Page 98 of A Scot on the Rocks

“We’ll still make the transfer,” he said. “But there’ll be no carelessness. Get the men ready.”

Jamie turned to her, ready to tell her she would be safer at the inn when she interrupted him.

“Don’t even think about leaving me behind,” she said.

He looked at the square, the shop, the people passing with baskets and bundles, then back at her. “It’s no’ a game, Olivia.”

“I know.”

After a moment, he nodded. “Then stay close enough to hear me, and do exactly as I tell ye.”

“I’m to be the lookout.”

“Aye. And if I tell ye to leave, ye leave.”

She could argue about that later. For now, she followed him toward the harbor, where the lamps were being lit and an officer in a dark coat had taken up a position overlooking the quay.

Chapter 20

Jamie

Jamie had never cared for moving whisky through the harbor with officers watching the quay, and he cared considerably less for doing it while Olivia stood nearby with a purse full of another man’s money and a talent for attracting attention, though he was proud of her for winning it, which made the whole business even more irritating.

Lord Crawley had been expecting to amuse himself at the expense of a woman he considered beneath him. Jamie had watched Olivia let the man boast, count his own points twice, and slowly discover what every foolish fellow in the tavern should have known, that a woman who’d grown up behind a busy bar was unlikely to be helpless with cards. She’d taken his money fairly. Jamie only wished she’d done it without smiling at the man quite so sweetly.

Two more men were making inquiries beside a fishmonger’s shed, one of them was Turnip Andrew Robertson. Jamie knew the set of his shoulders even at a distance. Robertson had stopped laughing at Jamie’s evasions several encounters ago, and the officer’s recent habit of studying the less conspicuous men around him was considerably more troublesome than his temper. Jamie could see their dark coats whenever someone opened the shed door and light spilled onto the wet stones.

He met Ewan behind a warehouse where the cart waited beneath its patched tarpaulin. Finlay and Alasdair had taken the casks off the wheels and set them among empty fish barrels. The boatman, a wiry fellow called Tam Reid, was due to bring his skiff around the end of the quay as soon as the ebb left enough water beneath the landing steps.

“The officers have searched two boats already,” Ewan said. “They’ve no reason to be watching ours.”

“Then let us give them none.” Jamie checked the knots on the covers. “Two at a time to the steps. Keep the others out of sight until Tam is ready. If anyone asks, we’ve been helping with the cart.”

“That much is true.”

“Aye, and I’ve enough trouble without asking ye to remember anything clever.”

Ewan grinned and went to fetch Finlay. Jamie turned to Olivia, who stood just inside the warehouse door with her new shawl drawn around her shoulders. He’d bought it that afternoon because she’d shivered in the shop, though she’d promptly denied being cold. The blue, green, and black checks suited her, and the sight of her wearing his colors and something he’d chosen gave him more pleasure than it ought.

“The steps overlook the quay,” he told her. “You’ll see anyone coming down from the customs house. If an officer heads our way, give the agreed signal and come back here.”

“Three taps on the post.”

“Aye. No heroics.”

“You keep saying that as though you think I might cause trouble.”

He thought of her facing down an angry man with a wooden plate at the alehouse and decided not to answer. She caught his look and rolled her eyes before stepping into the street.

Jamie watched until she reached the corner, then there was work enough to keep him occupied. Tam’s skiff slipped out of the dark with its sail furled, and the first casks went down the narrow steps wrapped in old nets. Finlay carried one end of each load while Jamie took the other. Water slapped the stone below them, and a chain rattled somewhere in the harbor whenever a boat swung against its mooring.

They had shifted four casks when Olivia tapped the post three times.

Robertson remained by the shed, speaking to a porter and pointing occasionally toward the water. He wasn’t watching the barrels alone. Twice his gaze traveled over the men carrying them, and Jamie knew that Robertson was looking for faces he could remember.

There was no time to move the cask into hiding without drawing attention.

Olivia stepped into the officer’s path as Jamie swore beneath his breath. She gave the man a bright, grateful smile, the sort Jamie had seen her bestow on people she meant to persuade.