Full Steam Ahead (9 page)

“Your presence here is disturbing enough in and of itself.”

Had he actually just said that? Darius stifled a groan, praying she’d heed his grouchy demeanor more than the attraction behind it. “Be gone.” He waved dismissively in the air above his head, still keeping his gaze turned away from her. “I have more important things to do than converse with a secretary who seems determined to overstep her bounds.”

She said nothing for a long moment, and Darius had to dig the edge of the boiler plate into his shin in order to keep from stealing a peek at her face. Was she angry? Hurt? He had been rather harsh. Or did her expression register a completely different emotion? Puzzlement, perhaps, or . . . intrigue? That last thought made his stomach tighten.

Probably just hunger.

He was never to know what flittered across her face, if anything, however, for her skirts finally started swishing toward the door.

“Mrs. Wellborn asked me to remind you that the biscuits and beef are best eaten warm,” she said as the door hinges creaked, announcing her departure. “As are the greens, though they were a tad bitter to my taste. Of course,
you
would probably find them most palatable.”

With that, the door clicked closed.

Darius’s head came up at the sound, and he peered at the door as if he could see through it to the woman marching back to the house with fire in every step. A reluctant grin
tugged the corners of his mouth upward. The woman possessed admirable wit. Having her around might be distracting, but it was rather invigorating, as well. Darius’s smile turned downward. All the more reason to keep his distance from her. A man could come to crave . . . invigorating.

H
e’d left her a
note
? Nicole stared at the slip of paper carelessly tossed atop the logbook in the center of Darius Thornton’s desk the following morning. She’d arrived precisely at eight o’clock, ready to receive her instructions for the day, but apparently her new employer couldn’t be bothered with conversing with her in person. No. He’d left her a note.

Miss G—

Transcribe the remainder of this notebook.

—D

So terse. So cold. So . . . begrudging. Did he respect her so little, then? Even after she’d proven herself capable yesterday? Nicole scrunched the slip of paper inside her rapidly closing fist. Why did men have to be such pompous idiots when interacting with female colleagues? Dictating orders instead of sharing ideas, running roughshod over common courtesy.

At least Mr. Thornton’s note wasn’t dripping with condescension. He seemed to expect her to be able to accomplish the task he’d set before her without supervision. She supposed that indicated some level of trust in her competency. Nicole opened her hand and smoothed out the crumpled paper against the flat surface of the desk, then took her seat in the chair. Perhaps she shouldn’t jump to conclusions about the man’s character when he wasn’t there to defend himself. It was entirely possible he simply treated his correspondence with the same negligence he treated his personal habits. No need to take it personally. She should just be thankful she had employment.

Pulling out fresh paper and ink, Nicole set to work. She was halfway through the first page when a percussive roar rattled the desk lamp and shook the floor beneath her feet. She screeched and dropped her pen, ink splatting all over the page as she grabbed for the solid wood of the desk to brace herself.

What on earth . . . ?

A man’s shout echoed outside. Nicole launched out of her chair and ran for the window. Nothing.

Had Mr. Thornton fallen victim to one of his explosions? Nicole spun away from the window and dashed out into the hall. Wellborn, the butler, stood at the base of the stairs, polishing the banister.

“Wellborn!” she called. “What’s happened?”

The man continued polishing, as if deaf.

“Wellborn!” she barked again, coming up beside him.

He finally glanced up. “Oh. Sorry, miss. I didn’t hear you.” He left the polishing rag draped over the balustrade and reached both hands up to his ears. He removed a wad of cotton from each and then smiled at her.

“Was there something you wanted?”

Was there something she wanted? Had he not felt the very earth quake beneath his feet a moment ago? This entire household was mad.

“Your master might be injured. I heard him shout after that horrendous roar.” She grabbed his arm and started tugging him toward the front door. “We must hurry—”

“Easy, miss. There’s no cause for concern.” He gently extricated his sleeve from her grasp, smoothed the fabric, and dragged to a halt. “I take it Mr. Thornton failed to inform you of his schedule?” He shook his head as if answering his own question. “He can be a bit absentminded about things like that. I apologize. I’ll take it upon myself to warn you of future experiments before they occur. You shouldn’t be caught off guard again.”

As if that were the issue.

Wellborn sketched a quick bow, then turned back to his work, completely unconcerned that his master could at that very moment be lying somewhere outside in a mutilated heap, breathing his last. All right, so he probably wasn’t
too
mutilated if he’d been able to shout, but still . . . someone should check on the man. And apparently she was the only resident of sound enough mind to volunteer for the task.

Fine.

With a huff, Nicole gave up on the butler and marched out the front door. She’d start with the workshop and move on from there. Crossing the yard, she swept her gaze from the barn to the workshop, searching for any sign of Mr. Thornton, mutilated or otherwise. Nothing. At least if the man had indeed blown himself up, he’d had the courtesy to do so out of sight of the house. Mrs. Wellborn and Mrs. Graham would no doubt be thankful for that favor.

She stomped toward the workshop, arms swinging, spine stiff. He better not be dead. She needed this position. Needed the wages. How else was she supposed to get to New Orleans and scare up an heir for Renard Shipping? Was his endeavoring to stay alive too much to ask? She’d known the man was a tad eccentric and enjoyed exploding things, but couldn’t he hold off on his destructive hobby long enough to let her collect a round of wages?

A few paces away from the workshop entrance, Nicole paused to examine the structure before storming the castle. As far as she could tell, the roof hadn’t caved in. All four walls were standing. No smoke poured from the windows. The structure appeared to be sound. Bracing herself for what she might find, she strode to the door, flung it open, and stepped inside.

“Mr. Thornton?”

She blinked against the dim interior, her attention drawn to the sunlight streaming around the back door that hung ajar. Tentatively, she started across the room. “Mr. Thornton?”

A grunt echoed from the other side of the door. A low rumble that grew into a lion-esque roar.

Good heavens.
Was the man dying? “Mr. Thornton!” Nicole surged across the remaining distance and pushed the door open with such force it crashed back against the opposite wall as she stepped outside.

“Blast it all, woman! You made me drop it. I could have lost my foot.”

Darius Thornton, perfectly hale and hearty, straightened his posture and stepped away from a thick free-standing log wall that looked as if it had been cut from the side of some poor family’s cabin.

“The thing’s as heavy as a steamer trunk full of lead.”
He glared at her. “What are you doing here, anyway? You’re supposed to be in the study transcribing my notes.”

“I heard the explosion and your shout. I thought you might have been injured.”

Her employer shook his head at her a moment before he rolled his eyes. “God save me from interfering females,” he muttered before turning back to his log wall . . . thing.

“I was perfectly fine,” he called out as he bent to grab the handholds that had been worked into the wood a few feet off the ground, “until you showed up.” He grunted as he strained to lift the heavy piece and began dragging it, the tendons in his neck bulging as he threw his full weight behind the motion.

A set of grooves in the hard-packed dirt beside the workshop indicated where man and wall were heading, and the snake-like trail stretching for several yards behind them demonstrated how far they’d already come. Gracious, the man must be part ox. Unable to stand still and watch another person slave away when she was in a position to lend aid, Nicole darted around to the far side of the logs. She bent her shoulder to the end piece, dug her feet into the dirt, and pushed. The logs picked up speed as they slid over the dirt.

Once the structure was settled where it belonged, she stood back and dusted tiny bits of bark from her sleeve.

“Thanks for helping move the barricade,” her employer groused, little actual gratitude detectable in his voice.

“Barricade?” For the first time, Nicole recognized what she’d helped him move. She gasped and staggered back a step.

The barricade looked like a remnant from the Alamo. Scarred logs. Bark blasted away in more places than not. Deep gouges. But what truly haunted her were the hundreds
of metal scraps embedded so deeply into the logs that no one would have been able to pry them out. The thing looked like a giant pincushion.

Merciful heavens! If an explosion could shoot iron fragments that deeply into a solid log wall, what would it do to the flesh of a man?

“Are you insane?” she blurted. “Why in the world would you do this? It’s a miracle there aren’t bits and pieces of you blasted all over the yard.”

All he did was raise an eyebrow and nod toward the log shield they’d just moved. “That’s what the barricade is for, Miss Greyson.”

She stomped toward him, hands clenched at her sides. “And what if an explosion occurs before you get behind the barricade? What then? Have you no care for your family, your parents? And what of your staff? People depend upon you. You have no right to be so careless. Scientific advancement isn’t worth your life. And that’s exactly what you are risking every time you—”

“I know exactly what I’m risking!” He lunged away from the wall, his face halting mere inches from hers. “And I know exactly what it is worth compared to the thousands of innocent lives that have been sacrificed already to steamboat explosions. Women.
Children
. All dead because the demand to transport more things faster has superseded our understanding of the mechanics we use to accomplish it.

“The more we can learn about what causes these explosions, the better chance we have to create safety measures that will prevent them. That’s why I do this, Miss Greyson. Not to get my name in some scholarly journal. Not for the thrill of brushing close to death. I do it because too many innocents have died for me to stand by and do nothing.”

His vehemence speared her. She couldn’t move, could barely blink. She’d been around shipyards and boats her entire life, and never had she given more than a passing thought to the lives that were taken when accidents occurred on board. She’d read newspaper accounts of riverboat explosions that had injured or killed dozens of passengers and crew, but those people seemed so far removed from her, she’d felt little more than a brief stirring of pity—a stirring that dissipated as soon as she moved on to the next article.

Darius Thornton, on the other hand, read those same accounts and decided to make a difference, to risk his life in the pursuit of knowledge that would change an industry.

It shamed her.

Her employer pivoted away and slapped the heel of his hand against the workshop wall. Nicole followed and laid a hand on his arm. “What can I do to help?”

His chin came around slowly, his gaze resting on her hand a moment before lifting to her face. Passion still blazed in his eyes, but it had faded just enough for her to catch the tortured gleam behind it. He’d been touched by this. Personally. Hadn’t Mrs. Wellborn mentioned an accident? Had Darius Thornton lost a loved one in a steamboat explosion? A family member? A friend? A . . . wife?

He stepped aside, pulling away from her touch. “Just do what I hired you to do. Tidy my notes, check my figures, catch my errors.”

“And assist with your experiments.” She lifted her chin in challenge. If he was going to risk his life in such a noble quest, the least she could do was watch his back in the process. Somebody had to.

Mr. Thornton’s gaze sharpened and once again found her face. “Assist?” He raised a supercilious brow.

Nicole sniffed and crossed her arms. “Honestly, Mr. Thornton. You can’t convert me to your cause, then ban me from participation. It just isn’t done.”

A spark she’d never seen before lit his slate-blue eyes as he said, “And we all know how I hate to flout society’s conventions.” Somehow he managed to say that bit of balderdash with a straight face. He carried it off so well, Nicole couldn’t help but laugh, which finally brought that smile of his out in full force.

Oh dear.
There might be more risk involved in this endeavor than she’d first thought.

T
hree days later, Nicole arrived in the study for her morning transcription instructions, not surprised to see the room void of her employer’s presence. He seemed to have forfeited not only the study for her use, but the entire house. She never saw him—not at meals, nor at the end of the day. As far as she could tell, the man never relaxed, rarely ate, and if he slept, she couldn’t imagine where.

His bed was perfectly made every morning even before Mrs. Wellborn made her rounds—she’d sneaked peeks the past couple mornings before reporting to the study. A man who couldn’t be bothered to straighten his clothing surely wouldn’t take the time to make his own bed. The only logical conclusion, therefore, was that he didn’t sleep in it. Perhaps he’d stashed a cot somewhere in his workshop. Though judging by the clutter she recalled being scattered about the place, there wouldn’t be room to set one up.

Shaking her head at the eccentricities of her absent employer, she grinned a little as she made her way to the desk, where a stack of papers laid waiting for her. Darius Thornton’s
untidy scrawl peered up at her from the note tossed haphazardly atop the pile.

Miss G–

Continue transcribing logbook #1. Should you finish, begin logbook #2.

Confirm calculations and tidy up the diagrams on the schematics to your left.

Report to the workshop at three o’clock.

–D

Nicole blinked. Report to the workshop? The man was actually inviting her into the hallowed sanctum. Remarkable.

A frisson of anticipation buzzed through her. There hadn’t been an explosion in the last three days. Could it be that this invitation to his workshop was actually in response to her offer to help him with his experiments? His silence over the last days had led her to assume he’d decided she’d not be of much use, but perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps Darius Thornton did see more than her skirts when he looked at her. He’d hired her, after all, even though he’d advertised for a man. And he hadn’t fussed at her when she’d helped him move that barricade of his.

The man might be odd, but no one could doubt his practical nature. Perhaps he’d seen enough promise in the work she’d produced to accept her assistance in other areas. Nicole battled a smile and lost. She always had been unable to resist an adventure.

Of course, she still intended to watch Mr. Thornton’s back. Though his intelligence couldn’t be discounted—his research was thorough, his experiments logical, and conclusions sound—the man was too reckless by half.

She supposed the fact he remained alive and in possession of all his limbs after more than a year of experiments should relieve her concerns. Yet oddly enough, she felt more compelled than ever to keep an eye on things. If ever a man needed looking after, it was Darius Thornton.

In the meantime, however, she had schematics to copy.

The morning plodded on at an excruciatingly slow pace. Nicole managed to get the boiler diagrams copied to scale, but she had to constantly wrestle her mind away from thoughts of what might transpire that afternoon. Losing her train of thought for the third time on one of Mr. Thornton’s computations, Nicole tossed her pen down in disgust. At the same moment, the study door creaked open and Mrs. Wellborn toddled in, a basket of cleaning supplies dangling from the crook of her arm.

“Good morning, Miss Greyson,” the housekeeper sang out as she crossed the room to the bookcases. She set her basket on the small table near the armchair. “I hope you don’t mind if I invade your privacy for a little cleaning. I always polish the furniture on Saturdays, and there’s so much wood in this room, I fear I won’t be able to finish it while you’re having lunch.”

Nicole fiddled with the papers on her desk and reclaimed her pen, suddenly feeling guilty over her lack of attention to the task at hand. “Of course I don’t mind.” She dragged a logbook in front of her and dutifully opened it to the last page she’d transcribed. “You won’t bother me.”

At least not any more than she was already bothered.

Several minutes passed in silence, the soft sounds of a skirt rustling and the smells of linseed oil and lemon the only evidence of Mrs. Wellborn’s presence. Then a quiet hum developed, followed by an occasional flourish of the dust
rag, which caught Nicole’s eye. The housekeeper’s white cap bounced up and down in Nicole’s periphery as the cheery woman fairly danced through her chore. It was so infectious, Nicole itched to twirl about the room herself. Instead, she smiled and bent her head over the logbook, trying to concentrate on deciphering another line of her employer’s cryptic handwriting.

“I understand you’ve been taking your lunches down by the pond,” Mrs. Wellborn ventured as her dust rag glided over the bookcase shelves nearest the desk. “It truly is a lovely spot. Arthur and I sometimes take a stroll along the banks in the cool of the evening.”

Her rag paused midstroke, and her gaze fogged over as a sigh escaped her. In a blink, clarity returned and the housekeeper shot Nicole a flirty smile. “He’s been known to steal a kiss under the branches of that big oak, too. You’d never know it to look at him, but my Arthur can be quite the man of passion.”

Nicole giggled, charmed by the idea of the staid butler sharing a passionate embrace with his wife in such a setting. “I can’t imagine a better place for a tryst. It’s a shame I don’t have a beau to share it with.”

The housekeeper’s expression sharpened an instant before the dust rag resumed its fluttering—a fluttering that seemed rather more frantic than necessary. “So you have no young man paying court to you? Hard to believe, as pretty as you are.”

Nicole blushed and became suddenly fascinated with the logbook in front of her. “Not yet,” she said, fingering the pages, “but my father has a few prospects in mind.” Prospects she was supposed to be considering at that moment in New Orleans.

“I’m so glad to hear that your father is involved.” The fluttering converged upon the desk. Nicole circled a protective arm around the schematics. “So many young people these days fail to see the wisdom in arranged marriages.”

“Oh, it won’t be arranged,” Nicole corrected as she carefully stacked the papers into a tidy pile and dragged them a safe distance from the overeager duster. “Papa promised to give me a choice. He just has a few . . . suggestions about where I should start looking.”

“Sounds like a fair compromise.” The dusting flurry ceased as quickly as it had begun. Mrs. Wellborn smiled her cheery smile before turning her attention to a lamp with a smoky chimney. “I wonder if you found someone acceptable on your own if he would approve.”

“If the man were truly acceptable, I don’t see . . .” Nicole’s brow furrowed. Somehow this conversation seemed much less hypothetical than it had a moment ago. “Goodness. Is it really almost noon?” It was actually only 11:35, but the housekeeper couldn’t see the clock face from her position by the lamp, and Nicole decided a liberal definition of
almost
was acceptable in this circumstance.

She pushed to her feet and backed away from the desk. “All this talk about the pond has me itching for a visit. I think I’ll head to the kitchen and see if Mrs. Graham has any leftovers I can pilfer for luncheon.” And escape any further probing questions. The less the people at Oakhaven knew about her, the better it would be for everyone.

“Oh, all right, dear.” The housekeeper waved her rag as if she were a fancy lady waving farewell with a lace handkerchief, but the confusion in her eyes pricked Nicole’s conscience. “Have a nice time.”

She didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Wellborn’s feelings, but neither
did she wish to encourage any matchmaking impulses the woman might be prone to. Especially if those efforts involved a man handsome and noble enough to tempt her heart while being completely unsuitable for taking the helm at Renard Shipping. An obsessed, eccentric, social misfit would be a disaster for her father’s company, no matter how intelligent and driven the man might be. No, she needed to do her job, earn her wages, and get on to New Orleans. Memories of her father’s weakened condition spurred her determination. He was counting on her to find him an heir. She’d not disappoint him.

After collecting her bonnet from her room and thrusting it upon her head with a careless abandon that would no doubt make her disheveled employer proud, Nicole strode into the kitchen, where Mrs. Graham was pulling a pair of Dutch ovens from the coals in the hearth. The cook thumped them onto the worktable and pulled off the lids, releasing the heavenly aroma of fresh-baked bread.

Nicole’s stomach gurgled.

“Bread’s gotta cool.” Mrs. Graham lifted her eyes just enough to let Nicole know she was speaking to her. “If you’re wanting somethin’ to eat, there’s part of yesterday’s loaf in the cupboard. You can take some ham from the skillet, too. I ain’t got around to warmin’ it yet.” Defensiveness edged the cook’s voice, as if she expected a reprimand for not anticipating Nicole’s early lunch plans.

“Cold ham and day-old bread sounds perfectly acceptable, Mrs. Graham. Thank you.” She crossed to the cupboard, found the bread, and began exploring the other occupants resting within its recesses. Lifting the corner of a flour-sack towel, Nicole smiled at the treat she’d uncovered. “Would you mind if I cut off a few slices of this cheese, as well?”

Mrs. Graham shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Nicole gathered her luncheon items, tied them up in a towel, and headed for the back door. Sunshine warmed her face the moment she stepped outdoors, and in that moment her concerns shrunk to a manageable size. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the clean, sweet air. God was good. He’d blessed her with a beautiful spring day and, with it, the reminder that he was in charge. She didn’t have to carry her troubles alone. He would watch over her father’s health, take care of her, and if it fit his plans, lead her to the man who would fulfill both her and Papa’s needs.

Nicole hiked around to the far side of the pond and settled herself on the large exposed root she’d discovered on her first visit. It had just enough curve in it to be comfortable, especially when she leaned back against the oak’s trunk. The natural bench offered a delightful view of the pond. She tore off a piece of her bread and tossed it toward the pair of ducks gliding along the surface. Both birds dove beak first for it, their feathered bottoms popping up at the same moment, stirring a laugh from Nicole.

After whispering a quick word of thanks for her meal and a heartfelt plea for her father’s healing, she relaxed against the tree trunk and ate. The ducks hovered on the edge of the pond, silently pleading for her to share. She obliged, tossing her last two scraps into the water.

“That’s all there is, I’m afraid.” She held up empty hands, then shook out her napkin, scattering the crumbs upon the dirt. A line of ants came to investigate, and she watched the procession carry away the evidence of her lunch. Industrious little bunch. Wonder how far away their home—

A quiet splash broke off her thought.

Nicole jerked her gaze back to the pond but saw nothing—
nothing but ripples spreading out beneath the landing. Someone was in the water.

In a flash, she grabbed her knife from its sheath and jumped to her feet. Dashing behind the tree, she gathered her full skirts tightly against her legs and tucked the excess material between her knees.

Had the Jenkins brothers found her?

She should have known better than to let her guard down. How stupid could she be? Nicole pounded the oak with her fist. She’d grown lax. Let herself feel safe just because Oakhaven sat ten miles from town and rarely entertained visitors. Fool! If Will and Fletcher walked up to the front door and asked for a woman named Nicole, Wellborn would no doubt direct them to the study. Or the pond. Or wherever she happened to be at the time. He had no reason not to.

Peeking around the tree, Nicole frowned. A line of bubbles drew a path across the pond, but no one surfaced. Had it been an animal instead of a man that dove into the pond? It seemed too long for a man to hold his breath. An alligator, maybe? While a gator
would
be preferable to a Jenkins, she’d rather not confront either one.

She stood behind the tree, debating the merits of hiding versus making a run for the house, when all at once the surface of the water shattered and a man shot up from the depths, his chest breaking the plane of the water as he gasped for breath.

He lingered only a moment in the shallows, lifting his face to the sun, eyes closed, dark blond hair slicked back over his head. Water poured off him in rivulets, plastering the white cotton of his shirt against his torso. A smile touched his mouth, serene and unfettered for a blissful heartbeat before his features tightened again in concentration, and he plunged back into the water.

That was no Jenkins.

Nicole braced her weight against the oak’s support, all ability to breathe having fled her body.

He swam on the surface this time, his powerful strokes driving him across the pond as if he had been fitted with one of the new screw propellers her father found so fascinating.

He reached the landing faster than she could have had she run along the path, and once there, he thrust himself out of the water in a long, graceful push onto the platform before stretching out flat on his back to absorb the heat of the sun-soaked wood after what must have been a frigid swim. It was only April, after all.

Nicole withdrew behind the tree, confident now that hiding was her best option. Only she couldn’t hide from the images bombarding her consciousness.
Good heavens,
she thought as she pressed her sagging spine into the tree at her back. Who would have guessed that an overly eccentric, obsessive, mechanical scientist could be such a riveting physical specimen?

And that smile. A sigh eased out of Nicole’s lungs. For an instant, a single moment, Darius Thornton had released his fierce drive to conquer the world’s boiler problems and allowed peace to rest upon his soul. Yes, it had been only a moment.

But in that moment, he’d been glorious.