Page 90 of The Scot Who Loved Me

Will MacDonald owned her heart. He was her perfect match. No one else would ever, could ever have it.

Why were they so awful at letting that be?

She stared at her bowl, lost. She was drowning in needs: to soothe Will, herself, and the women of the league who needed reassurance with the sudden change of plans. And there was the single constant which brought them together—stealing Jacobite gold and taking it home.

Indulging her emotions in these final hours wouldn’t do. The mission wasn’t done.

Will rose from the table and took his dishes into the kitchen. She heard their gentle clatter as he set them down, and she heard his footfalls returning him to the dining room. He picked up his tricorn hat, which had been hooked on the back of his chair. She looked up and found him studying one of its corners.

“I have one more farewell to make afore I leave.”

Will’safore I leavespeared her. His eyes answeredfor Virginia.

“Will... the gold. I have a duty to finish it.”

“I know, lass. I know.” He set his hat on his head, a solemn man. “I’ll be back in plenty of time for tonight. I’ll no’ let you down.”

Again . . .the word hung in her dining room long after Will left.

In their youth, they’d been good at sex. Very, very good at sex. They were good at parsing debates on Scotland, England, the dilemmas of kings and realms. But a frank discussion of the whys and hows of their emotions didn’t truly begin until...

Unlocking him from Marshalsea?

Telling him about their unborn child?

She sat a long while in her empty dining room in her empty house. Her idle fingers found a loose thread on her skirt and rolled it. Her grandmother had done a wonderful job preparing her for the wifely tasks such as tracking household expenses, arranging furniture to please the eyes, and advising her on the mark of a good draper. Needful things, but not the stuff of life.

Last night, Will had come to dinner and been fully present for the league’s last reiteration of their plans. Then he’d retreated to his bedchamber. Without a word, she’d cleaned his boots. A week here and that wifely task was already second nature. It wasn’t a chore; she wanted to do it.

Her tasks done, she’d climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, finding more than a wall and bolted door between them. Will had been quiet on the other side. Reading is what he’d said he was going to do. He probably had. Or had he thought about his journey? Everyone was astir about theirs. He’d been closemouthed about his arrangements. But everyone knew...

Will would leave for Virginia, and she for Scotland.

Once candles had been extinguished, and darkness descended, she was alone in her bed, and he in his.

That was the loneliest kind of dark.

He couldn’t shake the sense that his breakfast conversation with Anne could’ve gone much, much better. He’d upended his life for her, and done everything he could to provide for her unique requests.

The key imprinted. Done.

A forge for Miss Fletcher to create a new key. Done.

A willing back to unload bags of gold through a window. Ready, willing, and able.

He’d carried her market day basket around Southwark for her and laughed after his male parts were called into question. What more did the woman want? There was the rub. Anne wanted the same thing he wanted—a heart cracked open and its contents poured out. All the things one person in love said to another. A simple thing yet vastly, vastly difficult. Nigh to impossible for some. In the best of circumstances, trust was built a little at a time.

The road to rebuild trust was trickier. No map existed for that.

He ambled along Wapping Wall caught in a vise grip. Anne’s sudden midnight appearance at Marshalsea was at one end, her inevitable dawn disappearance onThe Grosvenorat the other.

“The Grosvenor,” he said.

Justice was, indeed, a devious wench.

The sloop was probably out there right now.Sloops, schooners, wherries, lightermen boats, and brigantines jammed the river on one side of him. On the other was Wapping where Charles II’s navy had lived. At present, the waterfront district was home to dockhands, laborers, sailors of all stripes, criminals, harlots, and one exotic animal dealer.

“Mr. Pidcock!”