Page 18 of A Scot Is Not Enough

A smile cracked her brittle facade.

“You see, Mr. Sloane, we are similar freedom-loving creatures.”

The Scotswoman was everything he should avoid and everything that fascinated him. Smart, ready, fearless. Adventure with fair skin and lively eyes. A confident woman with boundaries, yet she wasn’t afraid to break them if it was necessary.

She retrieved his pocket journal from her chair and handed it over. “I believe this is yours.”

“You’re giving it back to me?”

“I have no reason to keep it.”

Words to cast a millstone around his heart, as if she’d said,I have no reason to keep you.

He reached out, two of his fingers deliberately grazing Miss MacDonald’s hand under the notebook. Her eyes were liquid and dark. They stayed, fingers touching, a wish shared in their lingering contact until she let go.

Her cheek twitched and she cupped a hand over it. The worldly Scotswoman was not unaffected.

Her pistol remained carelessly on her chair, and for the first time that evening, he took a good look at what had been pointed at him. A French dragoon pistol, ornate silver butt cap, the metal trailing up the stock.A. MacDonaldhad been carved in the wood. He picked up the pistol and checked the frizzen and the pan. Both were shiny and clean. He sniffed the mechanism. It was absent of powder and shot’s noxious aroma.

“Held at pistol point by an empty weapon,” he mused. “This is a night of firsts.”

He set the weapon on the mantel and found Miss MacDonald’s eyes squishing sweetly.

“My ruse uncovered,” she said.

“Why wasn’t it loaded?”

“It never is. I get queasy at the sight of blood.” She added a coy, “Perhaps you ought to put that in your notebook?”

He opened his mouth to ask about A. MacDonald, but her smile morphed to the pasted-on variety.

“Let me see to your coat.”

The blonde nymph disappeared into the hallway. Her footfalls pattered the stairs, and he followed, slower this time. Miss MacDonald was waiting in the dark, his coat in hand.

“We seem to be missing your hat.”

Her tone was sterile, and he ill-equipped to assuage it.

He took his coat, careful not to touch her. “My hat. It’s still in your barrel.”

“Let me take care of that.”

She nipped off to the kitchen. “Jenny. Would you be so kind as to fetch Mr. Sloane’s hat? He left it in the mews.”

He tucked his journal into his coat pocket and waited in Miss MacDonald’s hall, collecting his wits and shedding the last vestiges of lust and like, for he did like Miss MacDonald. He’d easily share a pint with her at a public house for the pleasure of talking with her. Nothing, however, could change bald facts. He was the Duke of Newcastle’s man, a loyalty ingrained.

But other bothersome questions hung.

Who was A. MacDonald? And why did Miss MacDonald want entry to Bloomsbury Place? A name etched on an unused pistol was hardly germane to Fielding’s request, yet the mystery burrowed like a pebble in his shoe.

Jenny came through the open doorway, hat in hand. He took it, not ready to say farewell. Miss MacDonald was a wraith at the foot of her stairs, a warning to his soul. The Scotswoman’s familiar side smile had returned. Theirs had been a conversation laced with wicked lust and incriminating pleas, more than enough information for him to chase.

“Good night, Mr. Sloane.”

“Good night, Miss MacDonald.”

Jenny slipped around him to the door and opened it. “I can tell you where you can find a hack, sir.”