Page 46

“Fantastic. Another ship analogy.”

A hoarse chuckle drifted through the door: Michael’s. She’d recognise that sound anywhere.

“The point is,” Michael said, “no matter the acquisition, I’ve never cared beyond the immediate return in coin. A year later, a month, every one of those companies could collapse the day after we sell, and I wouldn’t have lost a wink of sleep. Llanelli is different. It feels… nice… knowing that the things I do might actually matter a year from now.”

“You own three companies. Have for years. Maybe try giving a damn about one of those!” There was a beat of silence, then, “Fine. I can see you won’t be swayed until you get this little pet project out of your system.”

“You’re not hearing me, Smythe. I’ve no plans to leave. I wouldn’t anyway with Llanelli as it is.”

Fingers drummed methodically against the desk. “So you plan to remain in Wales until you’re confident in the yard’s stability. You don’t think your wife equal to the task, even with your near limitless funds at her disposal?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Smythe. My wife’s brilliant, with no need of me or my funds.”

“Then why⁠—”

“Because I want to be here to see it happen.” He groaned then, as if the admission had caused him physical pain. “Christ, but this entire conversation feels like digging teeth from my own mouth with a limp twig.”

Gwen had to stifle laughter with her palm.

He was a mess of a man.

No doubt admitting to a genuine interest in both her and the yard had been painful, perhaps even startling, for him. But when she turned it over in her mind, she found she was surprised not by his attachment, but by his willingness to acknowledge it.

“In all honesty, Smythe… I’m considering selling my half of the business. You can find another partner or go it on your own, but… I don’t know. I don’t think this is what I want anymore.”

His voice was wracked with uncertainty, so far from steady that a hard shove in any direction might change his course. Smythe apparently heard it as well—a man more certain of what he didn't want than what he did, and even that was a fragile thing.

“I know you’ve been restless, but is this really what you want? A town where the fish, hauled in nets, outnumber the people who live there? Trussed up to a wife when I’ve scarcely seen you return to the same woman twice? Come now, Michael, this isn’t you.”

Michael’s voice dipped so low that Gwen couldn’t make out his response, no matter that she’d held her breath and all but pressed her ear to the door. What was it she wanted to hear? That he would go? That he would stay?

Both men fell silent for a beat, reloading their metaphorical weapons. Smythe was the first at the ready.

“This is new. A novelty. I know you’ve grown bored with the lack of challenge of late; I’ve known it for some time. Not that disgusting wealth or the pleasure of outwitting arrogant old men could ever grow stale for me, but I’ll concede we are not the same in that way. But if the life you have now—rich in variation, in place, in custom, and in opposition—has grown stagnant, how do you expect to find even the slightest contentment in the certainty of what awaits you here? Decades upon decades of standing down hulls while your wife builds her company to newfound greatness, all while exercising the very muscles you’ve allowed to atrophy.”

Gwen’s breath hitched.

Smythe was right—unequivocally right—and the truth of it struck so sharply she could feel her heart shrink away from it.

She didn’t want to hear Michael’s answer.

Keeping her steps light, she fled to her chambers and shut the door, pressing her back against the heavy wood as if she could lock out Smythe’s irrefutable logic—and, perhaps more importantly, the visceral way her heart had responded to that truth. But there was no escaping a confrontation with herself.

It should have pleased her to know that driving her husband away would be as simple as doing nothing at all. Ironic that she’d spent weeks considering more deliberate methods, never realising how effective her inaction already was against a man who required purpose and challenge to feel alive.

Did she still want him to leave?

She wasn’t sure, which only deepened her agitation at the dawning certainty that if he stayed, his interest in her—and in Llanelli—was very likely to wane.

Even if she softened to him in some ways, asked for the physical intimacy they both craved, surely even that would lose its splendour in time. He was not a man who could find satisfaction in a frivolous existence. Michael would need more… tasks that engaged his restless body as well as his mind. He needed the yard. But even if she could stomach the thought of trusting him with Llanelli, how could the day-to-day workings of one comparatively small shipyard possibly compete with the life he’d led before? How could she ever hope to compete?

Of course she couldn’t. Neither her person nor her yard could rival the world he’d left behind. Eventually, Michael would return to Smythe, or take on some other equally exciting venture. One that carried him far from home and into the arms of women who knew far more about pleasing a man than she ever would.

There had been far too many uncomfortable revelations for one day, and her head was beginning to throb in earnest. Curling up on her bed, she rubbed her temples, willing the pain to recede. It wasn’t long before the weight of the day finally pulled her into sleep.

A knock sounded at the door. Gwen blinked against the dull ache in her head, trying to make sense of the room. Had she slept long? A glance toward the window showed that little time had passed.

“Gwen?”