For a Scot's Heart Only, page 26
Was this love? Wanting glorious happiness for someone else?
“I have an affinity for peacocks of late.” He eyed her over the rim of his tankard. “And the brewhouse is a quick stretch of the legs on Red Cross Street.”
“We ought to visit it soon.”
“We will.” But his smile faded and his voice became gruff with emotion. “Let us agree, Mary Fletcher, that we’ll speak to each other first and together, we'll decide our fate.”
She sipped her beer. “Yes, we will.”
Thomas deserved the reassurance. A comforting thing, an agreement. But her past was littered with disappointments. Life had never been easy.
It never was.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The evening sped by, and everything was done together as though there was no shop to tend or ships to careen. Dishes were washed side by side, the floor swept clean, and the fire stoked. She’d yawned once and rubbed her neck. Sleep or passion—both sounded heavenly.
When she yawned again, Thomas was gentle, coming up behind her. His thumbs worked magic, finding all the knots on her neck and shoulders.
“You’re tired. Why don’t we go to bed?” he murmured above her ear.
“Because I don’t want this night to end. I like being with you.”
He kissed the crook of her neck. “I like being with you too.”
Her bed was the obvious furniture in her garret. Dark wool curtains, fluffy pillows, a practical wool counterpane, plainly stitched. No silk tassels or erotic fripperies, which made this so . . . domestic. Thomas nudged them along, pinching the candles and leaving them in the dark. He returned to her, rubbing his sooty thumb and forefinger on his breeches. Men.
Through the window, a three-quarter moon and scattered stars were their lights.
“This isn’t the same as an exciting interlude. No one’s going to make the bed or bring a bottle of wine.” She snorted good-naturedly. “Nor can I boast feathers and switches. It’s just me and you.”
“And that’s unexciting to you?” He folded her body against his and kept rubbing those knots.
“No, it’s . . . normal.”
His laugh was tender. “Do you crave the fantasy?”
“No.”
Her only craving was his hands on her shoulders. She was sure the knots would surrender any moment now. Thomas’s hands were that persuasive. The more he massaged her neck, the more she struggled to put syllables together when speaking.
Then, he whispered the most wonderful words. “Let’s go to bed and be normal. I can hold you and rub your shoulders. You’re very tense, you know.”
“That’s almost as erotic as saying you’ll do the dishes.”
Masculine laughter rumbled low. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Thomas guided her to the bed while his calloused hands made sweet snicks on her velvet-covered back.
“Wait until tomorrow night when I show my skills with needle and thread,” he teased.
“What? You sew?”
His face was beautiful above hers. “Don’t get excited. I can sew a button that’s fallen off. Nothing more.”
She traced his scar. He’d said tomorrow night so easily, but tomorrow night they would sneak into the Countess of Denton’s house. She made grumbly noises and scratched the roguish whiskers on his jaw. Sea wolf, shipmaster, man of business. Thomas was those things and more. His clever hands caressed her arms, her ribs. Before she could guess what he was doing, Thomas whisked the robe volant off her body, and the heavy velvet went flying over her screen.
“Mary Fletcher, you have nothing on but your shift and stockings.”
“The benefit of my garret. There’s not much to heat.” She pulled a pin from her hair and a lock tumbled loose. “And there is you. You’re exceedingly warm.”
“I am.”
He spoke and goose bumps flared on her skin. She loved hearing the arousal in his voice. Unlike their last time together, she would not take orders. Nor would she give them. This would be a mutual discovery. Slow and easy.
She drew a line down his button flash and started at the bottom.
He watched her fingers. “An unusual tactic.”
“Yet, I’m undressing you. It feels very domestic . . . like something someone who wants to take care of you and see to your well-being would do.”
“Is that’s a longwinded way of saying a wife?”
Wife—a dangerous word. About as perilous as another four-letter word that began with an L and ended with an E. One should have a care when uttering them. She worked the buttons faster, daring an upward glance.
Moonlight splashed Thomas. He was stark shades of light and dark.
“You said earlier, no secrets.” She stalled, her mouth open until she forced herself to finish. “After you fell asleep in the Red Rose room, I went to Ranleigh’s house.”
“To meet him?”
“No. To look for the last of the Jacobite gold.” Buttons and cloth felt loose in her hands while she gave her awkward confessional. “We’re trying to purchase a small herd of sheep—Cheviots, excellent wool, sturdy creatures,” she murmured.
“You are a woman of many talents.”
“Not really. Ranleigh was there. It was a trap and I walked right into it.”
Thomas watched her. It was getting harder to breathe even though he was being quite reasonable as though men and women throughout the realm carried on sensible conversations about treasure and sheep and dark lords.
“We don’t have to talk about him,” Thomas said.
“We must.” She slipped the waistcoat off his shoulders, her gaze glued to his chest. “He asked me to work for him.”
Thomas put firm hands on her shoulders. His eyes were anvil-hard.
“To do what?”
“Spying, I think.”
Thomas’s hands dropped from her shoulders, his relief palpable. “Because you’re smart. And you’re beautiful. You could be anywhere and do anything. It’s very possible that you could snag a baron and become a baroness. But you’re here with me.”
“You’re infinitely better,” she said in a rush. “Better than any man I’ve ever met.”
Thomas reached up and freed a pin from her hair and a curl flopped in her side vision. He smiled.
“You just like me because of my cat.”
His spoonful of humor was perfect. What followed was intimate and dear. Lovely Mr. Fisk. She hoped the cat found a cozy spot to sleep.
She climbed into bed with Thomas, drifting in and out of conversation. He closed the bed curtains and rubbed her soreness from standing at her worktable all day. His talented hands massaged her calves and skimmed the backs of her knees. Her shift’s hem climbed higher. To her thighs, her hips, her navel. Thomas kissed the small dip in the middle of her belly, and he kissed the small dip at the base of her neck.
And he kissed and he kissed and he kissed, finding astonishing places to put his mouth.
She explored the texture of his skin. His crinkling masculine hairs, the slope of muscles, the abrupt lines of scars. He’d led a hard life. She had too. But this, their connection, ran deeper than the seas. There was an alchemy to it. No conjurer could explain it. For once in her practical workaday life, she’d let it be. No thinking, no wondering.
Her bed became a storm of sheets and bodies. Cloth twisting, kisses burning, fingers seeking. A slow discovery. An indolent pleasure. Conversation dwindled to grunts and cries. Tears pricked her eyes privately. This was giving and taking in perfect measure.
Nothing could break this. Nothing at all.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Morning with Thomas and Mr. Fisk was a quiet affair. She’d bathed behind her screen; Thomas had bathed naked by her washstand. It was startling, coming out from her screen and finding a man splashing water on his body, his bare feet shifting from the cold. They’d forgotten to tend the fire before slipping into bed.
“I could heat some water for you.”
He grinned and lathered soap to shave with. “No, thanks. Chilly water wakes me up. Reminds me I’m alive.”
She eyed her rumpled bed. “After last night, I feel plenty alive.”
Which was the kind of quip Cecelia would say. While making the bed, she felt new kinship for the woman. A shirtless Thomas could make a woman forget where she was going. Little tufts of brown hair encircled his nipples. Taut skin covered slabs of muscle on his back. He was breathtaking in daylight, scraping a blade over his jaw. He flashed a smile in the mirror. She smiled back, fluffing a pillow, and almost clunked her head on a bedpost.
Mr. Fisk favored the new arrangement. He jumped up on the freshly smoothed counterpane and licked his paw. He purred when she came round and petted him.
She wanted to bottle this contentment.
But their porridge was boiling, and there were plans to make. The countess, of course. The woman was a blight on their happiness, and the reason Margaret was gone.
Mary nibbled her lower lip and made her way to the pot hanging from an iron hook over the fire. Margaret’s return meant Thomas would leave. He was already gathering his things and putting them in his satchel.
Here for a short time . . . then he’d be gone.
Eyes shut, she hoarded the tenderness. The sound of his footsteps, his soap scenting the air, the tune he hummed under his breath. How dear this was. Almost sacred. When she opened her eyes, Mr. Fisk was rubbing her leg, his green eyes convincing her to part with more cream.
She scratched behind his ears, whispering, “We share the deepest affections for the same man, don’t we?”
The cherished gentleman was oblivious, scrubbing a white towel over his face.
“About tonight,” Thomas said. “Meet me at the Three Arrows in Nixon’s Square at nine o’clock. Do you know it?”
She scooped porridge into a bowl. “I know Nixon’s Square.”
“Wear suitable clothes, a scarf for your face. You do have clothes for this, don’t you?” Thomas said this while hiking up his breeches.
“Dark clothes, men’s breeches, suitable for skulking about in the dark? Yes.” She smiled and poured cream for Mr. Fisk. “I have those.”
Discussing the rest of the plans went smoothly. As house breaking went, this was small and precise. In through an open window to open a locked cabinet and take papers. Hardly exciting. Yet, every part of her felt alive. Margaret not being here was upsetting, but if Margaret had been here, Thomas wouldn’t be, a fact that kept niggling her as though her heart was big enough for one person or the other—not both.
She sipped her coffee. “I can’t help but feel guilty about Margaret.”
“If what Lady Denton told you is true, she’s not been harmed. Frightened, of course, but safe.” He took a seat at the table and tucked into his porridge. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Thelen’s already found your sister.”
“There is that, yes.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.” She set down her coffee and looked him in the eye. “What happens afterward?”
Thomas went still. His reaction was unexpected, especially for a man who’d been so ardent.
“I meant after Margaret is safely returned and Ranleigh gets his papers.” She traced a smudge on the table. “What happens to you and me?”
“What do you want to happen?”
She angled her head, unsure. Was she suddenly sitting with a different version of Thomas West?
“I want to be with . . . you.”
“For how long, Mary? For a week? A day? Or thirty days?”
She flinched at his reference to the Red Rose room. Her arrangement, as it were.
“I’ve never met anyone like you. You’ve turned me upside down and made me rethink everything I’ve ever wanted. Consider this . . .” He opened his hand, palm up. “Tonight I’m going to break into the home of a prominent London citizen. A wretched woman who deserves it, but I’m doing it for you. I have no regrets, because you mean that much to me.”
Mr. Fisk rubbed her legs, purring. She leaned down and petted him.
“Why do I feel like there’s more trouble here?”
“I could say the same of you. Just yesterday you curtseyed to me as though we were strangers. Then, you told me Ranleigh informed you that you needed to leave London.”
“Yesterday was a mistake.”
“It was, and I came back because I want you safe.”
“That’s all?”
Thomas was implacable on the other side of her little table. He’d expanded somehow, larger than life. She could imagine him standing at the bow of a ship, the sun on his face, the wind whipping his hair. He’d drive the sea hunt by sheer force of will.
Why, then, did she sense something held him back?
“I want all of you, but I’m not sure that’s what you want.” He smiled crookedly. “You enjoy the extraordinary passion we share, as do I. But you’ve said from the beginning, ‘love is not enough.’ For you, at least.”
A cold draft seemed to have crept in. She hunched over her coffee, nursing its warmth.
“I accept that marriage is many things. To build families, start business arrangements, and on rare occasions . . . for love.” Thomas studied the table for long seconds. “The truth is West and Sons Shipping is at a crossroads. To keep it alive, I must find someone to underwrite the insurance.”
She was perfectly still, her hands and her feet going numb.
“As time allows, I’ve been looking into other possibilities.” He fiddled with his bowl. “Every door has been firmly shut—except one.”
She shook her head as though cobwebs needed clearing. “What are you saying?”
His gaze met hers. “That you were right. Marriage in London is a lottery.”
Her throat was dry and clogged such that only a whisper could get out.
“You plan to marry a woman of means.”
Tension lines bracketed his mouth. “It’s what I must do if I cannot secure insurance.”
“Do you have . . . a woman in mind?”
His green gaze pinned her. “There is only you.”
Bittersweet words since they both knew she was not a wealthy woman.
She lost seconds while an ache bloomed in her chest.
A choice must be made—her or his family business.
Thomas, excellent hunter that he was, would easily find a wife at London’s next social season. He was handsome and tall and good. Once word spread that he sought a wife, mamas and papas of the merchant class would come calling. He could have his pick of the wealthy families. She smiled, dismal and sad. He’d claimed she could’ve won a baron for herself. She wouldn’t be surprised if a widowed baroness with rich coffers offered herself to him.
“I want West and Sons Shipping to thrive.” His voice scraped with sadness. “I want to keep my legacy alive. It’s possible someday I will have sons. I want to give them something.”
She swallowed hard. Hearing that was difficult.
Ancient philosophers would be proud of her stoicism. Or perhaps holding everything in was one of the lies she’d learned to live with. It felt like she’d been swimming in them and was only now coming up for air.
But this was Thomas’s life. He deserved so, so much.
All this time she’d been consumed with her troubles when he had his share of burdens. She could tell him that he was the greatest gift his children could ever have. He’d make a wonderful father. He’d take them to beautiful gardens and give them thoughtful gifts of wisdom and understanding. He’d challenge them and make them laugh.
Thomas West was the treasure.
He’d been there all along, while she’d worked and hunted for Jacobite gold. If only she had searched for the right treasure. This was the knife twisting in her heart. No, there was something worse. His dilemma was a footnote to an undeniably bitter truth. A lesson she’d learned long ago.
Love wasn’t enough.
It never was.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thomas guided the horse along Tiburn Lane. Taking it made sense. Hyde Park unfurled to their left and sleepy mews were on their right. Only a dray and two coaches had been their brief road companions. The empty lane emboldened Mary.
“You would’ve made a dashing highwayman. Your height alone is imposing.”
Thomas was tight-lipped and serious about the night’s business. The clip-clop, clip-clop, clip of horse hooves the only noise. They were west of London’s west end, a veritable wild land for the City’s well-shod residents. No street lamps guided the weary traveler and the stillness, unnerving for a woman about to commit a crime. But she was ready. Dressed in black, her braid properly tucked into her shirt. She looked like a slender man, with her arms around Thomas. His steadiness calmed her, but his silence she could do without.
“You’re imposing in the saddle,” she said. “And you’re a good rider. I think your talents are wasted on the sea.”
He coughed a laugh. “Life at sea is never a waste.”
“Ah, he speaks.”
“I still have my wits about me.”
“I wouldn’t know. You haven’t said much.”
He angled his head to her, his profile etched in the night. “Because you’ve been talking enough for both of us.”
She set her cheek against his back. “Very unlike me. I think it’s your effect.”
“Mary . . .” He touched her hand under his coat. “If you’re nervous, don’t be.”
“You’re not angry with me?” she asked.
“No. Why would I be?”
She didn’t have a suitable answer, mostly because she was frustrated with their impossible situation.
“I shouldn’t have embroiled you in this,” she said.
“I’m here with you as I should be.”
No, he shouldn’t.
Thomas carried the weight of his family business on his shoulders. West and Sons Shipping employed dozens of men, a number that expanded when whaling season was upon them. Everything he’d done was honest and lawful . . . until tonight. She wanted to ease his burdens, not add to them. But what could she give him? Her heart was her sole offering, and that organ was breaking, little bits at a time.
