Page 43 of The English Duke
“Of course I know the nose will be filled with gunpowder. It’s just that I disagree with the label you’ve given it. The torpedo ship is a defensive piece of armament, a way to protect our ships. Better to use a torpedo than be rammed amidships.”
The nautical term surprised him, but it shouldn’t have. York Armaments was an important supplier of all types of weapons—however much Martha might dislike the label—and they furnished the navy with a great many cannon. She’d probably grown up knowing a vocabulary not shared by other young misses.
“So it doesn’t bother you that you’re creating something that can cause death and destruction?”
She thought about it for a moment, then answered. “Almost anything can cause death and destruction if it’s used in the wrong way. A knitting needle. A kitchen knife.” She glanced down at the workbench before picking up a sizable piece of slate he kept there as a paperweight. “I could throw this at you and strike you in the head,” she said. “You could die from the blow.”
His right leg chose that moment to send him a signal, lightning traveling from his hip down to his ankle. Just a reminder in case he forgot.
“You aren’t going to throw that at me are you, Martha? I can’t outrun you.”
She dropped the slate back on the bench and looked at him, a woman with intelligence blazing from her eyes and determination in the set of her smile.
“Will you ever be able to run again?”
No one had ever come out and asked him such a question, one oddly similar to that he asked of his physician.
“I don’t know,” he said, giving her a gift of his honesty. With anyone else he might have said something like,it’s none of your concern. Or he might have simply ignored the question completely. But she was a brave creature, one who saw nothing untoward with telling him when he was wrong, or at least when she believed he was wrong.
They’d already gotten into a number of arguments. He’d forgotten his composure and raised his voice. She’d done the same. Strangely, he liked arguing with Martha York. He found it to be exhilarating in the extreme.
He wanted to know a great deal about her, but he didn’t tell her that his curiosity surprised him. He’d gone for months without feeling a scintilla of interest in another human being. The fact he could admit to his insularity shamed him a little. He’d been too involved in himself.
One day, not too long ago, he’d awakened feeling a bone-deep fatigue. He didn’t want to think about himself, worry about himself, or even concern himself with any facet of Jordan Hamilton. It was the day he’d come back to the boathouse, immersing himself in his work.
It was also the day he’d finally read all the letters Martha had written him.
“Did you know that my father could make light follow a waterfall?”
He shook his head.
“He had one whole wall of inventions. Whenever I asked him why he didn’t finish one, it was because he’d gotten word someone else was working on a similar machine or process. You’re the only one with whom he ever corresponded. He didn’t seem to mind you were mirroring his work.”
“Not mirroring,” he said, then wondered why he was so quick to correct her.
Was his pride so great he had to be first? Perhaps it was, an answer that surprised him.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Some days I was behind him. Sometimes I was ahead.”
She nodded. “I think you were almost at the same place,” she said. “At least from his letters. I’m surprised he told you so much.”
He noted that she didn’t mention Matthew’s comments about his family. His remarks were always said in fondness, but Jordan realized now how correct they were. Josephine was described as being overly concerned with the world around her while Martha never seemed to notice. Josephine wanted pretty baubles. Martha wanted answers.
Matthew had also mentioned his mother often in his letters, but strangely rarely commented about his wife.
How odd that he could remember almost everything his mentor had said about Martha. He wished, however, that Matthew had explained her a little more. What was her favorite color, her most treasured book? What annoyed her—other than anyone who slighted her father in any way?
She sat half in shadow. Behind her sunlight beckoned through the boathouse window. He wanted to study her for a while, but how strange would the request sound?
Stay right where you are, Martha, while I marvel at the perfect oval of your face and the direct, penetrating look from your brown eyes. You have the faint beginnings of a frown line between your brows, as if you’ve often contemplated something difficult to comprehend. And there’s a small indentation at the right corner of your mouth leading me to think humor is not a stranger to you.
What would she say if he continued his thoughts aloud?
I like your curly mop of hair. I imagine it gives you fits and makes you long for something more fashionable. I like the dramatic arch of your brows that seem to convey your thoughts so easily. Right at the moment they’re slightly elevated as if you’re wondering at my interest.
I’m wondering, too.
I like that you cared so much for your father, that your grief is there in your eyes for anyone to see. I admire the patience you’ve demonstrated around your sister, but I suspect it’s hard-won and often lost. I also admire your love for your grandmother, the care and concern you have for an old woman with the skills of Machiavelli.
