Page 123 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Thomas stood up, his eyes shining. “He’ll have to get in line behind me.”
The streetlamp showered him in a kind glow. The lump gathering behind her breastbone came with a message.You adore this man. You always will.
She swallowed delicately. “With a fine cat and his master slaying my dragons, I shall be the safest woman in London.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Thomas said, scooting his things into her shop. “Mr. Fisk likes to think he has charge of me.”
She followed him and took her time closing the door. These profound emotions both humbled and delighted her. A wonderful chaos to sort through later. But she wouldn’t have the luxury of doing that alone. After the door was locked, they loaded up their arms and carried baskets and such upstairs. Mr. Fisk was left to his devices, but a dish of cream would lure him to join them.
Once in her garret, she stoked the fire. Warmth already rolled off her. The shock of her neighbors seeing a man dip into her shop after twilight would have tongues wagging.
This was a first—being alone with a man up here. But this was her and Thomas. They... fit.
She set aside the poker and swiped both hands down her apron. With him, here, the chamber took on a new luster. Everything was brighter. The fire, the window, her soul.
Thomas pivoted a slow circle, a friendly smile showing on his face. “Very nice.”
“You’re being kind. The home of a shipmaster must be grand.”
“Better to live happy in a humble place than live miserably in a palace.” His eyes lit with deep affection. He removed his hat, subdued. There was a basket of mending near the fire, stacks of books on the mantel, and tidy but well-worn furniture. “Your home looks very, very happy,” he said, reverent.
She stood taller and a bit awkward for his praise. “Thank you.”
They stared at each other like silly youths who’d just stumbled on the wonder of love. Fireworks were going off under her skin. Her pulse banged a marching cadence loud enough her neighbors would hear.
Her bed was hard to miss. They were going to use it.
Thomas caught the direction of her gaze. His brow arched with a question.Now?
She blushed profusely. “I suppose you’re hungry.”
“Very much.”
The suggestion in his voice teased her.
She opened a narrow cabinet and retrieved two bowls. “Thomas, this isn’t the Red Rose room. This is my home.”
He was in the act of removing his coat, wool sliding off broad shoulders, the kind a woman could count on. He grinned and tossed his coat onto his satchel.
“I’m here until Margaret returns. What comes after that is for us to decide at a better time.”
She set the bowls on the table, relieved. Thomas understood the need to take life in small steps. This knowledge was as surprising as the sight of him rolling up his sleeves.
“I brought a ham and pea hachy,” he announced.
“A hachy?”
“Trust me, you’ll like it. If not, I have bread and beer to feed you.”
She laughed. “Sustenance of the gods.”
“And hungry sailors and corset makers.”
Thomas was making himself at home in her makeshift kitchen, collecting spoons and serviettes. He surprised her when he poured the contents of a heavy crock into a pot hanging over the fire. She peered over his shoulder. A thick soup simmered in her small cauldron.
“You really are going to cook for me?” The very idea...
Thomas whisked a dishtowel from her cabinet and tossed it over his shoulder. “Isn’t it time someone took care of you?”
