Eye of the Wind by Jane Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

this giant not been crouched in the middle of the path the entire incident would not have happened. Her tumbling emotions demanding release, she was about to unleash a torrent of wrath when the stranger glanced up.
    In the shaft of sunlight she glimpsed oddly pale skin etched with deep lines of suffering above a curved nose and a hard mouth. But it was his eyes that stopped the words on her tongue and dried her throat. Not the colour: she had no idea what it was. Nor their shape for, facing the sun, they were narrowed. Yet even as they met hers they widened. She saw the brief flash, knew it was echoed in her own, and felt a jolt as severe as a physical blow. She did not know him, had never seen him before – and she would certainly have remembered a man of his size – so how could she sense recognition?
    He looked down quickly, dipping his head as a servant to a superior, and released Samson’s bridle. Then, raising one hand as if to tug his forelock – a gesture that seemed somehow off-key – he crouched to pick up the pieces of stiff and dirty sail canvas he must have salvaged from the beach, bending and folding them into a manageable bundle.
    Swiftly shortening the reins, she kicked Samson into a canter, sensing the man watching her. In her mind’s eye she still saw his hands – bearing old scars as well as fresh, jagged scratches – gentle and calming on Samson’s muzzle and neck. And as she rounded the curve, out of his sight, she realised suddenly that they had not exchanged a single word.
    Emerging from the path on to the road, Melissa turned toward the yard entrance, arriving to find one of the men fastening back the solid double gates.
    ‘Morning, miss.’ He raised one hand to his forehead: the salute an unwelcome reminder of the man in the woods. ‘You’re out some early.’
    Still unnerved by the unexpected encounter, Melissa had to force a smile. ‘Good morning, Walter. It’s such a beautiful morning I thought I’d make the most of it. Has Mr Ferris arrived yet?’
    ‘Yes. Down the slip, he is.’ He pointed toward the hundred-foot hull supported by a framework of props. Towering above the quays, the packet dwarfed the single-storey sheds and buildings on either side. Fully planked, her decks laid, the gunports had been cut in her topsides and the superstructure was in place. Once the steering gear, capstans, and deck fittings had been installed, the two masts would be stepped and rigged.
    Lifting her leg over the pommel, Melissa slid lightly to the ground. Flipping the reins over Samson’s head, she looped them through the iron ring fastened to the wall of a small stone building. As she shook out the skirts of her riding dress, she saw the foreman approaching. Short and square, he wore a blue check shirt, a short waistcoat, breeches of the stout twilled cotton known as thickset, and leather gaiters.
    ‘You’re some early. Everything all right, is it?’
    Tom Ferris had eyes as sharp as a kestrel’s. It was one of the reasons he was such a good foreman.
    ‘My mother’s not well,’ Melissa replied, relieved to have a legitimate, if not entirely truthful, excuse for her distraction.
    ‘One of these here summer colds, is it? They do drag you down awful.’
    ‘Dr Wherry says it’s influenza.’
    ‘The dear soul.’ Tom clicked his tongue. ‘You tell her I asked for her. I hope she do soon feel better.’
    ‘Thank you, Tom. I know she’ll appreciate your kind thoughts.’
    His eyes were bright, his gaze sharp as he studied her. ‘So, if your mother’s sick, what you doing down here?’
    ‘I’ll probably be indoors all day, so I thought I’d take an early ride.’
    He frowned. ‘There was me hoping you’d brung me word from mister.’
    Melissa shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I wondered if you had any messages you wanted taken back.’
    ‘Come through the woods, did you?’
    She nodded, her heart thumping hard as she swiftly banished startlingly vivid images of a tall,