For a Scot's Heart Only, page 21
He’d never been so decided in his life.
The shop door rang his entrance. Mary was at the window, daylight blessing her. Her hands slowed on whatever frippery she was arranging as if she sensed him. When she turned, his feet stalled. She was a true siren. Serene. Luminous. Her lips parting, her skin glowing, a lone curl brushing her cheek.
A twinge bloomed in his chest. Mary Fletcher was the source of his joy, filling his heart.
Her slight nod hooked him. An awareness, their time had come.
They were two souls who’d find each other, no matter what seas they had to cross. He’d never forget this moment, this pleasure rippling through him.
“Mr. West. Good morning.”
He removed his hat. “Good morning, Miss Fletcher.”
They both took an unwise step toward each other. The draw was magnetic. Fisting his hand into the small of his back, he faced an immutable fact—he had it bad for her.
“Thank you for the kind gift of oranges.” She folded both hands demurely. “With my sister visiting kin in Southwark, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to eat them all.”
“I could help.”
“You enjoy oranges, I collect.”
“I enjoy you, and one can do very creative things with oranges,” he said for her ears alone.
She tipped her head, fighting a smile. He couldn’t regret making her smile. Mary’s proper facade was cracking before his eyes and he would be the man to see it fracture completely. She’d already broken apart in his arms in the dark of night. Why not see what happened in the light of day?
She spoke louder and officiously, “Why don’t I show you the baleen you sold me last year. Some of the fibers are fraying.”
“Like the flue on a peacock feather?”
Her cheeks bloomed a ferocious red. “Perhaps if I showed you . . .”
“Excellent. I do need to see your goods, Miss Fletcher.”
He didn’t think it possible, but a crimson blush blazed ever brighter on her face.
“Please, follow me.” She sped across her shop, saying, “Miss Dalton, I will be in the workroom.”
At the counter, a brown-haired miss looked up from discussing woolen stays with a patron. “Of course, miss.”
Mary darted past the yellow curtain dividing her shop from her workroom and he followed, praying Miss Dalton would treat that curtain like a portcullis and not trespass. Oranges filled a bucket in the middle of a worktable. Around them were half-formed stays with uncut baleen poking above unsewn hems. Rows of cloth and spindles of thread lined a wall, set up like the colors of the rainbow. A tidy place, her workshop. Only one color drew him. The red of Mary Fletcher’s swishing gown. She swirled around, her eyes alight.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was just above a whisper.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He dropped his hat on the table. “I’m here to ensure your complete satisfaction.”
“With last night?” she whispered, her eyes rounding. “Oh, you are incorrigible.”
“Count me determined, delighted, and thoroughly . . . smitten.” He cocked a smile. “Forgive me. I couldn’t think of another word beginning with a D to describe my enthusiasm for you.”
She touched her lips to suppress a giggle. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Undoubtedly. I have it on good authority that it’s loose in the clouds.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Blame the orange girl for that.”
She canted her head, confused.
“My being here pertains to one matter and one matter alone.”
“Pray tell, what is this matter?” she asked, a little breathless.
“It’s you.”
“Me?” Mary took a cautious step backward. He took a cautious step forward.
“I’ve come to expand our agreement.”
She glanced nervously at the yellow curtain. “You shouldn’t have. Our agreement never mentioned days.”
He ignored that, though in deference to her place of business he kept his voice low.
“I’ll begin by escorting you to Neville Warehouse today, which I acknowledge is not the most enticing of entertainments, but I’ll remind you, I can do better.”
“Can you?” Eyes sparkling, she inched backward.
He inched forward. “Need I remind you of the pleasure barge?”
“There’s no need. It’s fresh on my mind as are other . . . places.”
The saucy wench.
“Then you’ll agree our verbal contract needs further negotiation.”
“Because you decided it?” She was walking backward, her lips suppressing a smile while he followed.
“You have your plans for our business arrangement. I have mine.”
“I can’t argue with that logic. Both parties must be satisfied,” she said, then promptly shook her head as though she couldn’t believe her own flagrant innuendo.
“I’m glad you agree, Miss Fletcher.”
Their footfalls pattered faster. Mary was biting her lower lip, rounding the table backward.
“And what did you have in mind, sir?”
His steps deliberate, he honed on her lush lip which she nibbled so enticingly. “I have certain needs.”
“Please explain.”
Mary’s bodice rose and fell, a noticeable rhythm in their careful chase around her workroom table.
“Our thirty-day contract has very stingy time allowances,” he said.
“Stingy, is it?” She arched a brow, holding his gaze. “What do you suggest?”
“Spend more than the allotted three hours with me. Daytime work, if you will.”
“The two of us, working together?” Her smile was splendid and bright. “Considering our respective businesses, how will our new commerce fit?”
“Oh, it fits very well, Miss Fletcher.”
Though she rolled her eyes at his quip, her smile deepened. He was close to catching her. A kiss, a touch . . . something would happen.
“That’s quite a lot to ask, sir,” she said. “As I recall, our last meeting didn’t entirely satisfy all my requirements.”
“You weren’t satisfied?” Now, that surprised him.
She shook her head fast, causing that blasted curl to dance prettily. “Not completely. Certain elements were missing, while I delivered splendidly.”
Laughter shot out of him. “Indeed, Miss Fletcher. You did.”
Mary’s life vein pulsed noticeably on her neck. He’d kiss that tiny throb just to see if he could make it race faster. He knew a place in the crook of her thighs that made her pulse gallop.
She surprised him, ducking into a smaller room off her workroom. An alcove of sorts blocked by a heavier curtain. One brick wall was charred as though it had caught fire. He backed her into a corner and braced his arm on the wall near her head.
“Now, what is this about something missing.”
She tipped her face to his, her eyes liquid with unspent lust.
“My story—you never finished it.”
He was gentle, dipping his head to nuzzle her neck. “Is that your only complaint?”
She arched her neck and grabbed his waistcoat with desperate fingers. “Yes.”
Mary speared his heart with Cupid’s arrow. The ache in her voice was sweet. He nuzzled her cheek, her smell driving him mad. She was unscented soap and hints of starch, washing him clean. If Mary wanted this to end, this was the moment.
Instead, she drew him flush to her.
He brushed the softest kiss on her lips. “Then I promise to fill you with every imaginable tale. Tonight.”
She raised a knee, stroking her leg on his. He gathered her petticoats, volumes of them, until he glimpsed his prize—white wool stockings gartered with red above the knee. Another tempting bow he ought to untie. He slid a hand the length of her thigh and found it.
“Thomas, I—”
Mary hissed when he caressed her bare inner thigh. Red-and-white wool billowed like colorful clouds on her hip. He was losing himself to the airy rustle of cloth, to the hitch of her breath mingling with his. Her face disappeared when his lashes dropped, all the better to unleash his other senses. To feel, smell, and taste her.
The world needed to go away. There could only be this—Mary melting into him. Gentle rubbing, his mouth on hers. Warm and wet. He kissed the thrilling corner of her mouth. He kissed her lips, her stubborn chin, her neck. He would devote hours to her pleasure—to her liking for rough, fast bed sport and her glossy-eyed surrender when he was oh so tender.
“Mary . . .” Her name was a plea from a drowning man.
His questing hands traveled up her ribs. Wool abraded his palms cresting Mary’s salacious curves. He craved what was hidden. Her skin. Her nipples. Her cleavage, which he adored. His fingertips slid above her bodice. A neckerchief was in the way.
He moaned and pulled away.
Gauzy fabric tried to hide her swelling breasts. Blasted, useless cloth.
He toyed with it. “How much of your breasts does this neckerchief cover?”
Mary opened her eyes. She was like a swimmer, breaking the surface, desperate for air.
“My neckerchief?”
“Yes. This.” He pinched its gossamer lightness.
Curls had come undone and her mobcap slipped. She was more wanton chambermaid than staid shopkeeper.
“It’s long. I tuck the ends under each breast.”
“Do you?” He tugged it lightly, deviously, and her eyes rounded. “Directly on the skin?”
Her tender nipples were undoubtedly teased by the pull.
The tip of her tongue wetted her lips. “Should I tuck it anywhere else?”
“Saucy wench. You’ll pay for that.”
Their legs were tangled and their breath hot. He pressed a hand under her breast to make the neckerchief’s journey out of her bodice agonizingly slow. Mary’s hip pumped sluggishly against his. A mutual torture. He’d make it last.
Pulling inch by inch, the neckerchief was coming free. Mary gasped long, her eyes glossy. Their gazes locked in sensual torment. Her stomacher was well used and boneless, and her stays, light and short. He raised a hallelujah for old stomachers and light stays, all the better to feel a woman.
“Now, where did I leave our tale?” he asked.
Mary thrust her charms at him, drunk on their game. “Why, I believe the siren was punished by a sea god.”
He dragged the neckerchief nipple-teasing inches upward.
“Yes, punished.” His lips curled inward. “For tempting the wrong shipmaster.”
A flush darkened Mary’s cheeks. Were her nipples changing color? A dark red? Were they distended and begging to be sucked? For all her delight in rough play, she liked her nipples treated with the utmost care.
Heat shot through him. Chubby Cupid and his arrows. The little god knew where to aim.
Thomas ground his back teeth. This wasn’t going well for him. His placket was tenting ruthlessly at the woman pinned submissively before him.
The siren of White Cross Street was winning.
He yanked the neckerchief out of her bodice. Mary’s stunned inhale was satisfying and erotic.
“She was ruining his life. The shipmaster had no satisfaction,” he said.
“None at all?” she asked far too innocently.
His eyes narrowed. She was playing this to the hilt. He leaned in close, his arm braced to the wall.
“None. Or any other adjectives a man can think of when a woman drives him to distraction.” He smiled tightly at her. This game was far from over. “The sea god owed this shipmaster a great debt.”
“The siren was his recompense.”
“Paid in full.”
He lifted the sheer cloth to his face and breathed her scent. He was close to combusting. The smell of her breasts was on this cloth. He’d go mad trying to parse her essence.
“Even being with you smells good.” He jammed her neckerchief into his coat pocket, the one that rested over his heart. It was sentimental; he didn’t care.
Mary traced his ear, his scar, before her hands drifted to his chest. “I’m not getting my neckerchief back, am I?”
“Not until I need you to wear it again.” His mouth slanted sideways. “Your skin has a certain fragrance which drives me to distraction.”
She laughed softly. “You mentioned that. But we’re not making progress, not with my promised story or our negotiations.”
He brushed untidy wisps off her forehead. Her skin was warm silk to his touch.
“Let’s agree those are bedtime stories.”
She tipped her face to his. “And the other part? Your request for daytime arrangements?”
He kissed her lightly on the forehead before forcing some distance between them. She huffed and tried reaching for his coat, but he stayed a wise arm’s length from her.
“If I don’t put some distance between us,” he said, “I’ll put your petticoats under your chin and swive the daylights out of you, and this would be bad for business at Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays.”
She was coy, petting her thigh where her hem was above her garter. He gritted his teeth, madness bearing down on him.
“Mary . . .” He growled his warning. “You’re loud when you reach satisfaction.”
“Am I?”
Her startled look was priceless.
He nodded emphatically. “Very loud.”
She shook her petticoats until her hems dropped. She smoothed her stomacher, collecting herself before brushing past him to her workroom. He followed, of course, which was becoming a bad habit. Mary went to a small mirror on the wall. She was pretty, arms raised, fixing pins and tucking curls.
“What makes you think we can carry on politely today?”
A fair question.
He adjusted rioting flesh in his breeches, grumbling. “I don’t know.”
It was an honest answer. Her wary gaze met his in the mirror. They were in uncharted waters. Her with her vow of no serious entanglements and him bothered in more ways than he could count. If he cared to look deeper than his own base needs, he might find what made Mary Fletcher tick. Her league, her kin, were inviolable, but he couldn’t say what drove her. Duty? Responsibility? A need to protect? He dragged both hands over his head.
She turned from the mirror. “You’re frustrated, and I don’t mean”—she pointed to his placket—“that. It’s something else.”
His ballocks pained him but he managed to tuck his erection upward in his placket. It would do, but she’d touched a poignant nerve.
“We should not refuse ourselves this small pleasure,” he said.
“The pleasure of companionship.” Mary rubbed her thimble-stained fingertip. “You wrote that in your letter yesterday.”
His letter had invited her to spend one day with him. They’d indulged themselves and come out better for it, but half-formed corsets were laid out on the table. Beyond the yellow curtain, her doorbell had jingled twice. More voices, more custom, in a matter of minutes.
Responsibility beckoned.
“There are no easy answers, Mary. Our life, our choices. My father used to say life is like building a ship while trying to sail it.” He hesitated. “I see the truth in it.”
Her brows knit a tender line above her nose. He’d given her something of depth to consider, which made him inordinately happy. One way to Mary Fletcher’s heart was through her mind. Of that, he was certain. All other ways remained a mystery; he was determined to uncover each one.
She gathered her serviceable gray cloak off a hook on the wall. “I’ll agree to a daytime contract. An occasional luncheon or a pint in a public house will do.”
His mouth quirked. His Mary was all business about the business of having fun.
“This is acceptable to me.” He collected his hat off the table.
“We could start today if you’d like. If you don’t mind escorting me to Dowgate to see a friend.” She wrapped her shoulders in wool. “It’ll be quick. She’s not been well, so I won’t stay long. Then we can go to Neville Warehouse.”
“Mixing business with pleasure. A novel idea.”
A smile cracked her visage. “Pleased with yourself, are you?”
“Very much. But a daytime promenade,” he teased. “Are you sure your legs will work? It is October.”
She tried not to laugh. “They work about as well as my nose for a good Cognac.” Which made him grin from ear to ear. “So be warned, Mr. West. I also have a nose for gentlemen who cannot contain themselves as decorum requires.”
He was tempted to remind her of his decorum in her alcove, but he kept that to himself. Sometimes a man had to know when to keep his mouth shut—a lesson his father had taught him.
He set his hat on his head. “Understood. Anything else?”
“Yes.” She pushed up on her toes, whispering, “Please kiss me again before we walk outside and become mere business associates. Otherwise, I can’t be responsible for my actions today at Neville Warehouse.”
Softly parted lips inches from his won the day.
“Duly noted.”
He hooked a finger under her chin and did what any smart man would do—he kissed the siren of White Cross Street and made silent plans to do much, much more.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dowgate was a quiet place, decently cobbled, its foggy streets anointing Mary’s hems. Each step was an act of faith. She’d left Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays twice in one week. Midmorning, no less. A risky venture. Cecelia would be proud.
After Mary had left Miss Dalton in charge of the shop, she’d crammed into a hack with Thomas, landing nearly on his lap. He didn’t complain. She was sure he’d hired the smallest hack he could find, all the better to squeeze them together while he covertly caressed her bottom through yards of wool from Cheapside to Thames Street near Swan Lane.
An entire hack ride of furtive caresses—stouthearted sensualists would approve.
Once out of the hack, Thomas was vigilant as though footpads might attack. He was face forward, his profile a menacing line. She kept checking it.
“Have you a question?” he asked. “Or are you memorizing my chin?”
She ducked in closer. Their gaits matched as she looped her arm with his. “Your chin is interesting as chins go. However, there’s no need to scowl. Swan Lane is harmless.”
