Page 81 of A Scot Is Not Enough

“You produce the most astonishing things from your pocket.”

His features were cool with a touch of menace. “This is a serious matter.”

“I can tell.” Silk, warm from her body, slid down her arms. “That, I presume, is your barrister’s face.”

His kissable mouth firmed. He wore his triumph poorly. Terse eyes, brown scruff on his jaw, his breeches wrinkled as if he’d fallen asleep in them. The foolscap in his hand was his trump card and his torment, she supposed.

“Well, are you going to read the charges against me?”

His menace deepened. “These are facts, not charges.”

“Your manner tells me otherwise.” She tossed the silken mass of her gown aside.

His stare never wavered. “Is your father still alive? He is A. MacDonald, I collect.”

What a nice mess this was, and she, three days from taking thesgian-dubh. Between flirtation and kisses, it was easy to forget Alexander Sloane was not an ally and not quite an enemy. He could do damage with the contents of his list—to her and others. She dropped a folded linen square into the bowl of water and reached behind to untie her petticoat. A thin layer of grime coated her, as if she’d worn the gown and her secrets for ages. Despite the brusque barrister-cum-government-man staring at her, it felt good to shed them. She would let go of every little thing, but there was a point here. Her secrets were hers to keep and hers to share. A taste of her ire would make him think twice about digging up hers.

“A. MacDonald was my father’s name. Alistair MacDonald, if you must know.”

Her fingers made quick work of the tapes. Blue silk slithered to the floor. Alexander’s razor-sharp stare bounced between the bowl of water and the petticoat puddling at her feet.

“Are you—”

“Washing myself? Yes. I feel...dirty,” she said with relish while untying her underpetticoat. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my shift on. It is the same one I wore your first night here. We muddled through then, didn’t we?”

“We did.” But his voiced was gruff and unconvinced.

A lock of hair slipped from his queue, and the air in her bedchamber shifted to something primitive. He watched the underpetticoat drop to her ankles like a wolf about to pounce on its prey. She stepped out of the undergarment, and his eyes narrowed, lust and caution warring in them. Perhaps the barrister had spent too much time around liars and thieves. She might be a thief, but she was no liar.

The man and his bridge of trust.

“You are distressed,” he said.

“You think so? We made an agreement at the White Hart, the direction of which was quite clear.”

“I delivered the tickets, as promised.”

“While investigating me at the same time.” A heartbeat of silence passed. “You and yourdecent partnership.”

To which his mouth pinched. So, her handsome hunter grasped that he couldn’t have it both ways.Nor can youwas the whisper in her head. Disappointment burrowed deep inside: Alexander had said nothing about ending his investigation or what he’d say to Fielding in his report Wednesday next, but she’d bite her tongue before saying more about that.

“Make up your mind, sir. Work with me or don’t. Straddling both sides is hazardous to one’s health.”

She gave him her back and bumped the water bowl. Alexander’s presence burned her. She wanted him to stay and she wanted him to go. Her conundrum was made worse by the lump in her chest rising to her throat... as if she might cry.

How infuriating!

Fast fingers flew over the pink ribbon binding her stays. What a ridiculous sight she must be with her panniers and pockets still on. Draped in silk, a prettysilhouette. Stripped down, it was silly. Structured cane hips, no linen covering them since these were her summer panniers, and the pockets sad little sacks patched in two places. Not the ideal tableau for giving a man a tongue lashing.

Except Alexander’s footsteps came quietly behind her. Warm hands skimmed her shoulders.

“Why do we make this hard?” he asked.

A shard of tension slipped off her back.

“Because you shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”