Page 41 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“A little tenderness isn’t out of order. But it doesna take much. One crook of a woman’s finger, and a man’s lying bread and butter fashion with her.”

She grimaced. “Such colorful cant.”

Teasing sparked in his eyes. “Was I improper?”

“Don’t let tonight’s setting embolden you, sir. We are compatriots in a perilous venture. Outside of these walls, you and I return to polite discourse.”

He laughed and said what was on his mind anyway. “Polite discourse. You talk like a Puritan, Miss Fletcher, but,” he drawled, “you don’t look like one.”

“A Puritan—so I’ve been told.”

She poured more champagne down her throat, its liquid eloquence blurring her edges. The red velvet was simple elegance and her carmine lips were of the same hue. A passable appearance for any of London’s nighttime entertainments. But her hair sent another message. Strewn curls washing her back. Wanton tresses an eye-catching mahogany, begging to be fully undone.

Across the ballroom, the tumblers added fire to their show. Twirling flames ensorcelled, their fiery lights flashing like quick fireworks. A new torch, burning at both ends, was thrown high, sending amber and gold light bouncing off the ballroom’s mirrors. A man tossed a woman above his head. Mary held her breath. The tossed-up woman caught the torch midair and landed artfully in her partner’s arms.

Thunderous applause exploded. Mary gusted her amazement. The excess, stunning.

Sensual currents assaulted her. She buried a hand in her pannier and rubbed soft velvet. The touch, needful. Her gown was a fantasy. Nothing like her shop uniform’s striped petticoats and plain neckerchief, which was hardly puritanical, but hardly seductive.

Mr. Thomas West’s eyes light up no matter what you wear.

A sweet tingle flared behind her breastbone. It was true. She could be wearing her ugliest mobcap secured with a chinstrap, and Mr. West’s mouth twitched a smile.

She rubbed more velvet, fraying inside.

Why did he have such a hold on her? Now, of all times, when she had a job to do?

There was one way to erase him from her soul. Grab MacLeod and take him to the Red Rose room, a substitute for her lustful itch.

She pinched her glass. What a lie that was.

MacLeod’s blue eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong? You seem... off.”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

Her backside rested against the wall with an utterlack of decorum. Mr. West was on the other side. She could saunter into the gaming room just to see his reaction to her gowned in red velvet. What a rebellion that would be. Her feet shifted as though she’d go. But no. She huffed, more hot and bothered than a woman her age ought to be. Tonight was about the mission—her duty to the clan who’d taken in her and Margaret years ago. She couldn’t forget that.

“You don’t seem fine,” MacLeod said.

“Well, I am.”

She pushed off the wall and drained her glass. MacLeod had become a quick disciple to the league’s cause, which gave him a soft spot on her heart. Unfortunately, he had no effect on herotherparts. It seemed the other women present felt differently. Scarred on his eyebrow and chin, he was a rough sort, a bare-knuckle brawler with a military past. Feminine heads kept turning his way, but MacLeod was all business. It was time she was too.

She set her glass on a small table with a firmclunk.

“Let’s get to work, shall we?”

“Agreed.” MacLeod added his tankard to the table. “I’ll go belowstairs.”

“Taking the kitchens first?”

He nodded. “Two footmen have a look about them—brothers of the blade. I’ll get them to share a pint in the mews, swap army stories, and see what I can find.”

The night’s strategy had already been set: she would search the upper floors while MacLeod would take the outer perimeter of Bedwell House, including belowstairs. Theirs had been a detailed plan, unlike Cecelia’s fluid approach. At least they would go home in style. Cecelia had loaned themher infamous robin’s egg blue carriage trimmed with gold, a recent purchase from a friend drowning in debt.

MacLeod checked his pocket watch. “Nearly ten o’clock. Meet me at the carriage at midnight.”

“Yes. Midnight.”