The Scot Who Loved Me

by Gina Conkle

  She refolded the note, dogged by foreboding. How confident she’d been that her league was too small to draw notice. But a woman powerful enough to bribe an audience with Dr. Cameron might be canny enough to find out women, commoners no less, had been asking about her.

  “Yes, she approached me in June.”

  “Afore or after Dr. Cameron’s execution?”

  “After.”

  Will scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “There’s a chance she knows.”

  Anne tapped the letter on the table, absorbing this blow. Three slender, plain gold rings glinted on her fingers. Graceful and fierce, she would fight. A shift in her chair and she met Will’s gaze.

  “It doesn’t matter if she knows about the league. It won’t stop us.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Aunt Maude asked Will. “Lady Denton’s family is steeped in shipping and merchant trade.”

  “They are. But ask yourself, why would a woman whose father was among the first directors of the United Company of Merchants of England trading to the East Indies be interested in Anne’s little warehouse on Gun Wharf?”

  Aunt Maude set down her biscuit. Aunt Flora’s aged fingers worried her dish. They had no answer.

  “Her brother, the Marquess of Swynford, has a seat at the director’s table now. Through him and the family shares, the countess has more money than we can imagine to have in our lifetime.” He paused. “Do you really believe a woman with that kind of wealth would want an insignificant dock? In this part of Southwark?”

  The older sisters exchanged worried glances. Will tried to reassure them.

  “She may no’ have taken notice of you two.”

  Aunt Maude smiled at her sister. “Because, dear, you and I are old.”

  “All the more reason for Cecelia, Margaret, Mary, and me to look after you.” Anne’s smile was the cheer up variety.

  Aunt Flora patted Anne’s hand. “I’ve lived too long tae be afraid of that woman.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Anne rose from the table with renewed purpose.

  Nothing was going to stop them from taking back Jacobite gold—not king or countess or one cautious highlander. Thus, she walked to her kitchen and fed the morning’s missives to the flames.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They crossed Horn Yard onto Stoney Lane. Sunshine sneaked through gritty clouds, shining grandly on the road’s questionable muck and more questionable puddles. He was a man on a mission, following a woman on a mission to shop as quickly as possible. If Will didn’t know any better, he’d say Anne wanted to lose him in the late morning crowd.

  “Why the hurry, Mrs. Neville?”

  “I had planned to shop alone.” Anne stopped their progress to let three carters pass. “It’s easier that way.”

  “And deny me the privilege of carrying your basket?”

  She gave him the side-eye. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re holding it to make sure I don’t give you the slip.”

  “You could be on to something.” His ham-fisted grip on her basket garnered a queer glance or two, but a sharp glare back reminded Southwark’s good citizens to mind their own business.

  Anne pinched her skirts higher and they crossed the road. “Why are you so set on shopping with me?”

  “Why are you so set on getting rid of me?”

  “I needed to clear my head.”

  Drays rumbled by. Two hawkers, scrabbly lads with holes in their coats, took turns crying, “Cockfight, King’s Head Yard!” and “Bare-knuckle brawlers, Morgan’s Lane!” A red-faced matron yelled at a costermonger selling his wares too close to her front door.

  “You do your thinking in this?” Which earned him a giggle.

  “I make do, as one must.”

  Anne was beautiful, mussed hair trailing her back. No straw hat and no carmine lips today. Her humble gray gown reminded him of grisettes, French worker women, shop assistants, servants (and erstwhile lovers) to university students. He’d seen grisettes in Edinburgh. A few inhabited Spitalfields where French Huguenots staked a claim in London, women of lowly circumstances but no less canny in their gray gowns of small cost.

  “And why are you with me? I thought you had errands of your own to attend,” she said.

  Because I want to win your heart, lass. Risky words to say aloud. Instead, he chose the safer, “Because I want to talk to you and enjoy the pleasure of your company, Mrs. Neville.”

  “Oh?” Her stride was easy, companionable.

  Pattens made Anne four inches taller, putting her head very near his shoulder, like their kiss on the stairs. They approached St. Olave’s Street where vicars and harlots and red-coated soldiers patrolled the road. A pair of mail coaches trundled by. Pretty young flower girls, their baskets brimming, sold their wares on busy corners. Anne pointed to a wooden sign across the street with a white mortar and pestle painted on a field of black.

  “That’s my last stop. The apothecary.” She spoke above the road’s noise, her shoulder bumping his. “There’s a quiet spot on the other side of Black Ravens Court. I’ll take you there and you can explain this business of wanting the pleasure of my company.”

  A thrill bloomed in his chest. This was promising.

  They set off across the street, Anne at one side and her basket of candles and coffee beans on the other. Last time he wooed her he was on horseback in wide open country, but if he was honest, there wasn’t much wooing. By day, conversation had flowed without purpose, words seeding their love from boundless curiosity. By night, their conversation was passion sheened with hot need. A simple tale of young love.

  Years and hardship changed their stories. Would the battering they’d taken make them less open? Or more so?

  Anne dodged a rotting cabbage in the road and reached for the door with the unlettered black-and-white sign above it. Inside, the street’s noise was blessedly muffled.

  “The quiet,” she sighed. “How nice.”

  “The improved smell’s even better.”

  Dried plants secured by twine hung from rafters. Jars clinked behind the wooden counter, matching the soft grunts of someone maneuvering goods out of sight. Glass jars lined shelves, the labels on some of them as fascinating as the contents.

  “Mermaid tears. Shark fins.” He squinted at a clay jar in the corner and snorted. “Bat’s eyes. What the devil are you looking to purchase, Mrs. Neville?”

  A tall, slim man, his ginger queue neat and his smile bland, stood up. He wiped his hands with a cloth, his sharp gaze bouncing between Anne and Will.

  “Good day, Mrs. Neville.”

  “Good day to you, Mr. Erskine.” She gestured to Will. “Allow me to introduce my betrothed, Mr. MacDonald.”

  “I heard the news.”

  “You have? When?”

  He waved a vague hand. “A few days ago . . . one of the elder women in your household told me.”

  “That would be Aunt Maude.”

  “Yes, yes. I believe she came to purchase a restorative for her bowels.” The apothecary’s voice pitched thoughtfully. “But I’d wager that malady is not why you’re here.”

  Anne rummaged for her list. “No, sir.”

  Mr. Erskine’s eyes narrowed on Will. “Your betrothed looks healthy enough, but appearances can be deceiving.”

  Will made an assessment of his own. Mr. Erskine was an educated Scots, east coast, Stirling or Edinburgh by his smoothly trilled Rs.

  “Like your jars of bat’s eyes and mermaid tears?”

  Mr. Erskine’s smile was brisk. “‘A wee thing amuses the bairns.’”

  Hearing the old Scots proverb was a taste of home. “Simple people are amused by simple things.”

  “Indeed, the people of London seem quite taken with the display behind me. Ignore it. As long as I cure their ills, I could claim to have dragon’s blood and people would still pay good coin for it.” He reached under the counter and produced a scarred wooden box. “I keep my better remedies in here.”

  Anne pulled folde
d paper from her petticoat pocket. “We have a small list.”

  “Is the problem of a marital variety?” Mr. Erskine steepled his fingers above the box. “An inability to—shall we say—rise to the occasion?”

  Will choked on a shocked laugh. “My tackle rises just fine, sir.”

  The apothecary looked to Anne. “Then, his is a problem of completion.”

  Anne giggled like a schoolgirl, her eyes bright and her cheeks pink. “Mr. MacDonald’s needs are numerous, but I can vouch he is very capable in both rising to the occasion and completing it.” She unfolded her list, adding an impish, “At least that was the case long ago.”

  Mr. Erskine hummed, deep in thought. He no doubt conversed daily on this delicate topic with the fine people of Southwark.

  “A healthy specimen, you say? And there are no concerns with longevity? Or the like?”

  Will was hands-on-hips indignant. “There are none.”

  Mr. Erskine set his box under the counter with a righteous, “Any woman about to be leg-shackled has the right to know.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Anne was all smiles, sliding her wrinkled list across the counter. “If you would be so kind, and fill this order for Aunt Flora’s headache powder.”

  The apothecary donned his spectacles and read the list. “This is all you need?”

  “It is.”

  The older man disappeared to a room behind his impressive wall of mystical remedies. Glassware clanked and there was a gentle pop, a jar uncorked by the sound. Will set both hands on the counter, his voice low for Anne’s ears alone.

  “You wound me, lass.” Though his mouth could barely contain his grin.

  She giggled again and he shushed her.

  “It was funny, Mr. MacDonald.”

  “Because it was at my expense.”

  Anne poked his belly, her voice matching his. “Exactly. And you’re man enough to laugh about it. That’s what I like about you.”

  “Like you say? This is promising.”

  She sobered a little. “Despite our ill-advised kiss, there is nothing beyond our mutual liking, which bodes well for the next few days. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “As you say, lass.”

  She playfully stroked the spot she’d poked. “Admit it. You were about to laugh. I saw the corners of your eyes creasing while Mr. Erskine carried on.”

  “He is serious about his business.”

  And Anne became serious about avoiding any further conversation that hinted at emotions. She withdrew her waistcoat-stroking hand and put distance between them as if struck by the intimacy of her hand on his body. A pall clouded her visage while she wandered the store, touching herbs and glass jars crammed with unknown contents.

  He’d let things simmer. Anne needed to laugh after this morning. He’d not press his pursuit. Not yet. Another raven-haired woman was a persistent presence, a beautiful spider spinning a web of deceit.

  How much did the countess know about Anne and her league?

  Chapter Twenty

  The apothecary visit ended their market day. Anne was distracted, claiming her ledgers needed some tidying in preparation for the countess’s surprise visit the next day. He never got to dance with her at the White Lamb and he didn’t get to see the hidden place behind Black Ravens Court. If he was a cricket player, his strike rate would be zero.

  While on St. Olave’s Street, they begged a ride from an empty dray with Mermaid Brewery branded on the wood. They rode, legs dangling off the back like rustics newly arrived from the country. He didn’t press conversation on their bumpy ride. The youthful Will MacDonald would’ve plowed forcefully onward, but the older and wiser man knew better. Sometimes a woman needed to be alone with her thoughts.

  The dray eventually found Bermondsey Lane where the driver delivered them to Anne’s broken gate.

  Will passed coins to the driver and walked backward, touching the brim of his tricorn. “My thanks for the ride, sir.”

  A smile creased the driver’s weathered face. He dropped the coins in his pocket and snapped the reins. “Good day to you too, sir.”

  Anne waited at her gate, the basket tucked in her elbow. She’d taken back the basket and her conversation when they left the apothecary’s shop. At present, her brows knit as if a remembrance teased her.

  “Near St. Olave’s Street, you said something about wanting to talk to me. Was that idle chatter?”

  “No’ idle chatter.”

  Winds were picking up. Anne’s hem stirred and black tresses blew across her face. He dared not brush them off her cheek. A greater wisdom warned him to tread with care. Today’s laughter had been as intimate as kissing her wrist. Playfulness was an innocent bond yet its threads could run as deep as any shared secret. For that reason, he reached around Anne and pushed open the gate, careful not to touch her.

  She lifted her face to his. “You’re a good man, Will MacDonald. I sometimes wish things could’ve worked.”

  His smile felt rusted and out of place. This was the scourge of a man who wanted love. Anne wished things could’ve worked—past tense. Those were the words of a woman who’d weighed their circumstances and found them lacking. Or him.

  Hope shriveled in his chest.

  “There is no higher compliment.”

  To be a good man in her eyes, to win that certain glow she bestowed on him would suffice for now. He was a fighter after all. He’d charged into war, facing incredible odds. His time with Anne and her league wasn’t done. Nor was he.

  “One question has been plaguing me about your league and the countess.”

  “But my display in the salon this morning squelched that.” She stared at the river, chastened. “It is only natural that you would want to know more. And it’s not as if I’ve been entirely forthcoming. Not on purpose mind you, but the effect is the same.” Arms crossed, she wedged the basket between them. “Ask your question, and I will answer to the best of my ability.”

  Between Anne’s high pattens and him down a step, they were eye level. Her directness was refreshing, a trait he appreciated.

  He kept his hand on the gate. “How did you come to know the countess was behind the Jacobite gold in London?”

  “That’s what you want to know?”

  “It’s a good place to start.”

  She toed a pebble on flagstone, squeezing her basket close. “It is.”

  Her feet shifted and small jars rolled and clinked within her basket. He gently took the burden from her, wanting nothing between them. No objects and no secrets. Arms limp at her side, Anne seemed to understand. He wasn’t an accomplice to her league. He was part of it. Part of her—his unsavory past included.

  “The countess gave herself away when she managed to get into Dr. Cameron’s cell.” Anne brushed hair off her face and looked to the river. “The guards refused all bribes. A mark of how serious the crown was about the good doctor.”

  “But you told me someone bribed their way into his cell.”

  “They did, but not with money. With fear.” She turned her gaze on him. It was vivid and sharp as a blade slicing to the bone.

  A nasty shiver chilled his spine. Seven years ago, he’d witnessed Ancilla meeting unsavory men, wretches with empty eyes and no mercy in their souls. Men who would do anything for a price.

  “The countess threatened a guard’s family. Her bribe, if you will, was their safety and well-being.” Anne hesitated, her eyes squeezing shut. “I won’t tell you what she threatened to do.”

  A sigh gusted out of him. He knew how cruel men and women could be.

  Anne grabbed the gate near his hand and held on tight. “Cecelia obtained the names of Dr. Cameron’s guards and we watched them. Their habits, possible weaknesses.”

  “I believe you, lass, and I believe the countess was one step ahead of you.”

  “She was. By happenstance, I approached the guard, Mr. Wickham, while he was in his cups at a tavern. He told me a cloaked noblewoman armed with ruffians threatened him and his family
. He said he had no choice but to let her in to Dr. Cameron’s cell in the middle of the night while he was on watch.”

  “And he listened to the conversation and told you.”

  “He did. When I asked for the name of this noblewoman, all he could say was he glimpsed a white streak in her black hair.” Anne eyed the bustling river. “That was enough.”

  “Does she work alone?”

  “We don’t know. Nor do we know how she got Jacobite gold to London and how much of it is out there,” she said, her chin tipping at the City where rooftops bit the sky with uneven teeth.

  London was good at chewing up its people. None save the rich and nimble could survive. Anne and her league were to be counted among the latter. Quick and agile, they had forged onward with their clan’s reward in sight, and they were so, so close. The league’s mission added vibrancy to his step—to do good for others. For his clan.

  Anne’s voice rose quietly beside him. “I want to go home.”

  He flinched, her words punching him. Anne leaned against her crooked gate with longing in her eyes. The same yearning pulsed in him. He’d fought it, denied it, and found rest in various places, claiming them to be his home. But he knew better. Home was more than where a man laid his head. It was in his heart, his soul, in the air he breathed and the kin he shared a life with.

  But he couldn’t go back to Scotland. An untenable stance, yet true.

  Heavy in spirit, he touched her shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”

  They entered her house more tangled and unclear than when they left it hours ago. He’d sought to deepen his bond with Anne, to woo her. Their shop day journey through Southwark did nothing of the sort. They walked into Anne’s salon pensive and quiet where Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora were altering the bigamist’s clothes.

  “Yer back and hale and hearty for the outing,” Aunt Flora said.

  “It was our visit with the apothecary. Quite stimulating.” Anne winked at him and offered a wobbly smile.

  Aunt Maude set a shirt aside and rose from the settee. “Let me take that.” She took the basket from Will and peeked under white cloth. “Got everything, I see. And it was fun?”