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“That’s ridiculous,” he said.

“And yet I was right, wasn’t I?” she asked.

He huffed and went back to pacing.

“They say it takes rivers thousands of years to carve their way through rock, but you’ve walked over that spot on the floor so many times you might wear a hole in it by the end of the evening,” said Gillie, eyes still closed.

“Lavinia should be back by now.” He’d stopped trying to pretend he wasn’t worried hours ago. Hell, he’d been worried since the moment she had told him her plan to attend a dinner at Wark’s house. It was dangerous and—he could admit now—the best bet they had to find out information about Wark’s associates.

But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“She’ll be fine,” said Gillie with a yawn. “She’s an intelligent lady.”

Lavinia’s intelligence had never been in question. It was her safety he was worried about.

“What are you doing while we wait?” he asked.

Gillie sighed, opened her eyes, and pointed to a stack of papers she’d set aside ten minutes before. “I asked several of my contacts for more information about this Mr. Douglas, who’s been spending time around Wark’s mother.”

“Anything?”

“Not the sort of thing we’re looking for. Even Mrs. Sullivan doesn’t know a great deal about him except that he was widowed about five years ago, and he seems to have gone on a spree snatching up metalworks factories in the last two years. Most of his businesses are in Glasgow. He’s also a crack shot with grouse and can drive four-in-hand.”

“While fascinating, I’m not sure that’s helpful,” he said.

“I’m simply being thorough.” Gillie shifted in her chair to find a more comfortable position and closed her eyes again. “Now, why don’t you make us a cup?”

He grunted. Tea was a good idea. It gave him something to do with his hands. He pulled the heavy cast-iron kettle off its shelf and poured water from a jug into it before lugging it to the iron hook that was mounted above the wood fire. He’d been happy to see that in his office rather than a coal burner. The scent of a proper wood fire was one of the things he’d missed while he was at sea.

After stoking the embers and adding a log, he sat back on his heels, watching the fire glow back to life. When he’d let himself think about his retirement, his image of his days had varied, but the nights were always the same. A comfortable room with well-worn chairs set in front of a fire, a stack of books at his hand. Never again would he feel the interminable, bone-chilling wetness that came from frigid voyages crossing to Newfoundland, and neither would he stew in his own sweat the way he had sailing in the Indian Ocean. He’d have a nice, normal life, spent exactly how he wanted it.

As he stared into the fire, however, he grew increasingly aware that during all of the years he’d fantasized about his retirement, there was one glaring gap. There might be two armchairs in his ideal room, but the other chair was always empty. He’d told himself that it was because, after years spent on ships full of men with little privacy, he wanted to finally be able to move about without being watched, but it was more than that. He’d long ago found the woman he wanted to fill that other chair, but he’d lost her, and in all the years after, he’d never found anyone to take her place. Now she was back, crashing through his life, and he couldn’t get enough.

He scrubbed his hands over his weary eyes and grabbed the steaming teakettle to pour water over the leaves in the chipped but serviceable stoneware pot he’d prepped earlier that evening. He must be mad to want Lavinia again, but he did. It was as though holding on to the idea of his anger for so long had somehow diminished it when he was least looking. It had flared up again when Home sent him on this mission and when he’d laid eyes on her for the first time in more than a decade, but it had never burned as bright as in those first months after his doomed homecoming to Eyemouth.

He wanted her. That was the problem. He wanted her and she’d come to him willingly. If she’d said no, it might’ve been possible to untangle her from the threads of his thoughts, but knowing that they shared this attraction made it impossible. In a few short days, she’d wrapped him around her little finger just as she had when they’d first met as children, far too young to understand what love was.

It would never be the same. He didn’t want it to be the same. But he knew that no matter how hard he tried, if she showed up that evening and told him to strip, he’d bare more than just his body to her. She rendered him vulnerable no matter how he armored himself, and he could feel himself almost on the brink of giving up on trying to fight her.

The doorbell jangled through the office, shattering his nerves. He shot up and nearly growled when Gillie began to stir. “I’ll go.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, he bolted to the back door, ripping it open. There, in a cloak with its hood up, was Lavinia.

“Where have you been?” he bit out, not caring that he sounded like a snippy chaperone.

“The evening was considerably longer than I expected,” she said, her breath clouding in the cold night air. “Before you interrogate me, may I come in please? The wind is bitter.”

He stepped back and she walked under the bridge of his arm. He shut the door quickly and drew the curtain over the window set into it. He was about to rip into her when she pushed her hood back and he saw a bruise blooming over her forehead, topped with an angry red cut.

“What happened?” he demanded, his fingers framing the bruise before he could think whether that was wise. All he knew was that he was going to tear Wark to pieces for touching her.

“I fell.”

“You fell?”

“Intentionally.”

A sweet relief pumped through his veins. “Then Wark didn’t hurt you?”