Page 140 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“Whatever do you mean?”

“The island where Flora MacDonald hid Charles Stuart.”

“And then dressed him like a maid to secret him away. Yes, I’m aware of the story.”

His eyes, so infinitely green, snared hers.

“Would you say it was the beginning of our story?”

She traced his very kissable scar. “A philosopher’s conundrum, Mr. West. Could be you’re reading too many books and not having enough adventures.”

“Oh-ho, you mean hying off to France to pick up all these”—he gestured at their audience—“lovely ladies isn’t adequate?’

She laughed. “They are staring at us again, aren’t they?”

“I’d stare at you too.”

“You do quite often.” She sealed that with a slow kiss.

They turned to face the twenty-odd Cheviot sheep chewing the last of the hay, their liquid brown eyes watching them. It had been a long journey from Rochelle, but they weathered their travels well. They were pretty sheep. Fluffy and round, their wool white and their faces and hooves pitch-black. Bits of hay poked out of their mouths. Heels clicked nervously as they bleated their sorrow at being stuck on a ship.

“Landlubbers, all of them,” she said.

This had been Mary’s final vow to Clanranald MacDonald—to begin restoring the herds. Stroking one damp obliging ewe nose, she felt good. This was a kindness done, a promise fulfilled. She petted another ewe, who had been especially nice to Mr. Fisk.

The poor cat. He preferred home over ships, to the chagrin of Mr. West.

Thomas crouched beside her and petted the sheep too. “This is a good thing you’re doing, Mary.”

His praise made her heart expand and her soul lighter.

“It’s only happening because of you,” she said.

His offer to get the sheep and deliver them had come at an inopportune time. Whaling season had begun. It would be West and Sons’s last summer of whale hunts. After this season West and Sons would turn their efforts to making deliveries: Ireland, Scotland, Holland, the Baltics, generally any seas that weren’t at war with the crown. It was a hard decision, but a good one. Thomas was keeping his father’s legacy of ships alive.

Margaret was in charge of Fletcher’s House ofCorsets and Stays, and Mary would travel with Thomas—for new adventures.

And she couldn’t get enough. Of her sea wolf especially.

Mary rested her head on Thomas’s shoulder. Freedom tasted wonderful. Love tasted even better. It might’ve been the hardest lesson to learn but finally, finally, she’d grasped it.

Love was always enough.