She didn’t have time to explain how she became a jeweler, what her first piece was, why a bejeweled vinaigrette bottle had been the first item she’d sold. Much less give the hours-long—months-long?—explanation of which materials she preferred for which purposes and why, and the mechanics behind each design. He would have to apprentice her for a year.
“Och aye, I like this one,” he breathed, seemingly unperturbed by her lack of answers. “May I touch?”
She nodded jerkily. The piece was a deceptively simple pendant; an orb within an orb, the interior world turning independently of the delicate golden cage that bound it.
Even though Mr. MacLean had asked permission to touch, received permission, wanted to touch, he brought his knuckle ever so close to the side of the tiny globe-within-a-globe and did not make contact.
Angelica was two yards away and could feel that light presence as though his knuckle was not next to her gold pendant, but rather beside her cheek. Close enough to feel his warmth, yet not quite touching. Close enough to lean into, were she to dip her head. Close enough to smell, to taste.
But it was not her he was looking at with such fascination. It was not even the gold pendant. Already he had moved to the next sparkling object, and the next, and the next. At this rate, he would lay eyes on every piece faster than she would have been able to rattle off their names.
When he reached the final piece, he stood just across the counter from Angelica. He could reach out and not-quite-touch her the way he’d not-quite-touched her gold pendant.
The thought made her want to wrench open the wooden door behind her, fling herself into her private adjoining cottage, and shut the door tight behind her.
She wouldn’t, of course. She couldn’t. Her shop didn’t close for hours, and she needed every scrap of success she could find.
“I’ll take them,” the Scot announced.
She blinked at him. “Take what?”
“Whichever ones you want to sell me,” he replied, as though it was obvious. As though people wandered in off the street every day willing to pay exorbitant prices for expensive jewelry they didn’t bother to pick out for themselves.
He hadn’t even asked about cost.
“What would you do with fifteen hair combs?” she managed.
“Is that what you’d sell me?” He appeared delighted by this absurdity. “I’d wear them, all at once, just to say that I did, and then I’d give them away to fifteen ladies who could better appreciate their value.”
She stared at his neatly trimmed golden brown hair, the color of well-polished amber. It didn’t even graze his ears. “You couldn’t fit fifteen clips in your hair.”
He grinned at her. “But I would try, which is what would make it such a comical tale. Shall I purchase them, then? You can be my witness. I’ll tell everyone I meet, ‘If you don’t believe me, there’s a lovely jeweler up in Cressmouth who saw the whole thing. Her name is...’” He leaned forward expectantly.
Now he was definitely close enough to touch. If she lifted herself on her toes, she could brush noses with him. Their proximity was appallingly improper.
Yet she didn’t pull away.
“Miss Parker,” she said instead.
She could have said “Miss Angelica Parker.” Her Christian name was no secret. Despite living in the shadow of a castle, the village of Cressmouth didn’t stand much on pomp and propriety. Many of those who lived here year-round first-named each other as though they were cousins who had grown up together since birth.
It felt like that sometimes. At once cloying and protective. An entire village of big brothers and big sisters, full of unsolicited opinions and unconditional love. Their livelihoods might depend on tourists, but their loyalties were to one another.
Mr. MacLean was an outsider.
He would leave just as suddenly—and likely as dramatically—as he’d arrived. He did not need to know her given name.
“Miss Parker,” he said, as though tasting the syllables and finding them unexpectedly delicious. “It suits you.”
It did? What was that supposed to mean? That she looked like a Miss rather than a Mrs., or that she seemed like a Parker, whatever that was?
“‘MacLean’ suits you,” she shot back.
His sapphire eyes widened. “Does it? What does that mean?”
She swallowed. This was why she didn’t like to talk to people she didn’t know or speak on subjects she didn’t command. She was bound to say the wrong thing.
“Your burr,” she mumbled, waving a hand without meeting his eyes. “You sound Scottish.”
“I am Scottish,” he agreed. “For better or for worse. Your accent, on the other hand, is poor indeed. You sound...”
She tensed.
“...English,” he whispered, and gave an exaggerated shudder.
“I am English,” she managed.
“Pity,” he sighed. “All jewels have their flaws, don’t they? That is, not yours, obviously; your pieces are exquisite, even the hair combs. I would not be at all ashamed to wear them, all at once or otherwise. But English, now, there’s a challenge. A man must set limits. Although I admit I find you a delight.”
He did?
Strangers tended to find Angelica prickly and taciturn, not a delight. Even not-so-strangers. Two aunts and a distant cousin had independently informed Angelica she’d be married by now if she hadn’t the general demeanor of a startled hedgehog. Adorable, but untouchable.
Armor was smart. Armor kept her protected. Armor let her do her job... which had been woefully neglected ever since Lord Rakish McChatterbox swept into her shop like a knight prancing before his maiden.
She had no time for men or idle chatter. Even if his nonsense had managed to settle her nerves in much the same way the noise of her family reunions did. If she didn’t have a rule of not working in front of a client, she rather suspected she’d finish the Cruz necklaces faster with Mr. MacLean prattling in the background than she would left alone to her own thoughts.
Nonetheless, there was no room in her life for anything but work until she’d reached her goals. No exceptions, not even for handsome Scots.
“No offense meant,” she began, then cleared her throat and started anew.
He was less than an arm’s width from her, which should make it easy to be heard, yet her words had been little more than a squeak.
“No offense meant, sir, but if you aren’t going to make a purchase, I must get back to work.” Was that offensive? It was probably offensive. He looked baffled. “It’s not you,” she added quickly, although it was definitely him. “It’s that I’m untenably busy. My relatives are here, and I can’t see them until I’ve finished these pieces, which at this rate—”
What was wrong with her? Now she was babbling just like Mr. MacLean.
“Who said I wasn’t going to buy the hair combs?” he asked. “I’ll take the bracelets as well, if that helps. And the earrings. You can charge me double for taking so much of your time. I only meant to—”
The door tinkled open and Noelle Ward, Duchess of Silkridge, dashed inside.
“Angelica! There you are.”
“Where else would I be?” Angelica muttered, acutely conscious that Mr. MacLean now knew her Christian name. “I’m always here.”