Page 29 of For a Scot's Heart Only

Lust arrowed hotly inside her.

She wetted her lips, rattled.

“Unfortunately, I cannot take the time for a social call. As you might imagine, I must return to my shop. I’ve orders to attend, and Mr. Baines, the wherryman who is waiting for me, has urgent business near Tower Wharf. At least I think it’s Tower Wharf, and one never knows what the currents will be like or the river’s traffic. And you, I suspect, must tend your—”

She froze midsentence. Mr. West braced a forearm against the door frame, his body inches from hers.

“—your business, that is,” she finished on a whisper.

Sighing deeply, she averted her eyes. They bothknew she could’ve paid the wherryman to deliver the key. Instead, she was barely on Mr. West’s doorstep and already explaining her retreat.

“I abhor mindless chatter,” she said, miserable.

“It’s understandable. The hour is early.”

“You are too kind.” She looked up at him, at the width of his shoulders and his rugged features. “No matter the hour, when I’m around you, I say whatever comes to mind.”

His smile was heart-achingly beautiful.

“Freeing, isn’t it?”

This wasn’t freeing. She was tangled and bothered and... wanting.

“More like verbal dysentery.”

A shot of laughter, and Mr. West was shaking his head, a charmed man.

“See what I mean? With most men I am pleasantly detached, if not arctic. Once I’m around you”—she gestured vaguely at him—“and one would think I was raised by wolves.”

His smile expanded such that his eyes crinkled at the outer corners.

“I have a great appreciation for arctic climes, Miss Fletcher. They’re stark and beautiful.”

Basking in his smile calmed her.

“I, for one,” he added, “welcome any conversation with you.”

“Be careful what you wish for, sir. Highlanders are known for speaking their minds—especially the women.”

Mr. West reached out and folded back her mobcap’s frill.

“Only one Highland woman interests me.”

She held her breath as morning sun splashed hercheek. The scarred shipmaster began stroking the hair at her temple. Diabolically soft, his touch. No wonder the cat came around.

“As a matter of fact,” Mr. West said, “I recently had the most revealing conversation with a masked Scotswoman.”

“Masked Scotswomen are the worst.” Her voice was drowsy and tame.

“She put me and all of London’s men in their place.”

“This woman sounds like a saucebox.”

He was fascinated by a wisp of her hair. The more he toyed with it, the more weak-kneed she became.

“A little impudence is good for the soul, Miss Fletcher. It leads to honesty for those brave enough to seek it, and ours was a thoroughly honest conversation.”

“You speak of you and this... masked Scotswoman.”