Chapter One

Sylvie McGregor, commonly known as ‘Mac’ to her clients and the neighborhood folk, was seated at the small table she used as a desk. Her ledger of accounts was shut and sitting on the upper right corner of the table. Her ink pot was capped and she absently wiped her quill across the bit of rag she was holding. Satisfied that it was clean she laid the quill down onto the table top. A knot in the naked plank that formed the top of her desk caught her eye and she became absorbed in watching her index finger move back and forth, back and forth, across the wooden blemish. She had things to do, but here she sat like a lump.

“What’s put that frown on yer face, hmmm?” Mrs. Fitz asked as she stood beside Sylvie, wiping her hands on her apron.

Sylvie’s gaze shifted as she refocused her attention beyond Fitz, her right hand, over to the big table in the center of the room where her eight boys sat. At the moment, they appeared too busy to pay attention to a private conversation. “Thinking … just thinking.”

Mrs. Fitz heaved herself onto the stool Sylvie kept beside her desk. Fitz was a robust middle-aged woman with apple cheeks and keen eyes. Not much ever got past her. She leaned her elbow on the desk and followed the direction of Sylvie’s gaze, then turned back and tapped Sylvie on the arm. “Yer awfully young to carry so much on yer shoulders. My Gran used to tell me a problem shared, is a problem halfed.”

“Did she now?”

“Come on wit’ ye, spill it. Our lads are too busy with them arith-a-matics you gave ‘em to listen in on us.”

Sylvie looked at her friend.

“It’s that fella, ain’t it?” Fitz asked.

“What?” Sylvie said.

“That handsome devil that owns Black Legs,” Fitz said.

“You’ve never laid eyes on him, how would you know if he’s handsome or not?” Sylvie asked.

“Don’t shilly-shally. I know when yer stallin’. Besides, the boys described him to me, that plus you’ve been sort of …” she pursed her lips. “What do you call it when yer not payin’ attention when folks are speakin’ to you?”

“Preoccupied?” Sylvie said.

“That’s the word. You’ve been ‘pree occupied’ ever since you and him snuck into Everfield’s the other night.”

Sylvie put her elbows on her desk and cupped her chin in her hands. “Aye, it’s true. He is handsome. Tall, well-built—”

“Does he have nice shoulders?” Fitz held her hands in the air, about shoulder height and about two feet apart. “I jus’ loves a man with shoulders.”

“All men have shoulders,” Mac said.

“Pish,” Fitz waved her off.

“He’s got nice legs to go with those shoulders, too.” Mac searched her memory.

“What color’s his hair?”

“Dark and thick.” Mac stroked her jaw. “His jaw is squarish. Although he didn’t smile much, I think he has dimples.”

Fitz gave Sylvie a big a cat-in-the-cream-pot grin. Looking quite satisfied with herself for guessing what was on Sylvie’s mind.

“He kissed me, Fitz.”

“Did he?” she sounded so pleased.

“And I kissed him back,” Sylvie said.

“That sounds promising. Is he a good kisser?”

“Fitz!” A short laugh burst from Sylvie.

Fitz chuckled.

Suddenly, Sylvie was aware the boys were staring at them.

“Back to work,” Fitz said, shooing them with her hand motions. “Well?”

Sylvie snorted, then looked beyond her friend at the boys. She lowered her voice. “What do you mean ‘promising’?”

“Listen here, Mac, yer a beautiful young woman. You deserve a nice fella,” Fitz said.

“What makes you think he’s a ‘nice fella’?”

“Keegan says he’s a friend of Lord West, so that says a lot about his character, if ye asks me.”

Sylvie sighed. “Did Keegan also mention he’s the son of a duke?”

“Really? Ooo, isn’t that lovely. A duke’s son and a good kisser,” Fitz sounded positively ecstatic.

“Fitz, get your head out of the clouds. Remember who you’re talking to,” Sylvie said. “I have no illusions about myself or my station in life.”

“What’s that mean?” Fitz said.

“It means I keep things simple and practical. I am a rat-catching mongrel. All I care about is earning enough to put food on the clan’s table and a roof over our heads, not fancy dresses or gentleman callers. Besides, the sort of relationship that son-of-a-duke would be offering someone like me would be of the illicit sort.”

“And wha’s that mean?” Fitz asked.

“It means no marriage. Nothing respectable. It means mistress. And you’re looking at how well that worked out for my mother.”

Fitz cupped Sylvie’s cheek. “I think yer using that whip-smart mind of yers to tell your heart how to feel. It don’t work that way, my girl.”

Sylvie slapped her palms down on her desk and pushed herself to standing. She grabbed her coat off the nail on the wall, quickly shoving one arm down a sleeve.

Fitz stood and took hold of the neck of Sylvie’s coat so she could reach the other sleeve.

“Thank you,” Sylvie said and squeezed Fitz’s hand. “I’m going there now.” She tossed her hat on her head.

“Te Black Legs?” Fitz asked.

Sylvie nodded. “When I get back I want to meet with you, Hamm, and Keegan.”

“Give him a kiss for me,” Fitz said.

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Chapter Two

“Christ! What a bloody mess.” Ewan Griffin fisted the thick moss-green velvet curtain covering his office windows and yanked it aside. He gazed out at the passing world from inside the office of his gentlemen’s club and gambling hell, Black Legs. “What the hell was I thinking?” he grunted, loosening his grip on the defenseless piece of fabric, “to wager one third of my business with a lass whose uncommonly pretty eyes and husky voice would stir the cock of a dead man.”

He strolled across the room, threw himself into his chair, and propped his long legs up on a corner of his desk. The agreement he and the flamboyantly-attired Sylvie Mc Gregor had signed the other day lay in front of him, still sealed. That contract was a paper dart, puncturing his bubble of inflated self-confidence. He’d been so sure he’d best her, take her to bed and never think about her again.

The clock on his mantel struck the hour. With each muted bong he heard the word fool. Fool. Fool. Fool … eleven bloody times. He huffed a sardonic laugh. Instead of a nice romp in the sack with this provocative woman, he was about to turn one third of his business over to her.

Lord, he hated losing.

Ewan snorted. The only bit of sunshine in this whole mess was that Sylvie McGregor would be sticking around. And just maybe he could convince that hard-headed Scot to let their business relationship become more … intimate.

As the clock finished chiming the hour and the sound faded, an image of another strong-willed woman from Scotland popped into his mind, his mother’s determined face. He shook his head. Good Lord, how did his father ever get his way with anything when his mother was involved? Ewan stroked his chin. Perhaps he should have a talk with his father, ask for some advice.

He sighed.

No, Ewan shook his head, he wouldn’t be conversing with his father anytime soon about something as frivolous as wooing a Scottish woman, not after what he and Sylvie McGregor had overheard while hiding behind that false wall in Everfield’s office. Christ, hearing his loathsome competitor say he was under a duke’s protection had been shocking. Everfield had to be referring to Ewan’s father, the Duke of Maningtree. No other duke in all of England could possibly have an interest in ending Ewan’s ownership of Black Legs.

Ewan’s stomach twisted, to think his father had gone behind his back and conspired to drive him out of business. Why hadn’t the duke just confronted him, as he’d done so many times before?

A sharp rap on his office door focused Ewan’s mind. “Come.”

“Miss McGregor,” his footman said.

“I’ve been expecting her.” Ewan stood, eager to see her, while trying not to let it show on his face.

Mac walked in wearing the same outdated ensemble she’d been wearing the first time they’d met. Her coat was a deep purple velvet, at least twenty years past its prime. The elbows were patched and the original heavily embroidered, deep cuffs had been removed. The front panels and pocket flaps on the skirted coat were adorned with an elaborate filigree pattern made of tattered silver thread. She’d obviously purchased the thing from some rag-picker. Her waistcoat was only ten years out of fashion, made of a striped yellow and violet silk, but her hat—egads, it looked like it must have been made in the last century for some cavalier, with its broad brim and high crown. Although today she’d added a piquant touch. She’d shoved a long, curvaceous, turquoise ostrich plume through the rolled-back front brim. It matched the color of her eyes and made them even more compelling. The hat was set at a rakish angle, low across Miss McGregor’s forehead, completely obscuring her hair.

She was carrying one of her dogs. The female one, he thought.

“Won’t you have a seat?” He motioned to the chair before his desk.

She bent forward, exposing a thick braid of light brown hair tucked into the neckline of her coat, and placed the dog on the floor.

On his Aubusson carpet.

That damn thing had better be house trained.

A wry twist of her lips showed she had noted his reaction to her dog sitting on his rug.

“Flossie, dear.”

The dog, seated at attention at Miss McGregor’s feet, looked up at her mistress adoringly.

“Do behave. Mr. Griffin’s afraid you’ll soil his beautiful rug.”

Flossie gave Ewan a disdainful look and then sneezed.

He wanted to chuckle. What a minx. Was he really that easy to read? He motioned to the chair again.

Mac shook her head. “No, we shan’t be staying long.”

“I see. Well, it’s plain you were correct and I was …”

“Wrong.” She smiled, appearing very pleased with herself.

“Quite so.”

“Say it,” Mac said.

“Say what?”

“That ye were mistaken,” Mac said.

“I just did.”

“No, ye didn’t. I did. Now ye.” She held out her hand like one of his blasted governesses. As if he should recite the word on cue.

Ewan went and sat down behind his desk and held up their agreement. “I’ll take this to my man of business and have him prepare the documents giving you one third ownership of Black Legs. I’ll send you word when you can return to sign them.”

She came to stand beside his desk and snatched the sealed document out of his hand. “Say it.”

He didn’t want to admit he’d been wrong and no one had ever made him do anything he didn’t want to do—even his father. He leaned back in his chair and glared up at her. “No.”

She tapped the folded paper against her chin. “A shame, that. I might’ve given ye another kiss, just to hear ye say those words.” She pivoted and walked to the hearth.

Now she had his attention. Ewan sprang from his chair. Another kiss! Maybe he’d reconsider.

She stopped before the fire and stared down into the flames. “After I got home last night, I gave our agreement a great deal of thought. I like ye, Mr. Griffin. And I think ye like me, too. But there’s no future in us knowing one another any better.”

He was standing beside her; she was tall for a woman. He’d forgotten that. Maybe it was because she kept so much of herself hidden, both physically and metaphorically. Her skin was flawless, not a wrinkle in sight. How old are you? “There could be.”

She was staring into the fire. “What?”

“More between us,” he said encouragingly.

Mac shook her head and pursed those lovely full lips of hers. “There’s a gulf between yer world and mine. I won’t be your whore.”

Ewan startled at her crude characterization of what their continuing association might be.

“My mother was a poor Scot who found herself a British officer to bed, thinking it was her ticket out of desperate poverty. And when it was over, she was left with a bastard and still no way out of the Highlands. I won’t end up like her. And I won’t do that to my boys. I want them to live decent lives with honor and respect for themselves and others—especially the women they choose to marry.” She tore up the paper and threw it in the fire.

He gaped at her. “You’re throwing away a lot of money.”

“It was a bad bargain, Mr. Griffin.” She returned to pick up her dog and headed for the door.

“Don’t go,” Ewan said, all the while trying desperately to think of something clever that would make her stay.

Mac opened the door leading out of his palatial, private office.

“I want to see you again.”

She was standing on the threshold, her hand on the latch. “Quit fussing over things ye cannot change. Ye’ve bigger problems than tryin’ to lure me into yer bed.”

“What about your fee?” Ewan said.

She paused. “The McGregor Clan did this job gratis.”

“But—”

“Goodbye.” She closed the door behind her.

“We’re not done, Sylvie McGregor.” He shook his fist at the closed door. He pivoted, circled his desk and threw himself into his chair. You haven’t seen the last of me, Sylvie McGregor.

He pushed back and returned his booted feet to the corner of his desk. I swear it.