“He said he’s here with information about a Fiona McTavish.”
Fiona?
He hadn’t seen or spoken to Fi in almost a year. Not since the night of the Abingdale riots when, in a moment of fear and weakness, he’d told her that she would always own his heart. Then he’d taken her hands in his and kissed them.
That moment had stirred up all the longing, passion, and love that he’d worked so hard to smother.
That moment had almost been enough for him to throw caution to the wind. To take what he wanted and damn the consequences. To put everyone he loved—including Fiona—at risk so he could have her near.
Which was why he’d left Abingdale the next day, as soon as the watch arrived, and he knew the village was safe. It was best. It was the only way to keep her safe.
A fish out of water dies gasping.
Every time he let his mind turn to Fiona, his mother’s words slithered their way through his thoughts and down into his gut where they sat, their poison leaching into him, making him nauseous.
He wanted to tell Simmons to send this footman away—nothing good would come of entangling the two of them again—but his gut couldn’t do it.
“Send him in.”
The scrawny lad who entered was covered in mud, his hair wild, his eyes frantic. “Your Grace.” His bow was hurried, as though he was running out of minutes. “It’s Miss McTavish, Your Grace. She’s in trouble.”
Chapter 3
The day had stretched out and the fragment of light that crept through the window at the end of the hall had dimmed. A guard, completely deaf to the calls of the inmates, had lit the gasoline-soaked wall sconces with a torch. The curling stream of sooty, oily smoke now hung over her head, filling her nostrils with an acrid smell that she should be used to.
The need to urinate was becoming unbearable.
Fiona, sitting in the front corner of the cell, her back against the brick wall, and her shoulder against the bars so that no cellmate could creep up on her, tried to focus on her plan for the week—tomorrow’s meeting with the patent office and then a list of distributors to approach—but the increasing pressure on her bladder stole her focus. She shifted, looking for a more comfortable position, but the sudden redistribution of weight made it worse.
To hell with this.
Wrapping herhand around a bar, she levered herself up.
“Excuse me,” she called.
There was no answer. The one guard sitting down at the end of the corridor didn’t even look up.
She banged on the bars with her fist, a pointless movement that did nothing but hurt her hand.
“Excuse me. Sir? I need the privy!”
Behind her the men in the cell snickered.
“Wot? You shy?”
“Embarrassed about the size of your cock?”
Heat crept up the back of her neck and beneath the edge of her wig, which felt heavier and less well-fitting with every minute.
Ignoring the comments of the group behind her, she pressed against the bars. “Mister! Kin ye hear me?” She leaned into the Scottish side of her heritage, hoping it would strengthen her disguise. The bloody guard didn’t even look in her direction.
A man approached from behind, the hairs on the back of her neck rising as he leaned against the bars beside her. Close. Too close.
Her heart beat double time as he murmured in her ear. “Pr’haps you got a reason not to drop your drawers in front of us, eh lad?”
She swallowed. “I dunnae ken what ye’r talking about.” The words felt tight and forced.
“Remembered to drop your voice, have you, lad? Coulda sworn it was higher a second ago.”
