The barricade was heavy, and her end dragged much closer to the ground than the side Darius—Mr. Thornton—carried. By the time they reached the groove indicating where the thing was to sit, her arms burned.
A tiny grunt escaped her as she dropped her end. A masculine version echoed beside her at the same time, making her feel better. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who’d struggled under the weight of the barricade.
“Thanks for the help,” her employer remarked as she turned to face him. “It usually takes me twice as long to move it on my own.”
“Glad to lend a hand.” Nicole glanced back toward the workshop. “Will you need assistance with the boilers, as well?”
“I can manage those on my own, but we’ll need two wheelbarrow loads of wood to fuel the fireboxes. There’s a barrow out by the woodshed. If you would start loading it while I move the boilers down to the pond, that would save considerable time.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” Nicole clicked her heels together and snapped a salute.
Her employer seemed a bit nonplussed by her actions until she winked at him and allowed the smile she’d been fighting to bloom across her face. He laughed then and gave her a playful push in the direction of the shed. “Hop to, sailor, before I make you walk the plank for insubordination.”
Nicole scurried away, giving her best imitation of a cowed crew member, bowing and scraping as she trotted over the packed dirt of the yard. Darius’s deep chuckles followed her, the rich sound warming a place inside her that she hadn’t even realized had been cold.
An hour later, everything stood ready. The boilers floated on small rafts tethered to either side of the pond’s landing. The firewood lay piled in the middle. Her employer did his final checks, made a note or two in his logbook, then trudged up the slight incline that led to the barricade where Nicole waited.
“Remember, you are not to remove yourself from behind this barricade for any reason.” His eyes met hers in an unyielding stare. Nicole immediately nodded her agreement.
He’d wanted her to wait in the workshop or even the house, but she’d been determined to see the experiment up close. Partly to appease her curiosity, and partly to appease the worried voice inside her head that demanded she watch over the man who cared more about saving future lives than protecting his own.
After she vowed to obey his instructions to the letter, he finally relented and granted her permission to watch the experiment from this protected spot. The log wall was only about five feet tall, so if she stood on the crate she’d purloined from the shed, she would have an unobstructed view of all that led up to the explosions.
“I promise to take every precaution.” Her stomach fluttered in anticipation, a strange mix of nerves and excitement. “And as soon as you wave at me to get down, I’ll duck fully behind the wall and cover my head.”
The grim line of his mouth eased just a bit as she recited his instructions back to him. “Right.”
He reached for the long caped greatcoat that he’d hung from the edge of the barricade and slid his arms inside. He dug a pair of leather gloves from one of the coat pockets and quickly donned them, as well.
His armor, Nicole realized. A little shiver ran down her back as she imagined scalding steam spewing from an exploded boiler and iron shrapnel flying like bullets from a gun. And all Darius had for protection were a wool greatcoat and a pair of gloves. Inadequate didn’t begin to describe it.
He gave her a final stern glance, then marched down to the pond. Nicole leaned her back against the barricade and wrapped her arms about her middle. Her eyes slid closed.
Watch over him, Lord. Keep him safe.
Climbing onto her crate to peer over the barricade, she comforted herself with the knowledge that Darius Thornton had conducted several of these experiments in the past and had survived each one. He knew what he was about. Still, her gaze never left him as he worked the water pumps and fed the fireboxes.
She had no idea how much time had passed when the release valves finally began to whistle. Her legs felt slightly numb from standing in one position for so long, but she dared not move from her perch. Steam had obviously built up pressure in the boilers, yet Mr. Thornton continued stoking the fires of each one. Just as a riverboat pilot would do to gain speed or to fight a current.
The hiss of the steam grew louder. The whistle’s pitch higher. Mr. Thornton hovered near the boiler with the thinner plate, no doubt listening for the groans of the metal that would signal an escalation of pressure. Then he added more wood.
Nicole wanted to shout at him to stop feeding the devils, but she held her tongue. Her fingers grasped the top of the log wall with such force, splinters jabbed her skin. She leaned forward, pressing up onto her tiptoes.
The bodies of both boilers bulged as the steam pressure continued to rise. Nicole gritted her teeth against the whimper rising in her throat. Darius pulled out his logbook and made a note. So calm. So controlled. The crazy man should get out of there. Surely the fires were hot enough to continue building sufficient steam without him. He should observe from behind the barricade. Make his notes from there.
However, boilers needed a continual source of water and heat, and like any good steamboat engineer, he kept to his post, feeding both.
He edged closer to the boiler on the right, the one with the thinner plate, and tipped his head as if listening to the sound of the metal itself. But as he focused his attention on the right side boiler, it was the one on the left that continued swelling. As Nicole watched in horror, its sides bulged to a size she’d never dreamed possible.
Cupping her hands around her mouth, and praying her warning would be heard above the fevered hiss of the steam, Nicole screamed with every bit of breath in her body.
“Darius!”
The instant his head came up, she pointed to the other boiler. He turned. His eyes widened in alarm, and he began to run, waving and shouting for her to get down.
She obeyed, jumping off the crate and hunkering behind the barricade, making herself as small as possible so there’d be plenty of room for Darius to take cover.
A blast like cannon fire rent the air. The ground shook from the force. Nicole’s arms instinctively shielded her head. The logs vibrated as shards pelted the barricade—a barricade sheltering only one person. Her.
CHAPTER 12
The instant the boiler blew, Darius yanked the collar of his greatcoat over his head, tucked his knees beneath him, and hit the ground.
Blast. He hadn’t mistimed an explosion this poorly in months. But it was supposed to have been the thinner boiler plate that blew first, not the thicker one.
Water slapped his back. The heat of the boiling liquid scalded his flesh through his coat. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain still while instinct screamed at him to throw off the coat burning him.
Something slammed into his hip with the force of a mule kick. He flinched and bit back a groan. No stabbing pain followed. That meant a blunt end. Thank God. Smaller pieces pelted him like hail. He’d be black and blue for the next week, but at least he didn’t have to worry about finding someone to stitch him up.
When the pounding of debris slowed, Darius crawled toward the barricade. His back burned like the dickens. Too risky to throw off the coat yet, though. The second boiler could blow any moment.
He thought he heard Miss Greyson shout his name again, but the coat muffled the sound. That, and his ears still rang from the explosion, so he couldn’t be sure of anything.
Then all at once a pair of arms wrapped themselves about his shoulders and tugged him upward. “Hurry, Darius. Hurry!”
His heart iced over in an instant. She was out from behind the barricade!
With a roar, he shot to his feet, grabbed her off hers, and ran for the safety of the wall. As he rounded the corner, the second explosion hit. Throwing himself on top of her, he smothered her with his body and prayed nothing would get past him.
She didn’t make a sound. For a moment he f
eared he’d knocked her unconscious with his rough handling, but once the rapid thunking of iron careening into logs ceased, he could feel her uncurling beneath him. Immediately, he rolled off, then sucked in a sharp breath when his scalded back connected with the ground.
“Where are you hurt, Darius?” She crouched beside him, her gaze scouring his torso, arms, and legs for injury. Slowly, her attention traveled to his face, the concern in her golden brown eyes a balm to his scarred heart. He wanted to bask under that look for hours. Days. To listen to her say his name—was she even aware she’d called him by his first name? To watch her lips form it, shape it—lips he suddenly recalled kissing. Lips he wanted to kiss again, only this time he’d take his time to savor their sweetness.
“Darius? Focus.” She grabbed his shoulders and gave him a little shake. Then she stroked the hair off his forehead and brought her face closer to his. “Where are you hurt?” Deep furrows creased her brow as she ran her fingers through his hair, lifting his head, massaging his scalp. All thought of bruises and burns faded under her ministrations. He hadn’t felt this good in ages.
“I don’t feel any lumps,” she said. “Did anything hit your head?”
An examination. Of course. That’s all it was. Not any particular offer of comfort. She’d simply been trying to ascertain his injuries while he lay around like a sluggard, too drained from his panic over her being in harm’s way to form a coherent response to her questions. He’d best get off his back and show some life before she started examining anything else.
“I’m fine, Miss Greyson,” he grunted, pushing her hand away from where it had just settled against the plane of his chest, a touch he would no doubt enjoy far too much if he allowed himself the luxury. “Just some scrapes and bruises. Nothing to be concerned about.” He rolled to his side, then onto his feet, trying not to wince as his shirt stretched across the tender flesh of his back.
He must not have hidden his reaction as well as he’d hoped, though, for she was at his side in an instant, grabbing for his coat. “You’re wet,” she accused. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been scalded?” She reached for his lapels and pushed the heavy wool fabric off his shoulders.
“The coat took the brunt of it.” He arched his back to avoid the slide of the garment as it fell toward the ground, then slowly peeled off his gloves as if his butler were waiting to accept them. “It’s not the first time I’ve been hit by the spray. I’ll have to sleep on my belly for a few days, but it’ll heal.”
“It’ll heal faster if you quit being so stoic about it and treat it.” The woman actually had the audacity to glare at him. “I’m going up to the house to fetch some salve and a fresh shirt for you. In the meantime, I suggest you take one of your swims.”
Darius raised a brow at her authoritative tone. “I believe, Miss Greyson, it’s customary for the employer to give the orders, not the employee.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, her brown eyes shooting sparks at him. “When one’s employer nearly blows himself up, he forfeits the right to give orders. At least for the rest of the day.”
Darius fought a smile. She was certainly a bossy little thing when she was riled. But when she unfolded her arms to jab a finger at him, the trembling in her fingers firmed up his frown. The woman might exhibit a brave front, but the explosion had left her shaken. She needed someone to tend to her, not the other way around.
“The cold water will soothe your burns,” she was saying, still harping at him about that swim. “They’ll heal faster if—”
“Enough.” He spoke gently, but with a firmness she couldn’t run roughshod over. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll follow your orders if you follow mine.”
She eyed him skeptically. “What orders?”
“I’ll soak in the pond and let Wellborn slather me up with salve if you’ll go up to the house and have a cup of tea. You’ve been through an ordeal, and my mother swears that nothing fortifies a body like a good cup of tea.”
Her shoulders visibly slumped at the mention of tea, as if the prospect of a warm cup of Darjeeling overrode her desire to continue lecturing him. That tiny motion revealed her vulnerability and made him want to pick her up in his arms again, carry her to the house, and ply her with the tea himself.
“Your man knows how to tend injuries properly?” she asked, straightening her posture.
“Wellborn’s put me back together more than once over the last year. He’ll manage.”
“All right, then,” she finally conceded. “I’ll send him down straight away.”
She turned to go, but he stopped her with a hand to her arm. “I have one more order for you, Miss Greyson.”
She glanced back, and he met her gaze, holding it for a long moment before he spoke. “Never, under any circumstances, put yourself in danger for me again. Is that understood?” He released her arm and stepped back. “I’m not worth your life.”
Her eyes bored into his. Then she sighed and gave her head a little shake. “Another calculation error. Really, Mr. Thornton. You need to brush up on your computational skills.”
She hadn’t agreed to his terms, Darius realized as he watched the stubborn woman return to the house. He should be angry, or at the very least, plotting ways to extract a vow of obedience from her. Yet, the sudden burst of warmth inside his chest made it impossible to do anything but smile.
Fifteen minutes later, Wellborn in his starched collar and impeccably pressed trousers handed a towel to Darius as he climbed out of the pond.
“I have clean clothes and the salve you requested in the workshop, sir,” the butler intoned. “Miss Greyson insisted I tend to your back. Threatened to do the task herself if I refused.”
“Did she?” Darius grinned as he toweled his hair dry. The thought of Nicole’s fingers delicately applying salve to his scalded skin was a rather tantalizing prospect. Too bad it was also highly improper.
Darius ran the towel down his bare chest, leaving his back and arms to dry in the breeze so he wouldn’t have to touch them with the rough fabric. The cold pond water had helped soothe the burn, but the skin still pulled and ached like the dickens.
“What are your impressions of the lady, Wellborn?” Darius asked as he handed his man the towel and walked to the edge of the landing to collect his boots. “You’ve had more occasion to be in her company than I have the last few days.”
“It’s not my place to have opinions, sir.” Wellborn followed, carefully sidestepping the iron fragments and exploded boiler parts littering the landing. As he watched Darius pull on his boots, a slight tightening at the corner of his mouth was the only indication he might disapprove of his master’s chosen pastime.
“Come now, Wellborn,” Darius teased as he strolled up the incline to the workshop. “This isn’t New York. This is Texas, where a man is judged by his character and his actions, not by his social station.” He reached the door and turned to face his butler. “You’ve been with my family for years and have served us with impeccable integrity. I respect you, Wellborn. Not your position in my household, but you, the man.” Darius clapped him on the shoulder. “Surely, under all that straight-laced formality is an intelligent being with observations and opinions like any other. That’s who I’m asking.”
Wellborn’s eyes widened, as if he believed Darius had completely taken leave of his senses, talking to him in such a familiar manner. Perhaps he had. But Wellborn was the only masculine opinion around, and as a married man he was bound to have a better understanding of women than Darius did. Besides, Wellborn was the epitome of stoic sensibility. His opinion was sure to be unbiased, a trait Darius could no longer claim when it came to Nicole Greyson. The woman had him tangled up in knots.
“Why don’t you change your trousers, sir, while I see to the salve.”
Darius sighed. He guessed he couldn’t expect a man to set aside a persona he had carefully constructed and cultivated all of his adult life in the blink of an eye. The fellow probably thought him a lunatic for asking.
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Neither spoke a word after that. Darius changed into dry trousers and a pair of wool stockings, then bent over one of the worktables so Wellborn could smear the greasy, medicinal concoction onto his back.
Wellborn had applied the stuff to his shoulders and neck, and was halfway down Darius’s back, when he finally broke the silence. “She’s diligent with her work. Miss Greyson. Always prompt to her post in the study each morning.”
Darius went very still. He made no effort to turn around, afraid that if he did so, Wellborn would cease his recitation.
“She comports herself well,” the butler continued, still hesitant but apparently warming to the topic. “By the quality of her clothing, I’d say she comes from money, but she doesn’t put on airs.”
Darius hadn’t thought much about her clothing beyond the fact that it looked well on her, yet Wellborn’s observations reminded him that upon first meeting, he’d considered her a woman of his sister’s ilk. Wealthy, educated, refined. Which begged the question, why would a woman like that be seeking employment? And from a man with no connections to her family. Imagining his sister doing such a thing sent a shudder through him when he thought of how easy it would be for an unscrupulous employer to take advantage of the situation.
Wellborn dipped out another dollop of salve and rubbed it across Darius’s lower back. “She dines with the missus and me in the kitchen. Flora’s taken quite a shine to her. The two have become quite . . . friendly.”
Wellborn reached for the towel and wiped his fingers clean. “All finished, sir.”
Darius straightened and allowed his man to help him don a shirt. The cotton fabric stuck to the salve, but it would keep the dirt out and keep him decently clad.
“She saved my life today.” Darius spoke softly, slowly meeting Wellborn’s gaze.
His butler didn’t lower his eyes, as was his custom. No, he met Darius’s look straight on—one man to another. Darius’s respect for him swelled.
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