Page 32

THREE WEEKS LATER

Gwen

Gwen was tucked between two partially constructed schooners, picking oakum when Harry discovered her. The teased fibers were gathered in a soft heap at her left, the unworked rope at her right. The task was quiet and tedious, but just difficult enough to keep her focused on her hands. It was precisely what she needed this morning. Useful work. Comforting in its familiarity. Later the fibers would be hammered between seams to create a waterproof seal. The oakum left her fingers rough and dark with tar, and a few stubborn fibers had caught beneath her nails.

“Aren’t you meant to be getting married?” Harry pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, then assessed her growing pile. “Not that I oppose this particular strategy for driving him off. Scoundrel deserves a bride whose hands reek of tar and brine.”

“I’m not punishing him if that’s what you think. That’s far too labour intensive, and he doesn’t deserve that much of my energy. I’ve simply decided it’s best if I forget he exists.”

She coaxed another thread free and laid it atop the growing pile.

“I see.” Harry tugged a crate closer, then sat down beside her with a thoughtful hum that turned into a groan as his knees bent. “That may prove difficult once you have to share your chambers with the man.”

Gwen resisted the urge to scowl, offering up her most unconcerned shrug instead. “Not really. I managed well enough when it was Walter. Men don’t require much in the way of participation in bed.”

Gwen could feel his disbelief pouring off in waves. Determinedly, she doubled down on her oakum.

“Perhaps that was true of Walter,” he said, pausing as if to choose his words carefully, “but Lord Michael strikes me as the sort of man who’ll expect rather more of your attention. Although, to your point, he’s managed well with you flat ignoring him these last weeks.”

Her fingers halted of their own volition, then picked up again. “I’ve not ignored him.”

Harry chuckled, that warm, rough sound easing the knot in her stomach, just a little. “Course you haven't. ‘Yes, please, and no, thank you’. Very polite.”

Tossing down the rope, she looked at Harry. “Surely you’re not siding with the man? He lied to me… lied to all of us. Forced me into marriage. Frankly, he doesn’t deserve the please or thank you.”

Harry’s lips pressed together in a grim line. “The fires of hell would run cold afore I took that man’s side over the likes of yours. Hell, I still say you should send him on the first ship out of Wales. Better yet, shove him off in a leaky rowboat with a stick to paddle. I’ve money enough put away, the other lads too… We could cover Walter’s debts and get by for a while. You don’t have to do this, cariad.”

She’d heard all this before, knew he’d said it again for his peace of mind as much for hers.

“But…” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “If you are set on marrying him… walk a careful line, for my sake if nothing else. A man like him… there’s no telling what he’ll do if you cross him.”

An unexpected laugh broke free. “Are you warning me to be more biddable, Harry?”

“No… well, not exactly.” He planted his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair. “I just worry for you is all.”

“Lord Michael won’t hurt me, Harry. Not with his hands, anyway. He has too many other resources at his disposal to stoop to violence.”

He nodded his agreement, but still looked every bit as miserable as she felt. “Doesn’t make me feel any better, cariad. There are plenty of ways to make a woman’s life miserable if he decides his wife needs reminding of her place. Your da was one of the gentlest men I ever knew, and even he found himself at his wits end with you more than once.”

Gwen patted the toe of Harry’s boot. “Try not to worry, Harry. I’m not exactly lacking in resources either. Just this morning, Sam offered to drown him in the Bristol Channel.”

“You should have taken him up on it. I doubt very much he was jesting,” Harry mumbled.

“Well, Sam can’t very well drown him now; Michael’s family arrived this morning. I’m guessing that lot could cause a fair amount of trouble for us if we were to kill off one of their own. ”

Harry snuffed a laugh. “I hear Mrs Phillips charged Lord Gabriel sixteen pounds for a fortnight’s lodging. God only knows what the rest of the town’ll demand in return for their hospitality. The man’ll be flat broke by the time he returns to England.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Gwen turned back to her oakum but a moment later, something in the stiffening of Harry’s shoulders brought Gwen’s head up. Wind-blown, and wickedly handsome, Michael meandered down the slipway, effortlessly avoiding the coils of rope and scattered timber, as if it were all part of some well practiced English dance. He wore his usual wool overcoat, but beneath it, he’d dressed for the occasion. His topcoat was of dark, heavy cloth, the collar pressed sharply against his neck. Beneath it, a walnut brown waistcoat hugged his torso, the golden thread catching the afternoon sun with every step. An almost unnaturally white cravat framed his throat, held in place by a ruby stickpin that likely could have paid off Walter’s debts, with enough left over to buy a round of ale for every man who worked at the yard.

His clothes were very like the sort he’d worn when first he’d arrived. It was a small mercy. Gwen found it easier to remain cold and remote with this man—a man who looked nothing at all like her Michael.

After a moment, Michael glanced meaningfully at Harry, who in turn, didn’t budge.

“May I have a word with my bride-to-be?”

“She’s just there, she is.”