Page 119 of A Scot Is Not Enough

“Only talking?”

Her eyes were dark fireworks.

“For everything with you,” he said possessively.

Her brow arched, coy and practiced. “You have an excellent faculty for words. I would like to hear them.”

Their rotation slowing, he touched his chest.

“There’s a fire deep in here that was dormant—my love for justice.”

“And how is that fire now?”

“It burns brighter because of you. Everything does.”

Cecelia stared in wonder, her hand gripping his tightly. Music played on. They were standing still, asea of dancers spinning around them. His gaze, he knew, burned intensely. She was at his side, and he would fight mightily to keep her there.

“Life with you is an adventure,” he said, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. “I never want it to end.”

Her lips opened wider.

“What are you saying?”

Her slim cleavage pumped faster. A gold medallion nestled in it. The old coin hung on a black ribbon—the same one she wore when she flirted with him through the shop window on White Cross Street.

The same coin that bound her to a league of Jacobites, but a time for decisions was upon them.

Their dance was done. Laughter and conversation burst everywhere. Women fanned themselves. Couples bumped into them, calling for punch. Air in his chest was light and frothy like champagne bubbles going straight to his head.

He raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

“Marry me.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chandeliers gleamed on Alexander’s breastplate. He was earnest, a true suitor—and she’d had a few, but none who had spent a whirlwind week investigating her, challenging her mind, cooking for her, picking locks, sharing treasonous secrets, shooting at cutthroats, and rescuing her from a stormy river only to bleed on her salon floor at midnight.

And his legs filled medieval hose rather nicely.

“Alexander... I—”

“I know,” he said, caressing her hand. “This is poorly done, blurting my intentions like this.” His mouth denting, he eyed a rambling man garbed as a satyr. “Suffice to say, you deserve something romantic and thoughtful. Not this.”

Romantic and thoughtful was nice. His thumb stroking sensual sparks on the underside of her wrist was nicer. She wanted to go home and find out how smooth his tenor sounded when he readMoll Flandersor Lloyd’s insurance records, last year’s tax rolls, and Jenny’s latest shopping list. Her favorite place washer head over his heart while he spoke. Romantic and thoughtful wasn’t the problem.

Myriad responses wanted to come. Once organized, she would’ve shared them, except his mouth firmed and his caressing hand cuffed her wrist.

“Brace yourself.”

She followed his sight line, a chill descending. She couldn’t feel the floor for the numbness shooting up her legs. The Countess of Denton, costumed in a Grecian gown and a gold circlet crowning raven curls, approached.

“Miss MacDonald, what a surprise to see you here. Should I warn my brother to hide the family silver?”

Cecelia sketched a curtsey. “I know of only one thief in our midst, and she wouldn’t bother with her brother’s silver.”

“What an impertinent creature. I should have you tossed from the premises.”

Alexander bowed. “My lady.”