by Caroline Lee
Secretly, Ember thought it made her look a bit like a salad, but she was pleased Vanessa was distracted.
It was Bonnie who had hugged Ember and asked if everything was alright. Everything wasn’t alright, but Ember had been too embarrassed by her stupidity—how had she not realized Max was Mr. DeVille—to confess. Instead, she’d just accepted the hug and tried not to cry.
Bonnie had seemed to understand. She’d rubbed Ember’s back and whispered, “Whatever happened, I hope ye’re able to find a way past it. I dinnae like seeing ye in so much pain.”
And that’s what made Ember sit herself down and give herself a firm talking-to. She’d obviously lost her chance to find happiness with Max; the man had not only left her father’s workshop when she’d told him to, he’d apparently checked out of the inn completely.
But had she lost her chance with Mr. DeVille? Had she lost her chance to sell him on the idea of producing her shoes?
Well, if she had, there were other factory owners out there who would be willing to take a chance on a revolutionary new style of fashion; she was certain of it. She just needed to produce a few new pairs first, and that meant sneaking back into Oliphant Engraving after everyone had gone home for the night.
Although, was it really sneaking, if the foreman had given her permission?
Ye’re just hoping there’ll be a repeat of the last time ye came after hours to use the lathe, eh?
Frowning, Ember tamped down that stupid thought and stepped toward the big front doors. She was not hoping Max would surprise her, kiss her to within an inch of an orgasm, then sneak away, thankyeverramuch. In fact, she’d even walked around the perimeter of the building first to ensure there were no lights on in his office before she decided to use the heavy machinery.
With a grunt, she managed to get the main door open on her own, glad to see Lawrence hadn’t locked it, having known she’d be by that evening. She’d promised to lock up when she was finished, but for now, she had the entire machine shop to herself.
After lighting the gas lamps, she stepped onto the main floor and inhaled deeply. This wasn’t her special place, but she couldn’t deny that the tang of the oil and the big machines reminded her of happier times, back when Papa would bring her here daily to watch the men work. She was happier upstairs in the engraving studio, where the real art—magic—happened, but that couldn’t happen without what went on down here.
Here on the machine floor is where the plaques were pounded and the receivers were poured and the metal is turned. This was where the burly men build the canvases upon which the devoted artists upstairs could work their magic.
And it never failed to lift her spirits.
Alright, lassie. Ye can do this.
She had the metal in her bag which needed to be turned into heels; she had the scraps of silk from the dressmaker’s shop; and she was prepared to make another set of shoes.
She was ready to create a new future, since she’d botched her first choice at a future with Max.
It took her a little while to get going, but soon she was standing over the lathe, wearing the heavy apron father had always insisted on. She didn’t wear gloves of course because they were dangerous when it came to turning metal. But her hands were callused enough it didn’t matter, and she liked being able to really feel the imperfections in what would become a new heel.
This machine was older than some of the ones used in the big factories near Edinburgh, but she liked it didn’t have to run on steam power alone. Standing here, in front of it, felt as if she were transported to a simpler time. The lathe was loud, but it seemed to block out the rest of the world, and that was soothing in a way. She concentrated on her breathing and on the shape of the metal in front of her, and tried to forget how heartsick she was.
It almost worked.
It seemed like, much too soon, the heel was done. She was in such a peaceful state of mind, Ember almost pushed it further, peeling off another few layers of metal just to prolong this escape from reality, but she made herself stop. One day, she’d experiment with thinner heels, but not today.
Besides, women would look ridiculous toddling around on outrageously tiny heels. They’d catch in the cobblestones, and the ladies would be falling over left and right. Not a good look for business, that.
With a sigh, Ember took her foot off the pump and allowed the lathe to spin slower. The tool bit had done all of the work, but as the spindle slowed, she used a lightly held gouge to check for imperfections.
There were none. She sighed. It was perfect.
She wiped the gouge she’d been using against her apron, then flicked off a few remaining metal splinters and patted it against her opposite palm, watching the heel spin to a stop.
There.
Done.
She tried to feel proud, feel fulfilled. She’d taken the first step toward her new future…so why did she feel so hollow inside?
Because it’s not the future ye want. Not anymore.
Behind her, in the empty silence of the machine shop, someone cleared his throat.
It wasn’t a good moment.
Ember jerked, releasing a little scream, then whirled around, the metal gouge held high as a weapon.
Was she planning on stabbing whoever had interrupted her?
Maybe.
Luckily, Max—because it was Max—realized her intent and stumbled backward, away from her, even as her brain was processing who he was and the fact that—aye, overactive self-preservation instinct—he had a right to be there.
“Whoa!” he called out, as if she were a horse. “Easy there, girl. Lass.”
The gouge still held above her head, Ember froze, breathing heavily. “Did ye just call me a lass?”
His hands were up, palms out, as if to protect himself, but he didn’t move. “Um…yes? Is that alright?”
“Do ye talk to yer horses like that?”
“What?” He shook his head. “Ember, you’re not a horse.”
“I ken that. Do ye ken that?” She was making no sense, and knew it, which was even more embarrassing. “Dinnae talk to me as if I’m a horse.”
“Look, Ember, you almost attacked me with a metal stick-tool thing. I just…reacted.”
Slowly, she lowered her arm. “This is a gouge. I use it to check the metal after it’s been turned on the lathe.”
“Well, from here, it looks like a thick blunt instrument you were planning on braining me with.”
“Och, nay.” She rolled her shoulders and pretended nonchalance as she patted the gouge against her opposite palm again. “This is a stabbin’ tool. For stabbin’.”
“Thank you for clarifying,” he intoned somberly. “I feel much safer now.”
Despite the ache in her chest, her smile flashed at his dry wit.
What are ye doing? He broke yer heart, remember?
But…did he? Or did she break her own heart with that stupid misunderstanding?
Her smile faded. “Are ye here working, Mr. DeVille? I hope I didnae disturb ye again.”
When she’d called him by his last name—on purpose—he’d winced, but she thought she saw a flicker of something warm and telling in those pale brown eyes when she’d reminded him of their last encounter here in the machine shop.
“Actually…” He cleared his throat. “I’m here looking for you. I have something to give you, so I went to the inn after work today. Supper was excellent, but you weren’t there. I cornered your sister, Bonnie, who told me you might be here, so here I am.”
“Here ye are,” she repeated suspiciously, eyeing him. “To give me something?”
“Oh, yeah.” He fumbled for his pocket, pulling his coat aside. “Hold on.”
“Is it my other shoe?” He still hadn’t returned that.
But he looked up and shot a crooked grin her way. “No, I’m keeping that to remind me of the lass I fell in love with, who made it. But it was helpful, you see, in procuring this.”
With a flourish, he presented her with a fold
ed piece of paper.
And Ember could do nothing more than stare at it, struck numb at his casual declaration.
The lass I fell in love with.
Surely…had he meant those words? Hungrily, she switched her gaze to his expression, looking for proof of his sincerity.
And he stared back, looking hopeful. Then he waggled the paper, and she forced herself to move, to reach out and take it. She tried to unfold it but remembered the gouge still in her hand at the last moment and shoved it in the pocket at the front of the apron before she could open the paper fully.
She could read, but this was a bunch of fancy-sounding mumbo jumbo. “Whereas…the holder…hitherto and forever…” She glanced back up at him. “Max, what is this? And why is there a sketch of my shoe?”
He took a deep breath. “It’s a patent application, Ember. It’ll be a while before we hear back, but I wanted to give you something, something meaningful. You designed and made those shoes, and I just know they’re going to be a sensation. If you’re willing to allow Oliphant Engraving to manufacture them, I’d like to offer you a place in the engraver’s studio upstairs. I assume it’ll be a small operation at first, making custom orders—”
Suddenly, Max stopped speaking as he finally took in her shocked expression. He shook his head, then scrubbed a hand over his face as he sighed.
“Sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. I wanted to give you something to tell you—show you—that this is yours. Even if you choose to have the shoes manufactured someplace else, or if you sell the idea entirely, they’re still yours. They represent your future, and once they’re patented under your name, they’ll ensure your future.”
Not quite sure what to think, Ember switched her gaze back to the paper in her hand. “A…patent?”
“The shoes are yours, Ember,” Max declared in a low, fervent tone. “No one can take that from you. No matter what you decide to do with your future, you can take that design patent to any factory owner, and if he’s smart, he’ll understand a fashion sensation when he sees it.”
“And ye…?” In her hand, the patent application crunched as she tightened her grip. “Ye said ye wanted Oliphant Engraving to produce them?” she whispered, hardly daring to hope.
When he stepped toward her, she started, her gaze jerking up to meet his. He hesitated—likely at her response—before glancing briefly at the gouge in the front of her apron, then back up. One corner of his lips curled upward wryly.
“Ember, I would be honored to arrange for you to create your art here. I’ll write up a contract and everything, if it will make you feel more comfortable. And everything will be strictly business.”
Strictly business wasn’t what she wanted. Not from Max.
“Is… Do ye want us to be strictly business?” she whispered, not sure how else to phrase it.
“Hell no!” His breath burst out of him in a harsh huff of laughter, and he reached his hands up. She thought he might be reaching for her at first, but instead, he dragged his hands across the close curls on his head. “No, I don’t want just a business partnership with you, Ember! I want—I want a real partnership!”
Her heart felt as though it was slamming against her ribcage. “A real partnership?”
Dare she hope he might actually…love her? Want a future with her?
“Yes!” Golden passion flared in his eyes, and the muscles in his jaw tightened. “Why shouldn’t I want a partnership with you?”
He still didn’t understand, did he? Her hands shook as she folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her apron. He’d given it to her, after all, and he was right; in many ways, it did represent her future.
But only if she couldn’t have her first choice of futures. One more chance for him to back away, before she grabbed hold with both hands and never let go.
“Because I’m a serving lass, Max,” she whispered to his lapels. “My stepmother might be a lady and put on all sorts of fancy airs, but I’m little more than her slave. I have dreams, aye, but for now…I’m just a serving lass.”
“And I’m a cowboy,” he snapped in return.
Before she could point out his new position, he was the one reaching for her, wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her flush against him. And because she was the one who’d vowed to hold onto him, her hands closed around his lapels, and she surged up on her toes to meet his lips.
Their kiss tasted of hunger, and frustration, and anger—not at each other, but at the world—and need. His lips weren’t gentle, but insistent, and when she welcomed him inside, he groaned against her lips. His hands were pulling, pushing, heightening her desperation, and she moved her hands out of the way so she could press her breasts against his chest.
The omnipresent ache between her legs blossomed into a full-blown yearning, and she pressed her pelvis closer, moving her hips insistently against his hardness. Oh, she knew what that hardness meant, and as he gasped her name, she rejoiced, knowing he was as ready for her as she was for him.
“Ember…”
“Aye,” she groaned, her lips finding the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. “Aye, love?” Her hips pressed desperately against his hardness.
“Ember!”
It wasn’t until he set her away from him that she heard the amusement in his voice. Was he…laughing at her?
“What?” she snapped.
He blew out a breath and winced, breathing heavily and obviously affected by their kiss. “I’m not used to…”
When she raised a brow at him, not sure if she should be embarrassed, he waved a vague hand toward her pelvis. Apparently, she should be embarrassed—thanks to the way she’d reacted to him.
“I’ll no’ apologize,” she declared, lifting her chin in defiance. “Yer kisses make me want…”
She trailed off, not certain if she should admit those things out loud. But to her surprise, he smiled ruefully.
“No, love, not—” Chuckling, he reached for her apron. “It’s this.” He pulled the thick gouge from the leather pocket. “I’m just not used to so much hardness grinding against me.”
Relief burst over Ember so quickly, she couldn’t help the surprised laughter which burst out of her. “I was wondering what I was feeling.”
“Oh, I think you had a pretty good idea of what you were feeling,” he quipped. As he placed the gouge on the workbench to his left, he made a not-so-subtle adjustment to his trousers, wincing.
And she grinned.
But when he turned back, her expression faltered. “Max, I…”
“I want to tell you a story, Ember.” He looked so intense as he reached for her hand. Instinctively, she laid hers in his open palm. “I mean, I want to kiss you again, and then do more things…but before I can talk you into that—”
“Ye dinnae have to talk too hard, Max.”
His grin was fleeting, leaving him looking serious once more. “I like you’re calling me Max again, but yeah, before we take that next step in this partnership, I need to explain something to you. Alright?”
He sounded so somber, and she nodded hesitantly. “Alright, Max,” she whispered.
With a tug at her hand, he led her toward a bench placed along the wall. Mostly it was used to stack up crates and unused tools, but now he nudged her down onto an open space.
This was bad enough he thought she would need to sit?
Would he be joining her?
Apparently not.
Max blew out another breath, scrubbed his hand across his face again, and began to pace. She watched him make it all the way to the lathe, then turn around and come back again, his hands locked behind his back, before she hesitatingly asked, “Max?”
He halted, his legs braced, his weight on his heels, and stared down at her. “I was born a slave, Ember.”
She blinked. A…slave? “Ye mean ye were a drudge? A servant?”
“No.” The shake of his head was almost imperceptible, as if he were throwing off an annoying insect. Or memory. “I was born a slave. M
y father owned a plantation in the southern part of the United States, and slavery wasn’t outlawed yet.”
“I remember,” she whispered in shock. “Yer people fought a war over it, did ye no’?”
“Yes.” This time his chin jerked twice, authoritatively. “When I was born, my father determined I would be a companion for his son—his legitimate son—who was a few years older than me. I lived in his house, and although I wasn’t treated with what I would call kindness, I wasn’t subjected to the same horrors others saw either.”
Ember’s fingers shook as she laced them together in her lap, pushing against the leather of the apron and hearing the crackle of the paper in the pocket. He’d been born a slave?
“But…” She studied his carefully neutral expression. “Yer skin isnae…?”
One of his brows lifted in challenge, as if daring her to continue. “I’m darker than other men. Haven’t you noticed?”
Well, aye, and now that he told her, she saw his close-cropped dark curls in a new light. “I never would’ve thought…”
“No, you wouldn’t. And neither does anyone else. You see, I look enough like my father that there’s never been a question of my parentage, despite the fact he and Roy, Jr. both have blond hair. Under the laws of slavery, a child born to a slave was a slave, regardless of what he or she looked like. My mother was half-white, the daughter of her master at the time. She was very beautiful, and my father took a liking to her. When I was born, I was only one-quarter Negro, but since my mother was a slave—”
“Ye were a slave,” she finished in a whisper. “That’s barbaric.”
“No more so than the entire damn practice of slavery,” he snapped out, and numbly, she nodded in agreement.
A slave. Max—her Max—had been born into a world where he had no rights, no choices. She might’ve thought her role at the inn was exhausting, but at least she had the opportunity to get away from it. She was here at Oliphant Engraving, was she not, trying to better her future.