One Little Sin Read Free Page B

think, and despite her damp, somewhat dowdy attire, she looked to be of genteel birth. Which meant the sooner he got her the hell out of his house, the safer it was for both of them.
    On that thought, he returned to the parlor door and threw it open again. She looked up from the sofa with a disapproving frown.
    “I fear my butler may have mistaken your circumstances, Miss Hamilton,” said Alasdair. “I think it unwise for a young lady of your tender years to be left alone with me.”
    Just then, the bundle twitched. Alasdair leapt out of his skin. “Good Lord!” he said, striding across the room to stare at it.
    A little leg had poked from beneath the smothering heap of blankets. Miss Hamilton threw back the damp top layer, and at once, Alasdair’s vision began to swim, but not before he noticed a tiny hand, two drowsy, long-lashed eyes, and a perfect little rosebud of a mouth.
    “She is called Sorcha,” whispered Miss Hamilton. “Unless, of course, you wish to change her name.”
    Alasdair leapt back as if the thing might explode. “Unless I wish—wish—to what?”
    “To change her name,” Miss Hamilton repeated, her cool gaze running over him again. “As much as it pains me, I must give her up. I cannot care for her as she deserves.”
    Alasdair gave a cynical laugh. “Oh, no,” he said, his tone implacable. “That horse won’t trot, Miss Hamilton. If ever I had bedded you, I would most assuredly remember it.”
    Miss Hamilton drew herself up an inch. “Me—? Faith and troth, MacLachlan! Are you daft?”
    “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “Perhaps I am confused. Pray tell me why you are here. And be warned, Miss Hamilton, that I’m nobody’s fool.”
    The girl’s mouth twitched at one corner. “Aye, well, I’m pleased to hear it, sir,” she answered, her gaze sweeping down him again. “I’d begun to fear otherwise.”
    Alasdair was disinclined to tolerate an insult from a girl who resembled nothing so much as a wet house wren. Then he considered how he must look. He’d been sleeping in his clothes—the same clothes he’d put on at dawn to wear to the boxing match. He’d had rampant sex in a pile of straw, been shot at and chased by a madman, then drunk himself into a stupor during a three-hour carriage drive. He had not shaved in about twenty hours, he was sporting a purple goose egg between his eyes, and his hair was doubtless standing on end. Self-consciously, he dragged a hand through it.
    She was looking at him with some strange mix of disdain and dread, and inexplicably, he wished he had put on his coat and cravat. “Now, see here, Miss Hamilton,” he finally managed. “I really have no interest in being flayed by your tongue, particularly when—”
    “Och, you’d be right, I know!” The disdain, if not the dread, disappeared. “I’m tired and peevish, aye, but in my defense, I’ve been on the road above a sen’night, and another two days trying to find you in this hellish, filthy city.”
    “Alone—?”
    “Save for Sorcha, aye,” she admitted. “My apologies.”
    Alasdair reined in his temper. “Sit down, please, and take off your wet coat and gloves,” he commanded. When she had done so, he laid them near the door, and began to pace. “Now, tell me, Miss Hamilton. Who is the mother of this child, if you are not?”
    At last, some color sprang to her cheeks. “My mother,” she said quietly. “Lady Achanalt.”
    “Lady Acha- who?”
    “Lady Achanalt.” The girl frowned. “You—you do not recall the name?”
    To his consternation, he did not, and admitted as much.
    “Oh, dear.” Her color deepened. “Poor Mamma! She fancied, I think, that you would take her memory to the grave, or some such romantic nonsense.”
    To the grave?” he echoed, fighting down a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Where the devil is she?”
    “Gone to hers, I’m sorry to say.” Her hand went to the dainty but expensive-looking strand of pearls at her neck, and