Scot Under the Covers Page 29

  Lord Glendarril seemed to be the only one with an appetite anyway, but Miranda did her best to eat a few bites. She thought Aden was eating—until she caught him passing bits of chicken beneath the table to Brògan. Despite everything, despite being half out of her mind waiting for the mysterious note Aden had them all waiting for, the sight made her smile. Yes, he’d knocked Captain Vale on his arse and threatened him, but he’d also rescued a dog, and he was doing his damnedest to save her.

  When a footman stepped into the room, every pair of eyes watched him deliver a note on a silver salver to Smythe and whisper something in the butler’s ear. Immediately Smythe took charge of the tray and walked it around the table to deliver it to … her.

  “A note, Miss Harris,” he intoned, and held out the salver.

  She took the note. “Is this it?” she asked Aden, who shrugged.

  “It could be.”

  “Who delivered it, Smythe?” Eloise asked, leaning forward to look.

  “It came by messenger, Lady Eloise. The man didn’t say who’d dispatched him.”

  Aden’s sister looked over at him. “Are you going to tell us?”

  “Open it, lass, and tell all of us.”

  Miranda broke the wax seal, unfolded the paper, and frowned. “It’s from … Basil Jones, Lord George Humphries’s butler.”

  “A butler?” the countess repeated, lifting a curved eyebrow. “How unusual.”

  “Yes. It says, and I shall quote, ‘Lord George requests the honor of your presence at a small breakfast gathering tomorrow at eight o’clock.’ Basil Jones, his butler.” She looked up. “What in the world?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Aden asked, his expression perhaps a bit more intense than it should be.

  “Well, to begin, a bachelor does not invite an unmarried lady to his home without detailing precisely who will be there, and he certainly doesn’t have his butler write out the invitation.”

  “This far into the Season, an invitation should never be sent out in the evening for an event the next morning,” Eloise added. “Everyone’s calendar is full to bursting.”

  “Vale wouldnae know all those rules though, I reckon, would he?”

  She looked at the missive again. A servant sending an invitation on behalf of his master, an assumption that she would be available and would appear—it actually seemed rather like something of which Vale would approve. “No, I don’t think he would. But George certainly does.”

  “There it is, then.” He pushed away from the table. “That’s one thing fallen into place. If ye’ll excuse me, I’ve a note of my own to write.”

  “Just a moment,” Miranda countered, handing the note to Coll when he gestured for it. “That is what you’ve been waiting for? A note from Basil Jones?”

  “Nae. I asked Humphries if he cared to get out from under all this, and if he did, for him to send me a note about someaught peculiar if Vale should make a visit to the bank today—or go anywhere without wanting his shadows to prop him up. From what ye said, a letter from a butler asking ye to breakfast is peculiar.”

  “So now you’re rescuing Lord George Humphries, as well?”

  “I’d rescue the devil from hell if it helped ye, lass,” he returned, steel beneath his easy tone. “I’ll be back here by dawn. The rest of ye stay indoors. Vale’s likely to have somebody watching this house.”

  “And how are you getting to this bank you’re robbing?” his mother demanded.

  He sent her a brief, grim smile. “Nae by the front door.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was odd, having what felt like half of London know his plans. Back up at Aldriss both his brothers and their father had complained more than once that they never knew whether he was coming, going, or drowned in a loch somewhere. He’d liked it that way, or so he’d thought, though lately the idea of being answerable to someone else had taken on a certain, unexpected appeal.

  Aden ducked into Francesca’s office and found a piece of paper. Dipping a quill into ink he wrote out nine o’clock and folded it again before he summoned Gavin from the stables.

  Trotting up to his bedchamber, he stopped the maid from setting the fire in his hearth, and turned the single lamp down to a flickering sputter. Once he’d pulled the curtains closed, he shed his English clothes in exchange for his old, worn kilt, work boots, shirt, and black coat. He didn’t mean to be seen much tonight, but he did need to move fast. This way he felt much more … himself.

  Once Gavin appeared, Aden handed over the note and recited the address. “I need ye to deliver this for me. Ye’ll need to slip out of the stables without anyone seeing ye, and hire either a hack or a pair of horses. When ye’ve done it, wait for me in the park with the old, split oak.”

  The groom nodded. “I’ll need a bit of coin for that.”

  Aden handed over a few pounds. “Dunnae be seen by anyone watching the house, Gavin.”

  “I reckon that’s why ye sent for me, and nae some Sassenach boy in pretty livery.”

  Aden pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He wanted to leave immediately, go see this finished once and for all. But Gavin needed time, and he needed to be certain no one lingered late at the bank doing the books or whatever it was bankers did at the end of the day.

  It was odd; generally, he was an exceedingly patient man. Gambling required patience, and so did coaxing wallflowers out to dance and encouraging them to talk, to hand out the little dabs of information he enjoyed collecting for its own sake. Now, though, he wanted to gallop through the middle of London and slay Miranda’s dragons. Him.

  But now he needed to wait, and for at least thirty minutes. The less time he spent out where one of Vale’s so-called friends could see him and note where he happened to be, the better. He paced to the curtained window and back. Dinner was likely still sitting on the table, but he didn’t want more polite conversation. He didn’t want to hear the speculating, and he didn’t want his brothers picking apart his plans and trying to force him to reveal the bits he hadn’t yet deciphered.

  Brògan scratched at his door, and he walked over to open it for her. Just beyond the spaniel stood Miranda, her hand upraised to knock. Well, this seemed a much better way to spend half an hour. “Come on in, lass,” he said, holding out his hand as Brògan scooted in between his legs and dove under the bed.

  “Thank you, Aden,” she returned, angling a finger to point over her shoulder.

  He looked where she indicated, to see Eloise standing well within earshot and apparently engrossed by a painting of a mad-haired Oswell ancestor. “Ye’ve brought a chaperone, I see.”

  “Not my idea,” she whispered as she moved past him.

  “I’m protecting her reputation,” Eloise called out. “Mama’s making me. And she’s worried about you, too.”

  So Lady Aldriss had her fingers in this pie, as well. “I’m a man grown, Eloise. Some of the things I’ve done would turn yer hair white. It’s too late to be worrying about me, now.”

  “But I’m worried, too,” Miranda put in. “Punching a man who certainly deserves it is one thing. I wish I’d been there to see it. But this is risking you being arrested, or worse. I don’t like it.”

  “I’m nae baying at the moon, lass. I’ve a plan.”

  “Yes, taking Vale’s notes from a bank. You’ve been a bit light on the particulars, partner.”

  He cocked his head at her. “That, I have. And that, I am.” Moving her farther into the room and out of his sister’s earshot, he told her, as briefly as he could, how he expected the next few hours to proceed.

  She didn’t like it; he could see that in her tight-pressed lips and the nervous tapping of her fingers in his. “Aden,” she said when he’d finished, “I didn’t ask for your help to see you in jail. Or dead.”

  “Not even at first, when ye didnae like me?”

  “I liked you. Far more than I ever wanted to admit. And don’t change the subject. You’re relying on luck, here.”

  He scowled. �
��I’d nae do such a thing. Ever. If the wind chooses to be at my back, though, I’ll nae complain about it. If ye’ve a better idea, I’ll listen to it.”

  “I’m beginning to think simply running away might be the easiest solution.”

  Aden wanted to ask if she meant to flee on her own, or if she’d prefer to have a certain Highlander by her side, but she would only accuse him of trying to distract her again, which he would have been doing. “Sitting about and waiting is harder than what I have before me, lass. But I’ll nae fail ye.”

  “Just this afternoon you got yourself banned from every proper gentlemen’s club in London to save me, so I have no doubt about your intentions. I don’t want you to be hurt while you’re going about rescuing me. I … I love you, you know.”

  He brushed his fingers down her arm, taking her hand in his. “And I love ye, lass. Nae a thing will ever change that. But if ye dunnae feel the same way about me tomorrow morning, I want ye to tell me so. I could stand being wrong, but nae being wrong and nae knowing it.”

  She frowned. “Aden, how many t—”

  “Nae,” he cut in. “At this moment ye cannae talk to me honestly about forevers, because yers is still being held by someone else. So afterward, when ye’re free, ye can decide if ye’re grateful to me, or feel obliged, or that I’m just … convenient. After.”

  Miranda looked at him for a long moment. “They say that sometimes the brightest men are also the stupidest, but have it your way.”

  Not many things genuinely surprised Aden, but Miranda did, almost constantly. “Could ye repeat that?”

  “You heard me. You’re being honorable, and stupid. I’m slightly insulted, but I understand.”

  “Ye’re a sharp-tongued woman, Miranda. I like that about ye.” He adored it about her, but this definitely wasn’t the time for those sorts of declarations.

  “Good. I don’t intend to change.”

  For Saint Andrew’s sake, he hoped not. Even with Vale after her for weeks, she’d kept her sense of humor. She hadn’t crawled under the covers and decided to hide until all the unpleasantness went away, which is precisely what he would have expected from one of the delicate English lasses his father had gone to great lengths to describe. That definitely was not Miranda Grace Harris. He hoped, after all this was finished, that he would still have the privilege of facing her indignation. “Might I kiss ye, then?” he asked.

  Her mouth twitched. “I would be amenable to that.”

  Drawing her up against him, he lowered his head to capture her mouth. Sharp-tongued and sweet tasting. What a conundrum she was. And he delighted in it. In her.

  “I’ve counted to thirty,” Eloise announced a moment later, “and I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to separate you now.”

  That made two lasses, then, who had him twisted about their wee fingers. With a sigh and a last nibble at Miranda’s lower lip, he took half a step backward. “I’d argue with ye, piuthar, but if I caught ye kissing Matthew for a count of thirty, I reckon I’d have to put him in a trunk and ship him off to the Orient.”

  “I’m going with you,” Miranda said abruptly.

  That stopped him in mid-thought. “Nae. Ye arenae.”

  “Oh, dear,” Eloise muttered, and vanished in the direction of the stairs.

  “Och, she’s going to tell Coll and Niall,” he muttered.

  “You’re doing this for me, Aden,” Miranda persisted. “You shouldn’t be the only one taking a risk.”

  “I—”

  “Ye’re nae going alone,” Coll said from the doorway, Eloise a slender shadow behind him.

  Aden glared at the giant blocking all the light from the hall. Beside him Miranda looked from one MacTaggert brother to the other. He could see the sense in not going alone, but he also knew who stood to gain or lose the most from this plan of his. “Ye’re right,” he returned. “I’m nae going alone. Miranda’s coming with me.”

  “Y—”

  “I’ve nae more time to argue.” Walking to the bedside table, he lowered the lantern still further, till it barely managed any light at all. “We’re going out the window,” he said, moving over to the opening and pulling open the curtains again. “The idea is to be unnoticed. Ye and Niall and the lasses go into the front room and make some noise. We’re all home, and we’re celebrating me setting Vale on his arse.”

  With a muttered curse, Coll reached back for Eloise’s hand and wrapped it around his arm. “Ye heard him, piuthar. Come sing us a song.”

  With a glare that told Aden he’d best know what he was about, the viscount closed the door to leave Aden and Miranda alone in his bedchamber. “On another day, I wouldnae be using this moment to climb out a window,” Aden muttered, catching her mouth for a quick kiss. “Now. Let me climb down first,” he went on, releasing her and taking the old knife out of his bed stand to shove it into his boot. “Watch how I do it. If ye fall, I’ll catch ye.”

  “Thank you,” Miranda said, her voice catching.

  “Well, we’re partners. Aye, lass?”

  She smiled, a tear running down one cheek before she wiped it away. “Aye.”

  Shaking himself loose of thoughts of Miranda and forever, Aden walked over and ducked out the window, using the trellis and drainpipe to climb to the ground and taking more care than he generally did since Miranda was watching and would be using his descent as her example.

  “Come along, lass,” he whispered. “One foot at a time.”

  “I should have put on trousers,” came floating down to him as she found her footing on the trellis.

  “But then I couldnae look at yer legs.”

  “Aden.”

  “A little to the left lass, and dunnae catch up yer skirt,” he countered, positioning himself below her and not feeling the least bit of guilt at looking up to see those long, pretty legs. The idea that he had the slightest chance of waking up every morning with her warm, lithe body in his arms … He shook those soft thoughts out of his head—he hadn’t won this game yet.

  When she was close enough, he reached up and caught hold of one slender ankle to guide her down to the ground. “My da warned me about falling for a soft, hothouse flower of a Sassenach lass,” he murmured when she stepped back and turned around to face him. He plucked a flower petal from her dark hair. “All delicate and fainting and helpless.”

  She grinned up at him, a smudge of dirt across her nose. “Did he, now?” she returned, tangling her fingers into his lanky hair and pulling his face down for a kiss.

  He could drown in her smile, he decided. “Aye,” he whispered, lifting his head. “Now let’s go rescue ye.”

  * * *

  In her wildest dreams Miranda couldn’t have conjured anything remotely like this. Hand in hand with a tall, kilt-wearing Highlander, slipping from shadow to shadow along the streets of Mayfair with only the moonlight and the scattered, flickering glow of oil lamps to light the way.

  She couldn’t detect anyone watching Oswell House, but she didn’t doubt that Vale had someone lurking there. He’d known the moment Aden had returned from Portsmouth, and he’d known her to be dining at Oswell House.

  Three streets away from the grand house they approached a small park dominated by a grand old oak tree, one of the huge branches split from the trunk and hanging almost to the ground. Aden let out a low whistle, making her jump.

  Three shadows, two of them horse-shaped, separated from the tree. “Bloody stable master tried to rob me,” a deep Scottish voice said in the dimness. “Said he reckoned if I needed two horses at this time of night it wasnae for anything good, and I could pay him double or go elsewhere.”

  “Did ye convince him otherwise?” Aden asked, ducking beneath the hanging branches.

  “Aye, but we’ll nae be able to rent horses from him again.” A stout man in a groom’s jacket and worn boots, together with a kilt in the MacTaggert plaid, stepped into the moonlight. He looked over at her and stopped. “Ye didnae tell me ye’d have a proper lass with ye. I shouldnae have
said ‘bloody,’ I reckon. Begging yer pardon, miss.”

  “I wasn’t offended,” she returned. “There’s no need to apologize.”

  “Well, I only fetched two mounts, as Master Aden asked, and nae one trained for the sidesaddle, so I do need to apologize, even though I wasnae told ye’d be here.”

  “She’ll ride with me,” Aden put in, his tone amused. “Miranda, this is Gavin. He came south with us to make certain our horses were properly seen to. Gavin, Miss Harris.”

  “Miss Harris,” the groom said, tugging on his forelock.

  Aden moved past her and swung into the saddle of the bay mare. Once aboard he kicked his left foot out of its stirrup and held a hand down to her. “I’ll have ye in my arms after all, it seems.”

  With Gavin boosting her up, she stepped into the stirrup and then practically flew through the air to sit sideways across Aden’s thighs.

  “Cozy?”

  That wasn’t quite the word she would use, not with her heart pounding practically out of her chest, but she nodded, anyway. Once the groom had mounted a short-chested gray, they set off at a canter that would have had pedestrians frowning at them if they’d attempted it in daylight. As it was they nearly ran one hack off the road, and the driver of a grand, black coach gave them the two-fingered salute as they hurried by.

  “Which bank are we burgling?” she asked, turning her head to look up at Aden’s lean face.

  He glanced down at her, then back to the streets. She thought she saw brief humor in his eyes, but it could have been the moonlight. “The big one,” he returned.

  “‘The big one’? Could you narrow it down a bit?”

  “What do ye Sassenach call it? The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, aye?”

  “The … The Bank of England?” she croaked. “The bank?”

  “Well, aye. Where else would a man take his most precious possessions to make certain they stay safe?”

  “Good heavens. I thought you meant some out-of-the-way private little bank that has favorable lending terms for criminals or something.”