A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(99)

“What of it?”

“You bled for me.” She pressed a kiss to the bandage, and an ache began, high and tight in his chest. She looked up at him, her eyes shielded by the brim of her cap. He would have done anything to see those eyes. But they were not for him. “I wish to make him a laughingstock for that alone.”

Not for herself? Not for all things Hawkins had done to her?

He swallowed around the knot in his throat. The desire. The need. He pushed himself to remain aloof when all he wished to do was pull her into his arms. “You summon me with two lines on a scrap of paper? You come alone? In the darkness? To commit a crime?”

She stood her ground. “It is not the first time I have attempted this particular crime, Your Grace. Nor is it the first time you have.” She smiled, white teeth flashing in the shadows. “But it will be the first time we succeed.”

Christ. He loved her.

“Be careful, or you shall curse us.”

She grew serious then. “No. The universe could not possibly deny me this, as well.”

Before he could ask her to elaborate, she moved to the window. His gaze slid to her backside, where the trousers she wore fit indecently. Perfectly. His mouth went dry as he watched her stand on her toes, unsuccessfully attempting to look inside.

“Trousers again,” he said.

She turned to him, making a show of looking to his plaid. “Well one of us should wear them, do you not think?”

He raised a brow at the smart words. “You think I cannot do all required in a kilt?”

She watched him for a long moment, until he thought she might not reply, and then she said, “I think you can do anything you like, wearing anything you wish.”

The words were tempting beyond reason, and made him want to press her to the wall and show her all the things he would like to do.

He was prevented from doing so, however, by the task at hand. “I require a boost.”

He blinked. “A what?”

“That is why you are here.” She smiled, as though it were a perfectly ordinary request. “You shall boost me up. And I shall come around and open the door. And we shall get it done.”

“You are not going inside alone.”

She turned to him. “What do you think will happen? I shall be mauled by a sculpture?” He narrowed his gaze and she sighed. “I do not think I could boost you, Alec.”

He reached up and clasped the window, which opened wide without any hesitation. “How did you know this would be open?”

She grinned. “I made a friend.”

He loved the pleasure in the words. The thrill in them. He wanted her to have a hundred friends. A thousand of them. Whatever made her happy. For the rest of time.

You could make her happy.

He pushed the earl’s voice away. “A friend.”

She nodded. “Quite a good one, it seems.”

“Well, any friend who encourages a life of crime is a good one, I find,” he said dryly.

“The boost, Alec. We haven’t all night.”

He pushed her aside, and gripped the sill. “You meet me at the door.”

When she replied, he heard the disbelief in the words. “Alec. That ledge is six feet from the ground and you are wearing a kilt. You couldn’t possibly—”

He lifted himself up and onto the ledge and through the open window. He turned back to find her gaping at him, and he could not resist. “What was it that you were saying?”

She scowled. “My friend also thinks you’re an idiot.”

He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “She is right about that.” And then, “Meet me at the door.” She did, not two minutes later, stepping into the building before immediately turning back for outside. “One moment. I nearly forgot.”

She returned, large, fabric-wrapped painting in her hands. “My final gift to Derek,” she said, when Alec raised a brow at the parcel.

He took it from her. “Lead the way.” She extracted a candle and flint from her trouser pocket. “You are, once more, impressively prepared.” Before she could reply, he said, “Let me guess. Sesily.”

She smiled. “You wound me, sir. I am successfully indoctrinated in scandal. This bit is me.”

Of course it was. He watched her light the candle, the flame casting her beautiful face in a warm, golden glow. And then he followed her through the exhibition, the walls covered from floor-to-ceiling in thousands of paintings—too many for any one to be appreciated.

“This is madness,” he whispered. “How is it that anyone would care about a single painting in this sea of paint? Enough to make you a scandal?”

She did not look back as they entered the main gallery, long and impressive, with a dais at one end, a curtained spot beyond. “You think it a love of art that makes them clamor for the scandal? They can have art anywhere. But gossip—that is far more interesting.” She pointed to one wall. “That is the other great painting of the exhibition. Constable.”

He stopped, considering the landscape, small and barely visible in the darkness. He looked down at the parcel in his hand, larger than the watercolor by ten times. “I suppose I cannot hope that the painting we seek is this size?”

“It is not.”

“Of course not.” He grumbled. “Hawkins does nothing in half measures.”