Fisher by L.L. Muir

Author:L.L. Muir [Muir, L.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Green Toed Fairy
Published: 2019-08-12T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Despite his earlier agreement that she would pay the check, she thought Fisher might literally die of embarrassment when she actually did it. He blushed and mumbled to the ceiling when the waiter accepted her credit card and when he brought it back again. She couldn’t tell if he was praying or cursing, but once they were outside, he was over it. At least he stopped mumbling.

“I shall walk ye to yer boarding house, aye?”

“You mean my hotel?”

“Aye. Yer hotel.”

They headed back the way they’d come, and he moved to the outside, placing himself between her and the traffic, as if it was something a gentleman would do. There wasn’t any way he could know the significance it had for her.

“And so. Tomorrow...”

“Tomorrow?” Her heartbeat kicked up a notch, wondering if he were going to ask to see her again.

“Um... Er... That duty ye’ve yet to perform. The one I interrupted today...”

“Oh. Yeah.” She tried not to sound too disappointed. “I’ll go up there in the morning, I think, before people start sitting on the steps to eat their lunch. Apparently, the weather doesn’t bother them.”

“S’il vous plait—that is, if it pleases ye, I’d like to come along.”

“Back to Sacré-Cœur? You won’t try to stop me again?”

“I’ll not try to stop ye. Besides, as ye’ve already learned, Paris is not the sort of place a comely lass should be wandering alone.”

She stopped and stared at him while she tried to remember the order of the unlucky events of the day. The metro. The Frenchman. The clothing shop, then the Frenchman again. She’d seen the Scot at the corner, before turning up the street toward the cathedral. Then again at the top, when he’d shouted at her. The Frenchman, who had absolutely taught her it was dangerous to be alone in Paris, had come along before she ever saw Fisher the first time. And she’d outrun the creepy man long before she’d run into the Scot the second time.

It all overlapped.

She put her hands on her hips. “I think you’d better explain what you’re talking about.”

Fisher bit his lip again, glanced to the side, then stomped his feet on the damp sidewalk. It was something a kid might do while they tried to figure out some lie to get themselves out of trouble.

“I believe ye ken what I am referring to, Martine. That Frenchman who dared put his hands on ye earlier this day.”

“You saw him?”

“I did.”

“You saw him chasing me?”

“I did, that.”

“And you didn’t do anything to help me?”

The Scot gasped and let his jaw hang open. “Ye got away, did ye not?”

“I was terrified,” she whispered, then took a few steps back, wondering if she might have been slow on the uptake yet again. Maybe, being alone with a strange, mumbling Scotsman was just as foolish as moving through Paris alone.

She was such an idiot.

Fisher raised his hands like he was surrendering. “Ye misunderstand. I meant to say that ye got away because I intervened. I was there, behind ye both as ye flew up those steps.

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