Page 72 of The Scot Who Loved Me

The cheerful trio ambled near the smithy’s forge, the afternoon sun showing a charred triangle of missing cloth on Miss Fletcher’s back hem. Mr. West’s neck craned for a better view.

“Is Miss Fletcher’s skirt burnt?”

“It is. You could say that’s why we’re here.” He faced his former employer, deciding bluntness was best. “She needs to forge a key.”

“All this secretiveness over a key?”

He hesitated. “It’s no’ just any key. It’s a Wilkes Lock key.”

“I see.” West watched Jemmy and the ladies disappear into the forge. “You won’t need iron then.”

“Miss Fletcher has an ingot of silver in her pocket.”

“Of course, she does. Doesn’t every woman?”

Will stood taller, the incredible need to defend Miss Fletcher jabbing him.

“Her father is a silversmith in Edinburgh. A well-established mon, I collect. She learned her smithing skills from him. She’s quite talented.”

He shut his mouth when tempted to share how talented.

Mr. West frowned his disapproval. “He would undoubtedly be displeased to discover his daughter is replicating a Wilkes Lock key.”

A father figure to his sisters, West would say that. Learning about her role with the key might have tarnished Miss Fletcher’s shine. Will could’ve told West these women weren’t like his sisters. Anne didn’t want to be ensconced in a pretty house like a doll on a shelf. She craved open land. She’d never tolerate a loss of freedom. Miss Fletcher had to be struck from the same mold.

West strode to his desk and dove into his comfortable world of business. “Go ahead,” he said distractedly. “Ring the bell, and announce the workday done. The forge is Miss Fletcher’s to use as she sees fit.”

“Thank you.”

West’s gaze lifted from a stack of papers. His eyes were knife sharp on Will. This was a tremendous risk, but a debt was paid, the transaction done. There’d be no more questions about the Wilkes Lock key.

Will pushed the casement wider, breathing iron, grit, and sweat . . . his history on the Howland Great Wet Dock. He’d recovered here. Become the man he was today for the new trade he’d learned and a true friendship earned. A pang uncoiling in his chest, he reached for the bell cord and rang the end of the workday. Smiling men hailed greetings when they saw him half out the window. He would go down and see them. After today, he’d not come back here again. He couldn’t.

It was on him to leave the lightest trail. After the gold was stolen, Ancilla would trace his whereabouts. He’d have a word with Anne when they were alone in the forge. The league should scatter after the art salon.

At the moment, he had goodbyes to attend.

The peculiar throb inside him rippled wider. “I’ll go down and say my farewells.”

“Yes, do.”

His hand was on the latch, the door ajar when West spoke, his head down as he shuffled papers.

“You said Miss Fletcher is a capable smith, but... I don’t suppose Miss Fletcher needs a man to help her with the forge, does she?”

“Neither Miss Fletcher nor Mrs. Neville need a man for anything.”

And that stirred the widest rift of all in Will’s chest.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Will hadn’t come home last night, thoughhomewasn’t precisely correct. Will MacDonald didn’t live at Neville House. He sojourned here, a man passing through her life the same as he did eight summers ago. But that wasn’t precisely correct either.

She rubbed her temple, the bruised one. Splitting hairs over Will MacDonald’s place in her home was not a priority, yet it was all she could think about.

He was all she could think about.

It was maddening.