Excerpt
Inside the tall windows of Whelan’s Dry Goods Store
hung sail cloth and rope. Anchors and other nautical necessities unfamiliar to
Livvie occupied one side of the store. After wandering several aisles, she
found the sewing items. One spool of white thread appeared thick enough to sew
stitches in horse hide. While she examined it, a movement caught her eye, and
the back of her neck prickled.
She glanced up to see Sam Langhorne stroll in.
Walking toward her, his smile widened, and his gaze wandered freely across her,
sending heated pinpricks across her skin.
He sauntered closer, his movements panther-like in
their grace. “Good morning.”
The prickles traveled from her neck down her spine,
deepening along their inward path. She held the mending tape across her chest
to hide her quickening breath. “Hello, Mr. Langhorne. What brings you here?”
He stepped closer, his eyes bright. “Our schooner
suffered a battering during the storm. I’m charged with mending the sails and
am in need of some strong thread.” His fingers closed around hers. “I see you
have what I need.”
Her voice failed her. “Pardon?” she whispered.
“The thread.” He slipped the spool from her hand.
“Are you mending sails today also?”
Disappointment surprised her. “Mrs. Crowell sent me
here for sewing thread.”
From the display, he selected a smaller one and
held it up. “I suspect she meant this type.”
Warmth crawled up her neck. “I’m not much of a
seamstress, Mr. Langhorne.”
“You aren’t joining Mrs. Crowell’s sewing circle?”
He clucked his tongue. “I thought women enjoyed passing the time that way.” His
brown eyes sparkled. Stubble shadowed his jaw and chin, framing his mouth.
She forced her gaze away when she found herself
staring too long, wondering how his rough face would feel against hers. She
pretended renewed interest in the threads. “I’ve little experience in that area.”
He leaned an elbow against the display and looked
up at her. “Ah. Your passels of servants took care of your sewing for you, eh?
And here I was hoping you might come lend a hand.” Grinning in a teasing way,
he searched her face intensely, as though trying to divine the truth.
She lifted her chin. “After my mother’s death, my
father hired a housekeeper. I’m afraid I wasn’t an ideal charge. I spent more
time with Sir Galahad than at home.” Never had she wanted to be one of the
primping girls who practiced domestic skills in hopes of enticing a husband, or
took more interest in their appearance than anything else. Now she felt
deficient in womanly skills. Sam Langhorne made her feel more deficient. Since
their last encounter, she’d dreamed of practicing womanly skills on him.
He pressed his lips tight. “Your own knight in
shining armor?”
So he knew of King Arthur. How, she wondered?
“My horse, Mr. Langhorne.” Something tightened in
her chest while he held her gaze, so she scanned the mending tapes and selected
one, hoping he wouldn’t correct her.
He straightened and stood closer than propriety
allowed. “I see. You’re full of surprises.”
His nearness warmed her skin. She stepped away and
forced a light tone. “And you, as well. You’re a man of many talents,
apparently–sewing, salvaging, sailing. Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I’m sure there is. Nothing comes to mind.” His low
voice rumbled like an approaching storm, one of searing lightning and drenching
rains.
Livvie had always been fascinated by such storms,
and the thought of Sam tearing at her clothes like a gale made her shiver.
“A typical male affliction.” The newspaper tucked
beneath his arm caught her eye. She tilted her head to read the banner. “Is
that a Philadelphia newspaper?”
He held it out for her to see. “Yes, my brother
sends it to me now and again, thinking he’ll taunt me into coming home. His
letter said this edition had an interesting article on the wrecking industry.”
“You’re from Philadelphia?” She’d imagined him a
farm boy, perhaps, from some obscure place providing no outlet for his energy.
What else would propel a man to travel far from home to become a wrecker?
His tone fell flat. “Born and raised there.” He
inserted the newspaper in its resting place beneath his arm.
“What made you come here?” Surely Philadelphia had
entertainments similar to those in New York. Perhaps his occupation–maybe a
blacksmith–didn’t allow time for social events. Judging by the abundant muscles
on his lean frame, he’d worked hard all his life.
He leaned in dangerously close. “Why don’t you let
me walk you home so we can continue our conversation?”
No ready excuse came to mind to refuse him. Nor did
she want to.
Many thanks to Freya’s Bower, which first published
this novel.
In the meanwhile, I hope you'll try the new and improved stories!
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