LITMIR.BIZ

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between her feet.

      Years of battle at sea had conditioned Ben Muir to react. Without giving the matter a thought, he crossed the room fast and lifted the tray from her just before the cat succeeded in tripping her. Two bowls shivered, but nothing spilled.

      ‘Gracious me, that was a close call,’ the woman said as she picked up the cat, tucked it under her arm and returned it to the kitchen, while he stood there looking at her, wondering if this was Mandy’s rose.

      She was back in a moment, her colour heightened, a shy look on her face as she tried to take the tray from him. He resisted.

      ‘Nay, lass, it’s too heavy,’ he said, which earned him a smile. Thank the Lord she wasn’t angry at him for disrupting what was obviously a genteel dining room by standing his ground with the tray.

      ‘I do tend to pile on the food,’ she said. Her accent was the lovely burr of Devon. He could have held the tray for hours, just to listen to her. ‘Stand here, then, sir, and I’ll lighten the load.’

      He did as she said, content to watch her move so gracefully from table to table, dispensing what was starting to make his mouth water. A touch of a shoulder here, a little laugh there, and he knew she was well acquainted with the diners she served. Small villages were like that. He remembered his own in Scotland and felt the sudden pang of a man too long away.

      And all this because he was holding a tray getting lighter with every stop at another table. In a moment there would be nothing for him to do, but he didn’t want to leave.

      ‘There now.’ She took the tray from him. ‘Thank you.’

      He nodded to her and started for the door. He didn’t belong there.

      She never lost her dignity, but she beat him to the door and put her hand in the knob. ‘It’s your turn now, sir. What would you like?’

      ‘I don’t belong here,’ he whispered.

      ‘Are you hungry?’

      ‘Aye. Who wouldn’t be after breathing the fragrance in here?’

      ‘Then you belong here.’

      It was more than the words. Her eyes were so frank and kind. He felt the tension leave his shoulders. The little miss wanted him to sit down in a café that far outranked the usual grub houses and dockside pubs where he could be sure of hot food served quickly and nothing more. Mandy’s Rose was worlds away from his usual haunts, but he had no desire to leave.

      She escorted him to a table by the window. The wind was blowing billy-be-damned outside. He thought a window view might be cold, but he could see it was well caulked. No one seemed to have cut a single corner at Mandy’s Rose.

      ‘Would you like to see the bill of fare?’ she asked.

      ‘No need. Just bring me whatever you have a lot of,’ he told her.

      He blushed like a maiden when she frowned and leaned closer, watching his lips. ‘I’m not certain I understood you, sir,’ she said, equally red-faced.

      He repeated himself, irritated that even after years away from old Galloway, his accent could be impenetrable. He gave her a hopeful look, ready to bolt if she still couldn’t understand him. A man had his pride, after all.

      ‘We have a majestic beef roast and gravy and mounds of dripping pudding, and that’s only the beginning.’

      Damn his eyes if he didn’t have to wipe his mouth. Gravy. He thought about asking her to bring a bowlful and a spoon, but refrained.

      ‘And to drink?’

      ‘Water and lots of it. We’ve been a long time on blockade.’

      She nodded and went to the kitchen, pausing for another shoulder pat and a laugh with a diner. He watched her, captivated, because when she laughed, her eyes shrank into little blue chips. The effect was so cheerful he couldn’t help but smile.

      She paused at the door and looked back at him. Her hair was smooth, dark and drawn back in a ribbon, much as his was. He had stood close enough to her to know that she had freckles on her nose. That she had looked back touched him, making him wonder if there was something she saw that she liked. He knew that couldn’t be the case. He was worn out and shabby and ready to leave the blockade behind, if only for a few weeks. The ship would be in dry dock for at least six weeks, but he was the sailing master and every inch of rope, rigging, ballast and cargo was his responsibility.

      He had agreed—what was he thinking?—to devote three weeks to cram enough navigational education into Thomas Walthan’s empty head for him to pass his lieutenancy exams. Whether or not he succeeded, Ben had to report to Plymouth’s docks in three weeks, because duty called. He glanced out the window, where sleet scoured the cobblestones now. At least he would go back well fed and with the lingering memory of a kitchen girl who looked back at him. That was about all a man could ask for in perilous times.

      ‘Auntie, we have the most amazing man seated by the window,’ Mandy said. ‘He’s in a uniform, but I don’t know what kind. He’s not a common seaman. He’s from Scotland. He wants whatever we have the most of and lots of water. And, Auntie, he has the most amazing tattoo on his neck. It looks like little dots.’

      ‘Mandy’s Rose doesn’t see too many tattoos,’ Aunt Sal said. ‘Earrings?’

      ‘Heavens, no!’

      Aunt Sal smiled over the gravy she stirred, then set it on a trivet. She turned to carve the beef roast, poising her knife over the roast. ‘Here?’

      ‘Another inch or two. There. And lots of gravy. You should have seen his eyes follow the gravy I served Vicar Winslow. And your largest dripping pudding. That one. We have some carrots left, don’t we?’

      ‘Slow down, child!’ Sal admonished as she sliced a generous hunk of beef and slathered gravy on it. She poured more gravy in a small bowl while Mandy selected the biggest dripping pudding and set it on a plate all its own. She slid the bowl on, too, added cutlery and took it into the dining room.

      She stopped a moment, just to look at the Navy man. Palm on chin, he was looking out the window at the driving sleet. He had taken off his bicorn hat and his hair was a handsome dark red, further staking his claim as a son of Scotland. He looked capable in every way, but he also looked tired. The blockade must be a terrible place, she thought, as she moved forward.

      ‘Dripping pudding first and lots of gravy,’ she said to get his attention. ‘I’ll bring some water and then there will be beef roast with carrots. Will that do?’

      ‘You can’t imagine,’ he said, tucking his napkin into the neck of his uniform.

      She set down the plate and smiled as he poured a flood of gravy over the pudding. A cut and a bite was followed by a beatific expression. Nothing made Mandy happier than to see pleasure writ so large on a diner’s face. She wanted to sit down and ask him some questions, but Aunt Sal had raised her better.

      Or had she? Before she realised what had happened, she was sitting across from him at the small table. She made to rise, astounded at her brazen impulse, but he waved her back down with his knife and gave her an enquiring look.

      ‘Where are my manners, you are likely wondering?’ she said.

      ‘I could see a question in your eyes,’ he said. ‘Ask away, as long as you don’t mind if I keep eating. I’m used to questions at sea.’

      He had a lovely accent, Mandy decided, and she could understand him now. How that had happened in ten minutes, she didn’t know. ‘It’s this, sir—I was wondering about your uniform. I know you’re not a common seaman, but I don’t see an overabundance of gold and folderol on your blue coat.’ She smiled, which for some reason made him smile. ‘Are you a Quaker officer of some sort and must be plain?’

      He set down his knife and fork, threw back his head and laughed. Mandy put her hands to her mouth and laughed along with him, because it was contagious.

      ‘Oh,

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