Page 114 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“My sister!”

Miss Thelen took a half step around the table. “Put that away. You’re not a killer.”

Thomas produced his pistol and aimed it at the henchwoman. “Back away.”

The henchwoman glared at Ranleigh and said a string of angry foreign words. “Skit! När det gäller den här kvinnan har du slutat använda båda årorna.”

Thomas chuckled as if he understood. “Now, now, Miss Thelen. Arms up and your back to the wall.”

A scowling Miss Thelen complied, positioning herself in front of an awful brothel portrait.

Mary glared at the henchwoman and asked Thomas, “What did she say?”

“An old Swedish adage about not using both oars.” Thomas glanced at her, amused. “Miss Thelen is convinced, when it comes to you, Ranleigh can’t think straight.”

The dark lord was rigid and steely eyed as if he could, by force of will, change this interview. Mary’s blood was racing, her hands were sweating, and she might’ve been wild-eyed, addressing him.

“What? You’ve nothing to say?”

"Not with a pistol pointed at me.”

Oh, he was a cool one.

“Your henchwoman might be right about me not being a killer, but a flesh wound won’t stop your mouth from running.” She cocked the pistol with a shaky hand. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”

“I don’t have your sister,” Ranleigh growled andput his arms up like Miss Thelen. “Harming innocents is not my usual practice, but she can’t be all that innocent if she’s stealing Jacobite gold.”

“A rich jab, sir. Thank you, but I’ll remind you that I’m the woman pointing a pistol at you, and you are the very same man I met last night who told me he’d do anything for the crown.” She smirked, having placed delicious emphasis onanything. “You can try and dress up what you do, Lord Ranleigh, but you’re just a rabid dog on a leash.”

Ranleigh’s brows slanted tersely, and his chest was expanding under the increasing ebb and flow of aggravated breaths.

“It appears, Miss Fletcher, that you and I have a choice. We can trade insults, or we can work together to get your sister back.”

Mary startled and checked Thomas. He was stoic beside her.

She stepped closer to the gaming table. “What do you mean?”

“I’d wager half my wealth that my cousin took her.”

Ranleigh was too definitive. She took another step.

“The Countess of Denton? She’s in Scotland.”

“No, I learned this morning that she returned to London two nights ago. She hasn’t gone anywhere, which is unlike her.”

A vein throbbed on the dark lord’s temple and his nostrils flared. He was angry for being caught like this. A man in his position would say anything to escape. Mary shook her head.

“I don’t believe you. It takes weeks to travel from Arisaig to London.”

“If going by carriage, yes. Ancilla, however, tooka schooner. Very fast, those schooners.” His near-black eyes narrowed. “If you don’t believe me, ask your friend Mr. West.”

She counted to ten silently in her head. She resented Ranleigh’s logic, but the countess wreaking havoc made sense.

“Mary,” Thomas said. “I’ve gambled enough with the lout to know when he’s playing a sham.”

“And?”

Thomas lowered his pistol. “He’s telling the truth... at least what he believes it to be.”