Page 58 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Mr. West... Isn’t he the tall whaler?”
“He is.” Mary lifted pink silk off the table and snapped it straight. “He wants me to meet him for, what I presume, is fun and frivolity.”
Margaret gasped in mock horror. “We can’t have that, now, can we?”
A tiny laugh burst from Mary.
“Mr. West hasn’t been out to sea for some time. The demands of having to manage the shipyard at Howland Great Wet Dock, I imagine.”
“Know that, do you?”
Mary could feel a tell-tale flush heating her cheeks. “Mr. West and I have... talked.”
“I’d wager you want to do more than talk. You want to kiss him.”
“Margaret!” She snapped the silk straight, mortified.
“Oh, don’tMargaretme. Why wouldn’t you want to kiss him? He’s a fine figure of a man.”
“That’s hardly acceptable conversation for a young woman.”
And her blush singed her. Margaret’s jaw dropped.
“No! You’ve already kissed him, haven’t you?” She advanced on Mary, her countenance gleeful. She was teasing and scandalized, sauntering forward. “I’d wager all my pin money that you want more than kisses from the handsome Mr. West, don’t you?”
Mary checked the curtain dividing the workroom from the shop. Saucy conversations under naughty frescoes were best served in a brothel, not in her place of business, and certainly not from her gloating sister.
“You don’t have to answer that. I already know the answer,” Margaret said. “Though I am a little surprised.”
“At what?” Mary held the silk close to her chest. She couldn’t deny the powerful urge to chew on her favorite topic—Mr. West.
“With your heart’s choice.” Margaret’s moue was practiced and artful. “I never imagined a rugged gentleman of the sea would make your blood run hot.”
A sweet rush got the best of her. She’d not debate the finer points of her heart versus a lustful dalliance with Margaret. Not when decorum was of the utmost importance. Still, curiosity nipped her.
“And what kind of gentleman did you imagine would make my blood run hot?”
“Smart, definitely. Well dressed, but not these London peacocks you read about in the newspapers.”
Which made her laugh. “I should hope not.”
“Cecelia and I thought you needed an older man. Someone you could manage easily. Perhaps a merchant since commerce runs in your veins.” Margaret shook her head, intrigued. “Not once did I think you’d be blushing and breathless over a braw man.”
She dipped her lashes. Embers spangled acrossher bottom cheek, a reminder just how strong and capable her sea wolf was.
“When Mr. West visited our shop,” Margaret said, “he looked like he wanted to have his way with you.”
“Which is why I shouldn’t spend the day with him.” Mary gave the silk a vigorous shake and gave Margaret an admonishing stare, as one does to a younger sister spouting salacious words.
Margaret grinned and reached for the silk. “Let me take that before you snap the pink dye right out of it.”
Fabric slipped out of Mary’s hands, all of her weightless and frothy. She was being managed and they both knew it.
Margaret rolled the silk carefully. “You’re not setting a bad example if you leave the shop for one day. Everyone deserves a little fun now and then—even the sainted Mary Fletcher.”
She set a hand on her cheek. Sainted? Hardly. Hot images of her with the tall shipmaster tempted her. Naked bodies, sheened with sweat, hands roaming. These visions didn’t plague her; she sought them, often. An undeniable fever was building, akin to a cauldron brimming with steamy, bubbling water.
If she wasn’t careful, it would spill over.
