Page 32 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Very good, sir.”
She locked on to their joined hands. The shipmaster’s grip was fraught with messages.
Mr. West’s eyes were bemused when he whispered to her, “You won’t deny me this final pleasure, will you?”
“Of you witnessing my landlubber’s climb into a boat?” she whispered back, grabbing the ladder.
To which he laughed, a wonderful sound winding around her heart. It made the inglorious end of their meeting almost bearable. Mr. West went down on bended knee, helping her as she made the awkward descent from the dock to the ladder. Even when she was steady with both feet in the wherry, her gloved fingers were fused with his, the warmth and yearning palpable.
She looked up at him.
Please, hold me... always.
A stunning want. It sucked the air out of her lungs.
Mr. West’s eyes burned ardently. “You will have an answer for me soon?”
Business demands and her treasure hunt popped up like noisy children in her head. If only she was a woman of leisure...
She squeezed his hand, and they broke apart. “Yes, soon.”
“I’ll be on tenterhooks.”
Mr. West had made his decision.
Had she made hers?
Sunlight bleached the scar on his tanned face. A shipmaster, a sea wolf, a man not to be taken lightly. She took her seat, her gaze fastened to his. Mr. Baines drove his pole into the river, and the narrow boat slid forward. The tide was low, the mud sticky and smelly. Mr. West stood up, his stance wide in tar-spattered jackboots. The brim of his hat shadowed his eyes. He was distant, watching her slip away.
Until his lips parted, vulnerable and wanting.
His need shook her to the marrow of her bones.
Thirsty for the sight of him, she scooted forward on the narrow seat. But her foot banged a coin purse full of French livres on the floor. Her next errand. Her duty. She toed it aside and drank in Mr. West, her tenderhearted pirate.
Visiting him, she’d done what she had no business doing.
She’d given him a breadcrumb of hope.
Chapter Seven
Mary walked toward Maison Bedwell, her next bad decision. Twenty polished windows shined down on her, yet not a single curtain was drawn. Rather sleepy for half past ten. Carriages were rolling by, and a breeze carried a polyglot of foreign tongues, families and merchants going about their day.
Three quick raps on the brass door knocker announced her. She was outwardly confident, though her nerves weren’t playing well with her breakfast, a matter made worse by the lurid Grub Street newspaper captions teasing her brain:
Corset maker runs afoul of the law
Spinster caught in a house of ruin
Scotswoman dances with the devil
It was just her luck; pungent smoke started curling up through the iron railing to her left. She peered over it. A cheroot-puffing servant was lounging by the basement entrance.
“Dance with the devil it is,” she said under her breath.
She banged the brass ring again, hard enough to jingle the purse in her petticoat pocket. When the door cracked open, a charwoman with ash on her nose stood in the gap.
“May I help you, miss?”
