Loving Sarah (42 page)

“What book was that?”

“The one with all those erotic color plates and explanations and drawings of various positions?”

Ian scratched his head and thought a moment. “Surely I wouldn’t have given
that
book to a lending library. It had an inscription inside where you’d written my name.” He pushed aside title after title and didn’t find anything that looked the least familiar. “I thought I kept it.” He looked in the other drawers under the bed and found nothing. “Of all the embarrassing things to put into circulation….”

All of a sudden, he felt as though a lead anvil crashed into his gut when, coincidentally, raucous laughter welled up in his friend. And Ian knew then, that he and Lucky had arrived at the same conclusion. “She didn’t,” he said more to himself than Lucky. “She wouldn’t….”

“Oh, I’ll just bet she did.” Lucky’s laughter grew louder as he said, “In fact, I’m willing to put money on it my friend.”

After lifting the lids to the bench seats along the bulkhead and coming up, empty-handed, he stared at Lucky and burst out laughing himself. When they’d settled down and caught their breaths, Ian said, “It would explain so much if she did.” Ian straightened and stared at Lucky, kicking himself that he’d left it where an uninitiated miss could so readily find it.

Taking a deep breath, he surrendered to the inevitable. “That’s the book she took.”

Lucky stood and clapped him on the back. “Ian, my friend, I should have warned you about Sarah a long time ago.” At Ian’s look of puzzlement, Lucky added, “She’s never been a typical girl.” He shook his head and went to the door. “No, sir. She’s always been far too curious and adventurous for her own good.” He opened the door, and before he left, he added, “I think you now know the subject that interested her so much. All you have to do is find her a copy of something similar. Might I suggest the
Ovid’s Amores
? I have it in Italian. You can have Sarah can read it to you. She’s fluent you know.”

T
HE
E
ND

A
UTHOR’S
N
OTE

≈≈≈

P
utting our work out there makes most artists feel vulnerable. But for a few of us, there is nothing in the world we would rather be doing than creating stories that touch the heart, no matter the fear of scrutiny. I hope you enjoyed reading about Ian and Sarah as much as I enjoyed writing their story. If you did, please leave a rating or review at the vendor where you purchased this book. I truly believe all constructive criticism helps writers better themselves at this craft we love so much.

Now please enjoy the first chapter preview of LUCKY’S LADY, which will be coming soon!

Excerpt from

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Curtis Bay, Maryland, Late June 1836

L
ucky Gualtiero strode through the bustling Watkins Shipyard and watched as a hundred or more men and boys left their work stations as the day drew to an end. He knew from the position of the sun that it was nearing six-thirty, and as he scanned the yard area, he smacked the leather folio against his thigh. In it were the specifications and drawings compiled by his partner Ian Ross-Mackeever, now the second Earl Mackeever, and some notes Lucky had compiled over the past few weeks while visiting other shipyards, as well as the letter from their creditor bank in London guaranteeing the mortgage for two new clippers.

This was the last stop of the three North American shipyards and Ian’s builder of choice; his father had worked for Mr. Watkins before Mr. Ross’s death twelve years ago. Lucky made his way through the dry dock, looking for their offices, while scrutinizing several new vessels under construction, all at different stages. One appeared near finished and was floating, and another was just a hull up on blocks, still in the early stages of interior construction. Others were in various stages between.

For Lucky, watching the building process was enlightening, because he could clearly recognize the quality of workmanship at different stages in the construction. So far, it appeared that Watkins built a very fine hull. The floated boat had three solid masts, where one of the boats on blocks nearest him awaited cladding, the copper sheeting used to prevent shipworm and saltwater from damaging the wood. All of the wood used for hulls appeared to be solid cypress. The rudder was about to be placed on the hull in dry dock, which would be interesting to watch if he were still here in a day or two. The inner post and stern post were already affixed and the rudder—a typical gunstock shape—lay on blocks on the ground waiting for the hinge apparatus to be joined to it. Once that was done, the whole unit would be lifted into place.

He turned and kept walking toward what he thought were the company offices, a brick two-story building, and was stopped by what appeared to be a lad as he neared the door.

“Can I help you?”

Lucky turned to look at the most amazing thing he’d seen in his life: a young female garbed for working in a shipyard with the voice and diction of an educated woman.

His momentary shock faded, and he met the golden brown-eyed gaze of a young woman with straight auburn hair tied back and bound in netting and golden-red-brown eyebrows arched delicately over an expressive, curious gaze. A sprinkling of freckles spread across her cheeks, over the bridge of her nose, and up to her forehead. She stood near chin-height to him and wore charcoal-gray breeches and a dove-gray, lightweight, short-sleeved jacket that fell over the hip. Under that, a white blouse buttoned up to the chin to protect her modesty. She had a pretty face, even though her eyes appeared tired, and her smile looked almost forced.

“May I help you?” Now she sounded a tad annoyed out that he’d kept her waiting for his reply. Her wide-brimmed straw hat dangled by its tied strings from her fingers while she removed the writing pad from under her arm and a pencil from her jacket pocket.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “I’m looking for Mr. Spenser Watkins.”

“My husband has gone for the day.” She fumbled with the pad, pencil, hat, and jacket while she waited for him to reply.

Damnation. The first intriguing woman he’d met in a long time and she was married. But it was his experience that married women quite frequently made the best lovers. She was so interesting and attractive and…different that he’d have to see how married she was. Perhaps he might get—God, he hated when his friends said it—but perhaps he might get lucky.

“My name is Lucky Gualtiero. My partner and I currently sail two one-hundred-and-twenty-foot clippers and are looking to expand our tea import business by adding two more ships to our fleet. We are in the market to have some custom work done and your shipyard came highly recommended.”

Her eyebrows rose and she smiled a crooked smile at him. “Oh? Your partner knows of our work?”

“Yes. My partner is Ian Ross.”

She pursed her lips and squinted, apparently deep in thought as she seemed to search her recollections. “Ian Ross. Why does that name sound familiar? Likely he’s had work done here before.”

“No. His father worked for…” Lucky paused, unsure about the age difference, then speculated, “your father-in-law perhaps?”

“That’s right.” Recognition registered on her face and she smiled. “Ian is Hamish’s son. No, Hamish Ross worked
with
my husband. They were partners. Mr. Watkins still speaks of his dear friend often.”

Lucky followed Mrs. Watkins. She held the door for him and he entered, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the entrance hall. He paused just inside the door and waited for her. Then it struck him.

Had he lost all manners?
She
held the door open for
him
, and obedient lamb that he was, he had followed her. She had to be no older than twenty-two or twenty-four, and she was married to Spenser Watkins? He’d gotten the impression from Ian that Watkins was an elderly man. And what was even more disconcerting than the age difference was the fact that she was so…so…comfortable in her position, her clothing even. She didn’t fluster or get nervous as a young woman at home would have upon meeting a gentleman while she was alone. Alone and awkwardly dressed.

Oh, there was no lack of modesty for she was covered from chin to toe even in this sticky heat. He was sure her baggy breeches, light jacket, and tall leather boots served the purpose for working in a shipyard. That big straw hat did an excellent job of keeping the sun off her face because while she was not as milky-fair as the young ladies at home, she bore the healthy glow of someone who enjoyed the outdoors, much like his sisters.

Lucky appreciated the sway of her bottom as he followed her up the stairs, then through a narrow corridor toward a great, open ante-chamber, with a bank of open doors where she motioned him in. He wondered at her position in the business as he met the gaze of one gentleman standing at a drafting table who nodded a simple greeting. The man worked on making copies of the architectural print spread before him, while two other men in rolled-up shirt sleeves worked in offices with doors open to the main antechamber. This, he was certain, was to aid in the circulation of air for, as he was quickly learning, summer in Baltimore was a hot and muggy season indeed.

Mrs. Watkins opened yet another door, one marked Spenser Watkins in black lettering on the frosted glass pane, and left this door wide open as she went into the room. His eyes followed her trouser-and-jacket-clad form as she moved behind the desk. She unbuttoned and removed her loose jacket, revealing her sleeveless white high-necked blouse underneath and exposing her bare arms. Lucky’s mouth suddenly felt as dry as the desert in Africa. Not only was she beautiful to look upon, the woman was lithe, graceful, and, in his opinion, perfectly formed. What in heaven’s name was she doing working in a shipyard? And the men in the antechamber behaved as though her presence was normal and accepted.

“Please. Have a seat.” She motioned to a chair and put her hat on the rack with her jacket, then took a seat herself behind the large, masculine desk. She began to rifle through the drawers in search of something, then lifted out a fresh sheet of paper and a sharpened pencil.

Lucky didn’t know how to say what he’d wanted to say, and instead asked, “Will your husband be in the office tomorrow?”

The look on her face quickly changed from warm and friendly to business-like and reserved.

“Yes,” she replied. “He doesn’t tolerate the mid-day heat very well at his age so he keeps morning hours, returning home around noon. If you would rather speak directly with him, he is usually here around seven a.m. We tend to get more work done in the office early in the day when it is cooler. In the afternoon, you can usually find me out in the yard where the breeze off the bay makes the outdoors more bearable.”

Lucky nodded. He cleared his throat, nervous that his next words might offend her, but he’d never encountered a woman—a young woman—in such a position of leadership in a male-dominated business such as this. “Mrs. Watkins, I’ll be frank with you. I have never done business of this magnitude with a woman.”

“Not many men have,” she said setting aside the pencil and lifting her tired gaze to his. She must have recognized his hesitation to do business with her. “And you are not the first to have this reaction, but I assure you I am quite competent in what I do.” She pointed at the wall of windows beside them. “Each one of those ships out there in that yard was designed by me and built by the men who work for my husband’s shipyard. There are twenty-eight vessels of my design currently sailing the world. I might be relatively young, but I am more current in the mechanic arts as it applies to naval architecture and the engineering of composite materials than most men currently designing clippers. If you would like references, I can give you the names of boats and their owners. Some of whom still do not know a woman designed their ship.”

Lucky felt surely he was gaping at her, unaccustomed to such dialog coming from a woman. He didn’t want to be rude to the woman, but even she admitted this situation was quite unusual.

She lifted the pencil again and rolled it between her hands. “Now, what is it you are looking for, Captain? You mentioned custom work.”