For a Scot's Heart Only, page 13
“I did nothing of the sort. I was already dancing with the future Mrs. Winston.”
Thomas eyed him, surprised. “An unexpected tale.”
Mr. Winston donned his thrum cap. “I suppose some women are worth the wait. Only you can know that, sir.”
Thomas looked to the river. Miss Fletcher was a mere half an hour late from his expected arrival time. What was half an hour compared to a lifetime?
Seagulls squabbled on pilings. A bargeman regaled his shipmates with a jest, their laughter rolling easy as the tide. The master bargeman ambled back to his vessel in pursuit of small beer, while Thomas humorously considered his options.
How would he unearth Miss Fletcher’s various layers?
Reciting poetry was a possibility. Writing his own verse wasn’t out of the question. The only poetry he remembered (after a torturous educational indoctrination) was a sonnet he’d been forced to memorize as a lad. Something by Shakespeare . . . which he could shamelessly alter.
The clip-clop-clip of horse hooves saved him from the onerous chore.
“Mr. West! Mr. West, I’m here.”
He closed his eyes, a hallelujah rising at Miss Fletcher’s fair accent reaching across the wharf. He turned in time to see her jump from the hack.
“Forgive my lateness.”
She raced toward him, hems swinging fast. The wonder at seeing her melted his irritation. At her lateness this morning. At her leaving last night. At . . . everything.
An arm’s length from him, she stopped and set a hand to her brow, shading her eyes. The October skies were an unusual crisp, clear, brilliant blue.
“I must confess. I almost didn’t come.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said softly.
He positioned himself to block the sun for her, but really it was for the greedy pleasure of standing close to stare at her winged brows, her fine-grained skin, and stunning, otherworldly eyes.
“While waiting for you, I composed some words in your honor,” he said.
Her laugh was incandescent.
“You did not.”
“I did. Something about the moon and the stars—all the appropriate drivel to set your pulse racing.”
Miss Fletcher tilted her head just so. A delectable angle, exposing her neck, her collarbone, telling him she was his for the taking.
“You already make my heart run at breakneck speed, Mr. West. Poetry is not required.”
His mouth slanted sideways. What a delight she was. A sweet flirt by day, a saucy piece by night.
“I’d planned to borrow from Shakespeare and hope you wouldn’t notice,” he said, astounding himself with the frank admission.
“A shameless tactic.”
“A man does what he must. Love and war are the same, are they not?”
Which caused her eyes to widen. Bloody L word. He should strike it from his vocabulary. At least her mild panic melted to studied amusement. Hers was a gentle consideration as though he’d given her a nugget of gold.
“You quoted Don Quixote. He suits you more than Shakespeare, I think.” Her hand shading her eyes drifted to his greatcoat. “And since we’re being honest, I, too, have something to share.”
He braced himself.
“My sister compared you to a purgative.”
Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Rest assured, I taste better than a medicinal.”
Sensuality glimmered in her smile. “I already know what you taste like, Mr. West.”
A thrill crested inside him. The sides of her mouth curled, a barely there turn of her lips yet wonderfully salacious. The corset maker was toying with him—with words, no less—sending exciting messages to all the right places under his clothes.
She was deceptively innocent, her face tipped to his.
“Margaret, my sister, advised me to kiss you. So there’s that,” she said conversationally.
He nodded as if they negotiated the price of this season’s goods. “That can be arranged.”
“Is it one of today’s entertainments? Kissing?”
He sucked in a quick breath. “One of many.”
“Then I am yours to command.”
He liked the sound of that as much as he liked her Edinburgh accent pouring over him. The woman could make him weak-kneed whispering a market-day list in his ear.
He twined her arm with his. “Then let’s get to it, shall we?”
Which didn’t sound romantic, but somehow, he knew flowery, effusive conduct wouldn’t win the fair corset maker. Problem was, he couldn’t say with confidence what would.
He led her on a slow walk to the wharf stairs immensely satisfied. Joy came from their arms joined and their hips bumping. From the cadence of their matching strides as if they had all the time in the world. A breeze carried her scent—linen and warmth. A comforting smell, very domestic and kind. On their approach, Mr. Winston boomed a command. Oarsmen snapped to attention, their scarlet livery impressive. Tendrils batting her cheek, Miss Fletcher took in the vessel and its private tent puffing an invitation.
Enigmatic gray eyes drew a line from the tent to him.
“Are you seducing me, Mr. West?”
“Yes.”
His voice had gone husky and his stare intense. Lust would have its due, but Miss Fletcher was more than hot flirtation and sweet seduction. She was the light at the end of a long tunnel. His light. It was only a matter of time before the corset maker understood this.
She tucked herself close to him. “I can’t wait to see what happens.”
Chapter Sixteen
The oars’ rhythm was an opiate. The river ahead, picturesque. Almost empty. The view was miles of water, rippling with deceptive calm. London was giving way to green fields, to trees, and the sudden impetuously placed manse facing the river. The vessel heaved against the tide, the effort barely noticed in their little heaven.
Gauzy light inside the tent set the mood. Scarlet and saffron billowed as joyful as a woman’s underskirts from a frolic on a swing. Miss Fletcher was half-reclined on a couch, a fur-trimmed blanket tossed over her legs.
She was staring ahead, tucking a wayward wisp behind her ear. “Is this when you’re supposed to feed me grapes or some such nonsense?”
He grimaced. He should’ve thought of that. Food and wine inevitably played a role in seduction, even if not much was consumed.
“No grapes. But I can offer you Cognac as consolation,” he said offhandedly.
“Is it French? Because I won’t drink what the Dutch make.”
Now, that was a line in the sand if he’d ever heard one. He turned to her, intrigued. The corset maker’s profile reflected serious intent.
“Everyone knows Dutch cognac is cat piss,” he said, amused.
She matched his intimacy, drawing her knees to her chest. “French Limousin oak. That’s the secret.”
“The barrel is everything.”
He offered this arrogant summation because he knew it to be true and because it was the kind of detail the commerce-minded Scotswoman would appreciate. Miss Fletcher rewarded him with a gentle gaze as though she’d left all her cares behind and was truly present with him.
He reached inside his coat and offered her his flask. “Direct from the village of Cognac.”
She hummed her approval and uncorked the flask with a soft pop. Air burst with aromas of caramel and French oak. The flask under her nose, she sniffed.
“Most impressive.”
Sharing the drink opened another window in which he could examine her world. With exorbitant excise taxes, only the finest homes in London would have this kind of Cognac. Or had she consumed her Cognac in Scotland? Highlanders and the French were bosom friends in their mutual distaste for the English.
Miss Fletcher thumbed his initials etched in metal. “How do you come by it? The Cognac?”
“A smuggler gifted me with a cask. I keep it in the chamber behind my office.”
She put the flask to her lips and tipped her head back, drinking like a thirsty sailor. He watched, awestruck. Miss Fletcher would be a formidable partner in tavern drinking games.
Sated, she licked her lips and handed over the flask. “An excellent refreshment. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He needed a swig. Confidence was never an issue; delicacy, however, was. Miss Fletcher was a carefully constructed blend of fine manners and calloused fingers. A fascinating woman. She hugged her knees, a mahogany curl slouching against her temple. The heave and sway of the vessel lulled them, but her face was a study of determination—brows like bird’s wings, slanting downward, the cogs and wheels of her mind ticking fiercely behind the beautiful mask that was her face.
“I’m surprised—you having smuggled Cognac,” she said. “Do you meet your smuggler at Maison Bedwell?”
Another swig and, “No.”
Miss Fletcher was fishing for information. Good. He was on something of a fishing expedition himself.
She canted her head. “You’ve nothing more to say?”
“He’s a friend. A former shipmaster for West and Sons Shipping. We share a pint now and then when he’s in London.”
Miss Fletcher huffed and picked at the blanket warming her legs. “I don’t want to know about your smuggler friend. I want to know about Maison Bedwell.”
Ah, now they were getting somewhere.
“A capital establishment,” he said vaguely enough.
She studied him, shrewd but impatient. He tucked the flask into his pocket, a provocative light in his eyes. He all but dared her to ask the questions plaguing her. It could be the corset maker was less enthusiastic to shed her inhibitions midday. He knew she had no problem shedding them at night. This very fact showed on her face, a veritable war playing out in their cozy tent.
“You’re a coy one, Mr. West. Whisking me away on a pleasure barge and plying me with excellent Cognac.” Her chin tipped a jaunty angle. “Are you spiriting me off to parts unknown? Possibly selling me to Barbary pirates?”
A wicked grin creased his lips. Did she read lurid romantic novels? The woman had a vivid imagination.
“I don’t whisk, Miss Fletcher, I invite. Granted, mine was a firm invitation—”
“Demanding, certainly.”
“But couched with humor. As to plying you with Cognac, you asked for refreshments and I offered what I have, which you guzzled like a Wapping Wall sailor.”
Miss Fletcher’s jaw unhinged. Her astonishment was priceless. Had no one given the Scotswoman her comeuppance? She was overdue, then. The woman excelled at putting others in their place. And from this encounter, another fact was clear. They’d have to break through her uniquely constructed wall.
Goading was in order.
“Be assured, we are not going to parts unknown,” he said. “We’re going to Chelsea Physic Garden, which was meant to be a surprise. And Miss Fletcher . . .” He paused to capture her gaze, which had wandered off. “I’d never sell you to Barbary pirates because I plan to keep you for myself.”
She gasped.
“Any English pirate worth his salt would do the same,” he said.
Air swatted the tent. Miss Fletcher was a statue slowly coming to life. The first sign was her mouth twitching as though she battled a smile and was about to lose.
“A pirate.” Faint amusement laced her voice.
“A romantic notion. Lots of women have them about men who take to the sea.”
She considered this, the smile still playing about her lips. He decided to spare her the truth about life on ships and let her believe the fantasy. Angling his body toward her, he stretched his arm along the back of the couch, in effect, cocooning them.
“I might’ve presumed overmuch, Miss Fletcher, but your giving me the keys to Neville Warehouse and a certain room at Maison Bedwell led me to believe you’d welcome not only my companionship, but my candor as well.” A wisp of silence, and, “Do you?”
She nodded, the mahogany curl slipping free.
“I do.”
Hers was the softest admission. So tender and vulnerable, it sent cracks rippling through his tough exterior. He took a deep breath, needing to recover. Miss Fletcher was disassembling him again, piece by piece.
She scooted closer.
“Were you ever . . . a pirate?”
His lips parted at her disarming question. He ought to wave the white flag of surrender and let her know she’d won. Miss Fletcher was gently storming the wall around his heart and stripping him bare. Women and their fanciful minds. The truth was he’d be whatever the corset maker wanted him to be.
“I am the proprietor of an honest, but struggling, whaling concern,” he said quietly. “Nothing more.”
She traced the scar on his cheek.
“You did say you planned to keep me for yourself.”
“I suppose I did.”
Her otherworldly eyes locked with his.
“What would you do with me?”
He groaned. Miss Fletcher was ruining him. She craved the fantasy, and damn his eyes, he wanted to give it to her. He shifted on his seat, heaviness expanding in his smalls. This excursion was meant to make her comfortable for sensual adventures to come. Women, even the bold ones, needed a certain amount of trust. But true to form, Miss Fletcher was flipping nature on its head.
The woman was a siren; that’s what she was.
“The average pirate,” he said, “would put a siren in a tower and surround her with the finest silks and velvets. All the luxuries to please a woman. That, however, would be a mistake with you.”
Delight lit her face. “Did you say siren?”
“I did.”
“But I’m not—”
“Shhhh.” He touched her mouth. “It’s my answer. I’ll say what I want.”
She smiled against his finger.
“The siren of White Cross Street—the rarest of sirens—needs adventures and cosseting in equal measure.” He traced her mouth. Her lower lip hinting at passion; her upper lip hinting at intellect. “Only a fool would enshrine her in a tower.”
She was a little breathless. “That was better than poetry.”
He and Miss Fletcher stared at each other, an invisible string connecting them, pulling him, pulling her, winding them ever closer. Their breaths mingled. The draw was powerful. Addictive. He couldn’t stop. Her face tipped to his. Submissive, desirable.
Until at last, their lips touched.
Miss Fletcher hummed a blissful little sound. Her mouth, so, so soft. Velvet and warmth.
A shudder broke him.
His eyelids closed, their weight too much.
He couldn’t think or maneuver. There was only this tender joining. Their long, sweet kiss. A treasure to hoard. Miss Fletcher’s lips parted under his, guiding and giving. Adrift on a sea of pleasure, he was hapless, the tide of emotions changing him. She inched into the shelter of his body as though this gentle storm overwhelmed her and she needed the protection only he could give.
Her breath grazed his jaw. Her breast brushed his arm. He dug his hands into her hair, the silk slipping through his fingers. He kissed her deeply, his comely siren. She was everything supple and sweet, her contented sighs music to his soul. Her clean scent a comfort. Fragile and strong was Miss Fletcher . . . and she was giving herself to him.
Age-old mysteries whispered. If their first kiss was carnal, this, their second kiss, was exquisite. Something perfect. It should never end.
Except the world lurched.
It might’ve been Thomas’s heart, or it might’ve been the pleasure barge. He couldn’t tell the difference.
“Cheyne Walk, Chelsea,” a voice announced.
The untouching of Thomas’s mouth to hers left him wanting. A loss. He curled a hand at his side. Tacit separation came, infinitesimal yet enough to steal Miss Fletcher’s warmth from him.
She watched him under sable lashes, her eyes glossy, black erotic orbs. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to hold himself together. They were both ruined by this kiss, while life went on outside the saffron tent. Oars were stacked. Ropes were tossed, and two men jumped onto the dock to moor the vessel. Mr. Winston’s portly profile became a silhouette beyond their tent.
The master bargeman cleared his throat. “We’ve arrived, Mr. West.”
“A minute, if you please.” Thomas hardly recognized his lust-thick voice.
Miss Fletcher folded her body into his, her eyes imploring him. Even desperate.
She was too shaken to move. He was too devastated to let her go.
“The pleasure barge is yours, sir,” Mr. Winston said. “Find us at the Black Boar when you’re ready to depart.”
Oarsmen averted their gazes to the river, to the sky, to the vessel floor, anywhere but the tent’s opening. Footsteps pounded, and the barge listed until those fine Englishmen took their leave.
All that remained were two souls too shattered to move.
Chapter Seventeen
Who would’ve thought heaven was near a boathouse, west of London? Specifically, in Mr. West’s lap, which she enjoyed while resting nose deep in his cravat. The linen was of middling quality, a summation she couldn’t help; it was her nature to assess fabric. But the man who wore it—splendid.
She nudged her face an inch higher into his warm neck. If she was inclined to make a list of what she liked about Mr. West, his talent with whimsical tales would rank high. Wretched man with his sirens and pirates. She clutched a handful of his coat, wrecked.
He was figuring out how her mind worked.
Who knew sea wolves could do that? Or make a woman feel utterly safe? Mr. West was a riddle, holding her, his chin resting on her head, both of them staring at the river, waiting for their kiss-born fog to lift.
She was content.
It wouldn’t last. This kind of marrow-deep happiness never did.
The handsome shipmaster belonged to her nights, not her days. He was a passing fancy. Their outing a rarity. She’d negotiated a month of nights at Maison Bedwell, and she’d gladly give each one to Mr. West. Blame sensuality’s powerful draw for that.
But this?
Whatever this was, it wouldn’t do to let certain emotions get out of hand.
Uncoiling herself from the safety of his arms took colossal effort, the undertaking as Herculean as striding a vertical mountain. She forced herself forward, stretching off the couch and pushing up on her toes like a dancer. Blood rushed in her veins. Sensations skittered across her limbs. Everything was magnified. Underskirts skimming her thighs, hair tickling her neck, Mr. West’s cedarwood musk clinging to her skin.
