only a line on the horizon. I dipped my head underwater, and what I heard was a profound silence. It’s peaceful out there, and you float, and your feet could never touch the bottom, and there’s a fear in that but also a freedom.”
“In Cornwall I liked to stand on the cliffs and watch the waves battering the land. I certainly never felt the desire to be tossed about in those stormy seas.”
“Too cold to swim off that coast. I prefer Greece. Or maybe our desert island.”
“It does sound enchanting. Though I’d have to bring paper, pens, and ink to continue my dictionary.”
“No dictionaries on our desert island. No pens and ink. You’d have to chisel your words onto stone, write on the side of a cave, memorize your words and pass them down to your children.”
“I’m not going to have any children.”
He lowered his hammer. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’m never going to marry. Have you forgotten?”
“I haven’t forgotten. You’d have no talent for it. You wouldn’t want anyone telling you what to do.”
“That’s it.” She wrenched a section of board out too hard and the wood split down the middle. “Drat. You won’t be able to salvage this one.”
“Happens sometimes. Don’t worry. But if you’re tired you should take a rest.”
“Why don’t you rest, as well? We could have a cup of tea. Mrs. Kettle isn’t here yet but I think I could manage.”
“I have to finish—this floor isn’t going to replace itself. I never leave a job half-finished.”
And he never sat around sipping tea with his work partners. Or dreaming about being stranded on desert islands together.
Because his work partners had never been slim-hipped young ladies in tight trousers that left little to the imagination.
And her shirt left even less unseen. She would have to choose a threadbare linen shirt, one that had been laundered so many times it was as fine as silk.
He could clearly see her nipples. He was too busy looking at them to watch what he was doing. He lifted a board so forcefully that it flew up and smacked him in the forehead.
“Ford! What did you do that for? Here, come and sit down.” She took his hand and led him toward a chair. “You’re bleeding.”
He wiped the blood away from his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “It’s only a scratch.”
“I won’t have you injured on the job. Sit,” she said, pointing at a chair. “I won’t be a moment.”
She returned with a basin of water and a clean cloth and proceeded to clean the wound on his brow. Every swipe of the cloth afforded him a delectable view of her breasts.
They were directly at eye level as she wiped the blood from his hair. He sat on his hands to stop from pulling her close and popping one of those nipples into his mouth, tonguing her through linen.
“You have bits of wood in your hair,” she observed.
“And you have smudges of dirt on your cheeks and nose.”
She patted his forehead dry with a cloth.
“Enough, Beatrice.” He caught her wrist. “It’s just a scratch.”
“So you’re allowed to come charging into the opera house and tell me I can’t marry Mayhew, but I’m not allowed to care for your injury?”
“You’re not allowed to care. Full stop.”
“You can’t stop me.”
Chapter Seventeen
Beatrice cared. She couldn’t help herself.
He was strong and confident and yet she sensed vulnerability at the heart of him, that fifteen-year-old boy who’d run away from home and joined the navy, unwilling to serve her father. He’d wanted to see the world, strike out on his own, and he had and now he was back in England.
He was here with her, making her dream of giving the ladies a clubhouse a reality.
And giving her freedom in the process.
He put his arms around her waist and pressed his cheek against her chest.
Her heart skipped wildly. She cradled his head in her arms, resting her chin on top of his head.
“Beatrice, don’t care for me. I’m leaving London.”
“I know you’re leaving. I’ve always known that. I’m leaving London, as well. But we’re here together, right now.”
She wanted to be close to him and she felt no shame about it.
This new space they were creating together, had muffled the stern, castigating voices in her mind.
Here Beatrice smashed plaster and ripped nails from boards. She listened to her own voice.
And what her voice was telling her was this: grab this moment with both hands, don’t be frightened, don’t think too much. Reach for this liberty, this newfound