“And the trades people, like the weavers, complain their wages are too low.”
Gustav nodded. “That sums it up. There is a storm brewing as sure as the winter ones sweeping in from Iceland.”
Niall didn’t particularly like the sound of that and mulled it over as he walked over to the warehouse to collect Annie. For centuries, the Scottish clans had skirmished amongst themselves. There had even been major clan wars. The English had never been welcomed north of the Borders, even with the Act of Union that made them all one country. It seemed to Niall that that unrest remained, only to take a somewhat different form, now that the world was becoming industrialized. He only hoped the warehouse, being in somewhat of a neutral position of simply moving goods, would not be caught in any of the unrest.
Niall heard Annie’s laughter even before he entered the office. Opening the door and stepping inside, he saw the reason why.
A tall man hovered near Annie’s shoulder, leaning much too close as they both studied what looked like a map on the counter. The fellow’s long blond hair was tied back in a queue and hewore only a waistcoat over a linen shirt that had its sleeves rolled up and remained open at the neck. Why was the man dressed so informally? And, a better question…who the hell was he? Niall had taken inventory of the workers that morning and this man hadn’t been present.
Niall frowned and placed a hand on his belt, causing the knives and sword to rattle.
Annie looked up at the sound. Niall’s frown deepened as the man looked up too. He was probably Niall’s age and looked like a bloody Viking with eyes the color of glacier ice. And just as coldly penetrating. Niall widened his stance, a thumb on his sword hilt. “Who are ye?”
Annie sighed and shook her head. “Good afternoon to ye, too.” Then she turned to the big brute. “Allow me to introduce Niall MacDonald. He is staying at my mother’s boardinghouse.”
“I am also Annie’s personal escort,” Niall said, deciding to use the familiar name rather than the formal. He saw something flicker in the other man’s eyes briefly and stared him down. “I still doona ken who ye are.”
“John Kingsley,” he answered brusquely. “I am the foreman for the warehouse.”
That at least explained the informal attire. “Ye were nae here this morning.”
This time, a brow rose and the man looked at Annie.
She sighed again. “Niall decided to make sure there were no villains or brigands lurking about in the warehouse to accost me whilst I counted boxes.”
The Viking laughed. “I assure you, Miss Ferguson, that I will take care of any who attempt such a thing.”
Niall barely managed to refrain from scowling. Protecting Annie was his job, dammit. Once a Highlander vowed to do something, he did it. And he wasn’t checking for criminals in the warehouse. He was making sure—very sure—that the workersunderstood what—who—awaited them if they insulted Annie in any way. “Ye were nae here this morning,” he repeated.
“No, I was not,” Kingsley answered as Mr. Haines came through the back door of the office. He gave the briefest of nods to Niall and then looked back to Kingsley and Annie as he pointed to the paper on the counter. “Were you able to figure out a way to make more room?”
“I think so,” Kingsley answered. “I was just asking Miss Ferguson what she thought about my moves.”
What damn moves was the man talking about? Niall clenched a muscle in his jaw. Kingsley was still standing too close to Annie, although she didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she put a finger on the paper, which Niall could now see was a layout of the warehouse. “I think Mr. Kingsley’s idea to move the first row of stock directly against the wall was a good one.”
Haines nodded as he followed her gesture and then he looked up and smiled. “I think the two of you are going to work well together.”
Niall stifled a growl. Those were words he didn’t want to hear.
****
John Kingsley watched Annie leave with MacDonald and wondered how much trouble the man was going to be. After all, one didn’t often see Highlanders in tartans on the streets of Glasgow, let alone one armed to the teeth as though he had just been dropped onto a nineteenth-century sidewalk from some ancient Scottish battlefield.
And, if Kingsley read the man correctly—he most likely had, considering he’d spent years honing that skill in order to keep alive—MacDonald was a man loyal to his cause. In this case, the cause being Annie Ferguson.
He would have to tread carefully. Loyalty, like honor, were rare traits, but Kingsley never underestimated the powerof either of them. Both could turn seemingly mild-mannered men who normally abhorred violence into mindless, brutish avengers when tested. There was nothing mild-mannered about MacDonald, and John suspected the man had no qualms about using the weapons he wore either.
The Crown didn’t expect him to make mistakes, which meant he would have to rethink his plan, but being flexible had helped him survive other situations, so this was merely an annoyance at the moment. The prime minister had received messages of a possible secret committee that was forming in Glasgow to overthrow the government. John had already spent months casually visiting Walker’s Hotel and ingratiating himself with the disgruntled heirs of the Virginia Dons to gather information. Although they all grumbled about the downturn of the British economy along with high prices, he’d not been able to gather anything actually incriminating.
Part of the unrest was an outflow of the French and Americans both revolting against monarchy rule. Part of it also had to do with the trade unions which had formed and that were demanding better working conditions and higher wages. Neither of which was terribly surprising. The third part, though, was more elusive. Some merchants, particularly those dealing in overseas trade, were accumulating wealth that did not correlate with the amount of tariffs that were collected at the Custom House. The fear was that those men could and would finance a Scottish revolution and then take control of the country themselves. One of the prime suspects was Archibald Haines.
Getting to Archibald Haines meant his manager had to die. It was simply a price to pay so John could snatch the opportunity to apply as his replacement, concocting a story on being down on his luck. Archibald had said he needed to think on it and had offered a position in the warehouse instead. John had accepted the job and worked to gain the trust of the foreman. Whenthe foreman unfortunately met his demise a few weeks ago by drinking tainted ale—a drop or two of wolfsbane went a long way—Haines promoted John.
He’d hoped to soon advance to the manager position where he could get a look at the books.Thatplan had to be revised when Annie Ferguson showed up with that medieval-looking Highlander. But Kingsley was nothing if not innovative. He would persuade the woman to show him the books. His first thought had been to charm her—another trait in which he had skill—but soon sensed that she was not taken with flattery. However, there was more than one way to flatter a female. This one thought she was intelligent, so he would ask for opinions and advice, eventually having her “teach” him to do accounting. If all went well, she wouldn’t even know she’d been a contributor to his plot.
John Kingsley’s mission was to find the men who might be plotting a revolution against England and, as Liverpool put it, “take care of the problem.”
Which he planned to do. If MacDonald were lucky, he wouldn’t be a casualty.
