Page 124 of For a Scot's Heart Only

Someone to take care of her—a foreign notion. It settled on her like an ill-fitting corset. He was more than willing to pitch in and do woman’s work. Setting the table. Seeing to dinner. Thomas refused to let her lift a finger. When she mentioned this was the hour when she’d don her robe volant, the shapeless gown which freed her from her stays, Thomas herded her to the screen to change her clothes.

She unpinned her gown to pleasant aromas tickling her nose: bread’s sweet, floury goodness, and the warming hachy, which she decided must be a poor man’s stew. Dropping her robe volant over her head, she heard the softpopof an uncorking. She rounded the screen, shaking out heavy velvet. Thomas was filling a tankard, and his shirt was open at the neck.

“Fancy a beer?” he asked.

“I’ll try it.” She settled at the table to sliced bread, bowls thick with peas and chunks of ham in a creamy broth, a butter crock, and an apple tart on a plate. “This looks wonderful.”

Thomas set a tankard in front of her. “I do dishes too.”

“You’re hired. Though I don’t know what to call you.”

He took a seat, facing her. “Non-suitor works.”

She grinned. “You are devious, plying me with dinner and thoughtful gestures.”

“Deviousness—it’s all part of my master plan.”

They dug into their dinner with relish. Any awkwardness gone. They were not creatures of leisure. They worked. A life ingrained in them. Two cogs in the City’s wheel. Being with Thomas, a partnership was forming right under her nose. He slathered bread with butter—two slices, one for her and one for him—and poured more beer when she needed it. This was strange, someone taking care of her first. Even sweet Margaret wasn’t this solicitous.

Sinking her teeth in warm bread, she was happy and ready. She pulled Ranleigh’s wrinkled note from her pocket and offered it to him. Thomas read it.

“Good news about Margaret. I’m sure she’s safe.”He dropped the note on the table with a snort. “Looks like Ranleigh’s given us our marching orders.”

“But do we have to do as he says?” She dragged her spoon through the bowl. “What if we read the papers first before we hand them over? If we do at all?”

Thomas sat back, his tankard at his bottom lip. “That sounds like a dangerous game. What about Margaret?”

She scooped another spoonful of hachy. “We’re in agreement. She must come first. But Ranleigh was emphatic I keep you out of this.” She looked up from her bowl. “He was equally emphatic that I leave London once I’ve handed over the papers and Margaret is safely with me. He said the same for all the women of my league.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the cur is afraid.”

She nodded. “Of what his cousin might do. And those papers.”

He dipped his bread in his bowl and tore into it. “Which is good reason to stick to the plan and wash your hands of them.”

“He also told me to send you packing.”

“Ranleigh? Trying to protect me?” He swallowed more beer, then stretched out his hand for the conveniently close cask. He turned the spout and amber liquid splashed in his tankard. Above the spout, words were branded in wood:peacock brewhouse.

Mary gasped, humored and scandalized. “The beer...”

Thomas’s smile split from ear to ear, and sheglimpsed the carefree man. No burdens of business or bloodthirsty countesses. It might’ve been the same smile he wore when he first went out to sea. She wanted to see more of it.

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