An Unsinkable Love - By Terri Benson Page 0,5

by a long, belted tunic with deep V neckline. A high-necked white silk blouse with cravat and mock pearl buttons filled the gap.

She'd have to wear the suit and her dainty lace-up kid boots until she received her uniform.

Bree followed Anne's directions and nodded shyly at other workers as they passed in the halls. She stepped off the last tread as a man dressed in casual flannels and twirling a straw boater on his finger barreled around the corner. Bree cringed, expecting to be knocked flat. With split-second reflexes, he threw his arm out, raised his shoulder and spun gracefully on his heel. He cleared the top of her head by a fraction of an inch before he fetched up against the bulkhead with a hard thump.

"Are you hurt?" Bree asked as she looked up. He towered a good foot taller, filling her vision with broad shoulders and a tantalizing V of bronzed skin framed by the open neck of his striped collarless shirt. She tipped her head back. Beyond his corded neck, she noted a firm chin. His well-formed lips stretched in a broad smile beneath a patrician nose and cobalt eyes gleaming with a combination of amusement and interest. A thatch of damp chestnut hair with pale highlights the color of ripe wheat complemented his deeply tanned skin.

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An Unsinkable Love

by Terri Benson

Realizing she was gawking quite rudely, Bree snapped her mouth shut and felt the heat rise to her face.

He rubbed his shoulder. "I think I'll live." His cocky grin changed to chagrin after he noticed his straw hat. "Can't say the same for my boater, though." The brim hung loose from the crown, which had a jagged hole punched through it.

Bree knew her pale skin flushed deeper as his gaze traveled down to her toes and back up again, the cocky grin returning wider than ever. No one had ever studied her like that before. He was quite cheeky, but she couldn't help the shiver of excitement that flared through her body. It was far different from the fright that had plagued her when Lord Rothberry caught her in the gallery and made all those disgusting demands as his eyes fair stripped the clothes from her body.

Actually, it felt rather delightful to have a dapper young man admire her. With a start, Bree realized she'd allowed him to stare for far too long and tried to dampen her own excessive interest. She drew herself up to her full height, which put her nose one button below the fascinating bit of tanned skin. She affected her haughtiest Lady Rothberry tone and said, "Excuse me, sir," then whirled to continue on her way.

"Wait. I'm sorry. You took me by surprise. I hadn't expected to nearly run over a lovely young woman down here below decks. Please, let me introduce myself. My name is Malcolm DuMont. And you are?"

Bree halted and groaned quietly in frustration as she considered what she should do. She chewed her lip a 25

An Unsinkable Love

by Terri Benson

moment, then turned to find him uncomfortably close and drew back a step. He really didn't seem the least bit contrite as he stood there, hand held out and eyebrow cocked.

Mr. DuMont obviously wasn't an employee. Bree wished she had been given instruction on how she should behave when speaking to a paying passenger. Mr. Barton would probably fire her on the spot if the man complained then she'd have no choice but to pay out her few coins for passage. He continued to watch her, head tipped to the side, as she hesitated.

With a resigned sigh she said, "Bridget Barry," and briefly shook his hand. "I don't mean to be rude, sir, but I do need to be about my business." Bree turned and scurried down the corridor, so flustered by the lingering warmth of his touch she could only hope she headed in the right direction.

* * * *

Malcolm watched the trim figure hurry down the hall. He smiled again, enjoying the view. Her long, wavy, auburn hair bounced with each step and the fabric of the slim skirt twitched over her hips in a most beguiling way. She dressed with style; the outfit could have come straight out of a Parisian design house, and he would certainly know. Of course, she was far too short for a couturier model, but he liked her small, shapely figure sheathed in the clinging outfit.

He'd felt no stirring, no interest, in the tall, gangly women strutting through the French salons