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And yet there was nothing weak about Mrs Bevans. Nothing impulsive either. She had measured the risk and done it anyway.

Yes, he had to admit he found her fascinating. And while there had been no shortage of women who had taken an interest in him, it was a bit shocking to find himself on the other side of the equation. He’d never before known a woman whose next words he could not anticipate, yet here he was, leaning in so as not to miss a single one of hers.

That alone was enough to unsettle him. He didn’t need the additional complication of finding her—well, confound it, there was no other word for it—she was stunning. Even in that blasted wood pit, skirts littered with woodchips, she possessed a sort of careless magnificence that refused to be diminished by circumstance. Her auburn curls frizzed wildly about a face made all the more arresting by a pair of bright green eyes. She was a small thing, though there was nothing delicate about her, with softly generous curves and the compact strength of someone accustomed to making herself useful rather than ornamental.

Michael had never before reflected upon how thoroughly a woman could scramble his concentration when her particular combination of qualities engaged both mind and body.

Eventually, and thank God for it, he was able to reassert control over the situation. By the time they made it to the Wandering Crow, they’d relaxed into easy conversation, and he’d even managed to coax out a few more of those hesitant smiles. The requisite discussion regarding his experience had gone smoothly enough. Better than, really. It had only been necessary to omit a few inconvenient details, which allowed her to see him as slightly less villainous than he might otherwise have appeared.

In truth, he was no villain. His dealings were always conducted above board, and he never outright lied. He paid fair prices, honored his contracts, and his staff were well compensated for their labor. Those who cast him as a villain did so because they’d lost, and no one enjoyed being the loser. It was far kinder to one’s ego to cry foul play than to concede one had been outwitted, outmaneuvered, and outclassed by a man who wanted victory more and labored harder to secure it. Nevertheless, it would not do to volunteer anything beyond what strengthened his position.

A woman like Mrs Bevans needed to like a man in order to trust him.

Still, as they edged closer to the conclusion of their meal, he could not resist the urge to share more than was necessary—or to ask questions that served no strategic purpose at all. None that made the slightest bit of sense anyway.

“May I ask you a question, Mrs Bevans? It is, admittedly, somewhat of a personal nature.”

She toyed with the handle of her spoon. “You may ask, but I won’t promise to answer.”

Michael set down his own spoon and lifted his tankard, fortifying himself with a deep swallow. “Are you not concerned that some measure of respect may be forfeited when you bare your struggles before those who look to you for leadership? Is it not difficult enough to command obedience as a young woman in a profession so thoroughly claimed by men?”

She paused thoughtfully, just as she had before addressing Lewis, studying Michael with such frank, unabashed curiosity that he could practically feel her peeling back his layers like an onion, scrutinizing each fragile fragment.

His pulse quickened in his throat.

After that long, painful perusal, Gwen cocked her head to the side, understanding slowly dawning across her face.

“You do not rely upon anyone, do you, Mr Anson? I would venture to say your respect for others hinges very much upon their tendency to do the same.” Amusement etched tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. “The mere possibility that someone might see you hesitate, or God forbid, flinch, is enough to make you physically ill, I think.”

Then she set down her spoon with a clink and leaned back in her chair, smugly satisfied with herself.

“Everyone relies on someone,” he observed mildly.

“Not you.” She tilted her head, brows furrowed, then allowed her gaze to drift over him again with such unapologetic boldness that, had she been a gentleman at Almack’s, she would have sent half the aristocratic virgins fleeing back to their country estates. “Or at least, with anything important.”

He shrugged, unable to deny the claim without outright lying, which he never did.

“Likewise,” she continued, “I suspect you only play at games that you can win, which, I suppose, bodes well for the future of my yard.”

They stared at one another for a moment, gazes locked.

“Lucky you,” he murmured. “Do not imagine, Mrs Bevans, that I failed to notice the way you so neatly avoided my question.”

She waved away his observation with a decisive flick of her hands. “Well, it was an absurd question in any case. And what’s more, you doubtless already knew how I would respond and only posed it as a roundabout means of suggesting that the management of my employees is improper. I would then be obliged to ignore your poorly veiled insinuation, which would render the entire exchange rather pointless. But since you insist…” she let out a bored sigh. “Of course my men will not think less of me for having feelings. The sort of feigned invulnerability you so clearly prefer would only be necessary if they were foolish enough to believe sentiment incompatible with sound judgment. So no, Mr Anson, I do not anticipate a ship-wide mutiny just yet. I am a capable leader, and everyone knows it.”

He stared, unblinking. Good God. This was not a woman lacking in confidence, and she didn’t give a damn who knew it.

How utterly refreshing.

“And what do you suppose makes you a capable leader, Mrs Bevans, aside from knowing every moment of a ship’s construction, from laying the garboard to stepping the topgallant?”

He watched the rhythmic motion of her throat as she swallowed, paused for a moment, then resumed drinking again. Michael couldn’t quite decide if she considered his question impertinent, or if she’d simply been caught off guard by the way her own trade’s language fell so readily from his lips. Either way, he reveled in the sight of her pinking cheeks. If she’d underestimated his knowledge, all the better.

She set her empty tankard on the table. “At present, I would say my capabilities as a leader are best demonstrated by my willingness to employ a predator with fewer scruples than the aristocrat intent upon purchasing my yard—but I suppose, in fairness, the wisdom of that decision remains to be seen.”

Laughter spilled from Michael, longer and harder than he’d laughed in ages. “Message received, Mrs Bevans,” he said once he’d finally caught his breath. “You do not wish to talk about yourself. It’s only…” He paused then, brows drawing together in a carefully arranged contemplative frown. “In any conflict, understanding the opposition can take one but so far. Victory requires equal knowledge of one’s own forces. Their strengths and weaknesses.”

She seemed to consider his reasoning for a moment, then spread her fingers, palms up. “Very well, Mr Anson. You may begin your inquisition.”