by Karen Ranney
Why did that thought instantly alter her mood and not in a good way?
“I wasn’t arguing with you, by the way,” she said. “I don’t actually argue much. I’m normally amenable.”
“I think you’re wrong in your assessment of yourself, Martha. I think, perhaps, when you disagree with people you simply retreat into your own thoughts. Arguing is often a waste of time and I suspect you don’t spend a great deal of time on idiotic pursuits.”
Never before had anyone assumed a knowledge of her character. She didn’t know how to respond.
When she remained silent, he reached over and put something in front of her.
“What is wrong with that?” he asked. “Can you tell?”
“It’s part of a pendulum,” she said.
She picked it up and studied it, turning it back and forth in her hand. “It’s weighted differently.”
“That it is. Your father and I had discussed whether or not it would matter.”
She closed her eyes, the better to see the complex arrangement of gears, wires, and chains found in the guidance system. The pendulum was located in the middle, toward the rear.
Opening her eyes, she looked at him. “It would pull too far on the left rudder chain,” she said. “It might even cause the ship to be nose-heavy.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, merely studied her.
She wanted to ask if he really did object to the lavender dress. She had more freedom to move in this garment, but it wasn’t fashionable. Yet she didn’t want to have to worry about what she was wearing when it normally didn’t concern her.
“You’re an unusual woman,” he said.
She’d heard those words before, but they hadn’t been a compliment.
“Is it a bad thing? Are you saying I’m odd?”
He smiled again and although the expression didn’t look mocking, she held herself still, waiting for his words.
“You know a great deal about forming copper, pendulums and the like, and compressors.”
He reached out and grabbed her hand, turning it over to examine the palm.
“Your father told me about how you got this scar,” he said, tracing a small mark at the base of her thumb. “You were trying to force a piston back into place when it slipped.”
She pulled her hand free, embarrassed in a way she hadn’t been for a long time. Ever since her season in London, as a matter of fact.
It was him, of course. She’d never met a man who was so supremely male. She felt fluttery and feminine when she was nothing of the sort. Once she was dressed in the morning, it was the last time she concerned herself with her appearance. She didn’t stop in front of a mirror or worry about what she looked like.
Until she’d met him. Now she was all too aware of her flaws.
“I’m easily bored,” she said, giving him the truth. “I haven’t the slightest interest in fashion or how to arrange my hair. I detest shopping, except when it comes to material we need. It seems to me my time is better spent seeking sources of copper tubing and sheathing than in selecting hats and gloves.”
“And for that I thank you,” he said, startling her again. “I find you almost the perfect companion, Martha.”
She stared down at the pendulum, picked it up again, and concentrated on it even though she was more focused on the man beside her. A bright happiness flooded through her, making the shadowed boathouse seem sun-filled.
Yes, she was being foolish. Yes, he was much more handsome than any other man she’d ever known. Yes, he was no doubt a danger to her peace of mind.
But she wouldn’t have traded being here for anything.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Reese said, smiling at Josephine.
He turned back to Ercole’s stall.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she asked, moving to his side.
Ercole. This was the horse she wanted. What a beauty he was.
Reese glanced at her, surveying her from the top of her hair to the tip of her shoes. Her dress flattered her and he was smart enough to note it. Not perceptive enough, however, to make a comment on it. He should have praised her appearance at least.
Instead, he only walked across the stable to stand at another stall.
“This is Jessamine,” he said, and recited the mare’s bloodline.
“She isn’t the match of Ercole,” she said.
A faint smile played on his lips, making her wonder if he ridiculed her.
“I want him,” she said. “I’m an excellent rider,” she added. “I could control him.”
“Do you always get what you want?” he asked, his laughter borderline insulting.
She didn’t allow her smile to falter.
“He’s already spoken for and I doubt you’ll convince the earl not to take ownership of him.”
“But as the duke’s friend, you could change his mind, couldn’t you, Reese?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “If I cared enough to make the effort.”
“If I promised to make it worth your while?”
“Do you make the same promise to all the men you know? Do they stumble over themselves to do what you want?”
“Most of them,” she said, smiling. “If I let you kiss me, would you speak to the duke?”
He laughed, grabbed her hand, and kissed her fingers.
“No,” he said, and then did the one thing she hadn’t expected. He walked away, leaving her standing there looking after him.
Jordan found himself bemused by Martha York. He hadn’t lied. She was unlike any other woman he’d ever known. She hadn’t batted her eyelashes at him once. Nor had she pretended to be helpless.
Her voice was normal, neither breathy or high-pitched. A little on the low side, it was definitely fascinating. He found himself listening carefully when she spoke.
The first day they’d worked together she’d called him “Your Grace” a great many times. Today, he noted, she didn’t, almost as if they were becoming friends. He had a feeling his title was an impediment to Martha and not an asset.
For the first time, he wished he’d met her when he was in the navy.
He found himself wanting to ask her opinion about a great many things. Did she think his boathouse was arranged in the most practical manner? From which sources did she acquire her materials? Would she be interested in helping him relaunch his ship when it was found?
All questions he might’ve asked of Matthew York if he was sitting here. But he doubted if he would have been as fascinated with the older man’s appearance as he was his daughter’s.
He shouldn’t have mentioned her dress. But lavender didn’t favor her. She needed to be attired in something bold, deep greens or blues, a shade to compliment her porcelain complexion and dark brown eyes.
She was wearing her hair in a bun again, but recalcitrant tendrils had escaped to frame her face. Her curly hair was another fascination. He wanted to touch it, see if it was as soft as it appeared.
He wanted, in a way unlike him, to hear her laugh, to see her eyes sparkle with humor.
All thoughts that had nothing to do with a torpedo ship.
He should have sent her away. In the past few months he’d gotten good at banishing people. All he had to do was act ducal and arrogant. Or dismiss them with a look. Instead, he worked beside her, discussing the merits of using brass versus copper, tooling methods, and various polishing formulations.
Matthew was quoted often in those hours, but they didn’t discuss anything else of a personal nature. She didn’t ask him why he changed position from time to time, as if she knew his leg was beginning to bother him. He said nothing about how often she patted her hair into place, as if it was an annoyance.
From time to time she propped her elbow on the workbench, supporting her chin on her hand. She’d be intently focused on his actions, whether it was cleaning a part or crimping the link of the chain, and sometimes comment on what he was doing incorrectly.
He retaliated by giving her some parts to polish and remar
king on spots she missed.
They worked in perfect accord for hours, the passing time deepening what he was considering a friendship, one he’d never before experienced with a woman.
When the maid came, at noon, to bring him his meal as she did every day, she was obviously surprised to find Martha with him. When he would have asked Polly to fetch a meal for her, Martha demurred.
“I should be returning to the house,” she said, getting up from the stool. “I need to check on Gran.”
He found himself wanting to keep her there, but was constrained in his speech by Polly’s presence.
“Will you come back?”
They exchanged a look. He wasn’t going to beg her. The fact that he was close to marshaling his arguments was enough to keep him silent.
“I don’t wish to be an imposition,” she said.
“You’re not. I’ve enjoyed your companionship. Not to mention your assistance.”
She smiled, the expression lighting up her face. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll come back.”
This afternoon her hair might come free of its punishing bun. She might laugh. The sun would tint her cheeks a soft pink.
She left the boathouse accompanied by Polly.
A thought occurred to him as he glanced over and saw the box containing Matthew’s letters. Had she read all of his to her father? The thought was disturbing. He wished he could remember everything he’d divulged to Matthew over the past five years. No doubt some of his insecurities or his longing for his previous job. He’d enjoyed his tasks at the War Office. Few people knew he was that Hamilton, related to the Duke of Roth. Nor did he go around telling anyone.
The day he’d been informed of his brother’s death had been strange and disconcerting. He remembered writing Matthew about how he’d felt. He and Simon had rarely seen each other in the past few years. His first thought was that the damn fool wouldn’t have contracted cholera if he hadn’t been in Italy. His second thought was amazement that he was the new Duke of Roth. He was so stunned by that realization that he could only stare at his solicitor for a few moments.
He hadn’t wanted to be duke. He remembered writing Matthew that, too. He had delayed his arrival at Sedgebrook for weeks before finally feeling compelled to come home. The house was too big, echoing with memories of a boy who wanted to be noticed and appreciated and loved but who had been joyfully ignored. He probably would have been a different person had his mother lived. But he’d been reared by a nurse, a nanny, the tutor, and then rushed off to school.
His father had been a shadow during most of his childhood and when he died Jordan had attended the services in the family chapel feeling strangely cheated. Who had Harold Hamilton been? What was his personality? His likes, dislikes, acquaintances, and friends—all questions he had.
He tried, once, to ask Simon about their father. His brother had dismissed his curiosity with a wave of his hand. He couldn’t help but wonder if Harold was a shadow to Simon as well.
If Martha had read his letters, she knew more about him than anyone else. He hadn’t minded the revelations to Matthew. If anything, the older man had almost taken on the role of parent. But Martha knowing everything?
He felt more vulnerable than he’d ever felt. The boathouse was suddenly darker and the silence too deep.
He ate his solitary meal, abruptly aware of his own loneliness.
Chapter 12
In the afternoon they continued to work together in harmony.
Martha had taken up her father’s letters again. From time to time she would press her fingers to Matthew’s signature, carefully smoothing out the well-read pages. Did she think to capture her father’s spirit? He wanted to tell her that Matthew would always live on, just not in a way she’d probably considered.
His ideas would incite interest in others, encourage thought, conversation, wonder, and speculation. Matthew York was a great mind, a thoughtful person, and a generous soul.
If he could be half the man Matthew had been, he’d count himself fortunate.
At the moment, however, he was concerned with just being polite.
His damnable leg was hurting, which always made him short-tempered. Martha did not deserve his irritation. Nor was he annoyed in any way with her. The past hours had been surprisingly pleasant in a manner he’d never expected.
However, he needed to move. He stood, walked around a bit, then made his way to the workbench and sat heavily, closing his eyes at the pain. Sometimes it felt as if he was walking on a knife. The hilt was at his foot and the point his hip, the entire length of his leg sliced open with each step.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He opened his eyes. “No, I’m not. I am, as your sister has so aptly stated, ‘lame.’”
“Did she really say such a thing?” she asked, her tone one of horror mixed with surprise.
He turned his head to look at her. “She did. At breakfast.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, then startled him by asking, “Would you be more inclined to like Josephine if she hadn’t made that remark?”
By being too damn wise, she added another layer to his conundrum. He’d not only shared his thoughts with the woman, but he was coming close to liking her. Perhaps even admiring her. No, the admiration had started the moment she’d begun talking about weight ratios and propellers. He would have been content to listen to her lecture him for hours.
“No,” he said, answering her question about Josephine. “I don’t think I would. She isn’t the type of female who interests me.”
She pulled the stool closer to him, pulling her skirts aside so they didn’t touch his trousers. How proper their clothes were, never touching or even daring to brush next to each other.
“Have you ever been disappointed in love?” he asked, the question so out of context that they both stared at each other.
“Why would you ask such a thing?” she said.
“Because I’m curious. I know about your season. When I read your father’s words my first thought was that your emotions had already been taken. I thought you were pining for someone.”
When she didn’t speak he raised one eyebrow. “Then it’s true. I’ve found when people refuse to answer a question it’s because the answer’s obvious.”
“No,” she said, frowning at him. “It isn’t true. If you must know, I don’t have much faith in love. It doesn’t seem to be a kind emotion. Oh, it is when you say you love a dog or a horse or a kitten. But not people. When you love people, you’re almost asking to be harmed.”
How curious that they shared the same feelings.
“My stepmother, Marie,” she continued, “says love is as necessary as air. It’s the glue holding everything together.” She glanced at him. “She’s passionate about things. She wants to experience every moment of life to its fullest.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, feeling his way through the maze of words.
“Your father didn’t mention her often.”
“I noticed,” she said.
“I got the impression the marriage wasn’t a happy one.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Marie liked to stay in London a great deal. Or travel to France. When she finally came home she always appeared to be happy to see Father. He came out of his cottage long enough to notice he had a family and a wife.”
“Is that why you started to work with him? So he’d notice you?”
She shook her head. “He was the most interesting person I knew. He was always thinking different thoughts. He could think of something in the middle of the night and make it real by the next day. He always seemed to be doing something more interesting than needlepoint. Or talking about fashion.” She smiled faintly. “He didn’t worry about getting dirty. He waded through the lake. He invented things. Who wouldn’t want to be around someone like that?”
“Have you invented anything?”
“A new propeller design,” she said. “Nothing as important as my father’s ship.”
“A weapon?”
“Surely you know the torpedo ship is a weapon? The nose will be filled with gunpowder. That’s the reason why the directional capabilities have to be so precise.”
“Of course I know the nose will be filled with gunpowder. It’s just that I disagree with the label you’ve given it. The torpedo ship is a defensive piece of armament, a way to protect our ships. Better to use a torpedo than be rammed amidships.”
The nautical term surprised him, but it shouldn’t have. York Armaments was an important supplier of all types of weapons—however much Martha might dislike the label—and they furnished the navy with a great many cannon. She’d probably grown up knowing a vocabulary not shared by other young misses.
“So it doesn’t bother you that you’re creating something that can cause death and destruction?”
She thought about it for a moment, then answered. “Almost anything can cause death and destruction if it’s used in the wrong way. A knitting needle. A kitchen knife.” She glanced down at the workbench before picking up a sizable piece of slate he kept there as a paperweight. “I could throw this at you and strike you in the head,” she said. “You could die from the blow.”
His right leg chose that moment to send him a signal, lightning traveling from his hip down to his ankle. Just a reminder in case he forgot.
“You aren’t going to throw that at me are you, Martha? I can’t outrun you.”
She dropped the slate back on the bench and looked at him, a woman with intelligence blazing from her eyes and determination in the set of her smile.
“Will you ever be able to run again?”
No one had ever come out and asked him such a question, one oddly similar to that he asked of his physician.
“I don’t know,” he said, giving her a gift of his honesty. With anyone else he might have said something like, it’s none of your concern. Or he might have simply ignored the question completely. But she was a brave creature, one who saw nothing untoward with telling him when he was wrong, or at least when she believed he was wrong.
They’d already gotten into a number of arguments. He’d forgotten his composure and raised his voice. She’d done the same. Strangely, he liked arguing with Martha York. He found it to be exhilarating in the extreme.
