Page 97 of A Scot Is Not Enough

“See the warped plank? Middle of the quayside door?”

She looked over her shoulder. Large planks for a large door. At the center, aged wood bowed, gaps bracketing it a finger’s width. Rain dripped through those cracks.

She acknowledged him with a jerky nod, and his mouth moved against her ear.

“When you’re ready, cover your face with your coat, and shoot that plank at close range. You and I will escape through the hole.”

“One shot won’t be enough.” She glanced at his weapon-filled fists. “Two are better to blow apart that door.”

Cool menace glimmered in his eyes. “I’m saving my ball and shot for the two men below.”

Her heart sank. Her one shot wasn’t enough to defend them. The loft morphed into a gloomy prison, and the two of them with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. Her ears rang tinny. She was trapped, fear eating her alive.

“But outside?”

“We’re jumping into the river next to the wherry,” he said quietly. “We’ll grab it and climb in... unless Mr. Baines isn’t there”—a casual shrug and—“in which case, the current will take us.”

“Jump into the river? Are you mad? There’s a storm out there.”

“Pick your poison. It’s them shooting us or braving the river. If Mr. Baines is gone, don’t fight the current. Go with it. Ride it to any of the London side stairs and hold on. Iwillfind you.”

Alexander’s eyes glinted inches from hers, a vise grip of cool determination. She fed off it.

She’d rowed the river, never swam in it. She knew what to do if caught in a current. Wherrymen swapped stories on how to survive the Thames, good anecdotes best consumed with ale.

Alexander scowled. “You can swim, can’t you?”

“Yes, b—”

“Good. The mother of my children should knowhow to swim.” He caressed her cheek. “We can do this.”

The mother of his children?

Jaw-slackening words to be sure, except the stairs creaked. Goose bumps screamed up and down her torso. Wortley must be climbing the stairs in stealth. Gifford might be with him. Another ponderous creak and her heart climbed into her throat.

The Countess of Denton’s cutthroats were coming.

Alexander pointed to his pistol. Together, they raised their weapons. Her gaze locked with his, the seconds counted by sweat pricking her hairline.

When thunder cracked, they cocked their pistols to its percussion.

A faint smile hooked the corner of her mouth. Anne had made her feel resolute, but the very English Mr. Alexander Sloane made her feel invincible.

She tiptoed to the quayside door and stopped three feet from it. She raised her arm for a one-handed shot. This close, she wouldn’t miss. One last look at Alexander and she yanked the front panel of her coat over her face. Alexander was behind her, his back strong and true.

He’d had her back since the first night she brought him to her bedchamber. A man like that ought to experience a woman’s full appreciation. She’d do her best by him. Tonight.

Arm steady, she shot the door.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Who knew shooting a door could be so cleansing? The recoil knocked the fright out of her. Splinters big and small sprayed the air, showering her coat with wood fragments. Her ears were ringing and acrid smoke stung her nose. The shot was definitive. A gaping hole was in the quayside door.

It was a good hole, but not big enough.

Alexander pivoted off her back, and the world sped up. His booted foot smashed the planks.

Mr. Wortley and Mr. Gifford stampeded up the stairs.