The Scot Who Loved Me

by Gina Conkle

  Will stiffened, bracing for a deserved blow. “I owe you a grave apology.”

  Neither man took a seat. Mr. West’s gaze landed on Anne’s and Mary Fletcher’s backs. The ladies were pointing in awe, discussing the orchestrated chaos below. The sheer number of tethered ships was dazzling.

  “Does your sudden disappearance have anything to do with your annual habit of donning your kilt?” West asked.

  “It does. The same as every nineteenth of August when I get drunk as David’s sow, alone in my lodgings.”

  “Except this year, apparently, you paraded about in your kilt. I was able to get that much from your landlord.” West’s mouth firmed. “Do you have a death wish? The rebellion is still fresh on the minds of those who lost husbands, sons, and brothers.”

  “The same is true for highlanders,” Will said tightly.

  West’s mouth pinched a fierce line. The Uprising of ’45 was their sore spot. The only place they couldn’t find common ground. Simply, there was none. West, a man of reason, pushed past this.

  “Am I to collect that your sudden reappearance has something to do with these ladies?”

  “It does.”

  West eyed his desktop. “And this favor of yours . . . it pertains to them as well?”

  “It does.”

  Will felt a smile grow. Their conversation was a hush over the desk. Across the office, Anne and her cousin’s voices rose and fell, a musical lilt. By their carefully offered backs, they understood the need for this exchange. A hopeful prelude. Will’s sudden return was troublesome enough, the risk of his request, greater.

  West crossed his arms, a sturdy gesture. He wasn’t entirely won over.

  “Our current game of questions and answers will not suffice. You want my help? Tell me the full story today. Privately.”

  “Consider me at your service.”

  West snorted but his mouth curved, close-lipped and congenial. Calculations ticked behind West’s blue-green eyes. Sounds of a thriving dockyard drifted through shut windows. Hammers and saws, men calling out to one another . . . a certain music. Mr. West kept the hum running smoothly. A blessed man, he walked to the windows, aware of his place in this world.

  Curiosity angled West’s head; confidence squared his shoulders. West was a hunter politely assessing his prey. What kind of women has Will MacDonald brought to my yard? had to be running through the man’s head. By manners and speech, Anne and her cousin were educated. By their gowns and unpinned hair, they were unusual. Intriguing yet accessible. A story was here, and Thomas West hungered to know it. He murmured the offer of a tour, and feminine faces lit brightly.

  “Indeed, Mr. West, we would enjoy that very much,” Anne said.

  “Especially your blacksmith’s forge,” her cousin chimed.

  To which Mr. West’s brows arched. He studied Miss Fletcher, storing her request and resetting his focus.

  “Your accent, Miss Fletcher . . . Do you hail from Edinburgh?”

  “I do, sir. My sister and I have called London our home for a few years now. I am the proprietor of Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays on White Cross Street.”

  Her Edinburgh accent was refined, a genteel back-of-the-mouth treatment of her words. When her passions rose, as evidenced in Anne’s salon today, Mary Fletcher trilled her Rs dramatically as if she could barely control the rush.

  “A woman of business,” West said. “Have you a trade card?”

  “I do.” Miss Fletcher’s mouth twitched. “However, you don’t appear to be a man in need of a corset—if you will allow my boldness.”

  West laughed, a pleasant sandy sound. “Very kind of you to say, Miss Fletcher. I am not asking for my sake, but for my sisters.”

  Her face shined approval. “Ah, I would be pleased to have their custom.” She fished inside her petticoat pocket and passed over her trade card. Mr. West read it, a glimmer softening his stoic eyes.

  “It says you are also a member of the Worshipful Company of Glovers.”

  “I am. I purchased my placement in the livery not long after setting up shop on White Cross Street.” She inhaled a morsel of air to impart reluctant news. “But we only make women’s gloves.”

  “How unfortunate for me.”

  He tucked the trade card in his pocket while keeping eye contact with Miss Fletcher. Sunlight shined on his waistcoat’s brass buttons, the only nod to his status. West’s chin dipped a split second. A moment passed, the hum of life outside, matching the honeyed hum of . . . flirting? Will had never seen hardworking Thomas West dally in conversation with a woman. Ever. But this appeared to be the age-old male/female sport of flirting.

  Cheeks blooming prettily, Miss Fletcher cocked her head. “Have I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, sir? Before today, I mean?”

  A boyish smile creased West’s features. Arms crossed, Will eased his stance. Five years knowing the man, and he had never seen the like. His former employer pushed open the window, which forced him a quarter step nearer Miss Fletcher.

  “I’ve not had the pleasure of formally making your acquaintance, but we have crossed paths.” He reached outside and rang a brass bell, its clatter loud. “Jemmy,” he bellowed to the yard, “when you’re done there, come quick.”

  Anne inched away, her shoes softly scraping her retreat. She set fingertips on the window facing downriver. Was Anne recalling a time when she’d flirted sweetly with him? Will wanted her to turn around and tell him I remember when we did this. It’d be new intimacy if she did. But Anne’s shoulders hunched, her only message, which could be any message. As for reading it, he wouldn’t try.

  He planted a hip on West’s desk, vaguely adrift. Emptiness was palpable in his chest.

  In the corner, Miss Fletcher studied Mr. West. “You know . . . it’s coming to me, sir, where I last saw you.”

  West abandoned the half-closed casement, keen on the conversational hook he’d baited.

  “It was last fall at Mr. Dorrien-Smith’s King Edward Street warehouse. I was purchasing last season’s bones and baleen.” Mary Fletcher smiled her satisfaction. “To make corsets and stays, of course.”

  “Of course,” he intoned.

  That was a jiggling fisherman’s hook, inviting her to fill a void. Would Miss Fletcher bite? West’s stance, confident yet affable, hugging both arms to his chest, told Will the man knew exactly when and where he’d seen Miss Fletcher—the first time and possibly others.

  Miss Fletcher looked outside, awareness a glow on her cheeks.

  “Did I . . . purchase some of your goods, Mr. West?”

  “Alas, you did not. My bones and baleen did not meet your exacting standards,” he said in the driest voice.

  “I see.” Miss Fletcher touched her lace-trimmed bodice.

  No, she stroked it.

  West’s gaze couldn’t help but collapse on bountiful curves pressed high, presented prettily sans the annoying neckerchief. A smart man, West built a quick ladder back to her face. Miss Fletcher granted him a smile for his effort.

  The art of flirting: notice, appreciate, but not too much.

  “Well, the new season is nearly upon us,” she said. “I have no doubt I shall be most enthusiastic . . . to peruse your goods, sir.”

  That sandy laugh again. “I am not sure how we can arrange that. Mr. Dorrien-Smith’s warehouse will in future be dedicated solely to lumber.”

  “Fine goods, but not as solid or long lasting.” Miss Fletcher’s smile was feline. “Bone is far more satisfactory. It is considerably harder.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. West grinned, his arms falling loose at his sides.

  “Have you found a suitable replacement?” Will asked.

  Mr. West eyed him, the flirtatious spell fading. Life was intervening.

  “Not yet.”

  “I have a warehouse, Mr. West. At Gun Wharf.” Anne was solemn, turning from the window. “You are welcome to it.” She looked at Will, an unspoken invitation for him to use her warehouse as a bargaining chip. “
Will can tell you all about it.”

  “Have you a trade card, Mrs. Neville?” West asked.

  “Unfortunately, not with me. You can find me at Neville Warehouse on Gun Wharf in Southwark most days, or seek my cousin.” She finished by linking arms with Mary Fletcher. “She can help you find it.”

  “Cousins, you say?”

  Footsteps thumped the stairs and the door flew open. “Mr. MacDonald! Welcome back, sir.”

  Jemmy Brown, the long-armed and knobby-kneed apprentice, launched himself at Will, his heels sliding to a stop just short of a hug. The lad whipped off his black wool Dutch cap and stretched out his arm, fingers splayed. Will clasped young Mr. Brown’s hand and pumped it in friendship. The lad had won the tenderest spot in his heart with his hard work and eager spirit. Nothing could sink the buoyant young man.

  Jemmy’s eyes shined. “Thank God you are alive, sir. We thought you dead.”

  Will tousled the boy’s wind-lashed hair. “I’m no’ in the ground yet, Mr. Brown.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Will and Mr. West stood side by side at the office window, following the trio’s progress. Jemmy burst with pride, pointing at the winch and pulley used to careen a ship. The cap he wore barely corralled straw-blond hair. Tar etched his fingernails and hands which splayed with excitement. The women were an astute audience, standing at the dry dock’s edge, looking up and down the Mathilde with timber angled into her sides. Mary Fletcher cast a careful eye at the blacksmith’s shop.

  Were they anxious? Or did Anne and Miss Fletcher want the yard cleared to have a go at the forge? They had to wait until the work was done. A woman in the forge would draw curious eyes. A woman smithing a silver key would draw curious questions.

  The office’s wall clock claimed the hour was well past three o’clock. More than an hour to go. West stared out the window, blissfully unaffected by time, whereas Will was a slave to it.

  Atonement was messy business, especially with an ardent woman constantly sacrificing on behalf of others. Anne, who had married into the clan, had done more for Clanranald MacDonald than most women born to it. Surely, she would see reason? See that she’d amply made up for losses from the rebellion.

  A life with him in the colonies would be a fresh start. No war, no loss . . . just them and a new path. And West was but one more step on this path.

  He cringed inside at his mercenary heart.

  “Do these women have anything to do with your drunken August ritual?” West asked.

  Will weighed his answer. He’d chewed on what to say and how to say it on the ride that went all too fast from Bermondsey Wall to Howland Great Wet Dock. He’d asked Mr. Baines to let him have a hand at the oars. Together, they rowed a blistering ride downstream. Will needed to put his back into something. Laboring with his hands freed him to think.

  “Out with it, man,” West coaxed. “But fair warning. If you tell me the intriguing Miss Fletcher has caught your eye, I shall drown you in the River Thames.”

  He chuckled. “She has not, but have a care. Miss Fletcher is a woman of sterling reputation.”

  West snorted. “No matchmaker said finer words.”

  They were quiet, drinking in rows of ships tamely moored. Mr. West was the canny sort who knew how to let silence breathe. West would give the necessary room for him to assemble his tale. His former employer understood the nineteenth of August was a difficult day. An IOU of the soul.

  One side of his debt was the Uprising, due each year.

  A green-eyed lass was on the other.

  He stood before the open window and gripped where wood and glass usually met. He wouldn’t tell another soul he loved Anne. Those hallowed words belonged to her and no one else. But his knuckles, white on the frame, might betray him. He wanted to tell her, to shout it from the window of West and Sons Shipping (as inglorious as that sounded).

  Words weren’t enough. There were things he needed to lay at her feet.

  The key. The gold. A new life.

  Would she want me? Her politely bolted bedchamber door was evidence that she did not. He was half-skilled in matters of men and women. Poorly prepared when it came to love. Other than protect and provide, he didn’t have a clue how to win Anne.

  One problem at a time. At present, he owed Mr. West an explanation. He stared at clouded blue skies and decided to be as forthright as a man about to commit a crime could be.

  “Mrs. Neville used considerable resources to set me free after the Night Watch hauled me off to Marshalsea.”

  “So that’s where you landed.”

  “It is.”

  “We didn’t think to search this side of the river for you,” West said, glossing over questions about Mrs. Neville’s resources and putting a neat ending on Will’s summary, until . . .

  “I’ve never known you to let your August ritual land you in prison.” There was the rub, and West was poking it.

  “Marshalsea was a respite,” he said in breezy tones. “Time to stretch my legs, rest my back.”

  “Like taking the waters in Bath.”

  “Exactly.” He grinned half-heartedly and turned the conversation. “What’s this interest of yours in Miss Fletcher?”

  West scratched his nape, affecting a casual demeanor. “I could do with a dalliance.”

  “Bored, are you?”

  “She’d be a diversion. I’m plagued these days by warehouse troubles and missing laborers,” West said with droll humor.

  His grip on the frame tightened. A splinter might’ve slipped under his skin. “Forgive me for no’ coming sooner. You’ve been good to me, hiring me, teaching me a new trade. I owe you.”

  West snorted. “That’s a load of shite and you know it. You’ve outworked every man here and then some. I should’ve doubled your wages long ago.” West slanted a look at him. “Nor have I forgotten that you saved my life. We both know I owe you the greatest of debts.”

  The past was in West’s ominous tone. Another debt . . .

  Seagulls screeched outside, landing on the Mathilde’s mizzen mast. A memory floated in their shrieking cries, the keening wind of a cold dark night his first winter working the docks.

  Iron tools had gone missing. Chisels, hammers, caulking irons one day. Boxes of nails and a gimlet the next. After a week of losses, Mr. West had decided to stay late, alone, since the men in his employ had already earned their wages and more. That’s what men did at West and Sons Shipping. They went above and beyond, but that particular day had been brutal. A chill camping in limbs, men with the ague, miserable but still working. Like the others, Will had been bone tired and hungry that night. No one had wanted to stay late.

  He had one foot in the wherry when air soughed through leafless trees rimming the Howland Great Wet Docks. The boat rocked men shivering under a primordial sky.

  “Mr. MacDonald. We don’t have all night,” a man in the boat said. “I’ve got a pretty whore off King Henry’s Yard waiting to see me.”

  “She’s waiting to see yer coin, ye fool,” was another’s answer.

  The men snickered, and a gust danced with whitecaps on the river. The day had been loathsome, but the night would be worse, hallowed and dark, and there was something about those trees . . .

  He stepped back onto the dock, his coat blowing sideways. “Go on without me.”

  Will walked to the blacksmith’s forge, following a clanking noise.

  He’d never forgotten that night.

  Three rufflers, big and nasty with stony fists and foul breath, had come off Rogue’s Lane at the back of the wet dock. They had the jump on Mr. West. One eye swollen, blood and spittle dripping from his mouth, West gave as good as he got. But against three men, one armed with an adze, the fight was getting ugly—until Will arrived.

  Bones had crunched. A tooth had gone flying. Blood had puddled the forge floor. The thieves fought like men who’d neither give nor ask for quarter. A knife-sharp glance from Mr. West’s good eye was a fast conversation. They were in it to the death
.

  Later when skies were pitch black, Mr. West and Will weighted three dead men with rocks, rowed them out far past the King’s Yard, and dumped them in the river near the Isle of Dogs. They rowed the choppy river back to West and Sons Shipping. Utterly spent, they sank to the floor of West’s office. Whisky was shared and a friendship born.

  Down below in that same yard, Jemmy Brown introduced the ladies to everyone. Men balancing lumber on their shoulders stopped and touched forelocks. Friendly conversations rose, twined with the ping of a blacksmith’s hammer. Mr. West’s skirted guests were a pleasant distraction, twin confections.

  The cheerful trio ambled near the smithy’s forge, the afternoon sun showing a charred triangle of missing cloth on Miss Fletcher’s back hem. Mr. West’s neck craned for a better view.

  “Is Miss Fletcher’s skirt burnt?”

  “It is. You could say that’s why we’re here.” He faced his former employer, deciding bluntness was best. “She needs to forge a key.”

  “All this secretiveness over a key?”

  He hesitated. “It’s no’ just any key. It’s a Wilkes Lock key.”

  “I see.” West watched Jemmy and the ladies disappear into the forge. “You won’t need iron then.”

  “Miss Fletcher has an ingot of silver in her pocket.”

  “Of course, she does. Doesn’t every woman?”

  Will stood taller, the incredible need to defend Miss Fletcher jabbing him.

  “Her father is a silversmith in Edinburgh. A well-established mon, I collect. She learned her smithing skills from him. She’s quite talented.”

  He shut his mouth when tempted to share how talented.

  Mr. West frowned his disapproval. “He would undoubtedly be displeased to discover his daughter is replicating a Wilkes Lock key.”

  A father figure to his sisters, West would say that. Learning about her role with the key might have tarnished Miss Fletcher’s shine. Will could’ve told West these women weren’t like his sisters. Anne didn’t want to be ensconced in a pretty house like a doll on a shelf. She craved open land. She’d never tolerate a loss of freedom. Miss Fletcher had to be struck from the same mold.