“MacBride’s Shipping,” Broc read the sign on the warehouse swinging in the gentle breeze coming up from the Firth of Forth.

Above the name was a carved wooden ship, to alert those without the ability to read of the business transacted inside.

“If he’s the sort of man we’ve heard he is, it’ll be best to take our time with him,” Derek muttered, turning his face away from the warehouse as he spoke.

It wouldn’t do for someone inside to know of his intentions before he stepped foot inside.

“Aye,” Broc agreed, looking at his feet as he spoke. “A hard-bitten man.”

“A shrewd businessman,” Derek replied, remembering the stories he’d heard over the morning meal of hard bread, thin soup, and ale.

A strange way to break the fast, but welcome nonetheless. The soup, thin as it was, had warmed his blood nearly as well as the ale had. Good thing, because the morning was far more chill than any since they’d left the manor house.

He wasn’t certain of what he foresaw for the purpose of this meeting. He’d originally considered meeting the owner of the business, explaining his difficulties and finding out if there was business enough for the two of them in Kirkcaldy. It seemed to be a thriving harbor, with three new docks in the process of being built to accommodate growing demand.

On reflection, however, he began to wonder if he wanted to start over at all.

“You would consider selling the ships to this man?” Broc asked, likely for the tenth time since Derek had broached the idea over breakfast.

“I wouldn’t do anything without getting a strong feel for the man’s character,” Derek assured him again, almost trying to soothe his friend.

He understood the severity of the situation from Broc’s point of view: his livelihood depended upon Derek’s decision. But he would never sell the ships to this MacBride without a firm promise that Broc would be in charge of the ships upon their sale. It was only fair.

“You never mentioned this before,” Broc argued, crossing his arms over his formidable chest. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this idea?”

“Because, in all honesty, I hadn’t considered it before.”

“What’s changed?” he challenged, eyes narrowing.

Derek couldn’t say. Something had changed, something in his heart, over the course of the winter spent with the Duncans. He’d forgotten what it was like to have a home, a real home, and a family. He’d never had either of those things as a man—first the army, then his shipping concerns. That was all for him. And it had been enough before the winter had come so early and so severely, crippling travel and forcing all of them to spend months in each other’s company.

While it had driven him to distraction at first, the inability to come and go as he’d become accustomed to doing, he’d warmed to the idea in nearly no time at all. After a while, it had become a comfort he’d realized was sorely missing from his life. The comfort of a home and a hearth.

And a wife.

None of which he could enjoy in his old profession.

Until their arrival in Kirkcaldy, the notion of selling the ships and making a new life with use of the profits hadn’t been more than the wisp of an idea in the back of his mind. At some point in the last day, that idea had solidified until it looked more attractive with each passing hour. Almost intoxicating.

Walking through the door at the end of a long day, greeted by the welcome sight of a lovely smile. A plump, attractive rear to admire as his wife bent over the fire to stir the stew she’d put on for the evening meal, the fire making her golden hair gleam…

He shook himself, clearing his throat, realizing too late exactly what had changed. What had made the notion of settling down crystalize in his mind?

Damn her, the wicked temptress, changing his heart the way she already had.

He couldn’t tell Broc about this, knowing what his friend would think.

He wasn’t certain he had to, at any rate. The look on the man’s face told him everything there was to know. He knew Margery had something to do with Derek’s change of heart but was merely biding his time before speaking of it.

The docks were hardly the place for such conversation, at any rate, bustling with activity as they were. There was no hope of standing still, the need to step out of the way as men carried crates and casks from a ship which had just docked that morning making the two of them hop from side to side as though they were dancing.

He did love it so, that rush of activity. It made his blood course a little faster, a little hotter than before. It made his brain fairly buzz. The excitement of a new arrival, the business of taking stock of the shipment to be certain everything promised had come in. The sense of pride and accomplishment, the swelling of his chest when one of his beautiful ships made it back in one piece.

Hell, the last time he’d felt anything akin to excitement was when they’d outrun Dalla’s uncle, when he’d been forced to dive into the sea to rescue her from drowning. That was the last time he’d felt truly vital and alive, at one with the forces of nature—forces which he’d been able to bend to his will, laughing at the storm and the churning sea.

He did miss it so.

Uncertainty made him nearly ill.

“Perhaps this isn’t the best time,” he reasoned, taking into account the ship’s arrival.

“It can’t hurt to introduce yourself,” Broc reminded him.

“True.”

There was little other choice. They were wasting time, time which could be better spent in other pursuits.

He lifted his chin in resolute determination as they approached the door to the warehouse. He had something very valuable—just how valuable to MacBride, they would soon find out.