Page 80 of For a Scot's Heart Only
He took another drink of Cognac, his eyes primal.
“What about fast men, Miss Fletcher?”
“They don’t frighten me in the slightest.”
His grin was crooked. “Think you can keep up?”
“The question is canyoukeep up with me?”
He laughed and raised his flask in salute. “I’ll do my best.”
Skin pebbled her bottom. They were hurling at breakneck speed toward the inevitable. What began on their journey to Chelsea would conclude in a dimly lit room in a brothel—something ravenous and exquisite. Or had their journey started long before this morning? Watching Thomas sink into the couch beside her, a sense of the undeniable struck her. Today changed them. There was rampant anticipation, certainly. There was also a sharing of souls. She’d painted a clear picture of her life, her choices—enough to send brave men running.
Danger camped around her. In the haze of kisses and conversation, she hadn’t forgotten tonight’sothermeeting—Miss Mitchell at midnight. The evening would be a balancing act. Thomas West’s eyes sparkled as though he welcomed whatever Mary had to offer.
He offered his flask to her and she shook her head, another topic bubbling up.
“Why do you go to Maison Bedwell?”
Thomas was deliberate, corking his flask and returning it to his coat pocket. The corners of his mouth curled with amusement.
“I’ve wondered when you would ask.”
“Funny that. I’ve wondered when you would tell me.”
He touched the brim of his hat, a touché. Arms folded and eyes forward, Thomas settled back against the seat.
“My first visit was for a business arrangement with Ranleigh. For insurance. My usual insurer, Lloyds, sent a polite letter the first of September, informing me they could no longer insure a whaling concern.” He glanced sideways at her. “Parliament announced they will no longer underwrite English whalers.”
“I read about that in the papers.”
Thomas squinted at the tent flaps.
“At first, all went well. Ranleigh visited the shipyard. He combed through the account books with Mr. Anstruther. He seemed interested.”
“You, in turn, visited Maison Bedwell.”
“I did. As a gesture of goodwill. And the gambling was an amiable pastime. Most nights I left with a fat purse.” His mouth tugged at one corner. “Never discount the power of distracted men when gambling.”
“You mean the harlots.”
“Good brandy and bad women. An irresistible combination.”
“Because men don’t go to Bedwell’s looking for good women,” she said dryly.
The brazier’s amber light colored the rugged angles of his face and made the scar a stern line across his cheek.
“I didn’t sample Bedwell’s harlots, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said as dryly as she did. Her scarred pirate stroked strands of hair on her temple. “I didn’t know what I was looking for—until I saw you.”
Her eyes were bright moonstones. They belonged to a woman who was inordinately pleased with what he’d said. It was gratifying, saying something right. Miss Fletcher inched closer, and he breathed in her plain soap and clean starch scent. For the rest of his days he would remember this. Her lush curves bumping him and the auburn in her dark hair, glinting in the brazier’s light, each strand a super-fine thread. Brown seemed insignificant. Sable, or mahogany? Deep sienna, or a rich mink?
He was intent on a pretty curl when she asked, “Will Lord Ranleigh insure West and Sons Shipping?”
He let go of her hair, false assurances coming to mind. Men like him were defined by success or the lack of it. To say anything less would reveal a chink in his armor.
Miss Fletcher put a guarded inch between them and he instantly regretted his male pride.
“I apologize. That was forward of me,” she said.
