Rule's Bride

It was nearly three o’clock by the time several pots of the jasmine brew had been consumed and Violet was able to leave the Lockhart residence. Before she could escape, Adelaide Lockhart insisted on lending Violet her carriage for the ride to Griffin Manufacturing on the south side of the Thames.

“That isn’t the best part of town, you know,” Mrs. Lockhart said. “Are you sure your husband would approve your traveling there unaccompanied?”

Violet swung her shawl around her shoulders. “Rule respects my independence.” Which of course was a load of rot. The man had all the earmarks of becoming a demanding, overbearing, overly protective husband.

Not that she intended to give him the chance.

The carriage ride was a long one, through areas that were indeed questionable, but eventually they arrived at a huge brick structure marked by an imposing tower and a sign that read Griffin Manufacturing. A symbol she recognized, the mythical griffin, rose formidably above the sign.

Violet felt a wave of nostalgia and her eyes misted. The symbol was the embodiment of her father, a man with the courage of a lion and the vision of an eagle. Dear God, she missed him. Rarely a day went by she didn’t think of him.

With a calming breath, Violet collected herself and sent the memories away. The coachman helped her descend the iron carriage stairs. Lifting her russet silk skirts, she headed for the door marked Office.

A bell rang as she walked into the reception area and a young blond man with a pale complexion and rosy cheeks hurried up to the counter to greet her.

“Good afternoon, madam. May I help you?”

“My name is Violet Dewar. I am here to see…my husband.”

The young man’s eyes widened. “Of course, my lady.” He nervously cleared his throat. “Currently, your husband is in a meeting with his foreman. Please have a seat while I inform him you are here.”

“Thank you.” She sat down on a long mahogany bench that ran the length of one wall. Beneath her feet, the wooden floor was swept and polished. The office was neat and clean, efficient she would call it, with a desk behind the counter to serve the fresh-faced young secretary and a row of cabinets at the back for filing information.

Through the brick walls, she could hear the familiar pounding, hammering and tinkering that indicated the assembly of the manufactured weapons: pistols of assorted shapes and sizes, and several varieties and various types of muskets.

In Boston, she had enjoyed running the business side of the factory, pretending to be J. A. Haskell and managing sales and accounting. She enjoyed the challenge of working, but there were other types of businesses to run, ones that had nothing to do with Americans killing each other in the war that was sure to come.

The sound of a door opening ended her musings. She rose as Rule stepped out of his private office. For an instant, his tall, masculine beauty stole her breath. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing his muscular forearms, and his hair a little mussed, he looked capable instead of elegant, a force to be reckoned with, a man in complete control.

She forced herself to breathe normally and smile, then noticed he was frowning. His expression continued to darken as he strode toward her.

“What the devil are you doing here?”