The English Lily (Tales of the Scrimshaw Doll) by Kae Elle Wheeler

looking like pictures? Signs labeled the different shops. The baker’s shop, the general store, the blacksmith’s, even a cart with flowers on the corner hosted a sign. She stopped and considered the roughly sketched letters. Two groups, divided by a space, obviously, marking separate words in a roughly hand written scrawl. Both words began with an “f”.
    That was encouraging, she decided. It took a moment, but it dawned on her the second word had to be “flowers.” The first word was a little more challenging. She meandered closer to an elderly woman sitting behind the cart. Scraggily clad, she flashed a toothless grin. “Would you be awantin’ some fresh flowers, deary?”
    “Fresh! Of course,” she said softly. “Yes. Yes, please. A shilling, my lord. Give her a shilling.”
    After the wedding and their brief excursion through the town, Kendra strolled into the small room Joseph had let. Hand on her new hat, she pulled up abruptly at the sight of the sparse yet intimidating furnishings. A small table with two wooden chairs—and one bed, hardly larger than the berth aboard ship. She laid her fingers across her lips, still feeling Joseph’s feathered kiss when the blacksmith announced them man and wife. A warm sensation stole through her body.
    She glanced about for the doll, relieved to see her comfortably ensconced in a chair next to the window, as if holding court. Her brightly colored skirt clashed terribly with the faded red fabric surrounding her.
    “What is it?” Joseph asked. He stepped around Kendra and dropped their packages on the bed, seemingly not at all bothered.
    She walked to the window and looked out over the street below and grinned, picturing the crudely sketched words. A sense of hope filled her. It wouldn’t be easy, but Mr. Thomas had been onto something in telling her to see whole words as pictures.
    Gretna Green was a busy place. As a town on the main travel route between Edinburgh and Glasgow, it would be. She wondered how many English were wandering the small town. She’d never anticipated marrying in Gretna. That was for runaway lovers and kidnapped heiresses—
    Joseph came up behind her, planted strong hands on her upper arms, and brushed his lips against her neck. Such compelling lips he had. “What has you smiling so?”
    She leaned her head to one side and let him have his way. It was nothing short of exquisite. “How were you acquainted with that young couple who served as our witnesses?”
    “I met them going into the blacksmith’s just before I came for you. You taste delicious,” he said. His voice dropped to a husky resonance that set her nerve endings afire.
    “How do you suppose we got here?”
    “I think it has to do with your doll.” His lips moved up the column of her neck to nibble the lobe of her ear.
    She shivered. “That’s impossible.”
    He turned her in his arms, trailed his lips along her jawline. He raised his head and speculated on the doll. “Is it?”
    Laughter bubbled through her. “Surely, you do not believe in…in the dark arts.”
    “I’m a magician. I believe in magic.” He sounded offended, which served to endear him to her more.
    “Those are tricks,” she told him.
    Grinning, his hands fell to his side. “What did you speak to the innkeeper regarding?”
    She faced out the window again, but the view she saw was not couples drifting about hand-in-hand. Mr. Thomas’s blank eyes filled her thoughts. “I wanted to know how far Sunderland was from here. He said it’s less than a day’s journey.”
    “What’s in Sunderland?” His footsteps echoed on bare wood as he crossed the room.
    “Charles Thomas’s mum.”
    ****
    Joseph Pinetti Gray did not feel like a married man should feel. In point of fact, he did not feel married at all. His adorable, enticing little wife remained a wife in name only—but not for long, he vowed.
    He’d gone downstairs to procure dinner. By the time he returned, she was sleeping soundly, the doll