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He unrolled a bolt of cloth to check for mold and signs of dampness, but his thoughts could not have been further from the task at hand.

The previous evening had been the first in which they’d not made love. Or rather, the first time he had not brought Gwen to completion before sleep claimed him. He’d meant to, of course. The last traces of her headache had vanished before dinner, but somehow they’d ended up on the floor beside the hearth, drifting from one conversation to the next. His childhood, her dreams for Llanelli—he honestly could not recount every topic they’d touched upon, only that she’d made him laugh, made him think, and left him feeling things he’d never thought to examine before. Somewhere in the midst of a tale about a failed childhood attempt at baking biscuits, Michael had drifted off to sleep.

He’d have to apologize for missing the ending. The story hadn’t been remotely dull; he’d just been so terribly comfortable. Hours later, Michael had awoken on the floor, chased from sleep by the cold after Gwen had absconded with every last blanket, leaving him chilled to the bone but helplessly charmed by the sight of her burrowed beneath them like a little dormouse. After carrying her to bed, he’d reclaimed his share of the blankets, only to climb back out a few minutes later and tuck an extra quilt around her. Not that it mattered, because before he’d even managed to fall asleep again, she’d somehow reclaimed them again, leaving him no recourse but to draw her body atop his. She’d made a small, contented sound when he’d pulled her close, then tucked her face into the crook of his neck.

His last thought, before sleep took him, was that he’d sacrifice damn near anything for Gwen to be exactly there when he woke, because he could not imagine a more wonderful way to begin his day.

As he prepared to hand off the next roll of sailcloth to the pair of men waiting beside him, one man’s gaze lingered briefly on the uneven edge of the cloth. Following it, Michael noticed the crooked layers he’d made. With a muttered curse, he unrolled part of the bolt, straightened the layers, then hoisted his end and handed it over.

So much for choosing a mindless task he couldn’t possibly botch.

Last night had been different, he reassured himself for what felt like the hundredth time; he hadn’t imagined her ready smiles or the way she’d welcomed his touch.

Except Lionel wouldn’t be far behind his correspondence, and no matter how silent Michael remained during their negotiations, his very presence would remind Gwen of her anger. He had to use every minute of the coming days to his advantage. Perhaps he could coax her into a picnic with his family? Surrounding Gwen with people who actually liked Michael was bound to have a positive effect on her opinion of him. Despite being largely ignored on his visit, Gabriel had stubbornly refused to set a date for his return to Devonshire, insisting only that his presence, for the moment, was needed here more than home with his eldest children. From that, Michael could only deduce that his brother had reached the very same conclusion as he, and would be only too happy to sprinkle a few carefully curated anecdotes over the course of his time with Gwen.

And damn it all, he’d mucked up another cloth roll.

Ready to concede defeat and make his excuses, Michael looked up as a familiar figure appeared in the warehouse doorway.

Lionel Blackwood.

Here. Today.

Pausing, his friend took a hasty step backwards, then grinned.

“Anson! By God, that is you! Didn’t expect to find you here by the docks. I was just looking for the office.”

Even in travel clothes, Lionel stood out as an entity that did not belong in a shipyard. Michael noticed his own bare neck and head by contrast, the looser fitting britches he’d adopted when ease of movement had become more important than the latest style and realised, with something like pleasure, that he could easily be mistaken for just another working class Welshman.

“I didn’t expect to see you at all.” Michael dusted off his hands, then crossed to greet his friend properly. “Not for another week, at least. Your correspondence barely preceded you.”

He retrieved the greatcoat he’d long since shed and stepped out into the meager afternoon light. While he would have preferred to attribute the swiftness of his pulse to the pleasure of seeing his friend again, he knew it for the apprehension it was.

“Couldn’t be helped.” Lionel said, falling in beside Michael. “I was meant to inspect a yard near Bristol but Influenza’s running rampant at the moment so I had to adjust my schedule. It’s good to see you, old chap. You’re looking…” Lionel’s gaze slid from Michael’s sweat-dampened shirt to his scuffed boots, and his grin widened. “Robust.”

Michael raised a brow.

“It’s a compliment,” Lionel exclaimed. “Truly! I quite like this look you’ve adopted.”

“Really? Curious. In my experience, a genuine compliment is usually recognizable without annotation.”

Lionel ignored him. “I bet the ladies find your enigmatic temperament irresistible when paired with the muscles and sweat-soaked wardrobe you’ve cultivated. It’s got something to do with animal magnetism, I think. Four children later, and my wife still shows a considerable amount of interest when I return home from a day’s fishing, filthy and pink from the sun.”

“I absolutely do not wish to know these things about Jessica.”

Lionel smirked. “You should be taking notes, my friend. One day you’ll settle down and, mark my words, you’ll be begging for advice from every happily married man of your acquaintance.”

“I married a fortnight ago and, miraculously, still maintain the belief that there are some details about a friend’s marriage better left unsaid.”

Lionel stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening. “You did what? Are you saying that you’ve gone and married without so much as mentioning the possibility when last you wrote? You filled an entire bloody paragraph with rebuttals about rugby bowling, then another about some Welshwoman’s shipyard, and you couldn’t find the space to mention you’ve fallen in love? What the hell is wrong with you, man? No, truly, it’s not a rhetorical question. I actually want to know what damage was done to that head of yours as a lad to make you believe this was not worth mentioning to the man who is perhaps your only actual friend!”

“Oh, would you stop? It isn’t like that. Not precisely anyway. And, for the record, I have plenty of friends.”

“You and your Goddamned need for precision.” Lionel grumbled in the fondly exasperated tone he so often adopted in his conversations with Michael. “If love is not the only conceivable force powerful enough to drive a man away from wealth, privilege and endless opportunity to a remote corner of Wales, where he spends his days toiling in a shipyard and smelling faintly of fish, then kindly explain what else could possibly account for it.”

Biting back the urge to correct Lionel’s assumptions about the life he’d left behind, Michael let out a quiet breath.

“Alright,” Lional said, more gently, “let’s begin with something easy. What’s her name?”