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If he sat in her father’s chair, his feet would reach the floor.

Michael took another gulp of his cold tea, then set it aside, carefully avoiding the stacks of papers. Then he reached for Gwen’s untouched cup and pressed it between her hands. He watched her as she drank, a pleased, almost shy smile interrupting his fierce expression.

When she’d had her fill, he whisked the cup from her hands and set it down. “What we need is to apply these preliminary defenses on a much broader scale. Lord Michael will adapt, mind you. He already has, but it will buy us time to enact a more offensive approach.”

He flashed her a confident smile, and relief, wretched and insidious, spread through her body. She tried to tamp it down, tried to push it away, because this was her yard; she should have seen what was happening, and this kind of relief always came at a cost. Men did not yield control once they had it, nor were they ever satisfied with a single bite.

And there was no chance she could mistake this man’s ravenous appetite.

Oh, strictly speaking, he’d done nothing wrong. He’d accomplished more this morning regarding Lord Michael than she had in months. It was only the ease with which he took.

Still, Gwen could feel nothing but gratitude for the existence of that solitary flaw.

Without it, the sudden relief of having such a capable man at her side might have rendered her weak. That was to say nothing of his accompanying charm, wry humour, or his far-too-handsome face.

By the time Harry walked through the door an hour later, Gwen and Michael were both bent over their work on opposite sides of her desk. Now and then Michael refilled her tea, or she would glance up to find him watching her, but for the most part, they worked in companionable silence. It was different from sharing an office with Harry. She adored Harry, of course, and had always found his presence vastly comforting, but with Michael she felt an unexpected likeness she would rather not have noticed, as though they were two boats fashioned from the same tree, grown in the same rich soil and shaped by the same passage of seasons. Like her, he revelled in hard work. The threat of defeat did not cow him so much as provoke him.

He required friction to spark and would not shy from the resulting heat.

Gwen reached up to one shoulder, digging her fingertips into a bunched muscle, attempting to coax it loose. When she opened her eyes, Michael was staring at her again.

His expression was different—softer somehow—and, quite suddenly, the air all around her seemed to warm and thicken, as if someone had thrown an armful of dried leaves on the fire. She didn’t look away, and the moment stretched.

“Pardon, Mrs Bevans, don’t mean to interrupt.”

Gwen flinched and turned toward the door. When had it opened? How long had Georgie been standing there? Her cheeks flamed guiltily, though she’d done nothing to feel the least guilty about… but then, why did Georgie apologize for interrupting? Did it look as if he was interrupting… something?

She pressed her palms to her cheeks. She was being foolish. “No matter, Georgie, come in.”

She stood.

Michael stood as well, drawing her gaze back at him, then to Harry’s vacant desk.

At some point, he’d left for the yard and she hadn’t even noticed. Where was her head today? Her skin began to prickle in answer. It was not only her work that had distracted her so thoroughly.

Pushing the thought aside, she focused her attention on Georgie.

“It’s the shipment of pitch, it is.”

“What’s wrong with the pitch?”

Georgie eased his weight from one foot to the other. “Nothing’s wrong with it, ‘cept it's not pitch at all. It’s tar. Fellow that delivered it insists the trouble’s on our end. Said he received a corrected order the day after we sent for it. Won’t take it back.”

“How does your inventory of pitch currently stand?” Michael asked, moving to stand beside Gwen.

Georgie glanced at her, then back to Michael when she nodded. “Not in dire straits. If we place another order today, we should have enough to see the current hulls through while we wait. In truth, we needed the tar anyway with the auction coming. Plus ropes on the dock are a right mess, and riggers are set to dress the lines on both McCurley’s ship and Marlow’s, so I guess it isn’t much of a problem. Only...” he shifted restlessly again. “This is more trouble from that bloke in London that’s been sniffin’ around?”

“Yes, I’m certain it is,” she said. “But you needn’t fret.”

Georgie’s expression cleared instantly. “Aww, no ma’am, I’m not worried. I know you won’t let anyone run us out. We all know it.”

Gwen stepped closer to the young man, returning his smile with one of her own, wishing she felt even a fraction of the confidence Georgie exuded. They’d had a good morning, but it was just one good morning, and identifying potential problems wasn’t the same as fixing them.

“Well, I’ll just…” Georgie backed toward the door. “See that they start work on the ropes then.” His back bumped the handle, then he turned left with a parting wave over his shoulder.

Michael's soft chuckle swept into the silence. “Poor lad’s got it bad. Probably one of a dozen fellows, though—trudging through the gates at day’s end, headed to the Wandering Gull to drink bad ale and write poetry about your hair.”

“My hair?” Gwen turned to face him, stifling a laugh of her own—then froze when her toes bumped his. How had he gotten so close? Her stomach flipped, but she resisted the urge to shift backward a step. “I thought a woman’s eyes were more commonly the subject of verse.”