Page 81 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“No, claiming to be my wife was forward.”

She dipped her head against his shoulder, the intimate gesture taking him down a notch. The simple act was rife with messages he wanted to decipher: acceptance, comfort, womanly respect. He wrapped his arm around her back, and truth’s bitter medicine wasn’t so awful.

“Ranleigh smelled blood in the water. Conversations turned from insurance to buying the ships and, in particular, the dockyard lease, which makes no sense. Ranleigh wouldn’t know a bowsprit if it poked him in the arse.”

Her giggle was sweet. “I must admit, neither do I.”

“Long pole. Front of the ship.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “I can see I’ll get quite an education with you.”

Which made his salty whaler’s heart sing.

He squeezed her close. “As the weeks went by, Ranleigh became a determined suitor, if you will. I politely refused. The last time was over a game ofvingt-et-un, which didn’t end well.”

“Is the matter with Lord Ranleigh done?”

“Quite done.”

“There must be others willing to insure West and Sons Shipping.”

“Possibly.” But his tone was doubtful even to his own ears.

She smoothed the front of his coat. “I believe you are a man of many talents. You’ll figure this out.”

He liked the weight of her hand on his chest and the earnest belief in her eyes as though he could slay dragons.

“Aside from rope climbing and storytelling, I’m a man of few talents.”

Her finger was circumnavigating a buttonhole on his coat. Was she applying her considerable talent in commerce to solving his problems? Male pride wanted to brush feminine suggestions aside, but wisdom got the better of him. Miss Fletcher had become something of a success; listening to her would be worthwhile. She’d built her business out of nothing, while he had inherited his.

“Thinking of ways to save West and Sons Shipping?” he asked.

Miss Fletcher scooted back to look at him, her face awash in gentleness. “No,” she said solemnly. “I wouldn’t dream of intruding.”

He glanced at her brass-stained fingertip restingon him. “I’ve discovered you say the most astonishing things when touching me.”

Which earned him a light laugh.

“I was surprised to hear you list storytelling as a talent. Now that intrigues me.”

“A necessary skill. Months at sea can be very dull.”

Her lashes fluttered low then rose slowly.

“Did you whisper stories to mermaids?”

Miss Fletcher’s eyes shadowed with uncertainty. Gravity expanded in the small tent, spinning a tangled web.

“No mermaids,” he said softly.

“Any sirens? I hear sailors keep one in every port.”

“There is only one siren, and she hails from Edinburgh.”

Miss Fletcher’s spectral stare absorbed him. She traced his scar to his mouth, her touch featherlight.

“Sirens are beautifully horrid.”