisoner, and the highlander dressed in black velvet fit that description. She didn’t blame Bixby. He was trying to play his cards right, and go home a wealthy man. He was cut from the same mold as Ledwell, which at the moment was not of interest to her. All she could do was look at Will, his legs sprawled and hair down. No visible bruises this time. A fair crop of new whiskers growing. The velvet coat fell open from his widespread arms. He still wore the burnished gold silk waistcoat, but no cravat, and his stockings were torn and filthy.

  “Inspecting the goods, madame?” he asked.

  “Last time I saw a good deal of the man I purchased. What do I get to see this time?”

  His mouth dented sideways. “My charm?”

  “It’s rough at best.”

  “My steady devotion?”

  “You’re getting warmer, sir.”

  His lips parted, soft with emotion. “Would you take my undying love?”

  “Sold.” Her gaze on Will, she addressed the warder. “What will it take for you to part with this incorrigible prisoner, Mr. Bixby?”

  “Well now, ma’am . . .” he began. “I’m thinking he ought to go before the magistrate.”

  “For what? He’s done nothing wrong.”

  Bixby jerked his thumb in the general direction of the wharfs. “There’s three dead men—that’s enough.”

  “Vicious men, every one of them. Mr. MacDonald was trying to save me.”

  “Then you and he can tell yer story to the magistrate, ma’am.”

  And give the Countess of Denton time to retaliate? Hardly.

  “What will it take for you to release this man to me?”

  “Well, his possible crimes are a bit more serious than kilt wearin’, ma’am.” Bixby scratched his ear. “With the summer’s spate of violent housebreakers and the crown looking to stop it, well . . .” His eloquent shrug signaled this transaction would be harder to seal than her first visit to Marshalsea.

  “I’m no’ a housebreaker, Mr. Bixby,” Will said.

  “Tell it to the magistrate.”

  Anne sighed and addressed Mr. Bixby. “You heard about my last visit, did you?”

  “Ledwell likes to talk.”

  “Then you know I will pay very well for this man.”

  His stare landed greedily on her earbobs. “I might be able to accommodate you but, ma’am, you have to accommodate me.”

  “Oh?”

  “I can’t sell his arrest record. Not for murder, but I could sell it to you for a lesser crime—”

  “Such as kilt wearing.”

  “—such as kilt wearing. But if you could, say, find a body to replace him . . .” Mr. Bixby’s words trailed off on a lighter note.

&nb
sp; “A dead body?”

  “That would work, ma’am.”

  Now the warder was being reasonable and smart and smart men were rewarded.

  “You are in luck, Mr. Bixby. What if I told you I could have one delivered by dawn?”

  Bixby’s grin was amiable. “Then you’d have a deal.”

  “About the issue of payment.” She removed an earring and held it up for his inspection. “You know the value of rubies, don’t you?”

  “Anne!” Will’s voice rumbled from the floor. “Don’t do it. Those were your grandmother’s.”

  She gave him a speaking look, one filled with longing and tenderness. The earrings were pretty stones, cherished stones, but they were no substitute for Will. She’d learned a hard lesson of late: no amount of gold, rubies, or treasure of any kind could replace love. But, it wasn’t the treasure which gave her pause; it was her blind sense of duty. It had nearly destroyed her.

  Love was bigger than duty. That was a truth to hold on to, like the stubborn highlander she’d come to save again.

  Mr. Bixby scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “Rubies you say?”

  “Yes.” A lie, but she was desperate and willing to do anything to free Will.

  Mr. Bixby reached for the jewelry, but her fingers curled around it. “Not yet, Mr. Bixby. Release him first. Then the earring is yours.”

  “Ah now, ma’am, I cannot release him until I have a body to replace him.”

  “And I cannot delay.” She pulled the second earring from her ear. “Both are yours if you set him free this very moment. You have my word, a . . . replacement body will be here at dawn.”

  Bixby kicked the brick stairs, thinking about the offer. Voices from Marshalsea rose, a new prisoner delivered by the Night Watch. Anne slowly closed her fingers again.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Bixby. Mr. MacDonald and I should take our plight to the magistrate and throw ourselves on his mercy. And it wouldn’t cost me a thing.”

  Bixby gaped hungrily at her fisted hand. “No. I’ll do it.”

  The exchange done, the warder passed over the life-changing key to Anne—her third in less than a fortnight.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The next day

  There was only one thing Ancilla liked less than arrogant, obtuse men and that was a woman who thought herself supremely clever. The destruction of Neville House at Bermondsey Wall was unfortunate, but necessary. Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Neville wasn’t there. The destruction of the Neville Warehouse was more vexing. The clues to finding her gold pointed to Neville Warehouse.

  Anne and Will had been hiding there.

  But the treasure was not inside.

  Why else would they go there but to guard the gold?

  Due to the unfortunate fire, she had to stay away from Gun Wharf another day. Some of the Night Watch here were cozy with the Night Watch on the other side of the river. Mr. Fielding unfortunately had the ear of the crown through the Duke of Newcastle. It wouldn’t do to stir the pot too much.

  With Will MacDonald in chains at Marshalsea, awaiting the Southwark magistrate (who was known to take much longer than three days before hearing a prisoner’s charges), she didn’t fear Mrs. Neville’s disappearance. The slippery woman was somewhere in the City. It was merely a matter of finding her.

  Find the woman and she’d find the Jacobite gold.

  When her carriage pulled up to Neville Warehouse, a more capable band of men combed the building. Former army men, smarter than the last group. Mr. Wortley was their leader, efficient, hawkish eyes, a clear grasp of order. He was resourceful. She was in need of a new private footman with Mr. MacLeod’s sudden departure. But something in Mr. Wortley’s eyes turned her stomach. Something of a rabid dog lurked under a thin veneer of restraint with that man.

  No, it wouldn’t do to bring that under her roof. She had her limits.

  The carriage door was opened, and she exited, plainly dressed in muslin as it was the unseemly hour of nine o’clock in the morning.

  “Mr. Wortley, what have you found?”

  His eyes were dark under the brim of his tricorn. “We searched this warehouse high and low, milady. Tore it apart in places. If there was gold here, we would’ve found it.”

  She marched inside and surveyed the damage. She wore men’s riding boots this morning, all the better to tromp around Gun Wharf. Four men dug up sections of the stamped earth floor, Mermaid Brewery barrels had been disassembled, logs scattered. Mr. Wortley walked her through what he suspected happened with the first men.

  He stretched a long-boned arm and pointed at rickety stairs. “The counting room is up there. We found a bed there.” He gestured to another spot. “That’s where the first man was felled. The next over there.” He swung around and motioned to the door. “Then the fire was started here. An upturned lamp likely caused it.”

  “I don’t want to know how the event unfolded,” she said through gritted teeth. “I want to know the whereabouts of my gold.”

  Impatient, she strode out of the warehouse with Mr. Wortley in her wake. “I want answers, Mr. Wortley.” She pointed to the Mermaid Brewery dray parked outside the abandoned warehouse. “My neighbor’s valet claims he saw a dray parked on Upper Brook Street outside my house. There are carriages in Grosvenor Square, not drays, Mr. Wortley. Yet, I come to Southwark, and all I see are drays and almost no carriages.”

  Mr. Wortley listened patiently. She needed to clear her head. What he said next did not help.

  “My guess is the man and woman with the gold are long gone.”

  She wasn’t sure what to do with the possibly rabid Mr. Wortley. He said just enough to pique her interest and prove that he could be useful.

  “That’s impossible. Will MacDonald is in chains at Marshalsea.”

  His mouth curled up on one side as if he stored contradictory information. It could be he was toying with her. Mr. Wortley liked the generous pay she tendered, but the rules of working for her were, as yet, hazy.

  “Very well, Mr. Wortley. You have some news you wish to share.”

  “You said Mrs. Neville attended your event. Did she say anything or do anything unusual?”

  She snorted. “Do you find deep, sarcastic curtsies unusual?”

  Wortley had the audacity to grin. “Don’t know about curtsies, milady. But it seems to me, Mrs. Neville has been one step ahead of you. Could be worth it to consider every detail.”

  She was bemused, her gaze drifting from one warehouse to the next. “You want details, Mr. Wortley. I can give you details. Mrs. Neville mentioned her grandmother, a woman named—”

  Ancilla froze. She felt blood drain from her face and had to grab Wortley’s arm to steady herself.

  Gun Wharf’s abandoned warehouse loomed.

  Wortley followed her sightline.

  She pointed at the neglected building. “That sign over there. What does it say?”

  “Wilcox, milady.”

  She stared at the old warehouse, words falling loosely. “Mrs. Neville’s grandmother. She kept saying the woman’s name. It was . . . Wilcox.”

  “Do you want to check that warehouse? I can round up the men, get you inside.”

  “Yes.”

  The call was given and Wortley’s men pried open the warehouse door. Weather and time had ruined the wood, but the hinges were oiled. Ancilla walked past the threshold and found the abandoned warehouse clean and empty. Not a cobweb in sight. Dangling from a center post was a black silk ribbon necklace.

  “Is that Mrs. Neville’s?” she shrieked.

  Ancilla ran to it and ripped it off the nail from which it hung. She turned the gold medallion over in her hand and roared a ferocious, angry cry.

  Etched in the metal was a nine in a diamond.

  Chapter Forty

  Three days later in Loch nan Ceall

  Dawn stretched wide, pinks and yellows and the palest blues—colors to paint a sky, not a man’s clothes. Seagulls circled, their wings wide and proud. Will could say a seagull
was a seagull, be it English or Scots. But his heart burst with joy at those birds, their song sweeter, their flight more majestic. Pride of home filled him. Arisaig was nestled on the horizon, a warm lady welcoming him back to the places he’d walked as a lad. He had not heard her beckon until Anne found him bound in chains of his own doing.

  Anne. She would bedevil him ’til he was old and gray.

  Her presence healed him. She’d asked him once what hurt more: the loss of Scotland? Or the loss of her?

  It took years to find the answer. Anne was Scotland. Scotland was Anne. If a man cut a star in two, he’d find the same glorious shine on one side as the other. Anne was mysterious, strong, the song in his heart, the passion in his veins.

  She was his life.

  Anne nestled into her favorite place under his arm against his rib. It was the perfect spot for the widow to cuff him should he need it (and he was man enough to admit there were times he did). It was the perfect spot for his wife-to-be to tickle his secret places should he need that too. It was the perfect spot because Anne was there, her heart beating near his.

  They stood thus, the water glassy in places, the blue pale with mystery and hope. A breeze lifted Anne’s hair but she didn’t catch it and tie it back. She was as awed as he was at the notion of going home. Three days they’d held each other on the narrow bed allotted them on the sloop. Their talk wandered aimlessly as dreams put to words do. There’d be days of wonder and dreams, words, and actions. Little by little, they’d build their life.

  Once they were settled, he’d write a long letter to his father. It would be an honest letter from a son who fought a war and lost. He’d tell his father everything in hopes his father would come back to Scotland. It might be for naught, but a son had to try. His father was the final wound that needed healing. Anne sensed it in quiet moments when she held him late at night.

  He was sure she sensed it now. She cozied up to him, warm and affectionate.

  “Mr. Gunderson is a little troubled at your choice of clothes today,” she said, a touch of humor in her voice.