Full Steam Ahead

by Karen Witemeyer

  And if he didn’t plead? Nicole swallowed hard, the possibility scalding her as it went down. Well, if he didn’t plead, she’d listen to that, too. She’d accept his good-bye with graciousness and be thankful for his good sense. It would be cruel for her to expect him to grow old pining for her, unable to move on even after she married another. Much better for him to put her behind him like one of his unsuccessful boiler experiments and move forward. Just because her own heart would always belong to him didn’t mean she wanted him to suffer the same misery.

  Only . . . a small, wretched part of her wished exactly that, God forgive her.

  After giving Nicole’s hand a final pat, Mrs. Wellborn released her grip and smiled that cheery smile of hers that never failed to brighten Nicole’s spirits. “Food’s on the sideboard. Venison stew. One of Mrs. Graham’s specialties.” She winked. “Go on, now. Don’t keep the master waiting.”

  Nicole’s lips curved. Trust Mrs. Wellborn to sum it all up in such beautiful simplicity. This was dinner, not the guillotine. With a nod of her head, Nicole took hold of the door handle and let herself into the room.

  Movement drew her gaze at once to where Darius paced along the wall to her right. At her entrance, however, he spun to face her.

  “Nicole.” Her name floated from his tongue like a leaf drifting to earth from an autumn tree. He crossed to her in four strides and took up her hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  His fingers trembled slightly, as if he were nervous. Darius—the no-nonsense man who faced down exploding boilers without batting an eye—was nervous. For some odd reason the notion served to calm her own rioting emotions.

  A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I heard venison stew was one of Mrs. Graham’s specialties. I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to taste it.”

  “Then taste it you shall.” Darius grinned as he placed her hand onto his arm and led her to the sideboard.

  Nicole breathed in the scent of his shaving soap as he uncovered the tureen and ladled a serving of stew into a fine china bowl. He’d shaved. For her. Blinking, she took in the rest of his attire. Pressed trousers, suit coat. He even wore a starched cravat at his throat. He hated cravats. But he’d worn one. For her.

  And what was she wearing? The same rumpled gown she’d worn among the machinery in the workshop and crawled about her room in while packing. She hadn’t even taken the time to check her hair or wash her face. Good heavens. Were her eyes still red and puffy from her crying?

  Darius placed her food on the table by one of the filled water goblets, then held out her chair.

  Nicole thanked him with a nod of her head. “I’m sorry I didn’t dress for dinner,” she said as she slid into her seat. “I was busy pa—” She broke off, not wanting to mar the peace with talk of leaving. “Time got away from me,” she said instead.

  Darius’s thumb drew a line between her shoulder blades as he stepped from behind her chair, sending tiny shivers down her back. “You look lovely.”

  Bless the man. The warmth in his blue eyes actually had her believing him. Then he smiled—a private, intimate sort of smile that set her heart to pounding against her ribs.

  She glanced away and seized her napkin, taking refuge in the ordinariness of shaking out the linen square and placing it in her lap.

  Really. Where did an obsessive scientist learn to smile like that? It was grossly unfair. Had he been a practiced rake, she’d know how to rebuff him. But how did one defend against a man who actually meant all that was implied in such a look? Tenderness. Affection. Love?

  Thankfully, Darius moved back to the sideboard to dish up his own meal, affording Nicole a moment to recover.

  When he returned, he claimed his seat at the head of the table, directly to her left. He bowed his head and offered a brief prayer of thanks, then picked up his spoon and began eating. Nicole followed his example, cultivating the careful truce between them. She commented on the rich flavor of the stew. Darius told her about an article he’d read on the possible benefits of employing larger or more numerous safety valves on boilers.

  The familiar pattern set her at ease to the point that she found herself suggesting ideas for experimentation, which soon had Darius shoving aside empty dishes in order to work out scenarios upon the table linen using knives and forks and a leftover biscuit or two as off-scale representations. Nicole watched him work, amazed as always at the quickness of his mind and his ability to work through several possibilities at once.

  She reached into her hair and tugged a pin free from behind her ear. “What if we added a second valve”—she laid the pin across the tines of one of the forks—“here?”

  Darius looked over at her, the gleam of appreciation in his eyes making her a tad light-headed.

  Before she could retreat, Darius captured the hand she’d used to place the hairpin and brought it to his lips. With his other arm, he latched on to the seat of her chair and dragged her to his side.

  “You know, it used to take me days to make the kind of progress on my own that the two of us just completed in an hour.”

  His husky voice made her quiver as his soft breath fanned over her cheek. His face was so close to hers, she could nearly feel his lips move against her skin as he spoke. “You make me better, Nicole. Not just a better scientist, but a better man. You challenge me, encourage me, and help me dream of the future instead of the past.”

  His lips did brush against her temple then, and Nicole’s breath caught. Her eyes slid closed. She didn’t want to think about the future or the past. All she wanted was now.

  “Do you remember what you told me this afternoon?” Darius’s deep tones rolled through her like a sip of hot tea on a cold day, warmth permeating her insides in a long, slow wave.

  Remember? No, she didn’t remember. She could barely think at all.

  “You told me never to forfeit my passion.”

  Yes, his passion. His boilers. He could achieve so much good with his work. Save so many lives. She was proud to have played even a small role in that work. She thought to tell him so, but as her eyelids lifted, his gaze locked on to hers with such force everything else evaporated from her mind.

  “I make you a solemn oath here and now never to forfeit my passion.” He cupped her face with both hands. Nicole scanned his features, trying desperately to puzzle out what he was saying, even while her heart thundered the answer. “You are my passion, Nicole. And I refuse to forfeit you.”

  His mouth claimed hers, sealing his pledge. Nicole whimpered slightly but thrust her fingers into his hair and held on for all she was worth. His kiss was hard, possessive, and carried the taste of desperation. A taste she recognized well. She answered in kind, giving him her love, her wishes, her dreams. For this moment there was no future, no past, only now. Beautiful, glorious now.

  All too soon, however, Darius gentled his kiss. The desperation eased and sanity returned. He dropped tiny kisses along her jaw, then her forehead, then a final touch to her mouth.

  “Two minds are better than one,” he murmured in her ear. “In scientific inquiries . . . and in more personal matters.”

  Nicole stiffened slightly. He must have felt it, for he reached for her hands and held them as if afraid she would bolt.

  “It’s time to let me in, sweetheart. Let me help. We can solve this dilemma together. I know we can.”

  But she’d already solved it. Just not in the way Darius approved. Truth be told, she didn’t approve of it, either, but there was no other option. Was there? Could there possibly be something she’d overlooked?

  She twisted toward him, wanting so badly to hope—to believe they could find a way. “I-I don’t know where to begin.”

  Darius smiled and stroked the back of her hands with his thumbs. “Why don’t you start with the Lafitte Dagger?”

  CHAPTER 27

  Darius studied the woman at his side, attuned to her every movement, her every breath. How could he not be after that kiss? The way she’d buried her fingers in his h
air and clung to him had left him shaking. Yet it wasn’t her reaction to his kiss, delightful as it had been, that had him focusing on her now. No, it was her reaction to his words.

  “You know about the dagger?” Her voice wobbled slightly. Nicole looked down and shifted in her seat, but she didn’t tug her hands free of his grasp. A good sign. He hoped.

  “And Renard Shipping.” Darius caressed her fingers as he spoke, trying to ease the tension that radiated down her arms and into her hands. “You are the daughter of Anton Renard, aren’t you?”

  He’d been careful to keep his tone void of accusation, but still her head jerked up like a frightened hare, her eyes darting about as if looking for a way to flee. Darius gripped her hand tighter, unwilling to allow her escape.

  “Your name doesn’t matter, sweetheart. I know the truth of who you are. You are kind and loyal and more intelligent than most of the men of my acquaintance. You are the woman I love.”

  “Darius, I . . .” Moisture shimmered in her eyes, giving them a luster that only made them more beautiful. “I never wanted to deceive you. But it was as much for your protection as mine. I couldn’t risk someone discovering my identity and bringing trouble to your door. You don’t understand what these men are capable of.”

  “Carson Jenkins and his sons, you mean?”

  She reared back. “You know about the Jenkins family?”

  Darius eased his grip on her fingers and resumed stroking the soft skin along the back of her hand in what he hoped were soothing motions. “Only that they are your father’s main competitors for the Galveston shipping routes and that there is some bad blood between them and the Renards. Something having to do with the Lafitte Dagger.”

  He paused, his gaze meeting hers. “You have it with you, don’t you, Nicole? It’s the gift you mentioned as part of your dowry, the one intended for your . . . the heir.” Darius couldn’t bring himself to say husband. Not when referring to a man other than himself. “That’s why Jenkins sent men after you. He wants the dagger.”

  She nodded shakily. “He’s been after it for years. Claims the dagger belongs to his family, not the Renards.” Her chin jutted out, and a spark of fire ignited in her golden-brown eyes.

  “Jenkins insists that the dagger was bequeathed to his uncle back in ’21 when Lafitte left Galveston. He says my grandfather stole it. Complete nonsense, of course. His uncle never even served with Lafitte. He was simply one of the many smugglers who took advantage of the loose slaving regulations to make his fortune. My grandfather, on the other hand, worked for Lafitte at the Maison Rouge headquarters and saved the pirate’s life when he took a bullet meant for him. It was for that act of courage that the dagger was bestowed.”

  In her agitation, Nicole pulled her hands free from his grasp and fisted them. “Unfortunately, there is no documented evidence beyond a note in a doctor’s log regarding Henri Renard’s injury to dispute Jenkins’s claim. But it’s more proof than Jenkins has ever produced to substantiate his story. Which is probably why the sheriff in Galveston never chose to get involved. He figured that since the dagger was in the Renard family’s possession and no one could offer proof that it didn’t belong there, he had no cause to interfere. Made Jenkins furious, especially since the man is related to him by marriage. Through a cousin, I think.”

  Darius digested the information as she rattled it off, his jaw growing increasingly tight. Feuds rarely fostered an atmosphere conducive to reason. High emotion, adamant demands, the rationalizing of unjustifiable actions as acceptable if they produced the desired results. It was fanaticism. And Nicole was stuck right in the middle of it.

  “He envies my father’s success,” she continued, frown lines creasing her brow as she spoke of Jenkins. “He’s convinced that success would be his if he possessed the dagger. The fool. Hard work, integrity, and intelligent investing earned my family their success, not some mystical dagger.”

  “If that’s how your family feels, why not just give the thing to Jenkins and be done with it?”

  Nicole fidgeted in her chair, her dark lashes shuttering her eyes as her attention fell once again to her lap. “Because not everyone in my family feels that way.”

  Her chest heaved as she sighed, her breath so heavy he could feel the movement of air across the backs of his hands where they rested on his knees. Darius held his tongue, some instinct warning him from probing further until she was ready.

  Finally her eyes met his. “I know it sounds crazy, but my father treasures the Lafitte Dagger above all other possessions. It’s more than a family heirloom—it’s the Renard family legacy. Irreplaceable. Meant to be handed down from father to son for generations. Giving it up to Jenkins would be tantamount to . . . to forfeiting every penny of the inheritance my father has built up for his heir—giving it to his enemy.”

  She bit her lip and turned her face away. He reached for her hand, gently pried open the fisted fingers, and slid his palm next to hers. Intertwining their fingers, he lifted her knuckles to his mouth and kissed them. You’re not alone, he tried to communicate each time his lips touched her skin. Let me share your burden.

  Her face swiveled back, her gaze fixed on their interlocked hands still raised to his mouth.

  “I-I don’t know if Papa truly believes his business will suffer if the dagger is lost to him or if it’s just a matter of family pride, but I can’t disappoint him, Darius. I can’t. It’s bad enough that I’m not the son he would have preferred. If I cost him the dagger, too—”

  “Hush.” Darius cupped his free hand around her cheek, forcing her to look at him. “No one’s going to cost him anything. I promise. All right?”

  She hesitated, then gave a tiny nod.

  “Good.” Darius had to make a conscious effort to keep his touch gentle, a challenge when he wanted nothing more than to pound his fists into the table in front of him. How could a man be blessed with a daughter like Nicole and not find her sufficient? Fiercely loyal, keenly intelligent, poised, beautiful, and brave enough to face down exploding boilers. In his estimation, the woman was worth more than any pirate dagger, no matter who had owned it.

  Slowly, he dropped his hand from her face and leaned back in his chair. He maintained his hold on her hand, however, as he delicately pressed for more information. “So, what transpired to escalate things?” Her fingers twitched against his. “I assume something must have frightened your father quite severely or he never would have conceived this scheme to secure an heir.” What sane man would put his only child, his daughter, in danger if he wasn’t desperate?

  “Will and Fletcher Jenkins broke into our home, held my parents at gunpoint, and threatened my mother.”

  The stark simplicity of the statement slammed into him like an unmanned sailing boom swinging into his midsection without warning. He felt as if all the air had suddenly pushed from his lungs.

  “And these are the men who are looking for you?” No wonder she carried a knife strapped to her thigh. But what good would one little knife do against two grown men armed with pistols? He prayed God would never let them find out.

  “They threatened to break my mother’s fingers if Papa didn’t tell them where the dagger was.”

  Break her mother’s . . . Darius clenched his jaw. He wasn’t letting those fiends anywhere near Nicole. He’d ship her off to New York if he had to. His parents would take her in, protect her. But she’d never leave her father, and her father would never leave his company. Which left Nicole in harm’s way.

  “That’s why I took the dagger,” Nicole explained, only making Darius’s jaw clench tighter. “I had to lure Jenkins away from my family. They weren’t safe even in their own home. Papa argued it was too dangerous—”

  “And he was right!” Had the woman no care for her personal safety? “Blast it all, Nicole. You shouldn’t take such risks.”

  She stiffened, her brow arching. “Because I’m a woman? Incapable of looking after myself?”

  Darius arched his own brow and glared. “No
, you wretched girl. Because you’re worth more than a thousand blasted pirate daggers, and no one in their right mind would wager a fifty-dollar gold piece for the chance to win back a nickel.”

  Her eyes widened as if the idea had never even occurred to her, which only served to aggravate him further. Darius shoved to his feet and paced the length of the table.

  Maybe he could buy Jenkins off, bribe him to move his business to another port. But what guarantee would he have that the man wouldn’t simply take his money and then resume his hunt for the dagger?

  A lawman. Darius seized upon the idea. The sheriff in Galveston might not have been willing to get involved in the feud, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t approach another. Especially if an innocent woman’s life was at stake. Sheriff Davenport in Liberty seemed an honorable man. He’d handled the situation with Jacob in a reasonable manner and didn’t seem the type to shy away from a fight.

  “We should notify the sheriff in Liberty.” Darius squared his shoulders, readying himself for her protests.

  “Is he trustworthy?”

  It wasn’t a protest, Darius supposed, but judging by her frown and the way she was shrinking back against her chair, it didn’t qualify as agreement, either. “I haven’t had much interaction with him—outside of the situation with Jacob—but the man is well respected. I heard Sam Houston himself recommended him for office.”

  Her brows peaked. “Well, that’s certainly a ringing endorsement. It’s just . . .” She sighed. “The more people who know about my connection to the dagger, the greater the chance that information will slip out and lead Will and Fletcher to Oakhaven. I don’t want to risk anyone here getting caught in the middle. If the Wellborns or Jacob were hurt because of me . . .”

  Her words fell away, and she suddenly surged to her feet before him, her right palm pressing against the wall of his chest. “Darius, if something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”