Chapter 13 #3
It was time for him to seize the chance and take the risk of trying for love and happiness.
Those connected prizes were now his most fundamental desires.
In his mind’s eye, he saw the look on Rand’s face—the emotion he’d seen shining there when his brother had looked at Felicia.
Kit could almost taste that emotion—one he’d never thought to feel himself—yet in his heart, he knew that was precisely the emotion that was growing inside him, focused on Sylvia.
It was she—the fiery, passionate lady she truly was—who had given that emotion life and called it forth.
She’d rapidly become the personification of his future; in her eyes, he saw the promise of a future wherein he would be free to love.
He dwelled on the prospect, and as sleep drew inexorably nearer, his mind skated back over all he’d assimilated in the past hour.
Quite aside from Sylvia being critical to his future, one idea rose above all others.
When it came to lasting achievements, while business was for now, family was forever.
Contrary to Wayland’s prediction and Kit’s expectation, their would-be saboteur arrived outside the workshop in the dead of night.
Kit woke to the sound of the heavy chain securing the door softly clinking as it was carefully pulled free of the heavy handles.
Instantly awake, he rolled out of his hammock and landed, light as a cat, on his feet. He didn’t dare call to Wayland. He had to trust that his friend’s senses were as acute as his own.
The doors slowly parted, drawn back to reveal a moon-washed scene inhabited by dark shadows—the trees of the Grove and, in the distance, the buildings on the other side of the Floating Harbor.
Then a large, dense shadow appeared around the edge of one door.
Other than that the fellow was wearing a heavy coat and, beneath a wide-brimmed hat, appeared to have a muffler wound around his face, Kit couldn’t tell more from the man’s outline as he stepped into the workshop and tugged the doors closed.
Blinking furiously to readjust his sight, temporarily impaired by the moonlight, Kit held still and silent. A second later, he picked out the moving shadow as the man walked several paces into the workshop, then halted and fumbled with something.
Kit seized the moment of the intruder’s distraction to steal closer to the open doorway of the office.
Then light flared. Kit swallowed a curse and dropped to a crouch—an instant before the beam of the lantern the man had lit swept through the windows on either side of the office door.
The beam swept through at chest height, showing the intruder nothing but empty space. The intruder swung the beam on, playing light through the open door of the design office, and the man paused.
For several seconds, he stood staring at whatever he could see. Given his lack of reaction, Kit surmised it wasn’t Wayland who had caught the man’s attention.
Then the fellow muttered, “Later,” and swung around to train the lantern beam on the hull taking shape within its frame in the workshop’s first bay.
In the backwash of light, Kit saw that, in addition to the lantern, the man was carrying a large sack. He set it down with a clink and a clunk.
The man straightened; he remained standing, playing the lantern beam over the hull—for all the world as if admiring its points.
Keeping low, Kit crept through the doorway, then edged sideways, along the office wall. He crouched and glanced to his right and saw Wayland inch out of his office. Wayland glanced his way, then tipped his head toward the man—who seemed engrossed in studying the keel.
Kit nodded and slowly rose.
The man crouched. Setting the lantern aside, his back to Kit and Wayland, the man opened the sack and started pulling out whatever was in there.
They couldn’t hope for a better moment.
In a rush, Kit crossed the yards to the man, Wayland a heartbeat behind him.
The man sensed them coming and started to rise.
Kit lunged and, ducking his head, took the intruder down in a ferocious tackle.
The man’s head hit the floor. “Ow!”
Kit rolled up and off the man and regained his feet as Wayland reached them.
The man was groaning and clutching his head between his hands; he remained flat on his back on the floor. Wayland bent and picked up the lantern. He fiddled until the flame flared strongly, casting a wide circle of light around all three of them, then set the lantern down to one side.
After a cursory glance at the man—his hat had fallen off, but his muffler was still in place, concealing his features—Wayland left Kit, the stronger and more physically powerful, to stand intimidatingly over their prisoner and crouched to see what the man had brought.
His gaze on the man, Kit heard Wayland’s sharply in-drawn breath and glanced fleetingly his way.
From the sack, Wayland had pulled out a quantity of rags, a large glass jar of what looked like black oil or perhaps creosote, and a long length of fuse.
For a second, Wayland stared at the items, then his features hardened, and he rose to his feet. He looked at the unknown man with utter contempt. “Not content with simply damaging timbers, this time, you planned to burn us out.”
Before Kit could react, Wayland strode to the man, reached down, tangled his long fingers in the knitted muffler, and violently wrenched it from the man’s face. “You fiend!”
The jerk brought the man half upright, gasping like a landed fish; Kit had winded him, and he was still trying to catch his breath.
As the light washed over the intruder’s face, he closed his eyes, groaned again, and slumped back on the floor.
To Kit’s surprise, Wayland had frozen, the muffler dangling from his hand as he stared in shock at the man’s face.
Then in a stunned tone, Wayland said, “Hightham?” His tone suggested he couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes.
Kit glanced sharply at the man—who continued to keep his eyes shut while he tried to get his lungs working again—then looked at Wayland. “You know him.” It wasn’t a question.
Passing a hand over his jaw, Wayland nodded. “His name’s John Hightham. He was working as a junior designer at Debney’s when I joined the firm.”
Debney’s was the Bermuda-based yacht workshop from which Kit had lured Wayland home.
“Hightham left shortly after I arrived, supposedly to return to England,” Wayland added, which explained why Kit hadn’t met the man.
Recovering from his shock, Wayland kicked one of Hightham’s boots and growled, “What the devil’s this about?”
Hightham—who Kit could now see was perhaps twenty-five years old at a pinch and thinner and lighter of frame than Wayland, much less Kit—scowled up at Wayland. “As if you don’t know,” Hightham spat.
Wayland sent Kit a befuddled look.
On seeing it, Hightham struggled half up and propped on one arm. “What did you expect,” he said with an obvious attempt to sound scathing, “when you stole my design?”
Wayland looked, if possible, even more at sea.
Kit focused on Hightham. “Explain what you mean about Wayland stealing your design.”
It was an invitation Hightham couldn’t resist.
Kit stood and listened as the younger man poured out a tale, accusing Wayland of having stolen a certain keel design from him.
Kit knew that whatever Hightham believed wouldn’t be the truth; he’d known Wayland since Eton and knew his friend and partner through and through.
Quite aside from the fact Wayland simply wouldn’t stoop to stealing anyone else’s design, there was the undeniable truth that he was a brilliant designer and had been recognized as such for nearly a decade—he didn’t need to steal designs when his own were so relentlessly cutting edge.
When Hightham, now scowling even more blackly at Wayland, reached the end of his spiel, Kit glanced at his partner and saw comprehension dawning in his face.
Hightham’s details about keel designs hadn’t meant anything to Kit, but obviously, Wayland had worked out the gist of the younger man’s complaint.
His gaze resting on Hightham, Wayland asked, “That’s what this has been about? Getting back at me because you imagined I’d stolen your design?”
“I didn’t imagine anything,” Hightham shot back. “You did!”
“When?” Wayland asked.
“It was in early thirty-eight. You came to visit Debney’s. That was a couple of years before Debney persuaded you to join him.”
Wayland nodded. “I remember. You’d just started in the design office.”
“Yes, I had. And I was working on my own designs on the side.” Hightham glared pugnaciously at Wayland.
“You must have seen the plans when you came poking around the office. You have a faultless memory when it comes to designs, so one good look was all it took. Then you came back to England and started building yachts with my design. Don’t bother trying to deny it—I’ve seen some of the yachts you’ve built, and they incorporate my keel! ”
Hightham was still decidedly hot under the collar. He clearly believed Wayland at fault.
Unperturbed, Wayland shot Kit a glance, then held up a finger to Hightham. “One moment. Allow me to fetch a drawing that will, I trust, clarify this matter.”
Kit watched Wayland go into his office, then swung his gaze back to Hightham, who was now sitting with his knees drawn up and his arms looped around them.
“I know he stole my design,” Hightham muttered, jaw clenching tight. Now bathed in light, his face looked young, his expression more truculent than violent. “He’s not going to make me believe otherwise.”
Kit hid a smile at his tone and waited.
A few minutes ticked past, then Wayland exclaimed, “There you are!”
Seconds later, he emerged from the office carrying a large design sheet in his hands. Kit knew sheets that size were only used for final, formal designs.
Wayland halted beside Kit and held out the design for him to see. “Do you recognize this one—the yacht I designed and had built at the workshop in Southampton for the Earl of Sandwich?”
Scanning the design, Kit nodded. “Yes. I remember it—Sandwich was thrilled and took us out on it when it launched.”