Page 93 of For a Scot's Heart Only

Hegestured to the chair facing his. “Please, have a seat.”

“Do I have a choice?” Miss Fletcher asked.

“Of course you do. Stay standing, if that’s your preference. My offer stems from excellent manners drubbed into me as a wayward boy. And if that doesn’t entice you, there’s this.” He picked up a small ledger off the chess table and offered it to her.

“What is it?”

“Information about the Jacobite gold you’ve hunted. In particular, proof that it’s all gone.”

Miss Fletcher eyed him like a viper bearing gifts. “And you’re just going to hand it over.”

“That is the idea.”

Her doubtful huff was to be expected. This was a lot to absorb, and if he were in her shoes, he’d be wary of an enemy’s sudden generosity, and the disappointment coming with it. She’d devoted four years to finding the Lost Treasure of Arkaig. He couldn’t help but admire her for it. Her spirit, her tenacity. And if that wasn’t enough, he’d happily spend the night admiring her extraordinary face. Her eyes in the dark were ethereal.

And so damned silver.

Ilsa snorted, irritated. “Sit down and read the ledger.”

Miss Fletcher snatched the book, seated herself in the opposite chair, and started riffling the pages.

“I can’t read it. The light is inadequate.”

He snapped his fingers. “Ilsa. The candles.”

While Ilsa was striking tinder at the mantel, Miss Fletcher angled the ledger in moonlight. She wore the signs of a woman who’d indulged her passion and dressed in haste. Her unfettered hair. A bruised, well-kissed mouth. Her stomacher askew and her shift puckering, its white linen tie sadly torn and hanging over her bodice.

She might as well announceI just had a life-altering tup.

He brushed his silk sleeve, vexed. “Would you like me to summarize? It would help us get to the point.”

“I’m at a disadvantage, my lord.”

A page was turned slowly as though she wanted to string him along.The minx.

“Here I am, caught sneaking around your home. You could call for Bow Street and have me hauled off. Instead, you’ve offered me a seat in an exceedingly comfortable chair and handed over, what I imagine, is a treasonous ledger.” Looking up from the pages, she speared him with an acerbic stare. “So why don’tyouget to the point?”

Ilsa set the candelabra on the table. “I like her.”

“She can be entertaining when her claws are sheathed.”

“The evening’s far from over, my lord,” was Miss Fletcher’s retort.

Light from the candelabra glinted on her choker’s gold medallion. The corset maker was a dark-hairedlioness. Beautiful, yes. But she’d operated in London for some years—without his notice. And that made her dangerous.

He planted both elbows on the chair’s arms, his fingers steepling. “You’re here for two reasons. The first is the Treasure of Arkaig.”

Her eyes rounded. “Are you giving it to me?”

“I can’t,” he said, summoning patience. “It’s gone.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn’t. That ledger, however, supports my claim.”

“And you’re sharing it out of the goodness of your heart?”

There was a bite in her voice. She ought to be careful, or he’d bite back. Clamping his molars, he coaxed himself. Patience was necessary, and he was so close to the ultimate prize.