Lucky's Lady (The Caversham Chronicles Book 4) Read online

"Yes," she replied. "He doesn't tolerate the midday heat very well at his age so keeps morning hours, returning home around noon. If you would rather speak directly with him, he is usually here around seven a.m. We tend to get more work done in the office early in the day when it is cooler. In the afternoon, you can usually find me out in the yard where the breeze off the bay makes the outdoors more bearable."

  Lucky nodded. What had come over him? He'd been confident in his skills to bed her only a moment ago, and now.... He cleared his throat, nervous that his next words might offend her, but he'd never encountered a woman–a young woman–in such a position of leadership in a male-dominated business such as this. "Mrs. Watkins, I'll be frank with you. I have never done business of this magnitude with a woman."

  "Not many men have," she said setting aside the pencil and lifting her tired gaze to his. She must have recognized his hesitation. "And you are not the first to have this reaction, but I assure you I am quite competent in what I do." She pointed at the wall of windows beside them. "Each one of those ships out there in that yard was designed by me, and built by the men who work for my husband's shipyard. There are twenty-eight vessels of my design currently sailing the world. I might be relatively young, but I am more current in the mechanic arts as it applies to naval architecture, and the engineering of composite materials than most men currently designing clippers. If you would like references I can give you the names of boats and their owners. Some of whom still do not know a woman designed their ship." She stared straight into his eyes and said, "But you know the most famous of my designs rather well, don't you captain? One day you'll have to tell me how you did it. How you beat Captain McKim."

  Lucky felt he was surely gaping at her, unaccustomed to such dialog coming from a woman. He didn't want to be rude to the woman, but even she admitted this situation was quite unusual.

  She lifted the pencil again, and rolled it between her hands. "Now, what is it you are looking for, Captain? You mentioned custom work."

  "Yes." He cleared his throat and noticed a spark of interest rise in her expression when she glanced up at him. "My partner and I are looking for new builds. Two of them."

  She smiled. "That is my specialty. If it relieves your concerns, all business related to the transfer of funds and signing of contracts, will be handled through my husband, our firm's legal counsel, and our accountant here at Watkins Shipyard."

  "Good," he replied, relieved she'd not been offended by his statement.

  She was very much professional and all business as she said, "I'd like to know what you need. What do you want in a boat? What size, type, number of masts, cargo hold, guns, cabins, construction? I engineer the design according to what your needs and desires are." Astonished at hearing her speak, Lucky did not interrupt her, as he was eager to hear what she had to say.

  Mrs. Watkins confidently leaned back in her husband's too-big chair, her elbows resting on the armrests which pulled the material of her shirt tight across her slight bosom. "Here at Watkins, we craft solid wood hulls of oak, cedar or cypress, all of which is prevalent in these parts. We then sheath the hull in a fifty-fifty copper and zinc alloy, to reduce the speed of erosion. We clad on top a layer of tar one-quarter of an inch thick. The plate is up to twenty-four inches above the load waterline at aft and amid, graduating up to thirty-six inches above at the bow. All logs are milled and seasoned here on site. We have our own loggers, blacksmiths, fitters, and coopers."

  His mouth went dry and he was unable to peel his gaze away from her face as she spoke. This fascinating woman was talking to him of ship construction. At home, talk of this sort was usually left for the company of men. How on earth had she received the education necessary to do something only the brightest of men in the world could do? Still dumbfounded, he shook his head. "I'm going to admit to being knocked off kilter with your questions. I hadn't prepared myself to discuss these things with a... a woman, and..." He felt a bit sheepish, and uncomfortable. "I don't mean to offend you."

  She grinned at him again. A full, true smile. Her teeth were white and mostly straight and she had two dimples, not just the adorable one on the left. She was truly enchanting and vibrant, not milky-white, or rouged. This young woman radiated beauty from within, and it caused his heart to skip a beat, maybe two, even though she was married. "None taken, I assure you. If it would make you feel better, I can have my draftsman, Mr. Andrew Nawton, come in and take notes with us."

  "No," he began, then cleared his throat, still a bit nervous as he glanced out to the drafting table beyond the open door. "This is fine." Lucky reached into the file folder and handed Mrs. Watkins their specification sheet. "The top half—" he motioned to the upper portion of the sheet, "has our requirements. Where this section—" he pointed below that, "is a wish list, of sorts. If they are possible, we'd like to see them done also." He pushed the pages across the desktop to her.

  Mrs. Watkins scanned the pages and began to make notes. "We can do single tree masts, though I recommend composite—especially for the main and fore—simply because of the size." She looked up at him with luminous, golden-brown eyes and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth preventing him from replying. He had to get over this fascination with her, especially if they were to conduct business. He didn't want to offend the woman's husband. "But we can discuss that later," she added through her smile, before she turned her attention back to the sheet in front of her and continued to scribble her notes. She looked up at him again. "One hundred eighty-five feet is lengthy," she said. "Depending on how she's sparred, it could appear too long, or visually unbalanced. What's your cargo?"

  "Tea," he replied. "And perhaps other cargo, eventually."

  "Human cargo?" Their eyes met and he understood her meaning.

  "Never." He tried not to sound too judgmental. He knew slavery was an accepted practice in the States. Even though he didn't agree with it, he didn't want to offend the potential shipbuilder for his business.

  She exhaled a deeply held breath and relaxed her shoulders, which told Lucky exactly where she stood on the issue. And thankfully they were of one mind.

  "Good. I don't think my conscience would allow me to build for the slave trade," she replied and continued asking him questions and making notes. "What is your timeline for delivery? We are about to have a slot open for a new build. Though only one right now, as we're soon to have Carolina floated. Ajax is the nearly completed boat at the dock, her owner is expected at the first of the month for transfer of ownership. At the moment, construction is running ten to twelve months, and I don't foresee it getting any faster as my yard is fully utilized right now."

  Lucky could only nod his head in agreement, still a bit unbalanced by the whole discourse. They continued their discussion on specifications and requested items, closing with Mrs. Watkins asking for a few days to sketch something he might like. Lucky, again, could only agree, so dumbstruck and fascinated by this intelligent wisp of a young woman.

  "Please, come by tomorrow morning. Say, around eight. I will make sure Mr. Watkins is here. I'm certain he would love to hear how Hamish's son fares." She backed the chair away and stood. When she reached out with her ungloved right hand, intending for him to shake it, Lucky stared at it for a moment. At home, a young lady was never so forward as to offer her hand to a gentleman she did not know, much less an ungloved hand. It felt as though he'd entered a strange land with strange customs and courtesies. But rather than offend her, as she might be designing his and Ian's new tea clippers, he reached out and took it, holding it lightly between his thumb and fingers.

  The heat radiating up his arm from their touch jolted him, and his body reacted in ways he'd never experienced. He'd been with many women intimately, but this was a feeling beyond anything he'd ever known or felt. A warm tremor moved through him, finally settling low in his abdomen.

  Before meeting Mrs. Watkins, the women he'd had affairs with never interested him long enough to want anything beyond a quick, mutually satisfying romp in the she
ets. He'd never had a mistress because of his business, though he was known to visit only the finest establishments with the most-skilled courtesans his connections could afford him.

  Never had he met a woman and instantly... craved.

  He looked down at the tiny hand in his, which was far easier than looking into the depths of her amber-colored eyes, or focusing on her luscious pink lips. And he craved her like he had no other.

  He found his tongue and thanked her for her time and promised to return in the morning. Feeling the room closing in on them, he realized that he'd completely forgotten that there was another man in the antechamber and at least two others in offices nearby. She'd made him forget the world outside this room so much that he could have easily reached down and kissed another man's wife. And while he'd enjoyed the favors of more than a few willing wives over the years, he always had to know beforehand if the woman was in a certain type of relationship with her husband. The last thing he wanted was some lovesick spouse calling him out.

  When it came to dallying with married women, the other rule he kept was never dallying with the wives of friends. And he hoped to hell Watkins wasn't a likable chap, because Lucky definitely had to watch himself where Mrs. Watkins—Mary Watkins—was concerned. He wanted the red-headed beauty in the worst way. Right now he felt the need for a cold swim, and as water cold enough to subdue his rising ardor wasn't likely to be found around here, a confessional and penance might do the trick.

  Once he exited the building, he walked briskly toward town intending to find a confessor.

  Mary-Michael closed the door to her husband's office and plopped into his over-stuffed leather chair. Her nerves still rattled from the man's touch. How had she maintained her calm business-like demeanor when all she wanted was to melt into a puddle of muck at the man's feet? Thinking on it, she decided that the way he held himself, the way he spoke, dressed, and walked all contributed to the air of confidence that intrigued and aroused her. All of it together made him so... captivating.

  And then he touched her. Yes, she'd held her hand out first to shake his, so theoretically, she'd encouraged his touch, but oh, heaven–Mary-Michael smiled in the empty room. That was forward!

  At one point she felt as though she might lose his interest, just as she had on many occasions in the past when a potential customer discovered M. Michael Watkins was not a male, but she quickly touted her credentials and areas of study she'd focused on when learning this trade, all so as not to lose this possible sale. She knew Mr. Watkins would be proud.

  Laying her head on her crossed arms on top of the desk, she heaved a deep, trembling sigh. God help her. This was not good. What was his name again, this friend of Ian Ross? He had a British accent, but his surname wasn't English. Was it Spanish or Italian? Portuguese perhaps? She sighed as she recalled his image. He had an exotic appearance, with a swarthy, olive-skinned complexion and head full of shaggy, wavy hair. His strong square jawline and chin bore a smattering of stubble, as though he'd not shaved recently. Instead of making him appear unkempt and disgusting, it had the opposite effect on her. He appeared rakishly handsome in his finely tailored and starched white shirt, form-fitting buff-colored breeches and high black leather boots polished to a near mirror-shine–unlike her own scuffed black work boots.

  The man also wore no coat, likely because of the unseasonably warm weather, but she felt sure that if he had, it would be of the same superior quality as his breeches and linen shirt. And under all that fine clothing, he looked to be well-muscled and very fit, telling Mary-Michael that he obviously spent his days working right alongside his crew.

  She sat up and stared out the open windows into the busy shipyard, and recalled the full lips that had captured her gaze more than once. Mary-Michael had had to force herself not to let it linger there, for he could easily have suspected she was a woman of loose morals had he caught her. This business was hard enough for a man. The only credibility she had—and she fully recognized this—was in her marriage to her husband, one of the finest shipbuilders on the eastern seaboard. And she realized that she only had a short time remaining to establish herself before he passed away, and she would be left on her own. Which is why she could never have her reputation called into question. Ever. Not if she intended to keep and run Watkins Shipbuilding after Mr. Watkins' passing.

  Though she might not remember the man's name, she certainly remembered his look. And the one time he smiled fully, she got a glimpse of even white upper teeth, with the lower ones just slightly, endearingly crooked. It didn't detract from his looks at all and was perhaps the tiniest of imperfections in the most perfect specimen of man she'd ever seen in her life. Oh, and his eyes... Surely his dark brown eyes could see into her soul, witnessing all the conflicted emotion his presence created within her. Something that had never existed until he arrived. The man was unnerving and quite simply beautiful. She could think of no other word to describe him but beautiful.

  Suddenly, the project her husband mentioned a few days earlier was now forefront in her mind. Mary-Michael now had to reconcile the morality of it against the reality. She was a married woman with a husband who couldn't give her what she so desperately wanted, because that wasn't the kind of marriage they had. And she was not willing to attempt adoption again—especially after the pain of having what was very nearly her son and daughter taken from her as they cried out for her with outstretched arms. To this very day she still cried about it, only now it wasn't several times a day. It wasn't even every day. But all she had to do was think about them and the tears welled.

  She forced herself to change her thoughts to something more pleasant, and the image of the ruggedly handsome captain came to mind. And she thought about what her husband had recently proposed to help her achieve this one last dream before his death. If she gave birth to a son, she and her husband would have an heir for the shipyard.

  But she had to conceive this child first.

  Flustered with all these emotions, and unable to think clearly about work, Mary-Michael stood and collected her light jacket, ready to call an end to the long day. As she left the office, she said goodnight to Andrew, asking him to lock up on his way out. She walked through the long hallway, lined with framed drawings of the most prominent vessels her husband's shipyard had built over the thirty years he'd been in business. She wanted to draw something on par with Olympia or Mermaid for this client. A vessel sleek and fast, able to cut through the waves and fly with wind.

  Wending her way into the shipyard stable, she saw her driver busy hammering a shoe to the horse's hoof and changed her mind. "Victor, I think I shall walk home this evening. I could use the exercise." Not to mention the time to think on what she'd now tell her husband about the visitor and what he wanted. She also needed to reconcile these errant emotions which were sure to get her into trouble if anyone noticed.

  "It's not safe for a young woman such as yourself to go walkin' through these streets near the docks." Victor, Mr. Watkins' servant for longer than she's been alive, started his usual rant about her walking. "One never knows what mischief lies around a corner out there now-days." He set the horse's foot down and looked at the four to check them for balance. "If you'd give me a few minutes, I'll have the ol' girl between the shafts in no time, and get ya home safe soon enough."

  Mary-Michael leaned against a post and watched as he picked the hoof up again and removed the temporary nail holding the shoe, took the file from his back pocket and began to rasp more hoof away.

  "Besides, I wasn't expectin' ya to leave early today."

  "It's not early, Victor. Why, it's almost time for dinner. Besides, you know walking helps me clear my head after a busy day. We have a potential new client and I want to think about some designs from the notes I took during the meeting. He'll be coming back tomorrow morning to meet with Mr. Watkins."

  "At least get one of the lads from the Dutchman's crew to walk wit' ya. You know Mr. Watkins don' want you walkin' alone with that lawman pesterin' you."
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br />   Mary-Michael began the trek through the yard toward the street. "He can't hurt me, Victor. I can out-run him if I had to." She held up a hand to wave at him as she kept walking. "See you at the house," she said, calling back at Victor.

  Once through the yard, it was only a short eight blocks to the house she shared with Mr. Watkins, and their servants, Victor and his wife Sally. She could run the distance in less than ten minutes, but a nice leisurely walk through the wharf business area wasn't as bad as people often thought it was. For certain there were the shady types, the drunken rogues who hung around the alleyways near the pubs waiting for their doors to open, though the constable kept most of them in line. But for the most part, people down here were hard-working, church-going people. She should know, this was where she'd grown up. Now every day she passed the dry goods store she once lived above as a child before the fever took her parents, leaving her and her brother George orphaned. This was her home. She'd never left Indian Point in her life, except to visit Mr. Watkins' farm several times a year. Her community wasn't as bad as Victor always made it out to be.

  The houses on Washington Street weren't like the houses further in town with lots of extra rooms for visitors. Most of these modest homes belonged to tradesmen and their families, and thus were on the small side. Though the home she shared with Mr. Watkins was one of the larger of these, it wasn't by much. Mr. Watkins had added onto the house when his first wife Abigail had been with child, so this house had four bedrooms, where most had two or three. He'd also turned one of the two downstairs sitting rooms into a study for himself not long after that first wife passed away trying to deliver their babe. Mary-Michael had spent many hours in that study reading educational tomes from Mr. Watkins' vast collection.

  She crossed her front porch, relishing the tiny bit of evening breeze they caught up here on the slight knoll over-looking the bay, and pushed open the door. "I'm home, Sally," she called out as she went down the hallway looking for Mr. Watkins in his study. She tossed her jacket on the banister rail and heard Sally acknowledge her from out in the kitchen. "I walked, so Victor will be along soon. He was nailing a shoe on Buttercup when I left. She must have lost it when Victor brought Mr. Watkins home at noon." She knocked softly on her husband's office door, and after getting no reply, she thought perhaps he was asleep. Cautiously pushing the door open, she discovered she was right. The gray-haired old man sat in his favorite wing chair in the corner, holding the evening paper, sound asleep.