Page 130 of For a Scot's Heart Only

Thomas wasted no time leaping for the lowest tree limb. He grabbed it and scooted along, hand over hand, until he put the toe of his boot between ashlar cut stone. Levering himself, he held on to the slender end of the branch until he gripped the window’s ledge.

Talented man. He could earn his coin with traveling tumblers.

Both hands on the ledge, Thomas hoisted himself up. His shoulder nudged the glass. He swung one leg over and climbed inside. Curtains outlined his dark form filling the opening. His queue was nearly undone.

She stood under the window, whispering, “You look like a male Rapunzel.”

He braced both hands on the ledge. “Toss up the rope.”

She did and he caught it easily. “I could save some time and toss up the key.”

But they both knew this was her nerves talking. Only she could manage it. Working the Wilkes-Lock was a complex instrument and the key, not your typical key.

“We do this together,” he said in a low voice, unwinding the thin rope. Once undone, he dropped the knotted end. “Grab the rope and put your toe between the stones.”

She started the climb, air swishing the hem of her frock coat. Hand over hand, she went. All of her was heavy. Her boots, the leather folio strapped to her back. She glanced down, sweat pricking her forehead. There was a good ten or twelve feet between her and the ground.

“Look at me,” Thomas beckoned softly. “Just breathe.”

The scarf covering her from the nose down billowed. She was breathing hard. Turning her face to Thomas, she found her comfort. Green eyes, gem bright and reassuring.

“Come to me, Mary.”

No wonder men followed him to distant seas. Straining, she dug the toe of her boot into another crevice. Thomas reached for her. Big hands gripped her arms and hauled her up.

“I’ve got you,” he said, pulling her through the window.

She sank against him, his solidness a necessity.

“You’re safe.” Thomas was hugging her, stroking the back of her head.

She held on to him and pressed her ear against his chest. His galloping heart was loud. She heard how much he was risking, being in Lady Denton’s study. If she truly loved him, she’d get Thomas out of here as quickly as possible so he could get on with his life.

Taking a bracing breath, she got her bearings. “Let’s finish this.”

The desk was near the window as before. She went around it and searched the bookcase. The Wilkes-Locks cabinet had to be close to the floor. She dropped to her knees in thick carpet and found the brass lock.

“I’ve got it.”

Thomas crouched beside her as she fisted the key forged last summer in his shipyard. His warmth was steady and reassuring. Without candlelight, she had to feel her way through this. Wilkes-Locks were fanciful and intricate by design—a Dutchman withmovable parts etched in brass and a numbered dial to track when the lock was opened.

She pressed a small knob on the brass plate, and the Dutchman kicked up his plump leg. The keyhole was the opening where his calf had been. More whimsy for one of the best locks in all of Europe.

Her pulse banging in her ears, she inserted the key. The final step was tipping the Dutchman’s hat and turning the key at the same time. She glanced at Thomas. His eyes were glittering in darkness.

There’d be no going back once she turned the key.

His nod was firm. “Do it.”

One twist of the key and the dial clicked.

The cabinet door opened a fraction. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Our work is almost done,” she whispered, opening the door wider. Bending down, she examined the inside of the cabinet.

There was nothing but a stack of papers.

“There’s no gold.”