Page 43 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Her gaze darted to the boisterous street. “I would be happy if you tore the pages about me from his book.”

“Know about that, do you?” He toed a pebble on the ground. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Not any more than I was surprised to find youarse up in my mews.” A tight smile played on her face. “Why else would Fielding send you after me, if not for me being in one of his ledgers?”

An unyielding nature was her sharp edge. A blonde temptress, slight of build, who would never ask for rescue. He was on the verge of suggesting they brave the crammed environs of the Iron Bell and find a seat when she pinched his waistcoat.

“We need to leave. Now,” was her urgent hiss.

Miss MacDonald pulled her hat low and darted into Mill Lane’s traffic. She didn’t check to see if he followed. Confused by her sudden exit, he checked the milling crowd. Fifty or sixty lively sorts, voices raised, eyes glossy from drink, and none with a care in the world, save a taut-limbed man in black, his eyes darkly penetrating. Beside him, a henna-haired strumpet pushed up on her toes, her malevolent stare spearing Miss MacDonald’s departing back.

Hat tugged low, he sped past a tinker with a cart boasting a rack of clanking pans. Miss MacDonald was ahead by a dozen paces, her blond braid snaking down her back. He didn’t look back to see if the henna-haired woman watched him too.

When Miss MacDonald neared the end of Mill Lane, he trotted after her.

“What was that about?”

She spun around, her frock coat flaring. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Molars grinding, he caught up with the Scotswoman who’d spent too many years looking after herself.

“A little worry is good for the soul.”

Sailors and marines strolled Tooley Street, a dozen harlots with them. The noise rivaled the Iron Bell’scelebrations. He matched the Scotswoman’s stride as they passed a patten maker’s shop.

“Humor me, Miss MacDonald. Are you hounded by debt collectors?”

“No, and my humor, at the moment, has fled me.”

With that setdown given, he chose silence. A man had to know which battles to fight and when. Miss MacDonald was on a mission, leading him past raucous public houses to King’s Head Yard. Shops gave way to warehouses and an odd quiet. Ruined pamphlets scattered everywhere, pages riffling in the wind. A muddy mongrel rambled by. Broken barrels flowered, their iron bands twisted and rusty. A rat sniffed the air from an overturned bucket, but otherwise they were alone.

“Is your humor replenished enough to tell me where we’re going?” he asked.

Her mouth quirked. “To the end of King’s Head Yard.”

Beyond the alley’s gloom were open fields, orchards, a smattering of wattle and daub warehouses. Two were charred and roofless. One of them might’ve been a public house at one time, but he’d wager all the buildings had been abandoned.

Miss MacDonald opened a wrought-iron gate to a small, triangular orchard. Six apple trees had been planted in rows of three, two, and one. Industry and nature met in this part of Southwark. Vauxhall’s pleasure gardens were far west. The king’s orchards to the south, Tenter Ground for the poor and two hospitals which succored them in the same direction. But this little Garden of Eden was clean and quiet.

Miss MacDonald wandered through the humble orchard, checking leaves and touching apples.

“What are we doing here?” he asked.

She dipped under a tree. “Fulfilling my side of our partnership.”

As he drew near, she poked out from a branch and lobbed fruit at him.

“Have an apple.”

He caught it, the paper crinkling in his pocket. His list. Miss MacDonald was an entrancing sight, blue-stockinged calves and black breeches in view while she pushed up on her toes to plunder the tree.

She emerged from green foliage, lips glossy with juice.

“Tradition says Eve tempted Adam with an apple.”

“So I’ve been told.” He took a bite, the apple’s sweetness bursting on his tongue.

“The truth is, we were never told what fruit she offered him.” A nibble, quick chewing, and she swallowed. “Truth, like trust, comes in the details, Mr. Sloane. Things are not always what they seem.”