Page 31 of A Scot Is Not Enough

“But we both know Fielding’s opinions on the Uprising.” He looked pointedly at the rosette. “Shows of Jacobite loyalty like that don’t help.”

“My rosette does not break any laws.” She swallowed more port and added a mocking, “The Dress Act is safe to continue its insulting limits on kilts and bagpipes.”

His mouth firmed.

“Wearing it is provocative. Good men died to preserve the Union.”

She thumped her tin cup hard on the table.

“And good men died trying to end it.”

Furious heat rose in her cheeks. Did Mr. Sloane fear she was about violent insurrection? Was that at the heart of his hesitation? She’d already confessed her queasiness at the mere sight of blood, and he knew very well she’d pointed an empty pistol at him.

“What I am about has nothing to do with... with bloodshed of any kind.”

He reached for her. “Then tell me what youareabout.”

She jumped up and stalked to the window. His touch was suddenly unconscionable, as if it might set her afire and not the delectable kind a woman enjoyed. Thesgian-dubhwas so, so close. Her fingers curled, anticipating the hilt in her grasp. A simple dagger, ripe for the plucking, much easier than taking back Jacobite gold, and this man wanted her to—what? Bare her soul to get it?

It was laughable. Mr. Sloane wanted more than she could give to him or any other man.

He followed her all the same as if testy women were a matter of course. Perhaps that’s how it was in the world of law and order. One had to wade through messy parts to find a satisfactory end. If so, she supposed Mr. Sloane was a master at it, cordial smiles and all.

“It strikes me that you and I are at an impasse.”

“You think so?” she said with false brightness.

Being here was madness, the undercurrent of attraction as treacherous as striking a bargain with a barrister who served the crown. Mr. Sloane rubbed a finger across his cheek, which, she noticed, shined from a recent shave.

“I have my limits, Mr. Sloane. If you want this meeting to continue, you will have to breathe life into it.”

His lips twitched. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“No,” she said stoutly.

Beautiful eyes, so breathtaking and direct, pinned her.

“We both want something and underneath that is something else we both want. Badly.”

Her mouth dried. South of that aridness, her heart ticked with maddening speed while she listened to Mr. Sloane’s genteel voice.

“Before anything else can happen,” he said. “You and I need to build trust.”

“How do we do that?”

She waited for the usual, disappointing male solution. A quick coupling. Salacious gropes. Anything to take the edge off their lust in order to get on with the important business of her getting thesgian-dubhand him one step closer to his letters patent.

Instead, Mr. Sloane’s diabolical mouth opened with “I propose that you ask me whatever you want and I will answer truthfully. I, in turn, will do the same with you, expecting you to answer honestly.”

She recoiled. “Anything? That is too much, sir.”

He raised a pacifying hand. “You have the right to pass, once.”

“I left those sorts of games behind when I was a girl of twelve, Mr. Sloane,” she said, trying hard to maintain her resistance.

“Why twelve?”

“Because that is when I had to grow up rather quickly.”