Page 33 of A Scot Is Not Enough

“Do not test my tolerance, Mr. Sloane.”

He let go of his coat. This was irritating. Why stoop to a boyish contrivance? All in the name of knowing a confounding woman who didn’t fit in one of society’s neat stratums. The Scotswoman defied them. A diamond-bright creature with eye-catching facets each time he looked at her. Two of them, in particular, could not be ignored—Jacobite sympathizer and canny woman.

He wanted more of the goddess of Swan Lane, her striking nature and bold familiarity, a woman at home in her own skin. The fair sex was complex, and Miss MacDonald was no exception. One part of her revealed would be like pulling a string in an intricate web. Pull one part, and the rest moved, except with Miss MacDonald, the rest of her would shimmer.

“I am very serious, Mr. Sloane. One coy play on words and I am gone.”

Feet shifting, he didn’t think, he didn’t strategize. The first words out of his mouth came from sheer curiosity.

“What do you want to steal from the Marquess of Swynford’s home?”

Her brow arched. They were on the edge of something new.

“A dagger, and it’s not stealing, it’s taking back what was stolen from my clan. Cumberland’s men took it when they ransacked Arisaig.” She added, “After the surrender,” with blood-letting severity.

Miss MacDonald was too direct for the admission to be a lie, and he was too shocked not to believe her.

“All this maneuvering? For a dagger?”

“A very old, very sentimental dagger.” Her throat worked a delicate swallow. “Thesgian-dubhis ceremonial. Having it back means a great deal to our clan chief.”

Well, that took the rug out from under his feet.

“Your actions are motivated by emotion and not financial gain.”

The air softened around them. When Miss MacDonald raised her lashes, artless honesty shined back at him.

“When the Uprising started, Clanranald MacDonald’s chief did not support the rebellion.”

“What about you? Did you support it?”

Her hesitation was measured by her fingers worrying a bow on her stomacher. “I wanted what my father wanted.” She looked out the window, her voice lacking conviction. “Our clan chief was good to me. I would like to bring him some happiness since he lost so much. Thesgian-dubhwill do that.”

“Unfortunately, he eventually cast his lot with the rebels. Shifting his loyalty, a costly decision, I’m afraid.”

His rueful judgment held no sting. War was a monster gobbling anything in its path, something Miss MacDonald understood by her quiet nod.

“Our chief would rather have his son and heir back in Scotland, which I cannot give him.”

No one could give that, not even the king, should his heart thaw. The rebellion was a wound barely scabbed over. The return of high-ranking rebel sonsthis soon would rip it off. Because the son and heir to Clanranald MacDonald had fought in the Uprising, both father and son paid the price with the heir’s exile to France. A boon, really, since many high-ranking rebels paid with their lives. But the clans had suffered. Herds destroyed. Villages burned. The Highlands decimated. Serving the Duke of Newcastle, he’d read the reports. More than fifty estates confiscated, thirteen of them catching the king’s consideration. The spoils of war.

Like Cumberland’s men taking an old dagger and burning homes in Arisaig.

Victory was easy this far from the battlefield. Until pained fury in a Scotswoman’s eyes etched him.

Hers was a woman’s view, the one left behind to clean up afterward. War was dirty, ugly grappling. Loyalties changing. One force pitted against another and victory an exhausting glory. There was no tidy end.

But this was different, the proud agony in her voice a weight on his back.

He would not rub salt in what was, in the end, a mutual wound. Both England and Scotland had suffered.

“You should have it,” he said at last.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You agree?”

“Agree?” he scoffed. “No. But I can offer you my deepest compassion for your clan’s plight.”

“That sounds like something a solicitor would say before politely turning me away.” She eyed his mouth. “And your bland smile is the stiff, well-bred variety. A token expression to go with token words.”