CHAPTER 5
There was someone in the engraver’s studio.
That in itself wasn’t unusual of course, but it was after suppertime, and Max had thought he was the last person in the building. He’d brought his own lunch, but had eaten it late, which allowed him to work later in the evening.
He was hunched over his desk in the manager’s office on the second floor, when he realized he was hearing the sound of machinery below him. Which was odd, because everyone else—including the foreman, Lawrence Oliphant—had left for home nearly an hour ago.
Maybe Lawrence had returned to finish up a project. One thing Max was really coming to admire was the devotion of the men who worked for Oliphant Engraving; this wasn’t just a job to them, it was art.
While this place was sometimes referred to as a factory, it was so much more than that. Sure, there was the big, well-ventilated machine shop downstairs, where burly men in thick aprons poured molten metal into molds or beat sheets of it intosubmission. The receivers and plaques which would eventually grace custom Prince firearms were lovingly crafted right here in this building. The lathes, milling machines, and drill presses downstairs were used to ensure each piece fit the exact specifications.
Once the gun component was perfect, it was handed over to the engravers. These were the serious men up in the engravers’ studio, who sat at large desks with bright lights in front of big windows. They each had access to tools from the company, but most preferred their own and would carry the scribes and gravers and sharpeners back and forth to work each day in little black cases. It took various lengths of time to complete each project, but whoever ended up with that firearm would know the Oliphant engravers had given it their closest attention.
Max was a little in awe of them and their skill. Apparently, sometime in the middle ages, the brother of one of the lairds—a Duncan Oliphant—had been a famous silversmith. He’d set up a school for the art right here on Oliphant Land, and for generations, everyone in the Highlands had known the best jewelry came from the Oliphants. The skill had been passed from father to son, and when Oliphant Engraving was created, the manager had a whole pool of applicants and was easily able to hire the best of the best.
Of course, now that manager wasMax. This is where he belonged—not that fancy house party that was going on at the neighboring estate that Lysander was enjoying.
And though Max felt as if he had a pretty good handle on things here at the factory, he was still finding himself learning something new each day. Such as the fact that, apparently, some of the engravers returned to work in the evening.
Sighing, he resisted the urge to bounce up and see what was going on. He still had work to do. The Oliphants had been running the business as best they could, but it was no wonder Andrew had sent him here; the backlog of projects was months long. With a little efficiency and organization, Max hoped to be able to cut that down significantly, but he also wanted to make the changes gradually.
Fortunately, with Prince Armory’s reputation, most clients expected the creation process to take a long time; each piece was engraved to the buyer’s specifications after all. Max figured his favorite part of the job was studying the order forms and trying to guess what he could about the eventual owner.
The ones who wanted big game animals carved into their receivers were likely hunters, and the religious symbolism was likely self-explanatory. But why did some buyers choose flowers or vines? And a surprising number included photographs to be reproduced by hand onto the metal plaques—photographs of themselves, or women, or children. One had even sent along a fingerprint and a set of dates to be included.
What must the engravers themselves, such serious men, think of these requests?
Max had grown up around horses, and had helped his friend Dmitri build a successful horse ranch back in Wyoming. But even the satisfaction of feeling a fresh animal under him couldn’t compare with the puzzles and challenges which faced him each day now, and he loved it. He’d already written several times to Mr. Prince, thanking him for this position, and would likely continue.
This was where he belonged. He’d found his family, and was building a place for himself.
The sounds from the engravers’ studio had stopped, but now Max heard the sound of the lathe start up downstairs in the machine shop.
Curious.
Reaching for the last stack of invoices he needed to sort, he blew out a breath and started reading.
To his surprise, the lathe was still going when he finished, and he had to admit he was a little proud of himself for recognizing the sound, even from up in his office. Yeah, he decided, coming here to the Highlands had been the right choice.
Especially since you got to meet Ember.
He grinned, unable to deny that perk. Yesterday, in his room, it had been torture to hold himself still as she’d leaned toward him, her lips all but begging to be kissed. God Almighty, but he’d wanted—needed—to touch her, though he had been determined to give her control.
But then something had stopped her from taking what he’d known she’d wanted. However, the thought—the scent—of her had kept him occupied well into the night. He’d felt guilty for taking his cock and stroking himself by thinking of her, but he hadn’t been able to help it.
Well, cowboy, if you’re sitting here thinking about how you got so lonely you had to play with yourself, it’s probably time for a break.
Tossing the last of the invoices into the correct pile, he stood with a groan and stretched his back. Time to get back to the inn, and maybe he’d even get the chance to see her again. But first, he’d go check on whoever was down in the machine shop.
With his coat slung over his shoulder, he trotted down the stairs and rounded the corner where the machines were set up. As the lathe came into view, he saw the figure in front of it.
A figure in a dress.
Max frowning, knowing there were no female employees. “Excuse me?”
The figure didn’t turn; she likely couldn’t hear him over the sound of the machinery. She was leaning forward as she focused her attention on whatever bit of turning and adjusting she was doing. Each movement sent her red braid swaying.
Why did that hair color seem so familiar to him?
