Loving Sarah (43 page)

“Yes.” He cleared his throat and noticed a spark of interest rise in her expression when she glanced up at him. “My partner and I are looking for custom work—new builds. Two of them.”

She smiled. “That is my specialty. If it relieves your concerns, all business related to the transfer of funds and signing of contracts will be handled through my husband, our firm’s legal counsel, and our accountant here at Watkins Shipyard.”

“Good,” he replied, relieved he’d not offended her.

She was very professional and all business as she said, “I’d like to know what you need. What do you want in a boat? What size, type, number of masts, cargo hold, guns, cabins, construction? I engineer the design according to what your needs and desires are.” Astonished at hearing her speak, Lucky did not interrupt her. He was eager to hear what she had to say.

Mrs. Watkins confidently leaned back in her too-big chair, her elbows resting on the armrests that pulled the material of her shirt tight across her slight bosom. “Here at Watkins, we craft solid wood hulls of oak, cedar, or cypress, all of which are prevalent in these parts. We then sheath the hull in a fifty-fifty copper and zinc alloy to reduce the speed of erosion. We clad on top a layer of tar one-quarter of an inch thick. The plate is up to twenty-four inches above the load waterline at aft and amid, graduating up to thirty-six inches above at the bow. All logs are milled and treated here on site. We have our own loggers, blacksmiths, fitters, and coopers.”

His mouth went dry and he was unable to peel his gaze away from her face as she spoke. This fascinating woman was talking to him of ship construction. At home, talk of this sort was usually left for the company of men. How on earth had she received the education necessary to do something only the brightest of men in the world could do? Still dumbfounded, he shook his head. “I’m going to admit to being knocked off kilter with your questions. I hadn’t prepared myself to discuss these things with a…a woman, and” —he felt a bit sheepish, and uncomfortable— “I don’t mean to offend you.”

She smiled at him again. A full, true smile. Her teeth were white and mostly straight, and she had two dimples, not just the adorable one on the left. She was truly enchanting and alive, not milky white or rouged. This vibrant young woman had a healthy glow that caused his heart to skip a beat, maybe two, even though she was married. “None taken, I assure you. If it would make you feel better, I can have my draftsman, Andrew, come in and take notes with us.”

“No,” he began, then cleared his throat, still a bit nervous as he glanced out to the drafting table beyond the open door. “This is fine.” Lucky reached into the file folder and handed Mrs. Watkins their specification sheet. “The top half” —he motioned to the upper portion of the sheet— “has our requirements. Where this section” —he pointed below that— “is a wish list of sorts. If they are possible, we’d like to see them done also.” He pushed the page across the desktop to her.

Mrs. Watkins scanned the page and began to make notes. “We can do single tree masts, though I recommend composite.” She looked up at him with luminous, golden-brown eyes and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, preventing him from replying. He had to get over this fascination with her, especially if they were to conduct business. He didn’t want to offend the woman’s husband. “But we can discuss that later,” she added through her smile before turning her attention back to the sheet in front of her and continuing to scribble notes. She looked up at him again. “One hundred eighty-five feet is lengthy,” she said. “Depending on how she’s sparred, it could appear too long or visually unbalanced. What’s your cargo?”

“Tea,” he replied. “And perhaps other cargo, eventually.”

“Human cargo?” Their eyes met and he understood her meaning.

“Never.” He tried not to sound too judgmental. He knew slavery was an accepted practice in the States. Even though he didn’t agree with it, he didn’t want to offend the potential shipbuilder for his business.

She exhaled a deeply held breath and relaxed her shoulders, which told Lucky exactly where she stood on the issue.

“Good. I don’t think my conscience would allow me to build for the slave trade,” she replied and continued asking him questions and making notes. “What is your time line for delivery? We are about to have a slot open for a new build. Though only one right now, as we’re soon to have
Carolina
floated.
Ajax
is the nearly completed boat at the dock. Her owner is expected at the first of the month for transfer of ownership. At the moment, construction is running ten to twelve months, and I don’t foresee it getting any faster as my yard is at capacity right now.”

Lucky could only nod his head in agreement, still a bit unbalanced by the whole discourse. They continued their discussion on specifications and requested items, closing with Mrs. Watkins asking for a few days to sketch something he might like. Lucky, again, could only agree, so dumbstruck and fascinated by this intelligent wisp of a young woman was he.

“Please come by tomorrow morning, say, around eight. I shall make sure Mr. Watkins is here. I’m certain he would love to hear how Hamish’s son fares.” She backed the chair away and stood. When she reached out with her ungloved right hand, intending for him to shake it, Lucky stared at it for a moment. At home, a lady was never so forward as to offer her hand to a gentleman she did not know, much less an ungloved hand. It felt as though he’d entered a strange land with strange customs and courtesies. But rather than offend her, as she might be designing his and Ian’s new tea clippers, he reached out and took it, holding it lightly between his thumb and fingers.

The heat radiating through his fingers from her skin jolted him. His body was reacting in ways he’d never experienced. He’d been with women intimately, but this was a feeling beyond anything he’d ever known or felt. A warm tremor moved through him, finally settling low in his abdomen.

Before meeting Mrs. Watkins, the married women he’d had affairs with never interested him long enough to want anything beyond a quick, mutually satisfying romp in the sheets. He could barely tolerate conversing with them. He perfected early on the skill of politely listening as they droned on about their day, their shopping, or the latest gossip. He’d never visited courtesans, though he had kept a mistress who taught him well, before he began sailing regularly.

But never had any of these women ever touched that emotional depth inside his heart that made him care. Made him crave.

He looked down at her hand in his, which was far easier than looking into the depths of her amber-colored eyes or focusing on her luscious pink lips. And he
craved
.

He thanked her for her time and promised to return in the morning. He felt the room closing in on them, and he realized that he’d completely forgotten that there was another man in the antechamber and at least two others in offices nearby. She’d made him forget the world outside this room so much that he could have easily reached down and kissed another man’s wife.

It wasn’t as though he’d never bedded a married woman, because he’d enjoyed the favors of many willing wives over the years. But he always had to know beforehand if the woman was in a certain type of relationship with her husband. The last thing he wanted was some lovesick spouse calling him out.

The only line he would never cross was dallying with the wives of friends, and he hoped to hell Watkins wasn’t a likable chap. Lucky definitely had to watch himself where Mrs. Watkins was concerned, because he wanted the red-headed beauty in the worst way. Right now he felt the need for a cold swim, and because water cold enough to subdue his rising ardor wasn’t likely to be found around here, a confessional and penance might do the trick.

Once he exited the building, he walked briskly toward town intending to find a confessor.

M
ary-Michael closed the door to her husband’s office and plopped into his leather chair. Her nerves still rattled from the man’s touch. How had she maintained her calm business-like demeanor when all she wanted was to melt into a puddle of muck at the man’s feet? Thinking on it, she decided that the way he held himself, the way he spoke, dressed, and walked all contributed to the air of confidence that intrigued and aroused her. All of it together made him so…captivating.

And then he touched her. Yes, she’d held her hand out first to shake his, so theoretically, she’d encouraged his touch, but oh, heaven—Mary-Michael smiled in the empty room.
That
was forward!

At one point, she had felt as though she might lose his interest, just as she had on many occasions when a potential customer discovered M. Michael Watkins was not a male, but she quickly touted her credentials and areas of study she’d focused on when learning this trade, all so as not to lose this potential sale. Mr. Watkins would be proud.

Laying her head on her crossed arms on top of the desk, she heaved a deep, trembling sigh. God help her. This was not good. What was his name again, this friend of Ian Ross? He had a British accent, but his surname wasn’t English. Was it Spanish or Italian? Portuguese perhaps? She sighed as she recalled his image. He had an exotic appearance, with a swarthy, olive-skinned complexion and head full of shaggy, wavy hair. His strong square jawline and chin bore a smattering of stubble, as though he’d not shaved recently. Instead of making him appear unkempt and disgusting, it had the opposite effect on her. He appeared rakishly handsome in his finely tailored and starched white shirt, form-fitting buff-colored breeches, and high black leather boots polished to a near mirror-shine—unlike her scuffed black work boots. The man wore no coat, likely because of the unseasonably warm weather, but she felt sure that if he had it would have been of the same superior quality as his breeches and linen shirt. And under all that fine clothing, he looked to be well-muscled and very fit, telling Mary-Michael that he spent his days working right alongside his crew.

She sat up and stared out the open windows into the shipyard and recalled the full lips that had captured her gaze more than once. Mary-Michael had had to force herself not to let it linger there, for he could easily have suspected she was a woman of loose morals had he caught her. This business was hard enough for a man, the only credibility she had—and she fully recognized this—was in her marriage to her husband, one of the finest shipbuilders on the eastern seaboard. Mary-Michael only had a short time to establish herself before he passed away and would be left on her own, which was why she could never have her reputation called into question. Ever.

Though she might not remember the man’s name, she certainly remembered his look. And the one time he smiled fully, she got a glimpse of even white upper teeth, with the lower ones just slightly, endearingly, crooked. It didn’t detract from his looks at all and was perhaps the tiniest of imperfections in the most perfect specimen of man she’d ever seen. Oh, and his eyes…. Surely his dark brown eyes could see into her soul, witnessing all of the conflicted emotion his presence created within her. Something that had never existed until he arrived. The man was unnerving and quite simply beautiful. She could think of no other word to describe the man but
beautiful
.

Suddenly, the project her husband mentioned a few days earlier was now forefront in her mind. Mary-Michael now had to reconcile the morality of it, against the reality. She was a married woman with a husband who couldn’t give her what she so desperately wanted, because that wasn’t the kind of marriage they had.

Flustered and unable to think clearly about work, Mary-Michael stood and collected her light jacket, ready to call an end to the long day. As she left the office, she said goodnight to Andrew, asking him to lock up on his way out. She walked through the long hallway, lined with framed drawings of the most prominent vessels her husband’s shipyard had built over the thirty years he’d been in business. She wanted to draw something on par with
Olympia
or
Mermaid
for this client, a vessel sleek and fast, able to cut through the waves and fly with wind.

Wending her way into the shipyard stable, she saw her driver hammering a shoe to the horse’s hoof and changed her mind. “Victor, I think I shall walk home this evening. I could use the exercise.” Not to mention the time to think on what she’d now tell her husband about the visitor and what he wanted. She also needed to reconcile these errant emotions, which were sure to get her into trouble if anyone noticed.

“It’s not safe for a young woman such as yourself to go walkin’ through these streets near the docks.” Victor, Mr. Watkins’s servant for longer than she’s been alive, started his usual rant about her walking. “One never knows what mischief lies around a corner out there nowadays.” He set the horse’s foot down and looked at the four to check them for balance. “Time jus’ got away from me, Miz Watkins. If you’d give me a few minutes, I’ll have the ol’ girl between the shafts in no time and get ya home safe soon enough.”

Mary-Michael leaned against a post and watched as he picked the hoof up again and removed the temporary nail holding the shoe, took the file from his back pocket, and began to rasp more hoof away.

“It’s okay, Victor. It’s almost time for dinner. Besides, you know walking helps me clear my head after a busy day. We have a potential new client, and I want to think about some designs from the notes I took during the meeting. He’s coming back tomorrow to meet with Mr. Watkins.”

“At least get one of the lads from that Dutchy’s crew to walk with ya.”

Mary-Michael began the trek through the yard toward the street, calling back at Victor, “I’m fine. See you at the house.”