There was cake and champagne waiting for them back aboard the Queen. Willy had outdone himself. Johnny the Knife had hurled rice over the wedding party and then he and Jimmy had got into a fight over who was going to have to sweep it up.
Bellfort came, bearing gifts. A Waterford bowl for Katy, which brought tears to her eyes. “Something from home,” he told her, making Galen wish he’d thought of it first. And a doll for Tara, who clearly thought she was too old for such a gift, but who was too polite to say so. “I’ll make a special place for her when we get our house. I think it’s going to be yellow.”
Galen didn’t even try to interpret that one.
And then Pam arrived. He’d tied up just behind the Queen, impatient to be off as they had a long journey ahead of them. He did accept a bowl of champagne punch, but judging from his expression, Galen thought he would have preferred a shot of Buffalo City’s finest.
They set off, the four of them, in a flurry of good wishes. Someone had scattered the rose petals on the water. He thought it might have been Ermaline. She had a soft spot in her heart for Katy.
Most of the people who’d ever met her did. His own soft spot was in his head.
At least he’d given her a ring. Guessing at the size—correctly, as it turned out—he’d chosen a pink diamond set in platinum with a matching band, all without giving a single thought as to how far that same amount of money would have gone toward bulkheading his waterfront.
With practiced ease, Pam made the most of the light breeze until they cleared the harbor, and then with a slight shift of the tiller, he caught the wind, and they set out on a course that would eventually take them to Merriweather’s Landing on Pea Island, on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.
Chapter Twenty
“You’re going to put in at Nags Head? We’ve still got an hour of daylight left.” Galen scanned the slate gray streaks across a lemon-colored sky.
“Wedding gift, son. It come to me while you was off getting hitched that if I was to take the young’un on down to The Landin’, you and the missus could have a nice little honeymoon all by yerselves there to the hotel.”
Galen’s gaze shifted forward, where Katy and Tara were hanging over the rail, watching a school of fish pass underneath the hull. The offer had caught him off guard. He only hoped Katy hadn’t heard. His sole purpose in marrying her was to keep them both safe from any possible threat. He preferred his life just the way it was. Or rather, as it had been until recently. Unfettered, uncomplicated, without ties of any sort, either physical or emotional.
A single word had blown all that. Honeymoon. Now he couldn’t think for all the images swimming to the surface of his mind. Visions of Katy, bruised, terrified, and trying so damn hard not to show it. Katy in red silk, her big green eyes hidden behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Katy asleep in his bed, exhausted from taking care of a boatload of miserably ill people.
Katy wearing a simple cotton gown, bringing tears to more than a few eyes with her songs about a place not a single member of her audience had ever seen, nor was ever likely to. Katy in her mud brown shirtwaist with the yellowed lace collar.
Katy in nothing at all.
A honeymoon.
Was she expecting one? He didn’t think so. Choosing his words as carefully as any lawyer, he had more or less told her that he didn’t expect marital intimacy. Not right away, at least.
Eventually? Well, they were man and wife, after all. Women usually wanted children. He could take them or leave them, but as he believed in fidelity, and as they were legally married, any children she had would be his. Most definitely his.
Before he could slam the door, another image slipped in, this one of Katy, nursing his son.
He felt the ground shift under his feet.
“ ‘Ware for’ard, comin’ about!” Pam hauled in the main, eased the boom over, and the little sloop heeled over and glided in toward a long-legged pier jutting out from the pink sandy shore. “Comin’ up on the hotel, son. You fixin’ to get off here?”
Galen swallowed hard and loosened the knot of his tie. “Well now, that’s a generous offer, my friend, but Tara—”
“She’ll take to the Merriweathers like a tick to a coon dog. Her an’ Maureen can talk Irish to one another.”
Galen had forgotten that Merriweather’s cook was Irish. She’d been in America for at least fifty years, but still lapsed into Irishness when it suited her purposes. “Yes, well—”
“I’ll come back an’ fetch the pair of ye tomorrow an’ haul ye down there.” The old man grinned around the stem of his corncob pipe. “Reckon that’ll be enough time to get the job done?”
The bawdy old salt, he knew damned well this was no regular hearts-and-flowers affairs. Galen didn’t know whether to be amused or irritated.
He did know enough not to pass up a golden opportunity when it came knocking on his bedroom door. “Then if you don’t mind the fast turnaround, I believe we’ll take you up on it.”
Now, all he had to do was convince Katy.
*
With the shank of the season behind them, the hotel had rooms to spare. Katy had dragged out half a dozen reasons why they should all go on to The Landing as planned, but in the end, Galen had managed to convince her that this way, there’d be no question about the validity of their marriage.
“Sure, and you said it was valid, even though we weren’t properly churched. Are you telling me now that—”
“All I’m telling you, Katy, is that we might as well go through the motions. That way, there’ll be no question of . . . well, of anything.”
“Who’d know? Who’d be likely to question us?” she asked as they stood on the dock and waved Tara off. He had a feeling she was having a few second thoughts.
“Maybe no one at all. But possibly whoever shoved you under the wheels of a freight wagon. Whoever thinks you might have seen him commit murder.”
“Oh, I see. But now that I’m married, I’ll not be a threat. Is it my sight I’m supposed to have lost, or my wits?”
Put that way, it didn’t make much sense, he had to admit. “Katy, I don’t mean to frighten you, but you need to take this business seriously.”
Her eyes grew round as silver dollars. “Oh, but I do. I married you, didn’t I?”
That wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, only he hadn’t realized it until she’d said it. Even now, he had a feeling she might be teasing him. Or testing him. With Katy, a man could never be quite certain.
“Yes, well . . .” He searched for just the right tone. “Neither of us was looking to get married, but now that the deed is done, for whatever reason, I believe we’re both mature enough to make the best of it.”
Mature enough to make the best of it? Go ahead, sweep her off her feet, you romantic fool!
They dined in the public dining room. Galen had toyed with the idea of having dinner brought up to their room, but that might have seemed too intimate. Now that they were alone together, he was beginning to have a few second thoughts of his own.
Such as the fact that they were too alike in some ways, too different in others. That he was too old, and she was too young. That she didn’t love him. Sometimes she barely tolerated him.
Such as the fact that he had done what he’d sworn never to do. He had entered into a marriage contract for reasons that had nothing to do with love.
He stared out through salt-hazed windows at the flickering torches lighting a walkway around the hotel. He studied a lithograph on the wall. He looked at the other diners—the room was only half filled. Looked everywhere but at the woman across the table.
“More tea?” the waiter asked, standing by with a heavy pot wrapped in a towel.
“Yes, please,” Katy said eagerly.
She’d already downed enough tea to float a three-masted schooner. It occurred to him that she was every bit as nervous as he was about what happened once they left the dining room.
“And bring dessert, will you?”
“
Yessir, right away.”
Neither of them had done justice to the first four courses. Neither of them did more than poke at the charlotte russe with their spoons.
It was going to rain. “Would you care for a stroll outside before we go upstairs?” Damned necktie had shrunk. He cleared his throat.
“Oh, yes, a bit of fresh air would be just the thing.” She latched on to the offer as if it were a lifeline.
Sand gritted underfoot on the sun-bleached boardwalks. They trudged twice around the hotel and then by mutual consent headed for the pier, where Galen pointed out the few constellations still visible above the rapidly climbing cloudbank. A narrow streak of moonlight silvered the far horizon, and they both stared at it silently for a while until Katy smothered a yawn.
Galen did his best to smother a vision of his bride in her white cotton nightgown, lying in that big double bed on the second floor of the hotel, his for the taking.
Legally his, if not morally.
Thirty-three years old, and he was acting like a green kid, discovering girls for the first time. “So . . . Mrs. McKnight,” he said, forcing a teasing note as they turned back toward the hotel, “think you’ll be able to get used to being Katy McKnight?”
“I think Galen O’Sullivan has a finer ring to it.”’
“Oh, so I’ve married myself a New Woman, have I?” And then he had to explain about the suffrage movement that was making headway across the country, state by state. By that time they were back at the hotel entrance, and neither of them could come up with a single excuse to delay the inevitable.
Katy covered another yawn and begged his pardon. Galen stifled a surge of disappointment. It wasn’t going to be easy to share her bed and not touch her, no matter what he’d promised.
Promised himself. They hadn’t actually discussed the matter, not in so many words. But it had been more or less understood that he wouldn’t push for intimacy right away, not until they’d had time to get better acquainted.
The room was a corner one. Not the honeymoon suite, that would have been entirely too suggestive. It was a fine room, though. Large, well furnished, with four windows and a small fireplace now filled with potted ferns. There was a small table flanked by a pair of his-and-her wing chairs.
Katy sank into hers. After checking the door and opening the windows halfway to let the warm, salt breeze blow through, Galen settled into the larger one.
Silence. Katy brushed a loose thread from her sleeve.
Galen took out his watch, frowned at it, held it up to his ear, and then frowned again. It was barely nine o’clock. Back aboard the Queen, the evening would just be getting under way.
“Where in Ireland?” Her voice was barely audible against the sound of the nearby ocean.
“Where in what?”
“You said the Merriweathers’ cook is from Ireland. What part?”
“Oh. Ah . . . Wicklow? Does that ring any bells? I believe she mentioned something about Wicklow Hills?”
“Oh.” She toyed with her rings, which looked too new, too big, too ostentatious. He should have chosen something simpler, but he’d wanted her to know. . . .
To know what? That he cared for her? That he valued her friendship? That he lusted for her body? That he . . .
Might even love her?
Hell, he didn’t even know what love felt like, much less how to feel it. The crazy urge that came over him whenever he looked at her, or touched her, or even so much as thought about her—it was probably no more than a passing fancy. Lust. All men felt lust. It was part of nature’s plan. It was perfectly natural.
So did that mean he could use her body to slake his lust for as long as it was convenient, thank her for her generosity, and then go on about his business?
He’d done a few things in his life that he wasn’t particularly proud of, but one thing he would never do. He would never intentionally hurt Katy. No matter what his reasons for marrying her—and he was beginning to think those reasons might not be as straightforward as he’d admitted—he vowed never to promise her more than he could give, and never take more than she offered freely. And if that meant a sexless honeymoon, so be it.
“I don’t know much about it.”
About sex? He nearly dropped his watch. “You, uh . . . don’t?”
“My mother was widely traveled before she married my Da. She said the mountains there are the loveliest shade of blue.”
Wicklow Mountains. “Yes, of course.” He ran a finger inside his collar, which had suddenly grown a size too small. “Would you, hm, care for a bit of privacy before we—that is, before you go to bed?”
“Yes, please. I’ll not be but a minute.”
She looked relieved. Small and vulnerable, she was trying so hard to appear cool and poised that Galen felt one more crack in his armor. At this rate he wouldn’t be able to fight off a paper tiger, much less a flesh-and-blood murderer. “Why don’t I just step outside and see what the weather promises for tomorrow?”
It promised rain. He didn’t have to step outside to know the clouds they’d seen earlier now covered the entire sky. There’d be no moon to light his wedding night. Fitting enough, he thought with an edge of bitterness.
He chatted for several minutes with the desk clerk, stood in the door of the solarium, and watched while a few couples danced to the strains of something slow and romantic, as rendered by a trio of earnest, sweating musicians. He gave her as much time as he figured it would take her to bathe, put on her nightgown, climb into bed, pull up the covers, and pretend to be asleep.
And then he went back upstairs.
Wide awake, she was sitting up in bed, pillows plumped behind her, covers tucked around her hips. From the waist up she was shrouded in that ugly brown shirtwaist she’d been wearing the first time he’d seen her, minus the lace collar.
The expression on her face was militant. The set of her jaw said it all. Do-or-die.
“Not sleepy yet?”
“Somebody forgot to pack my nightgown,” she said grimly.
He blinked. “Forgot your nightgown?”
“This isn’t mine.” She tugged at her neckline, pulling out a wisp of white lawn and gossamer lace. “I don’t know who could have made such a mistake. This must belong to Ava or Ermaline, or maybe the new girl. It’s not mine.”
Galen’s lips twitched. He had a very good idea who had switched nightgowns. Ila was a romantic, bless her soul. She knew as well as anyone that this wasn’t a real marriage, but that didn’t keep her from hoping.
“Does it fit?”
“No, it doesn’t, it’s far too small.”
“Skimpy, hmm? I hate sleeping in anything that binds. You could always take it off, I guess. I won’t look.”
“Bite your tongue.” She glared at him, but he could tell the humor of the situation was beginning to get through to her. Katy was not without a sense of humor. It was one of the things he lo—liked most about her.
“Well then, if it will make you feel any better, I’ll wear something equally miserable. Let’s see . . . there’s my boiled shirt and bat’s wing tie. I didn’t bring along a cummerbund, but you could lend me a corselet.”
Katy threw a pillow at him.
He grinned, and then they both fell to laughing. He took off his coat and flexed his shoulders, and it came to her that he must be even more exhausted than she was. Hers came more from tension than actual labor. While she’d soaked away the remnants of her stiffness and slept like a log, Galen had been busy making arrangements. She had barely seen him at all before they’d set out on the drive to South Mills. He’d scarcely spoken a word on the way, and Katy hadn’t dared. She’d kept telling herself she would wake up any moment and discover it was all a dream.
Perhaps she was still dreaming.
From behind the screen came the sound of splashing, the sound of muttered cursing, and then Galen poked his head around the corner and said, “I dropped a cuff link. Did it roll under the screen?”
“I’ll look.”
She leaned over and peered down at the gold-and-blue-leaf-patterned carpet. How could anyone hope to find something so small on such a busy design?
Reluctantly, she folded back the covers and climbed out of bed. Wearing only the shameless nightgown and her muslin blouse for the sake of modesty, she padded silently across the carpet.
Something glinted near one of the chairs, and she hurried to investigate. “There you are,” she exclaimed, snatching up the tiny bit of jewelry. It was gold, cast in the shape of a horse’s head. “I’ll put it in the dish on the dresser,” she called softly.
“Thank you. It belonged to my father, I’d hate to lose it.”
He spoke from so close behind her she nearly dropped the thing, she was that startled. “I didn’t hear you,” she gasped.
His warm breath stirred tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid. The rich scent of tobacco, shaving soap, and bay rum mingled with the smell of lavender potpourri, beeswax furniture polish, and the pungent iodine smell of the sea.
“Barefooted.” His voice was a full octave lower.
And then his hands closed over her shoulders, and he was turning her to face him, and she was afraid he would see everything she was feeling, plain as day. He would know she was afraid of what was about to happen, yet at the same time, sick with anticipation.
He would know she’d been thinking about it almost from the moment she’d heard herself agreeing to this crazy marriage. Thinking about it and calling herself a fool, because he didn’t love her. Telling herself she would be even more of a fool riot to take whatever he was able to give her and make the most of it.
Her mother had done that when she’d fallen in love with a handsome fisherman. In the end it had brought her little more than heartbreak, yet Katy knew that in between the sorrows, they’d shared love and laughter and sometimes joy.
He had the look of a stranger. His eyes were almost black. “Katy,” he whispered, “I want to kiss you. I know I promised, but I want to sleep with you the way a man sleeps with his wife. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
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