Page 75 of For a Scot's Heart Only
A wide path led to a glass house where exotic leaves pressed steamy windows like the green-gloved hands of a woman in a passionate tryst. There was something illicit and endearing, a secluded land that needed exploring.
Iron creaked behind her, Mr. West shutting the gate.
“I always thought garden walks were so... overdone,” she said as he joined her.
“English gardens, yes.”
Her eyes rounded. “Not exactly loyal to your own kind.”
Tall and proud, Mr. West surveyed the landscape. On the pleasure barge, he’d been every inch the conquering sea wolf; alone with him like this was the victor’s private celebration.
“English cottage gardens are the same as consuming a chop house dinner. Satisfying, giving one a sturdy sense of home, but French designs are effervescent.” He cocked his head, a connoisseur. “Beauty for beauty’s sake.”
This revelation left her mildly dazed.
“How does an English whaler come by this knowledge?”
“By his very French mother.” He hesitated. “When I was a boy, she dragged my sisters and me here more times than I can count.”
She leaned closer, hearing a treasured childhood in his voice. Mr. West had done more than open a garden gate for her. He’d opened a door to his heart.
“Aren’t you full of surprises with a French maman and a youth spent on garden walks.” She tipped her head just so. “I can almost picture you as a lad digging in your heels.”
His laugh was graveled and his eyes distant. Even the cadence of his voice changed.
“My poor mother. I was a handful. When summer came, we would picnic here. She would wipe jelly off my cheek and scold me in French.”
“Your childhood, it sounds lovely.”
“It was. My mother kept us busy, all to divert our fears—and hers—that my father’s ship might not return. But he always came home.”
“What a quaint family history.”
His green-blue gaze pinned her with a message.Time to pay the piper. “As it happens, I’m plagued with history—recent history, in fact.”
Mr. West twined their arms and led them on a meander fraught with a small dose of tension. He’d shared a piece of himself; it was time she shared hers.
She angled her face to his. “If you want to know something, ask me. But fair warning, my life is rather dull.”
“Then why not begin with the dull explanation of why we visited the pottery works, and why you told Mr. Clabberhorn that you were my wife.”
They walked on, pebbles crunching underfoot. Crows were gathering, lining the garden wall like eavesdroppers.
“My mother collected porcelain pieces. Dishes mostly.”
Concise but true. Still, his mouth twisted with disappointment.
“You’re trying to tell me our visit was paying homage to your mother.”
His monotone bordered on mockery. She pinched her brows together.Lud, it actually hurt to disappoint him.
“And it had nothing to do with the Countess of Denton?” he asked. Another heavy silence and he squinted at the path ahead. “Perhaps you’re not ready for candor after all.”
Yet, she was ready to remove every last stitch of clothing and explore carnal delights with him? She studied the ground, facing a vexing fact. This was—shewas—diving into profound waters.
“I know you’re flirting when you call me a siren, but you’re closer to the truth than you think,” she said, which snared his interest. “Any candor from me could cause you great harm.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
