Page 50 of The Scot Who Loved Me

She opened her front door, a magician of sorts. More sunshine flooded the house but not what the eye could see. It was in the pristine feel and the aromas of beef stew and baked bread, in the friendly feminine voices, a peculiar music with the power to knit bones and heal souls. He’d carried on in his room above an exotic animal dealer with wafts of unseemly smells. A word with hislandlord fixed that, but no amount of scrubbing could match this.

His hand curled against the velvet coat draped over his arm. This was... longing.

All the king’s riches could buy a house, but never a home.

A home was made with gentle hearts and acts of kindness. Anne and her seditious league had made one. Women, young and old, caring for one another. It took a moment before he crossed the threshold and shut the door. This was hallowed ground.

The ladies tossed hats and sundry on the entry table, their chatter dancing between league business to his cousin’s staunch belief a day of cricket would be good for all. He was subdued, withdrawing the wax from his coat.

Anne pivoted to him. “Surely you have a few.”

“A few what?” He added coat and hat to the pile.

“Friends in the City,” she said patiently.

He smiled. When men built a conversation, it was a ladder, one rung to the next. Women built theirs as a rambling garden, planting seeds here and there. The listener was expected to jump nimbly from one patch to the next.

“I’d count Mr. Pidcock, my former landlord. A few men at West and Sons Shipping.”

“Funny little man, your landlord,” Cecelia said. “I’d ask him about MacLeod.”

After today, he wasn’t surprised she knew Mr. Pidcock.

“Five years, I minded my business, and Mr. Pidcock minded his.”

“Yes, well, time to change that.” She was brightand encouraging. “Just talk to him. A man like that knows a lot of people, but you’ll have to be friendly.”

“I am friendly.”

“And don’t be so... broody.” His cousin wrinkled her nose. “That and your size puts people off.”

“I don’t brood.” But he knew no truer words had ever been said. “And why am I all of a sudden asking about MacLeod?”

“Because while you napped, I decided two heads are better than one.” Anne smiled, but he didn’t miss firm notes in her voice.

“You decided, madame?”

He could argue he wasn’t part of her league, more employee than partner. He had things to do—a former employer to see and men withT-branded thumbs to hunt. He wanted to begin his hunt tonight at the Iron Bell. Red Bess knew him, if he counted her flashed stays. He was sure the lass would be happy to share a pint and conversation if he paid for her time.

His cousin pinched her skirts and tossed back an airy, “I shall leave you both to sort the details, all this lurking about has made me positively famished.”

Anne waited until Cecelia’s footsteps crossed the dining room into the kitchen. A lack of privacy was both a blessing and a curse in cozy homes. Anne’s mouth was soft but set, a combination only she could achieve.

“Lady Denton’s party is on the twenty-eighth. Less than five days. We cannot afford to be caught off guard again.”

“Despite the countess’s early return, we made it work. Today was a success.”

A slight nod. “It was a victory.”

“You don’t have the look of a victorious woman.”

Heat flowered on her cheeks. Wrinkled skirts and messy wisps from ripping off her hat betrayed her normal mien. This victory came at a cost: a verbal flogging done by the countess. Anne had to have been gritting her teeth while the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

When her gaze met his, a pang bottomed inside him. She was vulnerable. Another chink in the armor of Anne Fletcher MacDonald Neville.

“I won’t feel victorious. Not until I have the gold and am on a ship bound for the Western Isles.”

The league. The clan. Couldn’t she be a little needy for him? Just once?