Page 71 of For a Scot's Heart Only

Or one siren, she hoped.

And that was a dangerous wish.

Chapter Eighteen

Thomas entered the pottery works, bemused. Miss Fletcher had called him a sea wolf. The name fit. His years at sea had been full of fierce adventures. Leading men on hunts through the North Sea was not for the faint of heart. Engaging the attentions of Mary Fletcher was proving to be a similar challenge.

Pirates and whalers had a taste for fast living. Both professions preferred sleek schooners for their speed and maneuverability in the face of peril.

Rather like the glossy-haired Miss Fletcher, a woman rife with mysteries.

A woman who never wanted love or marriage?

Her claim was the strangest thing.

She lowered her hood and browsed Chelsea Pottery Works, which was more manufactory than shop. Straw crunched underfoot and earthy smells of clay and freshly cut wood met the nose. A man was nailing crates with an exuberant hammer, while another worker in a leather apron inspected a platter. It was this man who crossed the room and welcomed them.

“Good afternoon,” he said, pushing spectacles up his nose.

Miss Fletcher’s fingertips grazed a pretty painted shepherdess clock. “Good afternoon, sir. Your shop has some lovely pieces.”

His chin dipped affably. “You’re too kind, but what you see here...” He gestured at the shelves. “These are the flawed pieces. My better work can be found at Melton’s Curiosity Shop on Pall Mall.”

“Changing your business name, are you?”

“Goodness, no. The Countess of Denton owns the manufactory. Her ladyship is in the process of selling the entire inventory to Mr. Melton.”

“But not the manufactory?” Miss Fletcher browsed a stack of plates.

“Chelsea Porcelain Works will soon close its doors.” He grimaced. “I’m afraid we were never able to make a suitable profit.”

“What a shame... all these pretty things.” She traced the rim of a bowl. “Just look at this glaze.”

Thomas stood back and watched. Miss Fletcher was artful, drawing in the porcelain master who was rightfully proud of his work. Heads bent, they discussed a platter painted with Bristol blue.

Miss Fletcher scowled prettily. “If these are your flawed pieces, I find it hard to believe this manufactory couldn’t turn a profit.”

“One would think so,” the man grumbled. “But I was never allowed to bring in apprentices or given the funds to hire workers.”

“Really?”

“I’m afraid it’s just me and my wife, who is out at the moment. I work the clay. She paints. Despite our best efforts, we couldn’t create enough goods in a timely fashion.”

“How awful. You and your wife are obviously a talented pair.”

The blushing porcelain master peered at her over his spectacles.

“Thank you, Miss...?”

“I—” Miss Fletcher blinked fast. “I am Mrs. West, and this is my husband, Mr. West.”

Her moonstone gaze implored Thomas.

His brows shot up. What was theI’ll never marrycorset maker about? Undaunted, he ambled forward and made sure to stand close to her.

“Forgive my surprise,” he said a touch droll to the porcelain master. “Sometimes I forget that I’m a married man.”

“We’ve only recently wed.” Miss Fletcher added this quick note.