Page 61 of For a Scot's Heart Only

He, however, was not royalty.

“Tell the men they can rest easy.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mr. Winston set two fingers to his mouth and sent a piercing whistle through the air.

Oarsmen groaned their relief. Tall paddles collapsed in an orderly fashion, and men shifted on their seats, withdrawing pewter flasks from their coats.

“Are you thirsty?” Mr. Winston asked. “I keep a cask of small beer under my bench.”

Hands clamped at the small of his back, Thomas maintained his vigil of the river. “Thank you, but no. I’ll wait here.”

His pride was taking a drubbing.Women...

At least one in particular.

Miss Fletcher might cloak herself as an ordinary shopkeeper. She was anything but. And this fed an inborn need—his hunter’s instinct.

Whalers were, by nature, patient in their pursuit.

“Waiting is the hardest part,” Mr. Winston said, standing beside Thomas. “The tension, you know.”

Wind frolicked with a tuft of hair on the older man’s pate. The master bargeman was a friendly sort. He’d come to West and Sons Shipping last spring for repairs to his vessel after a storm took chunks of it. Since the barge master had been light in the purse, Thomas did a favor of expedient repairs for very little coin. Today was his benevolence returned.

The barge master’s advice, however, was free.

“Back in my courting days, I waited hours at a country rout for a woman.” Mr. Winston sniffed. “Made a fool of myself, I did.”

Thomas was tempted to say he wasn’t actually courting Miss Fletcher. Instead, he said a polite, “But eventually, she did come.”

“She did.”

“And you promptly made her Mrs. Winston.”

“I did nothing of the sort. I was already dancing with the future Mrs. Winston.”

Thomas eyed him, surprised. “An unexpected tale.”

Mr. Winston donned his thrum cap. “I suppose some women are worth the wait. Only you can know that, sir.”

Thomas looked to the river. Miss Fletcher was a mere half an hour late from his expected arrival time. What was half an hour compared to a lifetime?

Seagulls squabbled on pilings. A bargeman regaled his shipmates with a jest, their laughter rolling easy as the tide. The master bargeman ambled back to his vessel in pursuit of small beer, while Thomas humorously considered his options.

How would he unearth Miss Fletcher’s various layers?

Reciting poetry was a possibility. Writing his own verse wasn’t out of the question. The only poetry he remembered (after a torturous educational indoctrination) was a sonnet he’d been forced to memorize as a lad. Something by Shakespeare... which he could shamelessly alter.

Theclip-clop-clipof horse hooves saved him from the onerous chore.

“Mr. West! Mr. West, I’m here.”

He closed his eyes, a hallelujah rising at Miss Fletcher’s fair accent reaching across the wharf. He turned in time to see her jump from the hack.

“Forgive my lateness.”

She raced toward him, hems swinging fast. The wonder at seeing her melted his irritation. At her lateness this morning. At her leaving last night. At... everything.

An arm’s length from him, she stopped and set a hand to her brow, shading her eyes. The October skies were an unusual crisp, clear, brilliant blue.