Page 118 of For a Scot's Heart Only

She dragged her pained gaze to his.

“I saw what looked to be a brief argument,” he said.

“It was nothing.”

A blatant lie, and now Lord Ranleigh was with them, unseen poison. What hold did the man have on her? He tossed his hat on the seat and crossed his arms. He should’ve shot the cur when he had the chance.

“I’ll go to Neville Warehouse, check on business,” he said. “Mr. MacLeod will be there. I’ll inform him of what we’re doing and to keep Margaret’s disappearance a secret.”

Annoyance tightened her features. “Yes, we’ve gone over this. I’ll have the coachman deliver my note to Cecelia.”

Mary’s stare went right through him, cool and remote, while he chewed on his frustration. He had no idea how to reach the woman. Or why her sudden distance. As the carriage rumbled to a stop, she looked ready to flee. Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays was outside, her haven. Mary reached for the door, not waiting for the coachman.

Thomas followed her out. “Mary...”

She turned to him, wisps of hair blowing across her cheeks. “Yes?”

“I will come back and look after you.”

“About that... It’s really not necessary. I’m used to looking after myself.” Mary studied the ground, misery sinking her shoulders. “Please know that I am grateful for your help... all of it,” she whispered. “But I want you to go away.”

He felt his eyes rounding. Was he dismissed?

She raised her head slowly, her eyes lifeless. “Don’t come back. Not tonight. Not ever.”

A bolt of shock stilled him.

“Mary...” He reached for her and she flinched as though his touch would scald her. “What is this?”

“I’ve rethought our... connection, and I simply can’t find satisfaction in it.”

He stared, dumbfounded. She didn’t need him? Not for comfort and kisses? Or to help her steal the blasted papers in Ranleigh’s Machiavellian trade to get her sister back? Thomas huffed, looking at nothing in particular. He was hamstrung, unable to clarify this befuddling turnabout in the middle of White Cross Street.

Then, there was his stunned pride. Behind that emotion was reason. What passed between them had burned swift and bright—perhaps too swiftly.

“I might be fooling myself, but I’m certain at our lastconnectionthe stars did shimmer and the moon did shine brighter. For both of us,” he said pointedly.

If anything, they sharedthat.

“I shall be forever grateful, but this... you and I... are done.”

“Mary...” Her name was a strange whisper on his lips.

Silence prevailed. Her eyes were shuttered until she curtseyed.

“Thank you, Mr. West.” And she ran into her shop as though the devil nipped her heels.

His jaw dropped. She bloody curtseyed to him. He ought to move on, but his feet were glued to the ground. The road was busy. Pedestrians bumped him. Midday sunlight made everything crystal clear. Standing outside the window, he could see Miss Fletcher was a sylph inside her shop until she disappeared past the yellow curtain.

This had to be some misguided wish to protect him (not a rejection of their passion, or so his pride assured him). Seconds fled as he considered which of the two explanations was true. More time would’ve passed, except the coachman coughed into his balled fist.

“Sir, if it’s Neville Warehouse you’re wanting, we ought to go. London Bridge and all.”

“Yes. To Neville Warehouse.” He was too old to stand like a lovelorn swain outside her shop.

Thomas climbed back into the blue confection of a carriage. Once White Cross Street was behind him, another piece to Mary Fletcher’s puzzle came back to him—her midnight meeting with Ranleigh. She’d never told him the substance of it.

Staring out the window, he dragged a knuckle over the glass. It was time to acknowledge an unpleasant fact.