Page 122 of For a Scot's Heart Only

What about her responsibility to herself?

She rose from the floor and rubbed the back of her neck, unsure. Tomorrow night she would get those papers. Then, what would she do? All this—her colorful bolts of cloth, her needles and threads, her business, her home—could be for naught.

All because Lord Ranleigh and his cousin battled each other in a larger game of chess.

“I’m done being a pawn.” She blew out the workroom candles. “And I’m done being alone.”

Evening came, lonely and still in her garret. The emptiness, stifling. She was at the window facing White Cross Street. Traffic had thinned. Shops had closed. Rooftops poked the sky as far as the eye could see. Somewhere out there, Margaret was held against her will. And somewhere out there, Thomas West thought the worst of her.

Both burdens were crushing. She could lose them both.

Then where would she be?

The hollow-eyed reflection staring back at her was frightening.

A sharp breath, and she decided to fight this. Work was the ideal curative for times like these. She ought to mend something. Rising from her seat, she spied a black tricorn on the street below. Her knees wavered. She leaned in, touching the glass to be sure. The tricorn’s owner tipped his head to her window and offered a kind smile.

Mr. West was standing outside her shop door.

Her heart skipping in her chest, she tore out of her garret and raced to unlock her door.

“Thomas!” She launched herself into his arms.

He stumbled back the same as their awkward first kiss, his strong arms wrapping around her. She buried her nose in his chest and breathed his cedarwood musk. Relief had never been sweeter.

“Mary.” His voice was one part raw and one part surprise.

“I don’t ever want to let you go.”

He kissed the crown of her head. “I’m like a barnacle. Once I stick, I’m hard to scrape off.”

His jest eased the butterflies taking a turn in her stomach. She wished she had the facility for words like Cecelia. Honest words would come, but for the moment a hug would do.

“I like being stuck with you,” she whispered.

Soft laughter in her ear was his answer. Thomas had to know that was the closest she’d come to declaring herself. What a patient man, her sea wolf. He buried a hand in her hair, cosseting her in front of her shop, and she didn’t care.

“I promised to stay by your side and not even a prickly siren can stop me.” His voice was a comforting vibration.

“You are a man of your word.”

“So I’ve heard.” His hands stroked her back lovingly. “Mind you, I do a better job when my belly is full.”

She tipped her head, the better to see his face. Night made his rugged features beautiful. The slopes and angles mysterious. His scar a piratical slash, leading to his kissable mouth. But his eyes snared her, tender and bright, more green-blue this time under the brim of his black hat. She caressed his jaw, her palm tickled by rasping whiskers.

“I have much to explain,” she said.

“We both do.”

She would’ve said more, except ameowingbasket jiggled near her feet. She looked down. The whole thing rattled.

“You might be curious about that,” Thomas said.

She stepped back. There were two baskets (oneof themmeowing), a satchel, and a small cask clustered on the sidewalk. Thomas crouched down and opened the noisy basket’s lid. Mr. Fisk jumped out, his tail flicking. The tabby put one graceful paw in front of the other and slipped into her shop as though he ought to inspect the place.

Thomas was on one knee, his mouth slanting a grin. “Mr. Fisk is an excellent attack cat.”

She laughed, clasping both hands to her chin. “A chivalrous four-legged gentleman. I shall depend on him to defend me.”