Page 31 of For a Scot's Heart Only
His mouth firmed. “Perhaps, in due time.”
His deflection didn’t put her off in the slightest.
“We are a direct pair, aren’t we?”
His gaze wandered back to her. “Like with like, as my father used to say.”
Brows knitting, she considered that. Were they alike? Mr. West was a sea wolf with a patina of dockside roughness, a man unafraid to use his fists... if one listened to rumors. His hands showed the wear and tear of a person unafraid to use them. The same was true of her. He was also a respected merchant and a ship’s master, a sober gentleman given to hard work and heart-melting kisses on unusual body parts.
In quiet moments she’d caress her brass-stained fingertip—the same spot he’d kissed on the front steps of Maison Bedwell.
To feel his lips again...
Five yearswas the whisper in her head. Her last passionate kiss. She’d give anything for Mr. West to be the one to change this unfortunate fact. He was close. Less than an arm’s length from her, and him with his mouth parting tenderly, his head dipping.
A soft shudder teased her.
If she pushed up on her toes—which she did—and tilted her body just so...
A loud cough ripped them apart.
Her heels dropped and she snapped to attention better than a new recruit. There, at the bottom of the stairs, the hoary-haired clerk waited. With him was a beefy man wearing a leather apron, his face grimed with soot.
“Mr. West, sir, there’s a problem with theMary Jane,” the old clerk said.
“Thank you, Mr. Anstruther.”
Mr. West eyed her apologetically. They’d been inches from a kiss both of them desperately wanted.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but it’s serious trouble.” The aproned man jabbed a thumb in the direction of the dry dock. “The cinch holding up theMary Jane’sbow has cracked, nearly in two.”
The clerk was emphatic. “She won’t hold much longer.”
Mr. West stepped onto the landing. “Put the men to work on theLucretia. Make sure everyone is out of harm’s way, and I’ll be down shortly.”
The clerk and his beefy companion stalked off, and the astonishing moment was gone. Mary touchedher stomacher, the contact needful as though she might float away. She was scrambled and lost, the glow of a near kiss sadly fading.
Mr. West grimaced. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”
He dipped into his office and reappeared, donning his tricorn. They were silent, going down the stairs. Her befuddled body was taking its own sweet time recovering. Her mind, however, was reassembling and posing prudent questions.
Was she any closer to uncovering Mr. West’s reason for being at Bedwell’s? No.
Did she find out anything about his connection to Lord Ranleigh? No.
Did she hand over her sole bargaining piece, the key to Neville Warehouse? Yes.
Not a promising morning.
Crossing the docks, she pinched her petticoats to save her hems. It was time to admit, when it came to subterfuge, Cecelia was a goddess among women. With information gathering, with men, and with the aftermath of a missed kiss.
But that lost kiss hurt most of all.
“Miss Fletcher.” Mr. Baines hailed her from his wherry.
She waved to him. The business of life called.
Mr. West grabbed her hand midair. “I’ll guide her down to you, Mr. Baines.”
