Page 59 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“Your notions about men worry me,” she said, trying to keep her wits about her. “I want you to—to have a better life. To marry well.”

“Yet, you haven’t—married, that is.” Skin around Margaret’s eyes pinched. “Because of me.”

Mary stilled, but inside her heart thumped a painful rapid beat. She watched her sister set the pink silk aside with cautious hands. When Margaret looked up, her mouth wobbled.

“You have spent your whole life looking after me. We both know I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”

A day seven years past glossed between them when smoke and screams signaled Cumberland’s men were coming. Mary had frantically gathered Margaret and nearly a dozen small children into a fisherman’s boat. Bloodthirsty soldiers had chased them, bayonets flashing, into the water.

Mary licked her lips, tasting fear and sea spray all over again.

Three days they’d hid on a tiny island in the bay, eating dandelions and seaweed. They’d hauled the boat ashore and tipped it over. At night the ragged group huddled together under the boat’s shelter and slept. Once the smoke cleared from the horizon, they’d rowed back to the charred remains of Arisaig.

“That day when Cumberland’s men attacked was not the only day you saved me. From the time I was a babe, you have been the one to care for me. I know this.” Margaret’s voice was a tender wisp.

“I’d gladly do it all again. I’ve no regrets,” she said softly.

The shop door jingled background music. More custom in their bustling shop. Before her, half-sewn linen corsets waited on the worktable like butterflies. Mary touched one of them.

“Miss Dalton must be overwhelmed and there’s so much work to do. I’ll tell the driver to send my regrets.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” Margaret strode to the wall where a serviceable gray cloak hung on a hook. “Pinch some color into your cheeks, Mary Fletcher, because you are going to have fun.”

“I can’t. These corsets won’t assemble themselves. And—and there’s the scissors to consider.”

Margaret snorted. “The scissors?”

“They need sharpening.”

“I understand,” Margaret said sagely. “You are the only one who speaks the language of tinkers and scissors.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I can take care of the scissors,” Margaret chided. “Prepare yourself, sister dear, because you are about to indulge in a day of entertainments with Mr. West.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Margaret set the cloak on Mary’s shoulders and came around to face her.

“Your week with Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora starts today, and you haven’t even packed.”

“My week in Southwark will begin at twilight after I close the shop, which we both know I can manage just as well as you.” Margaret was almost motherly, unpinning Mary’s apron.

It was sweet, her little sister taking care of her.

“But how will you get to Southwark?”

“I have two legs.” The last pin removed, Margaret folded Mary’s apron in two. “Who knows? I might even hire a hack.”

Mary’s feet rooted to the floor. Dithering was hardly her nature, but meeting a man midday was decadent. Something a sensualist would do.

Margaret set the pins on the worktable. “You know, I think this day will set you right, like a purgative.”

“We’re not resetting my bowels.”

Margaret giggled. “Aim higher and you have the right organ.”

Mary touched her bodice, her heart beating comfortingly underneath. Margaret was busy, plucking the workday’s loose threads off her stomacher and fluffing her faded red panniers under the cloak as if she were a life-sized doll. The cosseting was kind. She surrendered to it.