Page 109 of A Scot Is Not Enough

He checked the bustling street. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Do you honestly think Mr. Wortley and his ilk are lurking in a corset shop?” She took one step toward the shop door and waved him off. “Go on. We’ll test the absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder axiom.”

“For a quarter of an hour?”

She opened the shop door. “How about half an hour? Enough time to buy your hat and finish a pint before I get there.”

She let herself into Fletcher’s House of Corsets andStays, but Alexander tarried outside, a breeze stirring the hem of his coat. His eyes burned a trail to her through the shop window. She blew a flirty kiss and her vigilant protector finally blended into the foot traffic on White Cross Street.

“Here to see your treasonous costume?” Mary was at her shoulder, smoothing red-and-white-striped petticoats.

“Straight to the point as always.” Her gaze slid to serious gray eyes slanted to hers.

“Would you want me to be anything less?”

“Never.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” Mary linked arms with her and they began walking slowly through the shop. “I’m quite pleased with how your costume turned out. I’ve added a mobcap to complete the effect.”

“An ugly one, I hope.”

“It’s one of mine,” Mary said dryly. “Is that ugly enough?”

They laughed and swapped news. Cecelia shared the disastrous visit to the Countess of Denton’s warehouse, omitting Alexander’s treasonous secret because she’d promised not to breathe a word of it. A hunt for the gold, she’d called it. Mary puzzled over that, but it wouldn’t be the first time Cecelia had taken matters in hand without consulting the league.

Once they were in the fitting room, Mary drew the curtains shut and shared her latest news.

“Mr. MacLeod is alive.” She pulled the treasonous costume from a cabinet, adding, “He woke up long enough to drink some water before falling back to sleep.”

Light glimmered on splendid green silk. Withintherobe à la françaisegown was a painted petticoat. Cecelia stroked it, the cloth a perfect imitation of her clan’s tartan.

“Your Spitalfields silk painter worked magic. Whatever she charged, it’s worth it.”

“I’ll send you the bill when I have someone deliver the costume.” Mary carefully put away the silk. “Would tomorrow suffice? Margaret’s hemming the apron tonight.”

“Tomorrow, yes.”

She would add it to her schedule, in between kissing Alexander and an invigorating study of how to make him cry out her name in ecstasy—a trial-and-error approach she was sure he’d appreciate.

Mary hugged her and saw her out. Cecelia headed down White Cross Street, her mind a cozy ruin. Would Alexander curl up and read in bed with her? Or kiss her senseless? After she tended his arm, of course. A diverting picture, except a black-sleeved arm grabbed her.

She gasped. The rangy Mr. Wortley was beside her, his eyes burning with a careful-or-I’ll-rip-your-throat-to-pieces message. His grip manacled her arm as they walked.

“Miss MacDonald. Doing some late-day shopping?”

Her mouth dried. All she could do was put one foot in front of the other.

Mr. Wortley chuckled. “What? You’ve nothing to say? I thought you were the mouthy one.”

The Silver Fox sign hung ahead but they walked past it. She was cold and scared, forcing herself to look forward. Nothing to give away Alexander and thetendreshe felt for him. The cutthroat might think the barrister was a passing flirtation. She’d hadenough of them. She didn’t fight Mr. Wortley when he steered her to the end of a dark alley. Crates and broken buckets littered the cobbles. Otherwise they were alone in the dark.

Mr. Wortley shoved her against the wall and touched his knife to her throat.

“You scream and I’ll cut you. Understand?”

She nodded jerkily, her fingers icy though she wore gloves.

“Bad things happen to women all the time in the City. Especially the pretty ones,” he said.