Page 70 of For a Scot's Heart Only
There was something deliberate and parsing in his tone.
“Of a sort. You’ll see him at Neville Warehouse. Fixing things, and the like.”
Questions lit Mr. West’s sharp eyes. They both knew it was a leap of logic, warehouse work to brothel visits. Before he could unleash more questions, she ran her fingers lightly over the button flash of his greatcoat.
“There is only one man I want to kiss,” she said softly. “A sea wolf who happens to possess an unfounded jealous streak.”
“A sea wolf?” His baritone rumbled with surprise.
“Appropriate, considering his behavior of late.”
A breeze tapped his properly knotted cravat and the half smile tugging his mouth. She might be onto something with tender touches and colorful monikers.
“I do enjoy him. Thoroughly, in fact.”
His gaze sharpened. “Your sea wolf? Or your non-suitor?”
She explored a buttonhole on his greatcoat.
“There is only one non-suitor for me.”
“Indeed.”
His eyes were a brilliant shade of green-blue. A woman could lose herself in them.
“As it happens, I have plans to further my acquaintance with him in the most delightful ways, as long as he understands one unwavering fact.”
“And that is?”
“That everything ends when the month is out,” she said, gently and carefully.
A strange stiffness came over Mr. West.
“As it happens, a month suits me.”
Which was veiled and stoic all at once. Her hand fell to her side, useless. She regretted her bluntness and cast her attention to the lane where a young girl in clogs was shushing along five geese. She was at a loss, her usual confidence vanished.
Cecelia would have something witty to say, and Margaret, something kind.
“I don’t wish to be—to be...”
She was floundering, her emotions a quagmire.
Mr. West tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “We both agreed to this unusual arrangement. No further explanation is needed.”
She tipped her chin high. “Thank you.”
Birds chirped and a door was opened and shut on Lawrence Street. Inside the porcelain works shop, workmen bantered about a tavern wench. Laughter hung in the air. Pottery clattered as though someone was stacking dishes. Yet, she of the forward charge couldn’t make her feet obey and enter the shop.
“We’re both charting new waters, Miss Fletcher. Patience is in order. For both of us.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Yes, patience.”
Mr. West was sage and his eyes tender. He’d stormed her ramparts and was giving her an olive branch. Was this what it was like to be understood? This genuine, starry perfection in which she could soar with happiness one minute and express angerthe next? In the space of a few hours, Mr. West managed to learn more about her than most did in months or years, if not a lifetime.
Bloody Englishman. Her sea wolf was a master of ships and a master of sirens.
