Page 110 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Wortley cut a vicious picture. Black hair loosely tied. Large nose and sun-grained skin, his vicious stare slanting viciously to and fro over her face.

“No one will shed a tear if one fair Jacobite goes missing.”

“Is that why you’ve organized this littletête-à-tête? To tell me you’d weep for me?”

His mouth quirked. For a split second she flirted with kneeing his baubles until he collared her throat and jammed the back of her head against unforgiving brick.

She swallowed hard.

“Lady Denton has foul plans for you.” His face pinched in mock pain. “I wouldn’t wish them on a dog, miss. I’ve tried to sway her, but she is one determined woman.”

Terror sunk its claws into her. Knees shaking, she feared collapsing. Mr. Wortley’s hand was on her neck, the other with his knife at the ready in her side vision.

A thought punched through her fright.

This has nothing to do with the warehouse break-in. He doesn’t know.

Carriages rumbled on White Cross Street and pedestrians had thinned. With the dreary light, anyone looking down the alley might think an assignation was in progress. Bodies pressing, faces close. Her mind raced. To scream? No. She wouldn’t test the cutthroat. She couldn’t. Alexander would charge in and he was unarmed. Her eyes shuttered.

Please don’t come looking for me.

When she opened them, male appreciation glinted in Wortley’s eyes. His hand on her neck slid higher, cupping her jaw. His face was close, fascinated.

“You’re trying to scare me off,” she rasped.

“I’m warning you off, compliments of Lady Denton. I convinced her you’re not worth it.” His mouth twisted a sneer. “I told her it was a waste of my time following a woman of no account.”

“Because you have more important people to harass.”

The quip drained her last ounce of courage, but she couldn’t regret it. Hardness dropped like a portcullis over Mr. Wortley’s features. His thumb smeared carmine off her lips and down her chin. Nostrils flaring, he dug brutal fingertips into her jaw.

“Go back to Scotland. Otherwise the countess will make sure you disappear.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Cecelia had walked into the Silver Fox a little... off. She was by turns cagey and quiet or bright and brittle, though he couldn’t fathom why. Any queries to her welfare had been met with platitudes and excuses. Was he presuming too much by reading her mood? Their connection was too new for him to assume he could intrude, but a wall was firmly up.

Once their food had been served, she encouraged him to dig into his cottage pie while she poked at hers. Thanks to the punctual Mr. Munro, their ride home had been equally stiff. Their bridge of trust needed something intimate. When they arrived at the stone cottage, Jenny met them in the entry and took cloaks and hats.

“Will you want a restorative, miss?” She added a grudging, “Or you, sir?”

Cecelia stormed up the stairs. “Nothing for me.”

Jenny’s mouth puckered as if Cecelia’s mood was his fault. He took it in stride, noting the pristine house.

“Thank you for tending my laundry and cleaning up the mess.”

The maid picked lint off the cloak she was holding. “That’s what I do, sir. I clean messes.”

Jenny eyed him sharply, which he took as a warning not to get too comfortable playing house with her mistress. The maid slinked off, taking the candlelight with her. He wanted to tell the surly servant he’d gladly wed her mistress, but this was a night of uncertainty. Miss MacDonald’s restless footsteps banged abovestairs. Sex soothed, certainly. But women were complex creatures. Their hearts and minds needed feeding first.

On a whim, he fetched a book from the salon.

When he strode into her bedchamber, the fire cast subtle amber light. Cecelia was bent over a water bowl, scrubbing her face. Her vigor was frightening, as if she was determined to erase herself.

He touched her shoulder. She was haunted eyes and cherried cheeks.

“Have a care,” he said kindly. “I like your face as it is.”