Page 63 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Enigmatic gray eyes drew a line from the tent to him.
“Are you seducing me, Mr. West?”
“Yes.”
His voice had gone husky and his stare intense. Lust would have its due, but Miss Fletcher was morethan hot flirtation and sweet seduction. She was the light at the end of a long tunnel. His light. It was only a matter of time before the corset maker understood this.
She tucked herself close to him. “I can’t wait to see what happens.”
Chapter Sixteen
The oars’ rhythm was an opiate. The river ahead, picturesque. Almost empty. The view was miles of water, rippling with deceptive calm. London was giving way to green fields, to trees, and the sudden impetuously placed manse facing the river. The vessel heaved against the tide, the effort barely noticed in their little heaven.
Gauzy light inside the tent set the mood. Scarlet and saffron billowed as joyful as a woman’s underskirts from a frolic on a swing. Miss Fletcher was half-reclined on a couch, a fur-trimmed blanket tossed over her legs.
She was staring ahead, tucking a wayward wisp behind her ear. “Is this when you’re supposed to feed me grapes or some such nonsense?”
He grimaced. He should’ve thought of that. Food and wine inevitably played a role in seduction, even if not much was consumed.
“No grapes. But I can offer you Cognac as consolation,” he said offhandedly.
“Is it French? Because I won’t drink what the Dutch make.”
Now, that was a line in the sand if he’d ever heard one. He turned to her, intrigued. The corset maker’s profile reflected serious intent.
“Everyone knows Dutch cognac is cat piss,” he said, amused.
She matched his intimacy, drawing her knees to her chest. “French Limousin oak. That’s the secret.”
“The barrel is everything.”
He offered this arrogant summation because he knew it to be true and because it was the kind of detail the commerce-minded Scotswoman would appreciate. Miss Fletcher rewarded him with a gentle gaze as though she’d left all her cares behind and was truly present with him.
He reached inside his coat and offered her his flask. “Direct from the village of Cognac.”
She hummed her approval and uncorked the flask with a softpop. Air burst with aromas of caramel and French oak. The flask under her nose, she sniffed.
“Most impressive.”
Sharing the drink opened another window in which he could examine her world. With exorbitant excise taxes, only the finest homes in London would have this kind of Cognac. Or had she consumed her Cognac in Scotland? Highlanders and the French were bosom friends in their mutual distaste for the English.
Miss Fletcher thumbed his initials etched in metal. “How do you come by it? The Cognac?”
“A smuggler gifted me with a cask. I keep it in the chamber behind my office.”
She put the flask to her lips and tipped her head back, drinking like a thirsty sailor. He watched,awestruck. Miss Fletcher would be a formidable partner in tavern drinking games.
Sated, she licked her lips and handed over the flask. “An excellent refreshment. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He needed a swig. Confidence was never an issue; delicacy, however, was. Miss Fletcher was a carefully constructed blend of fine manners and calloused fingers. A fascinating woman. She hugged her knees, a mahogany curl slouching against her temple. The heave and sway of the vessel lulled them, but her face was a study of determination—brows like bird’s wings, slanting downward, the cogs and wheels of her mind ticking fiercely behind the beautiful mask that was her face.
“I’m surprised—you having smuggled Cognac,” she said. “Do you meet your smuggler at Maison Bedwell?”
Another swig and, “No.”
Miss Fletcher was fishing for information. Good. He was on something of a fishing expedition himself.
