A Lady Dares. Bronwyn Scott

if it was often anonymously. She’d never thought further than that. Why should she have? Her father had been in his late forties, in excellent health and at the top of his game. She’d not appreciated by how slim a thread the privilege to indulge her passion had hung until it had been destroyed in one precarious accident.

      ‘What if I could get you the best?’ William persisted in earnest.

      Finish the yacht? He was absolutely serious. It was crazy. The idea started to take hold along with the most dangerous of games, what if? If she had a master builder, workmen would come. If those men came, she could pay them with the proceeds from the sale of the yacht. It could be done. There was less than a month’s worth of work to finish. It was March now, the yacht would be ready by the time society came to town for the Season. Elise’s mind was whirring. Most of all, if they finished the boat the investors would come back. If that happened, the possibilities were as endless as her imagination.

      ‘I’d say we were back in business,’ Elise said slowly, reining her thoughts back to the present. Finishing the boat had suddenly become the gateway to the future, a future where the company was saved, where she was saved. But there was still this crucial step to accomplish. Everything hinged on the master builder. ‘How soon can we meet?’

      William flipped open his pocket watch and studied the face. ‘I’d say right about now, but you’d better bring Father’s pistol from the safe.’

      ‘His pistol? Whatever for?’ Warning bells went off in her head. What sort of master builder had to be met with a gun? The shipyard was relatively protected. The docks were surrounded by high walls with guards posted to discourage intruders. Inside the walls, a person was fairly secure. Outside those fortressed walls was a different story for the unwary, but not for her. The docks were her territory. She’d walked them with her father, much to her mother’s complete and regular dismay.

      If her brother wanted to be protective, she’d let him. Elise checked the gun to see that it was primed. ‘Again, why do I need to bring the gun? I’ve never needed one before.’

      William merely grinned at her objection. ‘Well, this time, you might.’

      Elise took the pistol more to humour him than out of any genuine belief that she’d actually need it.

      She was, however, seriously rethinking that position half an hour later when their carriage pulled up in front of a tavern on Cold Harbour Lane ominously named The Gun. Like most streets in London’s East End, this one was crowded and busy, full of the dock and industrial workers that generated so much of the city’s wealth through the strength of their backs.

      The crush and smell of the crowd did not daunt Elise, but what happened next nearly did. They’d barely stepped down from the carriage when the door of The Gun flew open in a violent motion. A man crashed into the street, his careening form barrelling straight into her. She might have fallen entirely if the carriage hadn’t been at her back, a rather hard bulwark against the assault. It stopped her from falling, but certainly didn’t cushion the blow. As it was, the force of the man’s exit bore her against the carriage, his arms braced on either side of her to stop his own flight, his body pressed hard and indecently to hers, his blue eyes taking a moment to register he was quite obviously staring at her bosom as they both struggled to find their equilibrium. He found his first and let out a whoop that nearly shattered her eardrums for its closeness. ‘What a day! You’re the prettiest pillow I’ve yet to lay my head on.’

      ‘You’ll be laying nothing of the sort,’ Elise replied coolly, bringing the pistol up and holding his eyes with an unflinching stare. It was a deep-blue gaze, dark midnight like the sea itself, and the press of his body was not entirely unpleasant. There was muscle and strength beneath his rough clothes and the hint of morning soap mingled with the faint whiff of whisky. All very manly scents when presented in the right proportions. Still, she could not stand there and ponder his masculine aesthetics. Propriety demanded his removal from her person. Immediately.

      ‘Please step away.’ Where was her brother? Hadn’t he been right beside her?

      ‘That’s not who you want to shoot.’ Was that laughter she heard in her brother’s voice? If he wanted to be protective, he was a bit late.

      ‘Maybe I should shoot you instead, William,’ Elise said through gritted teeth, tossing him a sideways glance over the man’s notably broad shoulder. She shoved at the blue-eyed stranger, who’d made no move to distance himself. Her hands met with the steely resistance of a muscled chest. ‘Are you going to get off?’

      ‘Probably at some point. Most women don’t like a man who gets off too early, though, if you know what I mean.’ He finally moved away, laughter crinkling his eyes as he studied her. She knew exactly what he meant and she would not give him the satisfaction of blushing over his crass remark. Years on the docks had immured her from taking offence at such colourful references. To be sure, such remarks weren’t allowed in her father’s shipyard when she was in earshot. Her father had been protective in that way, but the language and innuendo of the docks were hard to escape altogether.

      ‘Elise—’ William stepped in ‘—allow me to make the introductions. This is Dorian Rowland,’ he said with a flourish as if the name alone explained it all.

      She eyed the man speculatively, taking in the tanned skin, the long tawny hair loosely held back by a strip of leather and streaked from the sun of faraway climes—England never had enough sun to achieve such a look. She was momentarily envious of such artless beauty until the import of her brother’s words sunk in. This was the man who was supposed to save her business?

      The door to the tavern opened again, ejecting three tough-looking men with clubs. Her stranger shot a look over his shoulder. ‘Could we finish introductions in your carriage?’

      The three men were momentarily dazzled by the sunlight as they searched the area for something. Someone, she realised too late. Their eyes lit on her stranger. ‘There he is! You’re not getting away from us! Halsey wants his money.’

      ‘Come on, Elise, let’s go.’ William hustled them into the carriage, giving a shout to the driver before the door was shut behind him and they were off, navigating the traffic with as much speed as possible.

      ‘Who are those men?’ Elise hazarded a glance out the window, recoiling when a rock hit the carriage as they pulled away. They were going to ruin the paint, yet another expense she could ill afford.

      ‘Suffice it to say, they don’t like me very much.’ Dorian Rowland, whoever he was, smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Then again, it wasn’t his carriage being chipped.

      She threw an accusing glare at her newly acquired companion. William had clearly made a mistake. ‘Well, that makes four of us.’

      He laughed, a loud, clear sound that filled the carriage. ‘Don’t worry, Princess, I’ll grow on you.’

       Chapter Two

      In Dorian Rowland’s opinion, the ruckus outside the carriage was entirely unnecessary. Some people were simply unreasonable. Yes, he was late with his payment but he was good for it and Halsey knew it. Another cargo, which he’d been trying to negotiate when he’d been so rudely and violently interrupted by Halsey’s bullies, would have seen it right within the week.

      The carriage hit a mud-filled rut in the street and sent a spray of water up, dousing his pursuers. Dorian could hear their curses outside as they gave up the chase. It served them right. They’d got what they so richly deserved and so had he. He was sitting in a plush town coach across from a finely dressed lady and her brother.

      He definitely didn’t know the woman. He remembered pretty women and he’d have remembered her: all that inky black hair, alert green eyes and a bosom to die for. As for the young man, Dorian didn’t quite recall him, although there was something of the familiar about him. He was apparently supposed to know him from somewhere. He racked his brain for the last decent party he’d been to. In these cases of questionable identity, he’d