Page 43 of The Scot Who Loved Me

Letting Anne know this—how and when, in particular—was the hard part. It required skill and thoughtfulness after what she’d gone through, and he’d be the first to admit, finessingmatters of the heart was not his strength. Her secret rocked him. How was he going to overcome her sense of desertion?

His desertion...committed in ignorance under the belief she’d deserted him.

“Mr. Styles is not in the square,” Anne said.

He consulted a pocket watch which he’d found at the bottom of the bigamist’s sea chest. “He has five minutes.”

“I don’t like it.”

His gaze shot from one corner to the next. “I don’t either, though I canna be sure if it’s Mr. Styles or something else.”

More pigeons than people inhabited the square. It was quiet. Too quiet.

“This could be nerves,” Anne said. “Since we’re about to commit a misdeed.”

“Misdeed?” he snorted. “A genteel way to put it.”

Anne linked her arm with his. “Walk with me. We’re supposed to be a newly betrothed pair out for a leisured stroll, remember?”

Scouting for battle was easier than this. A man could at least use trees and bushes to his advantage. Anne was a natural, slim fingers in the crook of his elbow, her stroll sedate. The brim of her hat covered all but soft red lips and pale skin, badges of a gentlewoman. He wasn’t fooled. Anne would brandish her knife and charge Denton House this very moment if she thought it best.

A bored footman walking a scrap of a dog crossed the road. The little girl in the Garden Oval shrieked gleefully at a squirrel. A lady of quality exited her home and ensconced herselfin a waiting sedan chair painted with roses. Two men dressed in claret-colored coats bent their knees, lifted their burden, and off they went, the lady they served fanning herself languidly.

Anne’s petticoats brushed his legs, and his cares melted with each gentle swish. She walked with grace, her face tipping companionably to his. The bruise at her temple was the only thing out of place.

“Tell me about the night you were attacked,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I will track them down and see justice done.”

Her grip firmed on his arm. “You can’t go to the magistrate.”

“I wasna thinking of that kind of justice.”

“Oh, I see.”

It struck him right then: he was good at protecting, and this skill, the strength of his back and his ham-sized fists, might be the door to winning Anne once again. His rough charm only went so far.

“You opened this door, Mrs. Neville. I intend to be fully at your service.”

“Helping with the key and the gold is more than enough,” she said quietly. “Your brute strength is best served there.”

He chuckled. “No false flattery from you.”

A squirrel scampered from a hedge behind the garden’s black railing. The wee beast flitted its tail and darted across an ostentatiously wide street.

“Your about-face is... curious.”

Ancilla’s house loomed. “Consider it atonement.”

Her breath caught. A good sign? Or bad?

He slid two fingers in between his neck and cravat and tugged. “Maybe it’s my better nature wanting to protect a clanswoman.”

Because I’ll do whatever I must to win you back.

He’d wooed her as a headstrong maiden of nineteen. Wooing the older, wiser woman at his side would be another kettle of fish. Ardent words and passionate kisses worked once; both ploys wouldn’t work again. The test was how to win a twice-widowed woman? She already knew the dance of courtship. Freedom and independence appealed more than anything a man could give. Nor was Anne drawn to money. She was on the cusp of stealing a treasure to give it away.