Page 19 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Last August,” he said, “you and Mrs. Neville offered the use of Neville Warehouse on Gun Wharf.”
“You’ve come to collect on our promise.”
He nodded. “My first thought was to contact Mrs. Neville, but I understand she fled London.”
“She did. With Mr. MacDonald.”
“I thought as much. With the selling season upon us, I was going to write to you, but after last night...”
Well, that took the starch out of her. Mr. West didn’t want to compromise her body. He wanted a building. She winced. How mortifying. She was the one with lust-fueled notions, not him. Mr. West had always conducted himself as a perfect gentleman since the moment they’d met three years ago. Their conversations were always proper.
Until last night.
“I need the warehouse for the rest of this month.” He carried on, very businesslike. “Rent-free, of course.”
“Of course.”
She jammed the dust rag into her apron pocket. Rent-free was a fair trade for what he had done last August. Mr. West had also set a clear boundary. There was no need for her to spend long days with him, acting as an agent, factoring his goods as was typical when renting a warehouse to a merchant.
“You were incredibly generous to my league,” she said. “How could we not do the same for you?”
“I appreciate your understanding.”
She smiled weakly, defeat washing over her.
“I’ll have the key delivered to your shipyard tomorrow.”
He donned his tricorn. “Tomorrow, then.”
But neither moved. They faced each other, their silence buffeted by babbling shoppers and the rattle of passing carriages beyond her window. Mary fidgeted, dispirited. There’d be no going back to shopkeeper and merchant, but she was hard-pressed on how to go forward.
Mr. West, however, was not tongue-tied.
His bold eyes spoke volumes.
“Your hair is a thing of beauty,” he said gruffly. “You should leave it uncovered.”
She touched her mobcap.
They were, by design, overbearing. Anything to hide her hair. She opened her mouth to say as much, except a talkative gray-haired matron and her friend sidled up to the display. Mr. West murmured a pleasantry and gave them ample room. Mary stepped back, wanting to snap at the women for the invasion. Excellent, ingrained manners and a shopkeeper’s need for coin, however, prevailed.
She pasted on a smile while they peppered her with questions.
“I visited your shop... oh, some time ago,” said the shorter woman. “I believe you sold gloves.”
Sweet relief. She could shush them out the door.
“Not anymore, ma’am. But there is an excellent glover’s shop on Chiswell Street.”
“I’m certain I purchased a pretty blue pair in this very shop, though the seams...”
Mary dug impatient hands into her petticoats. Precious time with Mr. West was slipping away. Couldn’t the verbose woman see that? Her restless feet seemed to know it. Mr. West had come out of his way to seeher, if only for business.
Nodding solicitously, she inched backward as if she might flee her own shop. A powerful need seized her. To be anywhere but here. She could tell Mr. West about the rusted cog in Neville Warehouse’s tread wheel. Perhaps arrange a time to show it to him.
Whirling around, she would accept his offer for a walk and a pint—why not both?
But her shop’s doorbell jingled shut on Mr. West’s back. Disappointment landed like an anvil on her heart. She rushed to her shop window and looked south. Mr. West’s head and fine shoulders were already melting into the hive that was White Cross Street. There’d be no more conversations with her scarred pirate.
