Deleted Scenes   

As many scenes of movies are left on the editing floor, so are scenes from books for various reasons. Sometimes authors cut and tighten to adjust for word count; sometimes scenes are cut because, as much as we love them, they're unnecessary to the story. Here are some of those scenes from The Wild One and Wicked Woman.

 

The Wild One   

 

For people who own the book, this comes between Chapter Twenty and Chapter Twenty-one. It's the morning following Jess and Lee's arrival at the Bar M.

 

Jess woke early, stomach growling.  Did she smell coffee? she wondered, glancing at the clock on her night table.  9 A.M.  She’d meant to rise earlier, but her sleep-deprived body had had other plans.  No doubt nine was late for a ranch.  At home, she thought with a tiny pang of homesickness, they’d risen before seven.  Doubtless she’d missed breakfast, but didn’t ranch homes always have a pot of coffee on the stove?  Or was it while they performed one of those roundups?  Why, she thought sliding her feet over the edge of the bed, why hadn’t she ever learned anything about ranching?  It was something, she thought with amusement as she crossed the room to stir her fire, that a woman needed to know.  Especially when she was wanted for murder.  Actually it appeared that there was an enormous amount of information an accused murderess needed to know, and drat it all, wouldn’t you know she’d missed that part in school!  No doubt she’d been out ill that week.

A few coals still glowed and, shivering in her chemise and pantaloons—she had no night clothes—she added kindling, and then blew the coals into a flame. Before too long had a nice hot fire going.  She smiled.  There was, she decided as she rose, something especially satisfying about building a fire.  It made a person feel so self-sufficient. 

With that she quickly made her bed and emptied the contents of her saddlebags on top of it.  Not much there, but she found her toothbrush and a silk-tasseled shawl to drape around Michelle’s low-cut velvet gown to hide the .  After washing up, she dressed carefully, wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and pinned it with a cameo Michelle had provided.  The gold clashed terribly with wine velvet, but it admirably covered her too-exposed breasts.  Taste in fashion, she decided tugging her hair into a braid, was often a matter of necessity.   

Finally she headed downstairs.  As expected, the dining room table was empty except for a beautiful blond haired girl, no more than three, scribbling happily in a book.  When she saw Jess her dark brown eyes—Melinda’s eyes—widened in dismay and her rosebud mouth formed an O.  Then, before Jess could say anything, tears formed in them and she threw her pencil.  “I’m not a bad girl!  I’m not!”

Biting her lip to keep from laughing, Jess moved forward shaking her head.  “Oh no, you’re not!  Not at all!”

“I didn’t want to write in the book.  It made me!  I hate that book!”

“Well, of course you do!”

“It’s a very bad book!” she said, the tears drying up.

“Horrible!”

“Bad!  Bad!  Bad!”

Jess sank into a chair next to her.  “Certainly!  I say we burn it!”

“Burn it?” she asked, her eyes growing impossibly huge.  “Papa would be angry!”

“Would he, do you think?  Here, let me see the book.  Ah,  Plato’s Republic.  You know, honey, I think he’d secretly like us to burn it.”

“He would?”

“Oh yes.  It’s a very bad book.  I’ve attempted to read it myself and believe me, it’s very dull.  No one with any sense would want to read it.”

“Jess?”

Lee, dressed in dark denim pants with a pale gray shirt, stepped from the library, to the left of the parlor.  Humor tinged his voice as he crossed the room.  His eyebrows furled in puzzlement.

The little girl leaned toward Jess and whispered, “I don’t like him.  He’s mean.”

Trying not to laugh, she asked out of the corner of her mouth.  “Is he?  Why?”

“He just looks mean.”

She eyes him as he approached.  His hair was neatly combed and washed.  He’d shaved, his eyes sparkled, and the smile on his face came complete with dimple.  She could find nothing at all ‘mean’ about him, but she wasn’t a three year old girl.  She was considerably older, and considerably more affected by handsome, 29-year-old men.

Turning back to the little girl, she whispered conspiratorially, “I know him.  I think we can trust him.”

“Are you sure?”

“He hates Plato too.”

“Who’s Plato?”

“The man who wrote the book,” she said tapping it with her fingernail.

“Oh!  He’s bad.”

“Very,” she agreed.

“Who’s bad?” Lee asked pulling out a chair across from them.

“Plato.”

“Oh?  Why is Plato bad?” he leaned forward, read the title upside down and whistled.  “Taking in some light reading, are you Matty?”

She frowned at him, her whole face screwing up in disgust.  “I can’t read!”

“Then this would be your book, Jess?”

“It’s Jim’s, I think.”

“But it’s a bad book! “ Matty said.  “You said so!”

“Yes, honey.  And I’ve decided that we’re definitely going to burn it.  Right now, in fact,” she said rising.

“Whoa there, Jess!  Why are you burning Plato?”

“He’s boring.”

With a confused laugh, Lee said,  “I wholeheartedly concur, sweetheart, but you can’t burn everything that’s boring.”

“Yes, but he’s also evil.”

“Evil!” Matty agreed. 

“You see,” Jess said apologetically.  “Matty wrote in the book.  It was Plato’s fault, though.  He told her to do it.”

“Did he?” Lee asked, sitting back in the chair. 

“Yes.  I’m certain he all but demands it somewhere in here.  And since it would undoubtedly get Matty into a lot of trouble, it’s an evil statement.  And evil is best burned, don’t you think?”

“By all means, sweetheart.  Burn the book!”

“Matty?” she said rising with the book in her hand.  She was about to cross to the fireplace when Matty laid her tiny little hand on Jess’s arm.  It brought back the death of her own baby, lost three years before she could have looked up at her with big, guilty eyes.

A lump formed in Jess’s throat as the girl said slowly, “Maybe I should just tell pa.”

“Are you sure?”

“Plato didn’t really tell me to write.”

“He didn’t?”

“No,” she said with a sad little sigh.  “I told me to write.”

Jess, swallowing, nodded.  “All right, honey.” She brushed the little girls hair from her eyes.  “You tell your pa.”

Tears formed once more in Matty’s eyes.  “I’m bad!”

“Oh no, Matty!” she said squatting down next to her and brushing her tears away.  “You’re not bad.  You just made a little mistake.”

“You were going to burn Plato because he’s bad.”

“Well, Plato is bad.  He’s worse; he’s boring.  But you’re not.  You just made a mistake.  And you know what?  I don’t think your pa will mind so much if you promise never to do it again.”

“But you don’t know Pa.”

She nodded solemnly.  “I do.  I made a mistake too, a big, big mistake.  But he’s still letting me stay at his house, isn’t he?  So if he forgave me my big, big mistake, he’ll forgive you your little one.  Now you go on now and find him.”

“All right!”  She was about to run off when she turned around, wrapped her arms around Jess’s neck and gave her a hug.  “You’re a nice lady!”  she said then charged out the front door, calling for her daddy.

For a moment Jess stayed that way, staring at the closed door, savoring the leftover feeling of those small, little girl arms.

“Jess?”

With a deep breath, she rose, wiped her eyes and with a trembling laugh, said, “It’s silly, I know.  She—she never was a child after all.”

Lee rose and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze.  “Sometimes we grieve as much for what could have been as for what we’ve lost.”

“And how would you know that?” she asked curtly.

“Common sense.  You don’t have to feel a knife wound to know it hurts.”
“How very logical, Lee!”

Another squeeze and he turned her towards a door leading out to the dining room.  “What you want is coffee and food.  And, by the by, I’ll have you know I have felt a knife wound!  Down here, on my right side.  And it hurt every bit as much as you’d imagine.”

“Did it?  Accosting an angry female were you?”

He laughed.  “No, damn it, I was saving one!”

***

Lee managed, with some wheedling and a few well-placed compliments, to convince the McGraw’s cook, Barbara, a gray-haired stoop-shouldered woman with a ready smile and a non-stop flow of conversation, to furnish Jess and him with coffee and a few slices of toasted bread.  So supplied, they adjourned to the living area  where they ate over several games of chess, all of which Jess won easily, all of which Lee declared he let her win out of chivalry.  In the middle of the third game, they were joined by Dickie, who, after watching for five minutes, asked, with a gleam in his eye, if he could play Lee next.

“I bet I could beat you,” he said. 

“You could not,” Lee replied with asperity as he moved a pawn.  “A gentleman, son, allows a lady to win out of chivalry.  With you I’m afraid I should  use the full force of my intelligence.”

“Which means you’d win hands down,” Jess said.  “Check, Lee.”

“I don’t understand, “ Dickie said.  “Why do you play if you’re gonna let her win?”

Lee moved his king.  “For the pure pleasure of having the lady’s company.”

“Uncle Nick says that’s all what dancing’s for.”

“Are you certain you want to make that move?”  Jess asked as the dinner bell rang.  With it came the sound of pattering feet, announcing the arrival of the other two McGraw children, along with Melinda who shouted behind them as Stella and Barbara placed dinner on the table.  “Walk!  Ladies always walk!”

“It seems like a good move to me,” Lee said, ignoring the commotion.

“If you’re certain.” Jess moved her bishop.  “Check mate.  Some men dance, Dickie, for the enjoyment of dancing.  At mining camps, where there are few women, men will sometimes dance with each other.”

“Which is why I was never fond of mining camps,” Lee said, rising. “Saved by the dinner bell!  I don’t believe my chivalry could have born another loss.  Here, Melinda,” he said as they entered the dining room. “Let me get that chair for you.”

“I beat you fair and square, Lee,” Jess said.  “There wasn’t an ounce of chivalry to it.  It anything you are a shameless loser!”

Eyes smiling, Melinda said thank you to Lee, and nodded at Jess.  “Hello Jess.  Did you sleep well?”

“Wonderfully, thank you.”

Lee, with an eye-sparkling grim, pulled a chair out for Jess and replied in her ear as Nick and Jim entered.  “You, sweetheart, are a shameful winner to gloat so, without any consideration for a man’s pride.”

“You can certainly afford an injury or two in that place!”

“No longer.  You’ve left me no pride to wound,”  he answered as Matty, smiling brightly at Jess, squeezed by Lee and slipped into the seat next to Jess.

“I’d like to apologize, Melinda,” Jess said,  “for missing breakfast.”

“Oh that’s all right. I half expected it,” Melinda said.  “Matty, that’s not your seat. I imagine Mr. Montgomery wants to sit next to Miss Sullivan.”

“Oh, Mama!” she begged.  “Can’t I please?”

Lee chuckled.  “It’s all right, Melinda,” he said, taking a place next to Nick.  He  proceeded to have a low-voiced conversation with his hosts.

Melinda frowned at her daughter.  “It’s ‘may I’, young lady,” she said. She  focused once more on Jess.  “I notice your gown is ripped.  Perhaps after dinner you’ll allow me to lend you one or two of mine?  Oh, and you might like a bath.”

“Not right after dinner,” Nick said.  “First we need to talk about Jess and Lee’s plans.”

“This is my dolly,” Matty said, holding up a rag doll to Jess.  “Her name’s Dolly.”

Jess smiled down at Matty and, while helping herself to a few slices of chicken, said.  “Oh.  Hello Dolly.”

Melinda frowned.  “What kind of plans?  Matty, it’s not polite to interrupt an adult’s conversation.  Children should be seen and not heard.”

“We’ll talk about them after dinner, Melinda,”  Nick said.

“I don’t understand.  Why not now?  Sam, stop staring,” Melinda said to her older daughter, brown-haired and brown-eyed like Melinda who, having taking her seat was staring wide-eyed at Jess. 

Jess smiled back and Sam’s eyes only widened.  “Oh but mother, she’s so pretty,”  she whispered, audibly, to her mother.

“It’s rude to talk about people in front of them,” Melinda said sharply.

Lee, sitting beside Sam, leaned over and said softly,  “She is, isn’t she?”

“Sam, eat your dinner,” Jim said.  “Lee and Jess’s plans are adult conversation, honey.”

“Oh, but I wanted to play chess with Mr. Montgomery!” Dickie objected.

“And Dolly and I wanted to play with Miss Jess!”  Matty cried out.     

“Oh Miss Sullivan,” Sam breathed.  “do you think I could dress your hair while you play dolls?”

Melinda sighed.  “I suppose you’re right, Jim.  Children, you’ll have to wait until after supper if—and I stress if!—our guests are not too tired.”

The subject was dropped as the children, believing strongly that they should be both seen and heard, took over the conversation.

 

 

 

 

Wicked Woman   

The following is the original first chapter of Wicked Woman, which was cut for both of those reasons. Regardless, I still like it, and it give a more indepth description of Morgan's circumstances and the budding relationship between Morgan and Ward, when they first met on board ship.

 

Atlantic Ocean, 1852

Carefully encased in canvas and weighted with holystones, Bartholomew Drumlin’s body lay on a plank precariously balanced on the edge of the Sea Gypsy’s rail.  Morgan Drumlin’s heart jerked as, beside her, in a low, steady voice, Captain Montgomery read a simple service.  A hot wind filled the enormous sails of his clipper ship, blowing it swiftly across the water.

“We commit this body to the deep,” he finished and nodded to the sailors holding the plank.  They tilted it, and Bart’s body slid into the sparkling blue ocean with scarcely a splash to mourn his passing.  Morgan pressed her hand to her mouth to force down a sob.  Poor Bart! she thought, imagining the sea sucking his broken body into its cold bosom.  And then Dear Lord, he can’t be dead!

The captain nodded to his first mate, who barked a dismissal to the crew.  The mourners slipped away, leaving Morgan staring at the ocean, chilled in spite of a blazing sun. 

Captain Montgomery turned to her, bowed, and said in his sea-salt voice,  “You have my deepest sympathy, Mrs. Drumlin.  He was a good man.”

A good man, Morgan thought, fear shooting through her.  Twenty-one years of age and full of vigor, Bart may very well have been a good man, but that scarcely signified now.  By marrying him a short six months after meeting him, she’d forfeited everything: family, friends, wealth.  At the time marrying a sailor had sounded exciting, liberating, promising her freedom from a domineering father and the equally domineering constraints of London society.  Bart had sworn to take her to all manner of exotic ports as soon as he could procure a berth on an American clipper.  Now the only port she’d see was Boston, Massachusetts, an ocean away from her Sussex home. 

She lifted her head to look into the captain’s eyes.  The warmth in those liquid brown depths contrasted sharply with the harsh, edgy lines of his face and his cool, self-assured manner.  No doubt it would unnerve most people, but the combination of rugged strength and gentleness soothed Morgan’s trembling heart.

“Thank you, Captain,” she whispered. 

He hesitated a moment.  “If you’re interested, madam, we have a stateroom available at no extra cost.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Living “between decks” with Bart had been an adventure; without him, the notion of sleeping without him among the rough inhabitants of the hot, fetid compartment sent a shudder down her spine. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said quickly, before misery overwhelmed pride. “I couldn’t, truly.”

“It’s the least I can do.  Your husband assisted us a number of times on this voyage.”

And died while doing so.  No, pride had killed Bart, who, still insecure around his aristocratic wife, had plunged to his death from the top mast after recklessly showing off for her.  What use was pride, after all? “That’s very obliging of you, sir,” she answered.  “Thank you.”

***

No doubt storms at sea were commonplace.  No doubt most passengers  became violently ill during them, Morgan assured herself as she leaned over the bucket to vomit once again.  Her stomach ached fiercely and she wished, common or not, beautifully appointed stateroom or foul smelling steerage, that the ship would please, please stop tossing!   Oh, but for the end of this interminable voyage!  Two more weeks, just two more, she told herself and vomited again.

The queasiness of her stomach expanded to a painful cramping deep down, followed by a sudden wetness between her legs.  Oh Lord, what was that?  Holding tight to the bedrail, she rose, pulled up her skirts and saw blood staining her drawers.  Bart’s  baby—a baby no more.  Tears formed in her eyes, but as she staggered to her footlocker for rags, she couldn’t be certain if the tears were from gratitude or grief.

Two hours later, it was over.  Two days later, Morgan felt well enough, and truly miserable enough, to join Captain Montgomery’s dinner table. 

Biting her cheek, Morgan strode with feigned confidence to the dining saloon, pausing just inside to run her gaze around the room, over mahogany and mirrors, wainscoting, skylights and stained glass windows.  The soft salty fragrance of the ocean wafted through the last, filling the room with the smell of summer.  In the middle of it all sat a large table set with crisp white linen, china and sparkling crystal.  At a marble-topped sideboard Captain Montgomery, dressed impeccably in his pressed blue uniform, poured himself a glass of wine.

After a moment he turned.  “Mrs. Drumlin,” he said in surprise.  “I thought you were my steward.  Have you come to join us for dinner?”

Oh no!  He hadn’t expected her!  But didn’t stateroom passengers customarily dine in the saloon?  Or had he offered the stateroom only as a courtesy and expected her to eat with the steerage passengers?  A sudden wave of longing for Bart washed  over Morgan, compounding a deep, digging loneliness.  She wasn’t used to rejection; an earl’s daughter was accepted everywhere.

Tears welled in her eyes and she folded her arms protectively over her fluttering heart.  “If—if that’s acceptable.”

His kind eyes peered at her a moment before he nodded.  “I had expected you, madam.  May I offer you a glass of wine?”

Relieved, she blinked back her tears, then fiercely reproached herself for allowing them. Tears were only for death or desperation.  She’d wept two days for Bart, and she didn’t face true desperation—yet. “Yes, please,” she answered, stepping forward.

After pouring her a glass, the captain crossed the room to hand it to her.  She took a sip, then smiling as brightly as she could, commented,  “It’s good.”

A little smile walked across his face, bringing a sparkle to his eyes and  temporarily driving out the aching in her chest.  “I aim to please.” 

“I doubt you disappoint very often, sir.” 

“Rarely, madam,” he said dryly,  “although I suspect few were pleased these last two days.  We avoided the worst of the storm, but summer is hurricane season in the Atlantic.  We could not avoid it completely.  How did you fare?”

Remembering her vomiting, she grimaced but said politely,  “Well enough.”

“You hesitate.  Is this your first crossing?”

“And my last, I hope,” she said ruefully.

His smile broadened and a dimple appeared in his left cheek, creating the oddest  fluttering in her belly.  “You ought not let a little greenness prevent you from ocean travel.  It passes.  On my first voyage I was sick for two weeks.”

Oh, but how that smile melted his perpetual air of gravity!  Suddenly Captain Montgomery appeared not as a prematurely-aging, weather-beaten sea captain in his late thirties, but as a tanned, healthy man in his mid-twenties. 

The captain’s gaze shifted suddenly, focusing over her shoulder.  “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Morris!” he said graciously, his smile fading.  Lightly taking Morgan’s elbow, he turned her to meet his guests. “I hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. Morris.  May I present Mrs. Drumlin, or have you met already?”

At dinner the steward seated Morgan between the exceedingly proper—and thus, exceedingly dull—Mr. Morris, and a Mr. Weatherly from Philadelphia, a widower in his late sixties.  Weatherly’s clothes spoke of wealth, and his speech was disdainful enough to identify him as part of America’s upper class.  Bolstered by an indecent amount of wine, Morgan attempted a discreet flirtation, lowering her lids when he spoke, as if she couldn’t bear to look such a fascinating man in the eye.  He responded by puffing himself up and bragging about his wealth.

New-found hope flickered in Morgan’s heart.  Might she have found a solution to her situation?  Weatherly was certainly not the sort of husband a nineteen-year old girl dreamed of, but what choice had she?  Once she’d told Amy, Lady Amelia Margaret Cunningham, best of all friends, that a London Season was little more than casting meat in a yard to see which dog would win the choicest piece.  But now, widowed and impoverished, Morgan employed every art she’d learned during her one brief season to secure Weatherly’s interest. 

A lull came in the dinner conversation. Captain Montgomery asked,  “Mrs. Drumlin, what are your plans once we arrive in Boston?  Have you family there?”

Was the line between his brows a scowl or a concerned frown?  No doubt he’d didn’t approve of her flirtation.  “No, sir.  I am, “ she said, lowering her lids and letting her voice catch as she glanced at Mr. Weatherly, “alone now.”

“Then you may require employment,”  the captain returned.  His frown deepened to a scowl sharp enough to frighten innocent maidens and small children.  Morgan was no longer either.  “I live in Boston,” he continued.  “If you wish, I shall assist you in securing a position.”

A position?  As what, a companion?  A governess?  She’d be dismissed within a week.  Her painting was barely passable, her musical abilities worse.   Nor had Father ever permitted her an academic education.  He’d expected her to marry.  Well she had, and badly too.

No, the only work she was suited for would be dreadfully difficult and quite possibly beyond her abilities.  What did she know about factory work or the duties of a scullery maid?  She’d lose such a job in a fortnight’s time, and poor women, she thought with a rush of fear, poor women were often compelled to settle for more dangerous means of support. 

“Thank you, sir.  I shall give it all due consideration,”

Mr. Weatherly, too, offered his assistance .  “Anything that I can do, Mrs. Drumlin, to ease your condition, I offer with my greatest admiration.”  What exactly that meant Morgan had no notion, but it was very pretty.  By summoning up embarrassing thoughts of being locked naked outside of her stateroom, she managed a blush. Mr. Weatherly reacted like—well like a dog to meat, really—patting her hand gently and apologizing in a low voice.  He meant nothing except the most honorable by the comment.

She smiled back—slightly.  She must restrain her customary levity.  Jokes, large smiles, and loud laughter would not impress Weatherly, who appeared to prefer demure women.  She must make quite certain he preferred her. 

***

A warm breeze ruffled Ward Montgomery’s hair as he watched the approach of Boston Harbor—the last time he’d see such a sight as captain of the Sea Gypsy.  After years of traveling the world, working to re-establish the shipping business his father had ruined, he would now conduct all transactions from land, trusting his captains to command his ships.  A holystone settling in his chest, Ward turned his back on scene.  He loved the sea with his whole heart, but the time had arrived to put duty to his family, his name, first.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Ward proceeded to Mrs. Drumlin’s cabin.   All that remained in his quest to return the Montgomery name to its rightful place in society was to choose a wife.  A picture of a Mrs. Drumlin’s sea-green eyes and her hair, the color of rosewood, rose in front of his face.  Not, he told himself firmly, a vivacious sailor’s widow, but a proper Boston woman of impeccable lineage, one interested enough in wealth to overlook his harsh, hawk’s face.

Besides, Mrs. Drumlin had already promised herself to Weatherly.

Ward shook his head in disgust.  Did the man have any notion what he was about? Weatherly treated Mrs. sDrumlin like a crystal figurine, apparently taking her slight stature as a sign of female frailty, accepting her wide-eyed innocence and blushing modesty as fact.  Ward didn’t believe it for an instant.  Before Drumlin’s death he’d seen her soft mouth spread into huge, humor-filled grin, and her full-throated laughter was about as gentle as ocean surf crashing against a pier during a hurricane.  Far from being frail, Mrs. Drumlin was vibrant, energetic, spirited.   A few hours alone with her would give Weatherly heart palpitations, a few months would see him dead.

Setting his teeth, Ward knocked on Mrs. Drumlin’s door.  When she opened it, he bowed and withdrew several silver coins from his pocket.  “Mrs. Drumlin.  Your husband offered his services to us several times during the voyage.  I’ve brought you compensation,” he said, handing it to her.

“But—the stateroom—” she said, and frowned at the money before raising her head to hold his gaze.  “I thought that was compensation.” 

“Not quite enough, madam.”  He hesitated.  Her future was none of his business. Yet for all her ploys, his heart still went out to her, a lone, penniless woman in a strange land.  Could he blame her for trying to hook a rich husband?  “I’ve heard of your recent engagement.  I must felicitate you.”

Morgan swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.  The cool expression on Captain Montgomery’s face warned her that he truly didn’t felicitate her.  No doubt he was appalled.  That made two of them.  “Thank you.”

”Will you be in Boston long?” he asked.

“For a few weeks, visiting Charles’ sister. Then we travel to his home in Philadelphia.”

“I see.  Will you marry first?”

She nodded.  “Traveling will be easier as a married couple.”

“Of course.”  Captain Montgomery hesitated, as if making a difficult decision.  Rubbing his neck, he narrowed his eyes.  “Mrs. Drumlin, my offer to assist you in finding employment still stands. Should you change your mind, you may contact me at my counting room at the end of Long Wharf.”

“Why,” she said carefully,  “thank you, sir. I believe my marriage negates that necessity, but I shall remember your offer.”

She ought to do more than remember it.  She ought to follow him to his office, take whatever respectable employment he offered, and escape this marriage.  But for the first time in Morgan’s life courage failed her.

Captain Montgomery nodded and offered her his hand in farewell.  Hesitantly—she’d been packing and wore no gloves—she took it.  An odd shudder of delight flittered over her nerves.  For a moment his eyes held hers and she thought she detected a touch of admiration before they filled with regret. 

“Good-bye, Mrs. Drumlin.  Good luck in your marriage.”

“And in your future voyages, sir.”

Pain flashed through his eyes. Odd, he seemed to love his job. “Thank you, madam.  Doubtless your luck will keep me from harm’s way.”