What the Scot Hears

by Amy Quinton

  Amelia pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Look, MacLeod, it’s late and I’m exhausted. I’m willing to set this aside for the evening and take it up with Churchmouse in the morning, when clearer heads will prevail.”

  He frowned, but agreed. “Aye. All right.”

  He had his reasons for his quick acquiescence, not the least of which was so he could remove the temptation he only narrowly avoided. Besides, he wasn’t a fool; he wouldn’t allow her to remain unguarded.

  She dropped her hand. “Good…till the morning then.”

  Yet they both simply stood there, entrenched in place. She likely expected him to make it easy for her.

  He wouldn’t, not when he wasn’t entirely sure of her guilt—or innocence—or what to do with his knowledge. She hadn’t committed a crime…yet. It all left him feeling edgy, an uncomfortable sensation for him; he was never at a loss for what to do.

  Until now.

  His life centered around black and white, right or wrong. Yet Mrs. Chase forced an inkling of doubt into his well-ordered world; she successfully painted everything in shades of grey. And his traitorous body’s attraction to the woman was not helping matters. His barely constrained lust compromised his every consideration of her guilt, which was a problem he’d never experienced.

  “Wonderful. Now, would you mind?” She gestured toward the door behind him, then wrapped her arms across her waist.

  MacLeod stepped aside, leaving it up to her to make her own way out, for she was, as previously stated, an Independent American Woman.

  Amelia squared her shoulders and marched to the door. She reached for the knob with both hands, obviously recalling that the door tended to stick.

  But she hadn’t recalled he’d locked it, and he was callous enough and angry enough to let her figure that one out on her own. While, he would spend this time productively and master his inconvenient desire.

  After a few minutes of tugging and pulling and possibly a muttered curse or two, which nearly made him chuckle despite everything, she remembered.

  Mrs. Chase sighed, dropped her hands to her sides, and didn’t even look in his direction as she said, “Would you mind?”

  He stepped up behind her and reached around her petite form to unlock the door. It wasn’t difficult, for the top of her head only grazed his chin as he bent over her.

  But when he was finished, he didn’t back away. He was compelled to remain there, close. It might have been the intoxicating smell of her, warm and sweet, that he hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe it was her stature; she seemed to fit so neatly before him, as if she were fashioned to fit there.

  Whatever the reason, he had the inexplicable urge to pull her against his chest to test the theory.

  And she seemed to feel…something…in return, for she remained standing there, too. So close. He could hear her labored breathing as if she’d run the length of the hall, not stood inside this dim room talking of spying and a kinship that couldn’t possibly exist. And, och, he could have sworn she leaned back into him ever so slightly.

  So much for getting ahold of his desire.

  He’d barely finished that thought when the moment was broken. Amelia jerked and grasped for the door. It took several pulls before she wrenched it open, but she did eventually manage it.

  He followed her out, then leaned against the door jamb as he watched her storm up the hall, her head tilted high with apparent indignation. Absurdly, the urge to laugh churned in his gut yet again. He had to fight to stifle it else he’d start guffawing in great fits, which he hadn’t done since he was a mere lad.

  So he was undeniably attracted to her, yet she was clearly up to…something…and he had a job to do.

  With that thought, he once more cloaked himself in his black and white world, secure in the knowledge that he was right and could make decisions without allowing his emotions to affect his choices.

  Before she stepped around the corner and out of sight, he called out to her, “Mrs. Chase…” She stopped, but she did not look back, her shoulders squared and tense. “…be in the taproom at half-five and doona be late.”

  She did not acknowledge his remarks; she simply dropped her shoulders and carried on her way.

  It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be making it to their ‘meeting’ anyway.

  At least…not if he had anything to say about it.

  At the Same Time: Secret Meeting Rooms in an Old Warehouse along the Thames

  “Lords of the Society, our meeting is called to order,” Intoned the Minister of Actions, a heavily robed man wearing an ornately curled wig and buckled, heeled shoes reminiscent of the last century. He was a rather short man, and he stood on a box behind his lectern in order to appear taller. But what he lacked in height, he made up for with his loud, booming voice.

  In an almost trancelike response, the members of the assembled men replied in unison, their voices echoing loudly in the lightly furnished warehouse, “We are the Lords of London. Our worthy mission, blessed by God Himself, is to purify the bloodlines of our English citizens, from the wealthiest of Lords to the poorest of the poor. Our actions are guided by Divine Intervention. Our methods, from bloodshed to the making of common laws, are always justified. With Deific Blessing, all is forgiven. Amen.”

  Eyes watering with unholy emotion, the Minister spoke again. “Amen. Thank you, gentleman for your presence today and for your dedication and sacrifice to our just cause.” He looked over the assembled guests who were seated in rows of pews on either side of a central aisle. There were forty in attendance, only a fraction of their total membership, which was an excellent turn out for a group that relied upon intense secrecy.

  The minister smiled with wicked glee when his gaze caught on an unfamiliar attendee. “I see new faces this evening. In that case, we shall begin our meeting with recommendations for inductees. Do we have any initiates who are prepared to take the oath? Might there be anyone capable of standing strong beneath our intense scrutiny?”

  One man, heavy set and draped in furs and jewels, and a marquess at that, stood at the request. “I submit for your consideration, Lords of the Society for the Purification of England, Viscount Sharpe.” He gestured to the man seated next to him, who stood at the introduction and bowed his acknowledgement of the referral.

  The Minister nodded and held out his hand. “Very good, my lord. Viscount Sharpe, please approach the lectern.”

  Viscount Sharpe was of above average height and dressed quite completely in black. His hair, unpowdered and unwigged, was a rich mahogany and tied back in a queue with a short length of black leather. He walked with the use of an ebony cane, though his stride was confident and he appeared to be no older than perhaps thirty.

  Despite all the subtlety of his attire, he wore gleaming rings of silver on every one of his long fingers, more than one on some fingers. A contradiction, to be sure.

  But what truly caught everyone’s attention, making them squirm uncomfortably in their seats at the sight, was the scarring that covered the left side of his face. No one was bold enough to openly stare. And no one was strong enough to ignore it.

  A hunched, balding man, wearing what appeared to be a monk’s robe, approached from the side of the room bearing a large bible. He stood awkwardly beside the minister, barely managing to hold up the heavy tome with which he was entrusted, as Viscount Sharpe made his way up the center aisle to the front of the room.

  “Viscount Sharpe,” said the minister, “You have heard about the Society of the Purification of England from your sponsor?”

  The viscount dipped his head, “I have.” He spoke with an accent as English as the bluest of England’s highest nobility.

  “Do you understand all that is required and expected of you?”

  Again, the viscount’s voice echoed clearly and confidently around the room. “I do.”

  “And did you willingly submit to questioning by your sponsor, submitting all the necessary documentation as required by the Society of the
Purification of England?”

  “I did.”

  The minister looked out to the sponsoring marquess, who confirmed this statement with a nod.

  The minister looked to the viscount once again and folded his hands across the lectern. “Very good. And have you, proudly, marked yourself a member of our group?”

  Viscount Sharpe rolled back his sleeve. And there on his forearm was an intricate tattoo of an English Oak with the letters S, P, and E entwined among the branches.

  The minister smirked once more. “Very good. Now, place your right hand on our bible and repeat after me.”

  The viscount did so, his eyes locked with the monk-like figure holding the bible. In return, the monk began to sweat and shake as he strove to hold up the bible under the pressure of the viscount’s hand.

  No one else seemed to notice this.

  The Minister began. “I, Viscount Sharpe, do solemnly swear to uphold the mission of our Society by any means possible.”

  Viscount Sharpe repeated him, his gaze never wavering from the monk before him. “I, Viscount Sharpe, do solemnly swear to uphold the mission of our Society by any means possible.”

  “I promise to do whatever necessary to achieve our aims, even kill suspected traitors if need be.”

  “I promise to do whatever necessary to achieve our aims, even kill suspected traitors if need be.”

  “All for the benefit of our future Society.”

  “All for the benefit of our future Society.”

  “God’s Will. Our Will, be done.”

  “God’s Will. Our Will, be done.”

  “And if I should betray this trust, whether by word or inaction, I shall accept my punishment accordingly, including death if it be so deemed.”

  “And if I should betray this trust, whether by word or inaction,” the Viscount looked at the minister then and said, “I shall accept my punishment accordingly, including death if it be so deemed.” The minister swallowed. The viscount’s eyes seemed to be afire…it was as if he was making his own promise, his own threat with his words. But now, that couldn’t be.

  “Thank you, Viscount Sharpe, and welcome. You may return to your seat,” the minister squeaked out. For a moment, it appeared as if the viscount had no intention of doing so.

  But then the man responded, “But of course.”

  The minister, obviously relieved and starting to appear a touch irritated, looked out to the congregation. “Now, on to new business. Where are we on the attainment of the Marquess of Dansbury to our membership?”

  A silver-haired man in flamboyant colors sitting in the back of the room stood and said, “We have our best men working on the problem. It’s only a matter of time.”

  The minister rediscovered his usual smirk. “Good. Very good.”

  Chapter Four

  Entirely Too Early in the Morning: The Quiet Witch Inn

  Amelia woke with a jolt; her stomach and sides screaming in protest. She looked around to orient herself, barely able to make out the furniture in her room, despite the bright light of a late setting moon. She still wore her shift and stays, hence her protesting body. For a moment, she could not for the life of her recall where she was, nor how she came to be there. But all too soon, she remembered everything: a green door, an angry Scot, and a thorough perusal of her body by said Scot.

  She couldn’t stop her mind from recounting, in absolute vivid detail, that most devastating…that most…memorable…aspect of their conversation…

  After pronouncing herself Dansbury’s sister with open arms, MacLeod had stood away from the wall and dropped his crossed arms, bracing them on his hips. He’d taken her gesture as a direct invitation to inspect her form from head to toe.

  And, dash it all, he’d done just that…and taken his time going about it.

  A warm trail of heat whispered across her skin as she remembered everything… It was the same acute and all-encompassing sensation she’d felt in the wake of his perusal.

  God, he’d been so very…thorough…

  Amelia held her breath as she recalled watching him study her. His regard, so intense and…and…comprehensive, had missed absolutely nothing.

  She could still feel the intensity about him…such passion and concentration surrounded him and seemed to be ever present, like an aura that engulfed his very essence.

  And oh, his dark eyes…they were sharp, lethally so.

  Being studied by Alaistair MacLeod was unsettling and acute and…delectable…all at once. It had taken an extreme amount of self-control to keep from squirming beneath such scrutiny. She thought she’d managed to hide her discomfort, for the most part.

  Maybe.

  Eventually, he had looked to her face once more; even that had left her feeling faint.

  And, at that moment, she’d realized, with absolute crystal clarity, that she was very, very fortunate he was not an exceptionally charismatic man. As it was, he was already far too fascinating for her curious nature to ignore.

  If he were charming as well as enigmatic, she’d be prostrating herself at his feet for one moment of his favor.

  Yes, well fortunately he’d destroyed that possibility by allowing her to embarrass herself trying to open a locked door without a key?! Argh…the pig-headed oaf.

  And just like that, Amelia was past the sensual review of his perusal. She began kicking off tangled sheets so she could stumble out of bed.

  He was clearly a complicated man, one that women across the world were wise to avoid. She would never, ever, EVER find herself at the mercy of someone like that again. Never.

  Besides, if he knew the truth about her past, he’d toss her out on her ear in a heartbeat. Or in jail…

  Oh no. We are not following that train of thought, Mrs. Chase.

  Though the sun had yet to rise, Amelia forced herself to get out of bed. She wasn’t fooled by MacLeod’s easy acquiescence; he plainly didn’t care for her interest in his friend, Churchmouse née Dansbury…or whatever he wished to be called.

  Well that was too bad. She would not allow him to leave her behind by stealing away before dawn. He said five-thirty. Well, she intended to be there by four.

  “Be in the taproom at half-five and doona be late.” She mimicked as she stoked up the banked fire. “Overbearing brute. Unmuzzled, spur-galled, varlot. I’ll show you doona be late. I’m so not going to be late. I’m going to be so early I couldn’t be late even if I crawled down the stairs on my blasted stomach.” She poked at the coal in the hearth, imagining she poked a certain highlander in places he’d rather her not.

  So she was being childish; that’s what happened when she was running on only a few hours of sleep with worry constantly lingering along the fringes of her every waking moment.

  Finding Dansbury was too…necessary.

  After washing her face with the bracingly cold water found in the washbasin beside her bed, Amelia pulled on her dress over her rumpled shift and stays. She’d slept in her stays to keep things simple…and to ensure she didn’t oversleep. Who could whilst wearing such ridiculous contraptions?

  The dress she donned was one designed to be put on without assistance. Double plus.

  Once her frock was settled over her voluptuous frame, she checked her appearance in the full-length mirror on the wall next to the door, a surprising but welcome feature of the room. Her hair was a bit of a mess, so she tugged on her wavy locks and repinned a few strays until she was satisfied with her appearance. She nodded at her dim reflection.

  You look fabulous, Amelia Chase.

  Deciding she was ready to face the day, or more accurately MacLeod, she picked up her reticule from her bedside table and fumbled around inside for her room key. She could already taste the steaming hot cup of coffee she’d be sipping in a matter of moments.

  To her consternation, her reticule seemed to contain all her usual possessions—minus her room key.

  Well, that is odd. I distinctly remember locking the door, and I’m quite sure I put the key right back in
here.

  Amelia set her bag on the bed and looked around the room, hands on her hips.

  Now, where in the world could it be? The table? She glanced that way. No. The washstand? No. The floor? She circumnavigated the bed, checking the floor on all sides and only hitting the corners with her knees twice as she fumbled around in the dim light. She looked under the blankets she’d kicked off the bed. No. Nothing. A sinking feeling began in the pit of her stomach.

  He wouldn’t dare…would he?

  But she knew the answer before she even finished asking the question.

  “MacLeod!” She swore as she raced to the door and reached for the knob, hope springing to life in her heart for a few impossible seconds, though she knew better. Oh, yes, she knew.

  It was locked.

  Argh! Damn you, MacLeod!

  Amelia beat the door with her fist once, before sliding to the floor where she leaned back against the sealed barrier…her personal prison gate.

  She knocked her head against the door in frustration.

  “That beastly, surly man! That errant, ill-bred, lout! How dare he? The next time I see that man…ooooh…”

  “Mrs. Chase? Are you all right?” came a muffled voice through the door.

  Amelia practically tripped over her skirts as she jumped to her feet, banging her head on the door for real in the process.

  She spoke into the key hole. “Y-yes? Is someone there?”

  She turned her ear to the door. “Yes, ma’am,” came the reply. Amelia blew out a breath of relief a moment before delicious revenge began to take shape in her mind.

  MacLeod was in for it now.

  But first she had to get out.

  She spoke through the keyhole once more. “My good man, I’m afraid I am locked in this room without a key. Would you be so kind as to speak to the proprietor so I might be freed? It is a matter of some urgency.”