Page 41 of The Scot Who Loved Me

The best he could offer was, “Let it go, Anne. You canna save Scotland.”

“Watch me try.”

Chapter Twelve

A ridiculously ostentatious carriage carried them down South Audley Street. The interior exploded robin’s egg blue. Polished brass buttons shimmered. Gold tassels swayed. Will stroked the butter-soft squab where he sat, its tufted leather a cushion running from behind his calves to the ceiling.

“Have a care where you touch,” his cousin warned. “This carriage belongs to a courtesan. It’s her favorite vehicle for assignations.” She batted a tassel in the corner. “Equipped to meet diverse appetites.”

Anne and his cousin were crammed in the seat facing him, their panniers bunching.

“It doesna look big enough for sport of any kind.”

Cecelia giggled. “She manages.”

His cousin poked her nose out the open window, basking in sunlight. It was a perfect late summer day, if overwarm. With most nobs still in the country, West End streets were clear. To alland sundry, they were a harmless trio out for a lazy drive.

“What glorious sunshine. I hope it stays.” Cecelia flopped against the squab. “There’s a cricket match this week at the Artillery Ground. It’s London’s club versus the Marylebone men. Could be fun.”

“Cricket... fun?” he intoned. “Turtles move faster.”

She cast a worldly, knowing look at him. “One doesn’t go purely for the sport.”

“Sport? Try tossing a caber. That’s sport.”

“Men throwing a log. How original.” The carriage rolled to a stop and his cousin dashed on lace gloves. “Everyone knows the best part about cricket is drinking beer and watchingallthe interesting people.”

A footman opened the door, allowing her to pass. Outside, she set a straw bonnet on her head and tied a flirtatious red bow at her left cheek.

“Think about it, will you?” Her gaze flittered from Will to Anne. “A little gambling and whatever else we can stir up.”

“It’s the stirrin’ up part that gives me pause,” he said.

His cousinwasfun. Barely two days in her company, and her appetite for life was infectious. The woman didn’t possess a solemn bone in her body, yet she’d disembarked at a somber pile of gray stones known as St. George’s Chapel. He checked the road. Not a soul in sight. Their carriage, in fact, was the only conveyance on the street.

The footman shut the door, moved from view,and a thump signaled the driver onward. Cecelia yanked her bodice lower and called out, “Wish me luck.”

Lace trim on her bodice fluttered, revealing a tartan rosette pinned underneath. Clanranald MacDonald tartan. The knowledge pleased Will, a fine secret shared. A hefty one already followed him since midnight. Extra baggage, and he ill equipped to carry it. He’d slept poorly for the weight.

Him... almost a father.

Alone with Anne, he stared out the window and watched Cecelia swan into the chapel’s courtyard.

“It’s Thursday,” he said. “What the devil is she up to?”

“Prayer and supplication.” Anne’s voice was a smoky purr, the aftereffects of too much rum.

“Humor, Mrs. Neville. I wasna expecting that.”Not after last night.

Her brows arched.I don’t scare easilywas her message. If ever a driven woman existed, Anne Fletcher MacDonald Neville was first of the mold.

“Do you find it hard to believe in your cousin’s piety? Or my sense of humor?”

He rested gingerly against the squab. This might be a test.

“Why do I feel like answering that is a trap?”

Hands folded demurely on her lap, Anne was the very picture of a woman who belonged in carriages with supple leather and velvet curtains. Peach petticoats covered the seat and pretty silk shoes poked out from her hem, but he knew better. She had a knife up her taffeta sleeve. Anne was as nimble with weapons as she was withwords, which left him staring at the clean cut-stone faces of passing homes.