Page 69 of For a Scot's Heart Only
A simple but devastating question. Though perfectly still, she was floundering. Mr. West might as well ask her to explain the universe or map the tides.
She plucked a low-hanging leaf, one of the few on the branch. “Your question implies that love and marriage are synonymous, but we both know they are not.”
“Sometimes they are,” was his gentle reply.
Which put salt on an unseen wound. She ripped the dry leaf in half, bits of it crumbling to the ground.
“Aren’t you the man who told me nothing lasts forever?”
“Lives end, Miss Fletcher, but love, in its purest form, has no end.”
Her throat was raw and her thoughts muddled.No end?How fanciful, her shipmaster. Mr. West was being diabolically kind. His focus a dandelion-soft stroke to her soul, and she wanted more.Wretched man.She was no better than Mr. Fisk, Mr. West’s shipyard cat, craving his tender attention.
“Love is not enough,” was her whispered rebellion—a belief she’d hold ’til her dying day.
Mr. West’s eyes took on a peculiar light, dawning with understanding, and she simply couldn’t bear it. She had to look away. The ache inside her was untenable. It was her heart squashing itself into a stony thing.
“We both know practically every unmarried woman wants to snare an excellent husband. It’s the same as winning a lottery,” she said.
“The business of marriage.” He was judicious in saying so. “I won’t deny that aspect exists.”
“Nor will I. And just like London’s lotteries, marriage is a sham.”
“Or it builds dynasties, fills nations, and provides the foundation for happy families.”
“Not all of them are happy.” She was stronger now, tossing away the torn leaf and doing what she knew best. “Let’s carry on, shall we?”
Hems swinging and chin up, she tried to carry on. A pinch invaded her chest. Her private pain. She’d not share it. Shouldn’t it be possible to enjoy Mr.West’s companionship sans difficult conversations? This was a day for entertainments—at least it was supposed to be. Perhaps they should’ve stayed on the pleasure barge. Sensual pursuits were fun, and conversation was not required.
Determined footsteps crunched the ground beside her.Mr. West and his long legs.
“This non-suitor of yours—does he know you’ll never marry?”
She slanted her eyes at him and found a handsome profile etched by daylight as they walked. “Why would he? I’ve never kissed him nor has he asked such impertinent questions.” Two brisk steps and she added, “Not that I would answer him.”
“You answered me.” There was a note of triumph in his voice.
“I did.”
“Do you want to kiss him?”
“No.”
Impatient, she picked up the pace and turned onto Lawrence Street. The porcelain works shingle was ahead. The gold to buy the sheep. This is what she should be about, not the delirious distraction of a tall Englishman bent on doling out questions and kisses.
“The man you saw, Mr. MacLeod, is helping my kinswomen. We have a league... of sorts.”
“What does your league do?”
“We help Highlanders.” A tight but truthful summation.
She stopped under a black shingle, its wood gleaming as though it had been freshly painted.
Chelsea Porcelain Works, Established 1749.
Mr. West checked the sign overhead, his gazelanding slowly on her. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say the scarred shipmaster was making sense of conversational bits and pieces.
“Mr. MacLeod—is he part of your league?”
