Page 68 of The Scot Who Loved Me
At the bottom step, Will paused to greet the company clerk through an open window. “Mr. Anstruther. Good day to you, sir.”
A snow-white head lifted from its sums. “Mr. MacDonald. You’re back!”
The old clerk gawked behind his spectacles. Might’ve been Will’s reappearance. Or it might’ve been the petticoats passing by.
“Good to see you, mon.” Will waved and took the stairs two at a time.
In West’s office, the yard’s perfume diminished. Wood and whisky replaced it. Everything was the same. A paper-strewn desk, two plain wood chairs on one side, a heavy four-square leather chair on the other. A small door led to a storage room made into a humble sleeping chamber for the dedicated man of business.
A symbol of West’s ancient profession hung on the wall behind the desk. A legendary harpoon.
The women were certainly fascinated.
Windows on three walls afforded a view of the River Thames and the King’s Yard in the distance. They shot to the windows overlooking Howland Great Wet Docks. Below, men beetled over two careened ships, scratching the vessels’ bellies with iron tools. Four ships were in dry dock, propped up in locks void of water. Over a hundred ships nestled in Howland’s man-made inlet. Low-roofed workhouses lined one side,barrels of whale oil and whale parts hugged within.
The yard was a majestic sight, and West and Sons Shipping was but a small part.
Mr. West dropped the rolled-up plans on his desk and spoke with quiet venom. “Jemmy Brown ran three days all over Wapping, trying to find you. I did the same.” West’s jaw flexed in anger. “Apparently, you fared well despite our worst fears.”
Will stiffened, bracing for a deserved blow. “I owe you a grave apology.”
Neither man took a seat. Mr. West’s gaze landed on Anne’s and Mary Fletcher’s backs. The ladies were pointing in awe, discussing the orchestrated chaos below. The sheer number of tethered ships was dazzling.
“Does your sudden disappearance have anything to do with your annual habit of donning your kilt?” West asked.
“It does. The same as every nineteenth of August when I get drunk as David’s sow, alone in my lodgings.”
“Except this year, apparently, you paraded about in your kilt. I was able to get that much from your landlord.” West’s mouth firmed. “Do you have a death wish? The rebellion is still fresh on the minds of those who lost husbands, sons, and brothers.”
“The same is true for highlanders,” Will said tightly.
West’s mouth pinched a fierce line. The Uprising of ’45 was their sore spot. The only place theycouldn’t find common ground. Simply, there was none. West, a man of reason, pushed past this.
“Am I to collect that your sudden reappearance has something to do with these ladies?”
“It does.”
West eyed his desktop. “And this favor of yours... it pertains to them as well?”
“It does.”
Will felt a smile grow. Their conversation was a hush over the desk. Across the office, Anne and her cousin’s voices rose and fell, a musical lilt. By their carefully offered backs, they understood the need for this exchange. A hopeful prelude. Will’s sudden return was troublesome enough, the risk of his request, greater.
West crossed his arms, a sturdy gesture. He wasn’t entirely won over.
“Our current game of questions and answers will not suffice. You want my help? Tell me thefullstory today. Privately.”
“Consider me at your service.”
West snorted but his mouth curved, close-lipped and congenial. Calculations ticked behind West’s blue-green eyes. Sounds of a thriving dockyard drifted through shut windows. Hammers and saws, men calling out to one another... a certain music. Mr. West kept the hum running smoothly. A blessed man, he walked to the windows, aware of his place in this world.
Curiosity angled West’s head; confidence squared his shoulders. West was a hunter politely assessing his prey.What kind of women has Will MacDonald brought to my yard?had to be running through the man’s head. By manners andspeech, Anne and her cousin were educated. By their gowns and unpinned hair, they were unusual. Intriguing yet accessible. A story was here, and Thomas West hungered to know it. He murmured the offer of a tour, and feminine faces lit brightly.
“Indeed, Mr. West, we would enjoy that very much,” Anne said.
“Especially your blacksmith’s forge,” her cousin chimed.
To which Mr. West’s brows arched. He studied Miss Fletcher, storing her request and resetting his focus.
