Page 61 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“You could be on to something.” His ham-fisted grip on her basket garnered a queer glance or two, but a sharp glare back reminded Southwark’s good citizens to mind their own business.
Anne pinched her skirts higher and they crossed the road. “Why are you so set on shopping with me?”
“Why are you so set on getting rid of me?”
“I needed to clear my head.”
Drays rumbled by. Two hawkers, scrabbly lads with holes in their coats, took turns crying, “Cockfight, King’s Head Yard!”and “Bare-knuckle brawlers, Morgan’s Lane!”A red-faced matron yelled at a costermonger selling his wares too close to her front door.
“You do your thinking in this?” Which earned him a giggle.
“I make do, as one must.”
Anne was beautiful, mussed hair trailing her back. No straw hat and no carmine lips today. Her humble gray gown reminded him of grisettes, French worker women, shop assistants, servants (and erstwhile lovers) to university students. He’d seen grisettes in Edinburgh. A few inhabited Spitalfields where French Huguenots staked a claim in London, women of lowly circumstances but no less canny in their gray gowns of small cost.
“And why are you with me? I thought you had errands of your own to attend,” she said.
Because I want to win your heart, lass.Risky words to say aloud. Instead, he chose the safer, “Because I want to talk to you and enjoy the pleasure of your company, Mrs. Neville.”
“Oh?” Her stride was easy, companionable.
Pattens made Anne four inches taller, putting her head very near his shoulder, like their kiss on the stairs. They approached St. Olave’s Streetwhere vicars and harlots and red-coated soldiers patrolled the road. A pair of mail coaches trundled by. Pretty young flower girls, their baskets brimming, sold their wares on busy corners. Anne pointed to a wooden sign across the street with a white mortar and pestle painted on a field of black.
“That’s my last stop. The apothecary.” She spoke above the road’s noise, her shoulder bumping his. “There’s a quiet spot on the other side of Black Ravens Court. I’ll take you there and you can explain this business of wanting the pleasure of my company.”
A thrill bloomed in his chest. This was promising.
They set off across the street, Anne at one side and her basket of candles and coffee beans on the other. Last time he wooed her he was on horseback in wide open country, but if he was honest, there wasn’t much wooing. By day, conversation had flowed without purpose, words seeding their love from boundless curiosity. By night, their conversation was passion sheened with hot need. A simple tale of young love.
Years and hardship changed their stories. Would the battering they’d taken make them less open? Or more so?
Anne dodged a rotting cabbage in the road and reached for the door with the unlettered black-and-white sign above it. Inside, the street’s noise was blessedly muffled.
“The quiet,” she sighed. “How nice.”
“The improved smell’s even better.”
Dried plants secured by twine hung from rafters. Jars clinked behind the wooden counter, matching the soft grunts of someone maneuvering goods out of sight. Glass jars lined shelves, the labels on some of them as fascinating as the contents.
“Mermaid tears. Shark fins.” He squinted at a clay jar in the corner and snorted. “Bat’s eyes. What the devil are you looking to purchase, Mrs. Neville?”
A tall, slim man, his ginger queue neat and his smile bland, stood up. He wiped his hands with a cloth, his sharp gaze bouncing between Anne and Will.
“Good day, Mrs. Neville.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Erskine.” She gestured to Will. “Allow me to introduce my betrothed, Mr. MacDonald.”
“I heard the news.”
“You have? When?”
He waved a vague hand. “A few days ago... one of the elder women in your household told me.”
“That would be Aunt Maude.”
“Yes, yes. I believe she came to purchase a restorative for her bowels.” The apothecary’s voice pitched thoughtfully. “But I’d wager that malady is not why you’re here.”
Anne rummaged for her list. “No, sir.”
