Page 6 of Taming the Scot
“Done.” He nodded and bit into the bread.
Bronwen peered both ways out of the alley, studying the faces in the crowd. She’d been hiding long enough that she didn’t think the men would still be in the area, but still, it didn’t hurt to be cautious. The way seemed clear, so she ambled down the road, keeping her head down in case the arseholes spotted her.
It took her nearly the whole day to reach the Leith docks, as she had to double back a few times and hide out in several different alleyways and taverns. Eventually, the sign for Andrewson Shipping hanging outside the office was large and shiny, as if it had been washed that morning.
Bronwen tossed the core of her apple to a small seagull, who’d been standing on the outside of a circle of other larger birds refusing to share, and marched up to the door. She lifted her hand to knock but hesitated, staring down at her filthy clothes and the tip of her boot, which was starting to wear so thin her toe would be poking out soon. What was she thinking, coming here? Bronwen lowered her hand. Before she could walk away, the door swung wide open.
“I saw ye coming through the window,” a woman with hair the color of straw said as she pushed her spectacles up her nose. “We’ve go’ no work today, but I think tomorrow we’ll need extra hands.”
There’d been no judgment in her words or her gaze. Only a willingness to offer employment.
Bronwen forced herself to speak around her thick tongue. “But—”
“Do no’ worry on account of your sex. We always work with women here.”
“I was no’…” Bronwen swallowed. “Emilia?” she took a wild stab.
“Aye…have we met?” Emilia narrowed her eyes, looking Bronwen up and down, but there was no recognition in her gaze.
Bronwen had no idea what she looked like, but she guessed it wasn’t anything good. It’d been ages since she’d had water to wash in her little flat, and whatever water she did have, she used to make thin soup or tea to keep herself from starving to death.
“It’s Bronwen.” The words felt numb falling off her tongue.
Emilia paled, her mouth forming a little O. “Cousin Bronwen?”
Bronwen couldn’t help it. She burst into tears.
“Oh, no, my poor dear.” Emilia reached for her, tugging her into the office and closing the door. “Ye look as if ye’ve been through a time of it.”
Bronwen swiped away her tears with the sleeve of her frock. The office was cozy and neat and smelled of flowers and freshly baked scones. They were alone, thank goodness. She didn’t need anyone else to witness her momentary breakdown. Bronwen sighed in relief despite her ridiculous waterworks. By now, she really ought to be better at hiding her feelings. She’d been doing so for as long as she could remember. Why the sudden loss of control?
“I’m sorry for the tears,” she said, her voice cracking as she valiantly put a lid on her emotions.
“Come, I’ll pour ye some tea and ye can tell me what’s happened.” Emilia beckoned for her to have a seat on what looked like the most comfortable leather chair Bronwen had ever seen.
If she sprawled on it the way she wanted to, she’d cover it in her filth. So, instead, Bronwen made sure she sat on the very edge, praying what little bit she did sit on, she didn’t get dirty.
Emilia returned and settled on a chair opposite her, crossing her legs, clad in trousers, and folding her hands onto her knee. A woman in trousers wasn’t something Bronwen saw very often, if ever. How interesting.
Emilia looked across at Bronwen, concern knitting her brows. “While the water boils, why do ye no’ tell me what’s happened? Where are your mama and da?”
Bronwen stared at her cousin in open shock. “They are dead. Ye did no’ know?”
The first thing Bronwen had done when her parents were killed was write to her aunt of their sudden passing. She’d tried visiting the house but had been turned away by a servant. It was one of the reasons she’d come to the dock instead of trying their flat in Lady Stair’s Close.
“Did it just happen?” Emilia shook her head, pursing her lips. She reached forward and squeezed Bronwen’s hand. “I’m so sorry. Ye must have had quite a shock.”
Bronwen shook her head. “It’s been a year.” A long, wearisome, terrifying year.
“A year?” Emilia jerked back in her chair, and shook her head. “I’ll be right back.”
Her cousin bolted from her spot to a room in the back of the office, which must have been a kitchen where the kettle boiled, and Bronwen had to settle herself down to keep from leaping up and hiding. She was safe here. The ruffians hadn’t followed her—she’d made certain of that.
When Emilia returned, it was with a tray that held a teapot, two cups and saucers, milk and sugar, and a plate of biscuits that had Bronwen’s mouthwatering.
“Ye looked hungry,” Emilia said as she set out the tea service.
Bronwen wasn’t hungry; she was starving. The half-rotted apple was the first thing she’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours, and she’d been looking forward to the stale bread she was going to eat this morning but figured the homeless man could use it more—his silence was worth the price.
