Page 64 of For a Scot's Heart Only
She canted her head. “You’ve nothing more to say?”
“He’s a friend. A former shipmaster for West and Sons Shipping. We share a pint now and then when he’s in London.”
Miss Fletcher huffed and picked at the blanket warming her legs. “I don’t want to know about your smuggler friend. I want to know about Maison Bedwell.”
Ah, now they were getting somewhere.
“A capital establishment,” he said vaguely enough.
She studied him, shrewd but impatient. He tucked the flask into his pocket, a provocative light in hiseyes. He all but dared her to ask the questions plaguing her. It could be the corset maker was less enthusiastic to shed her inhibitions midday. He knew she had no problem shedding them at night. This very fact showed on her face, a veritable war playing out in their cozy tent.
“You’re a coy one, Mr. West. Whisking me away on a pleasure barge and plying me with excellent Cognac.” Her chin tipped a jaunty angle. “Are you spiriting me off to parts unknown? Possibly selling me to Barbary pirates?”
A wicked grin creased his lips. Did she read lurid romantic novels? The woman had a vivid imagination.
“I don’t whisk, Miss Fletcher, I invite. Granted, mine was a firm invitation—”
“Demanding, certainly.”
“But couched with humor. As to plying you with Cognac, you asked for refreshments and I offered what I have, which you guzzled like a Wapping Wall sailor.”
Miss Fletcher’s jaw unhinged. Her astonishment was priceless. Had no one given the Scotswomanhercomeuppance? She was overdue, then. The woman excelled at putting others in their place. And from this encounter, another fact was clear. They’d have to break through her uniquely constructed wall.
Goading was in order.
“Be assured, we are not going to parts unknown,” he said. “We’re going to Chelsea Physic Garden, which was meant to be a surprise. And Miss Fletcher...” He paused to capture her gaze, which had wandered off. “I’d never sell you to Barbary pirates because I plan to keep you for myself.”
She gasped.
“Any English pirate worth his salt would do the same,” he said.
Air swatted the tent. Miss Fletcher was a statue slowly coming to life. The first sign was her mouth twitching as though she battled a smile and was about to lose.
“A pirate.” Faint amusement laced her voice.
“A romantic notion. Lots of women have them about men who take to the sea.”
She considered this, the smile still playing about her lips. He decided to spare her the truth about life on ships and let her believe the fantasy. Angling his body toward her, he stretched his arm along the back of the couch, in effect, cocooning them.
“I might’ve presumed overmuch, Miss Fletcher, but your giving me the keys to Neville Warehouse and a certain room at Maison Bedwell led me to believe you’d welcome not only my companionship, but my candor as well.” A wisp of silence, and, “Do you?”
She nodded, the mahogany curl slipping free.
“I do.”
Hers was the softest admission. So tender and vulnerable, it sent cracks rippling through his tough exterior. He took a deep breath, needing to recover. Miss Fletcher was disassembling him again, piece by piece.
She scooted closer.
“Were you ever... a pirate?”
His lips parted at her disarming question. He ought to wave the white flag of surrender and let her know she’d won. Miss Fletcher was gently storming the wall around his heart and stripping him bare.Women and their fanciful minds.The truth was he’d be whatever the corset maker wanted him to be.
“I am the proprietor of an honest, but struggling, whaling concern,” he said quietly. “Nothing more.”
She traced the scar on his cheek.
“You did say you planned to keep me for yourself.”
