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Michael shrugged. “Your eyes are adequate, but no sane man is going to write poetry about them when that hair of yours practically begs for a dramatic metaphor.” He caught the tip of her plait between finger and thumb, then gave it a playful tug.

Attempting to summon more irritation than she felt, Gwen pulled her hair from between his fingers and stepped back, but if anything, her narrowed eyes seemed to amuse him further. Turning, she snatched her coat from the peg.

“Speaking of McCurley’s ship, we received a letter with some last-minute adjustments to his plans. Apparently he’s decided the placement of the binnacle on the quarterdeck is poorly positioned for visibility. I should see to that before they get any further. If you will excuse me.”

Shutting the door behind her, Gwen set off for the docks, the cool autumn wind rattling the last stubborn leaves still clinging to the trees beyond the yard. It did little to cool the warmth in her cheeks.

CHAPTER 6

Michael

Michael settled himself in Gwen’s chair, then reached for the lowest desk drawer and the paperwork he’d briefly scanned before casting it aside as yet more irrelevant proof of Walter’s mismanagement.

One by one, Michael laid out the correspondence from the East India Company by order of date, with the final contract—and the subsequent letter declaring it void—on top. He drummed his fingers on the desk, glaring at the wreckage of squandered opportunities.

A contract like this: three ships to start, the first to be completed within fifteen months, then, assuming she passed survey, two more at twelve-month intervals. It was nothing to scoff at. There was even a provision for additional vessels to be ordered within the same agreed upon term, provided the yard could sustain the rate of construction. It would have been a tremendous boon for the Llanelli. The late Walter, lazy wastrel that he was, had broken good faith with the East India Company before the first keel had been laid. The ruined potential, the loss of income—it was enough to make Michael’s stomach turn. Had the proposition arrived just six months later with Gwen at the helm, Llanelli would be flush with cash, flooded by competing contracts as word of their partnership with the East India Company spread. Managed correctly, she would never have had to worry about the yard’s solvency again.

He stared sightlessly down at the papers.

None of this mattered. What was done was done, and their resulting spiral into debt had, in truth, served Michael’s purposes rather well. It was only that… well… it would be interesting to see how she would manage a deal like this one. Would she expand her workforce, capitalize on the opportunity even though, in every conversation they’d had, she’d treated the prospect of progress as if it were poison to the traditions they’d built the company upon? After all, it was easy to balk at change when one was not staring down the barrel of a massively lucrative, downright transformative contract for the yard. God, but he wanted to know. And it wouldn’t really interfere with his purchase of the yard, not in any meaningful way. She wouldn’t have the funds fast enough to impact his plans. It would simply appease his need to know more about her.

He thought back to when she’d been nothing more than a faceless rival across the Bristol Channel. Even then, she’d intrigued him. Each time he broke the seal on another of her provoking replies, she’d claimed a little more space in his head, his curiosity growing harder to satisfy. He’d wanted… almost needed… to see her for himself. To watch her pick apart the knots he’d tied and discover just how many times she might thwart him before he finally managed to win.

Only somewhere along the way, the game had become rather more absorbing than it had any right to be. And now that the faceless rival had become Gwen… well, he found himself increasingly preoccupied with testing the limits of what she could do. Since laying eyes on this damned botched agreement, Michael couldn’t seem to stop imagining the sort of windfall she might make of an opportunity like this. He’d watched her wring every possible advantage from the obstacles he’d shoved in her path. What might she do if, just once, fortune handed her something useful? Would she take risks or, when the time for boldness arrived, would she shrink beneath the potential for loss?

It seemed a shame to deprive himself of the chance to find out.

Those tantalising questions became nearly irresistible when he noticed the name scrawled at the bottom of the paper.

Secretary to the Marine Board: Lionel Blackwood.

Long-stop on his Oxford cricket team, Lionel Blackwood, and one of the few men Michael considered a friend.

It would be effortless. A single line from Michael and Lionel would be halfway to Wales before the ink dried on the parchment.

After that, Gwen would do the rest.

His lids drifted closed as he imagined her face when she read Lionel’s letter. She would be incandescent with hope. Christ, he could see it. Those lovely eyes going wide, her mind already racing ahead to everything she might make of the opportunity.

His heart kicked hard at the thought. Michael reached for the quill.

Twenty minutes later, he’d composed a letter—the first half, a rebuttal to Lionel’s last correspondence, in which he had filled nearly a full page railing against the growing popularity of round-arm bowling. In the final lines, he mentioned his newest connection with the owner of Llanelli, and included a recommendation that Lionel revisit the possibility of a partnership with the yard. He’d only just secured the paperwork back into the drawer when Gwen came racing through the door, pink cheeked and breathless.

Michael leapt to his feet, but before he could express concern, her face split into a wide smile.

“Sam’s finished his first yawl ahead of schedule. Squiffy’s ready for her first run.”

“Who is Sam? And, more importantly, what possessed him to name a boat Squiffy?”

“He’s an apprentice; it’s his first ship, start to finish, so…” She waved an impatient hand. “Come on. I’ll tell you on the way.”

When Michael didn’t move quickly enough, she sighed and circled behind him to prod his back.

Chuckling, he turned to swat her offending fingers away. “Kindly stop poking me, Madam. I need my coat.”

With a huff, she waited for him to grab his greatcoat from the peg, then resumed her attempts to shove him out the door the moment he slid his first arm through the hole.

They stepped outside and Michael had to squint against the sudden glare of a cloudless sky.