Page 107 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“It all changed once I laid eyes on you,” he said in a soft, rumbly voice. “I made sure I was there when you purchased my goods from Mr. Dorrien-Smith’s factor.”

“I recall seeing you in the crowd.”

Thomas dared a glance. “I was smitten, but too proud to test the waters with you.”

Her sea wolf was baring his tender underbelly.

She nibbled her lower lip, swamped by more emotions this morning than she usually felt in an entire month. London had done the same to her when she’d first arrived. How overwhelmed she’d been. All the dockside mayhem and teeming streets, and her, trying to start a business. The journey from Arisaig tothe City had been a deep dive into unknown waters. Sink or swim had been her choices—with fifteen-year-old Margaret in tow.

What woman had time to notice men in all of that?

Englishmen to boot. Still, guilt pinched her.

She pushed a tendril of hair out of her face. “I wasn’t very friendly, was I?”

“The docks are a tough place, and King Edward Street is obscenely busy. Given that you’re a woman in a profession dominated by men, your cool demeanor was understandable.”

“I know what I was,” she said, crestfallen.

Their steps filled an awkward silence. This metaphorical sharing of underbellies wasn’t easy when the shoe was on the other foot. Why couldn’t they just flirt? She was starting to get good at it.

Thomas cleared his throat. “Being a staunch Jacobite among so many Englishmen made you uncomfortable, I collect.”

She winced. Now he was tossing salt on a wound.

“It did.”

“But you’ve learned we don’t all have horns and spiked tails.”

“No, but I’m sure Cumberland does,” she said tartly. “He’s the devil incarnate.”

Thomas exhaled long. “You do know I’m not Cumberland.”

Their steps slowed as the churn of London Bridge’s water wheels grew louder. Cecelia’s cottage was in view, its stonework tipsy to the eye. Her home sat on a wall above the river where the curving lane ended.

She knocked on Cecelia’s door. “We don’t need to discuss the war.”

“What happened to the brave woman who said we ought to broach delicate topics?”

Thomas’s eyes were a kindly green as though he understood her loss. The war, her home, her way of life. If Scotland had won, would she be here in London? With him?

Probably not.

“Speaking of delicate topics,” he said, “are we presenting ourselves as Mr. and Mrs. West? Or do you expect me to be your non-suitor?”

“You are incorrigible.”

“As long as I’m yourfavoriteincorrigible Englishman...”

Footsteps inside the houseclick-clacked. Probably Jenny coming to answer the door. Mary straightened her posture. Had she been foolish, saying they could speak openly? Perhaps Thomas was proving himself wiser here. What would he do if she told him what happenedaftershe’d left him sprawled naked in bed? She hadn’t said a word about Lord Ranleigh’s threat to West and Sons Shipping. If she had, it would surely wipe that handsome smile off his face. Better to safeguard this happiness they shared. Bearing burdens was her specialty.

It always was.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Cecelia’s bedchamber was a shocking scene. The polished window cracked open, the bed stripped bare, and the floor mopped clean. Shoes had been put away and not a single discarded stocking hung in view. To compensate for the chill this open-windowed cleaning frenzy had wrought, a blazing fire crackled in the fireplace. Mary settled in a chair close to it. Cecelia was a gorgeous mess, curled up in her ugly night-robe, a red scarf warming her head and a thick braid draping her shoulder.

Mary wrinkled her nose at Cecelia’s uncharacteristic night-robe: brown wool outside, pea-green felt inside, and the stitching a clash of colors.