Page 62 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“I must confess. I almost didn’t come.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said softly.
He positioned himself to block the sun for her, but really it was for the greedy pleasure of standing close to stare at her winged brows, her fine-grained skin, and stunning, otherworldly eyes.
“While waiting for you, I composed some words in your honor,” he said.
Her laugh was incandescent.
“You did not.”
“I did. Something about the moon and the stars—all the appropriate drivel to set your pulse racing.”
Miss Fletcher tilted her head just so. A delectable angle, exposing her neck, her collarbone, telling him she was his for the taking.
“You already make my heart run at breakneck speed, Mr. West. Poetry is not required.”
His mouth slanted sideways. What a delight she was. A sweet flirt by day, a saucy piece by night.
“I’d planned to borrow from Shakespeare and hope you wouldn’t notice,” he said, astounding himself with the frank admission.
“A shameless tactic.”
“A man does what he must. Love and war are the same, are they not?”
Which caused her eyes to widen.Bloody L word. He should strike it from his vocabulary. At least her mild panic melted to studied amusement. Hers was a gentle consideration as though he’d given her a nugget of gold.
“You quoted Don Quixote. He suits you more than Shakespeare, I think.” Her hand shading her eyes drifted to his greatcoat. “And since we’re being honest, I, too, have something to share.”
He braced himself.
“My sister compared you to a purgative.”
Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Rest assured, I taste better than a medicinal.”
Sensuality glimmered in her smile. “I already know what you taste like, Mr. West.”
A thrill crested inside him. The sides of her mouth curled, a barely there turn of her lips yet wonderfully salacious. The corset maker was toying with him—with words, no less—sending exciting messages to all the right places under his clothes.
She was deceptively innocent, her face tipped to his.
“Margaret, my sister, advised me to kiss you. So there’s that,” she said conversationally.
He nodded as if they negotiated the price of this season’s goods. “That can be arranged.”
“Is it one of today’s entertainments? Kissing?”
He sucked in a quick breath. “One of many.”
“Then I am yours to command.”
He liked the sound of that as much as he liked her Edinburgh accent pouring over him. The woman could make him weak-kneed whispering a market-day list in his ear.
He twined her arm with his. “Then let’s get to it, shall we?”
Which didn’t sound romantic, but somehow, he knew flowery, effusive conduct wouldn’t win the fair corset maker. Problem was, he couldn’t say with confidence what would.
He led her on a slow walk to the wharf stairs immensely satisfied. Joy came from their arms joined and their hips bumping. From the cadence of their matching strides as if they had all the time in the world. A breeze carried her scent—linen and warmth. A comforting smell, very domestic and kind. On their approach, Mr. Winston boomed a command. Oarsmen snapped to attention, their scarlet livery impressive. Tendrils batting her cheek, Miss Fletcher took in the vessel and its private tent puffing an invitation.
