Page 83 of For a Scot's Heart Only

Her gentle declaration pummeled him. Hand flexing against the cushion, he wanted the enigmaticScotswoman. Not piecemeal kisses and conversations.Her. Underneath them, the pleasure barge creaked in the swollen current racing them back to London and their first night together. He should be overjoyed. An evening of lust sated.

It wasn’t enough.

Miss Fletcher shocked him by nestling her head in his lap.

“Let us not waste a splendid day on such things, Mr. West.” Her moonstone eyes glimmered. “I’d much rather test your storytelling skills.”

The Scotswoman was beautiful. A wild thing, her face half-shadowed, hair spilling wantonly, her mouth a rosy smudge. A little lower, her ever-present medallion choker gleamed. It was the first time he noticed the number nine etched in the metal—the symbol of a stouthearted Jacobite.

Sobered, he touched the gold piece resting in the well of her neck. No. They’d not waste a moment together.

“What kind of story would you like?”

“Something with adventure and intrigue,” she cooed. “A romance, definitely.”

“Do you favor them? Romances?”

She stretched like a contented cat and linked a hand with his.

“On occasion.”

He liked this, the two of them holding hands.

“We had a tradition on our ships. Whoever could spin an interesting tale over the most nights won a half guinea when we returned home. We tracked it with a tally chart.”

“It sounds like a wonderful tradition.”

“My father started it, and I’ve kept it going.”

“A nice reward, a half guinea.”

“You should know I won three summers in a row.”

She gaped in mock wonder. “That good, are you?”

“I am.”

“Please, do regale me, sir. If your story pleases me, you shall have your reward.”

“If I can sustain my tale...”

“We’ve a month of nights ahead of us.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ve no doubt you shall dazzle me, sir.”

He ached to say he wanted her days too. To spend them in common places. Leadenhall’s Market, a promenade around St. James, visiting public houses to decide which one served the best beef stew. Instead, he buried those unsafe declarations. His corset maker wasn’t ready to hear them, and if he knew anything about hunting, patience was a worthy weapon.

A small nod and, “You start the tale by giving me a place or a character. It’s West and Sons tradition.”

A hush filled the tent. He was stroking bare skin on her forearm. So, so soft was this small real estate of flesh. He contented himself with the slight touch even though he wanted much more. More than her body, more than her heart, more than her soul—all of her. To spend his nights writhing in passion with the corset maker and his days discovering the mundane. This was life, exotic and pure, finding perfection in how she dressed, how she threaded a needle, or enjoyed her soup. Simple wants, each one.

They chipped away at his heart.

Enigmatic light reflected in her eyes. She was bold, dragging their clasped hands over her heart.

“Tell me the story of the scarred shipmaster and the siren.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Hours later...