Page 139 of For a Scot's Heart Only

She rubbed his arm. “Promise me you will tell me stories every night.”

“I will.”

“You might want to finish your tale about the shipmaster and the siren.”

“That one has no end.”

She hummed pleasantly and turned to link arms with him. “I like the sound of that.”

Mary guided him across Gun Wharf. Weathered wood creaked underfoot. Seagulls darted near and landed. Though they didn’t say a word, he knew they were ambling toward the Iron Bell. They’d share a pint before they visited Neville House. Then, they’d go home—to their home—not far from Vauxhall Gardens.

After a moment she asked, “Would you consider composing poetry?”

“Poetry... that’s a bit of a stretch.”

“I was thinking something in the vein of stars shimmering and moons shining brightly.”

He grinned. Stoking the carnal fires, was she?

“You wantthatkind of poetry?”

She gave him a saucy side-eye. “Think you can do that?”

“I can do anything for you.”

Because love was more than enough.

Epilogue

Spring 1754

The schooner was flying. Adventure was afoot. Mary rode the front of the ship like a bow head siren—which was her husband’s latest endearment for her. One of many, as one does when married. Life with Thomas was excellent. Mary soared with happiness. Freedom was infinite.

At moments like these, she truly lived it. Her arms out, wind whipping her hair, sails billowing overhead—the foresail and mainsails, of course.

They were crossing the Sea of Hebrides. Their course set for Benbecula, part of Clanranald MacDonald lands. The humble island was a scraggy bump on the horizon, the sky behind it a painter’s smeared strokes of orange, lavender, peach, and blue.

She leaned forward, tasting the Hebrides in the wind.

“Have a care, Mrs. West. There’s no chancier wench than the sea. She might decide to give you the toss.”

Her husband. She closed her eyes and let the setting sun kiss her face. She felt his presence beside her.

“And would you jump in to save me?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Thomas’s voice took on gruff tenderness. She savored it and the wind brushing past her cheeks.

“You look as beautiful as the first day I clapped eyes on you,” he said.

“Let’s hope you say that when I’m old.”

She opened her eyes to his gentle touch on her chin. “I always will.”

They huddled together, forearms braced on the rail as they watched the island grow bigger. Sea spray anointed their hands, and the sun washed their faces. This was the kind of adventure she craved—sunshine and the open sea with Thomas.

“Does this feel like you’re returning to the scene of a crime?” he asked.