Page 30 of For a Scot's Heart Only
His mouth hooked sideways, and she was caught in a magnetic pull.
“You appreciate directness, I collect,” she said.
He looked into her eyes.
“All the better to know her heart.”
His voice was so intimate and low she doubted that she’d heard him right. It took several sensual-fogged seconds for her brain to catch up.
Mr. West wanted to know her heart.
“And this masked Scotswoman... you wish to see her again?” she asked, breathless.
“I do.”
“Why?”
Mr. West stopped touching her cheek.
This was a stake in the ground, her desperate needto know his intent.Was he aligned with LordRanleigh?was one question. Yet, it faded under the deeper, soul-quenching need:Why her?London was riddled with beautiful women, plenty of them warmer-natured than she.
Of the two questions, she knew which one she cared about.
Mr. West squinted at the river, pensive. Solitary. Ships passed, their sails white patches on the fabric of London’s scenery. Mr. West shifted his feet, nodding slowly to no one in particular.
“I’ve spent half my life on the North Sea, racing her wind, riding her waves. As a younger man, I yearned for her. Her excitement, her beauty. But don’t be fooled. She’s a brutal mistress. She kills without a second thought,” he said bitterly. “Men arrogantly believe they can conquer her and steal her treasures. It’ll never happen. Share a pint with the old sailors at Wapping Wall, and they’ll tell you, life is fleeting. And the idea of control, laughable. Be it land or sea, we are mere sojourners in a place where nothing lasts forever. This day, this moment,isthe treasure.”
His gaze sought hers, honest and radiant.
“That is mywhy, Miss Fletcher.”
She tried to swallow. He wanted her, but for how long?
A day? A month? A lifetime?
The lump in her throat was her throbbing heart. Aching, fearful, and deeply thrilled. In short, a chaotic mess. When she did find her voice, it was scratchy and tormented.
“I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes. For however long.”
His last three words were a sad, sad revelation.
“Because nothing lasts forever,” she said, subdued.
This was life distilled. The blessing and the curse of a woman approaching her thirtieth year, facing a man five or six years older. Their youthful promises had been spent. Experience was their currency, and time no longer an ally.
Wind batting his cravat, Mr. West clasped both hands behind his back. “It is forward of me, I know, but after our interlude at Bedwell’s...”
She nodded sagely.
“I understand. You thought catching me in a brothel presented an opportunity.”
Mr. West checked the river again, mildly chastened. “I don’t wish to be overbold, but circumstances have forced my hand.”
Head tipping back, she studied him. This was the chink in her scarred pirate’s armor.
“Should you trust me, I would like to hear them.”
