22 April 1739
Why the hell did every story ever told make shinning up a drainpipe sound easy?
'Bull,' McWilliam cursed under his breath as his hand slipped for the third time, and he grazed his knuckles on the wooden wall. Deserting the drain, he slipped his foot to the right, shifting to the windowsill. The ledge creaked under his weight, but held.
Pressing tightly to the wall, he stood, reaching above his head with one arm. Despite his height, he was too short to reach the third storey.
Half clambering, half jumping he just managed to find enough of a handhold to climb to the next sill.
A dog barked, and he glanced down—the dark alley remained deserted. An image of himself flashed through his mind as if he stood below looking up: a six-foot tall, tartan-clade Scot clinging to the outside of an English pub like a giant spider, dammit, in the middle of the night. God help him. What was he doing?
His heart tightened.
Justice.
He sought justice.
* * *
Rosa woke with a start, the coarse woolen blanket pooling at her waist as she sat up. Her heart raced. This wasn't her bedchamber.
No. Her shoulders dropped as memory returned. Through the gloom she could just make out the claustrophobically small room of the coaching inn, barely large enough to fit a single bed. A crack of light leaked under the closed door, and the floorboards of the landing creaked as though the Bow Street Runner standing guard shuffled from foot to foot.
How had her life come to this? Arrested for theft and currently being escorted to prison by a truncheon-carrying, hatless Runner, who was basically the equivalent of a bounty-hunter.
Rosa lay back down as a light breeze pulled at the fine hairs at her hairline. She hadn't left the window open, had she?
A hand clamped down over her mouth, large fingers blocking her nose. She kicked out, but the blanket tangled between her legs. Her hands jumped to her face, and she pulled at the fingers over her mouth with a grunt of effort. Nothing happened.
She couldn't breathe.
Where was the dunce of a Runner when she needed him?
"Stop struggling, wee lass," said a deep, brogue voice beside her ear.
A Scotsman! Rosa redoubled her efforts.
"That's enough." This time his whisper was deadly calm; his voice filled with darkness and the promise of pain.
She froze.
Her head spun, and her lungs burned.
This lunatic was going to kill her. Her eyes darted frantically around the room seeking a fire poker or hairbrush or anything she could use to hit him. The room was empty but for the bed.
"Better." He leant half an inch closer, bringing his face into her peripheral vision. She could just make out his silhouette against the backdrop of the open window and the faint moonlight. Broad shoulders, a light scattering of hair over checks and chin, and a white cotton shirt. And big—bigger than the average Englishman. He loomed over her like a mountain.
She bit down on his palm, hard.
He barely flinched, but moved his hand down, freeing her nose. She pulled in a breath of air, filling her lungs.
"Let go!" she demanded against his hand, but her words were indistinguishable.
The floorboards outside the bedchamber creaked again, and the Scotsman grimaced.
YOU ARE READING
The Highlander's Thief
Romance'She was a thief. She was a liar. She was his prisoner. And he'd just broken every rule in the book and kissed her.' Laird Anndrais McWilliam knows his father was murdered. He might not have been struck with a sword or pushed down stairs, but the wo...
