Shotgun Bridegroom

by Day Leclaire

  “Fair enough.” Sam scooped up the envelope, folded it in half and stuck it in his pocket. Then he took the pen the lawyer offered and signed the slip of paper acknowledging receipt of Joe’s letter.

  All the while, Annie waited in silence, watching as any chance of happiness disappeared into Sam’s pocket. “Aren’t you going to read it?” she asked the instant they were alone.

  “Nope.” He trained a weather eye on the approaching storm. “Our first priority is to get home and secure the house. We can worry about letters and secrets and dastardly deeds later.”

  She brightened fractionally. It looked like she’d get her reprieve after all. “I’m sorry you had to take so much teasing at our wedding,” Annie said the minute they arrived at Soundings.

  Sam shrugged. “It didn’t bother me. I think you’ll find I’ve become socially acceptable.”

  She turned and studied him in concern. “Why?”

  “Because I married you, of course.” She knew she paled. She also knew that Sam noticed. He paused by the front door and dropped heavy hands on her shoulders. “That tears it, Annie. What’s the big secret? What’s in that damned letter?”

  “It explains that I’m not quite the saint most people believe.”

  “What did you do?”

  She laughed, the sound edged with despair. “Nothing. That’s the funny part. I haven’t done a damned thing.”

  “You’ve tried, though. Why? So people won’t think so badly of you when they discover your secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was your sign wrong, Annie?” he asked gently. “Did you have an affair after I left. Is that it?”

  “No,” she hastened to assure him. “No sordid affairs. I wasn’t interested in anyone after you.” It was an honest, if telling, confession.

  “Then what is it?”

  “If you want to know, read the letter.” She crossed her arms in front of her and set her chin at a stubborn angle. “Otherwise, we have work to do and standing around yakking our fool heads off isn’t going to get it done.”

  He slanted her a wry grin. “Something tells me we have two storms brewing. And I’m guessing the hurricane might be the easier of the two to handle.”

  “Is that your decision? We prepare for the hurricane?”

  “That’s my decision.”

  “Then let’s get moving.”

  Without further ado, she shoved open the door. But before she could take a single step inside, he swung her into his arms again and stepped over the threshold. “This might not be the best time to break with tradition,” he offered in explanation.

  “Good idea.” It amused her to realize his romantic gesture had left her breathless—especially when he didn’t immediately put her down but cradled her close enough to feel the rock-steady beat of his heart. “I thought we had work to do,” she felt honor bound to mention.

  “We do.” His lips caressed her temple before slowly drifting along the curve of her cheek. “But first things first.”

  “As soon as you put me down, I’ll check the pantry to see if we’ll need to lay in some supplies.” She shivered, her head dipping back against his shoulder. “After we’ve taken care of first things first, that is.”

  “As soon as I put you down, you can also make sure we have plenty of water and batteries and canned goods.” He nuzzled her ear, catching the lobe briefly between his teeth. “Candles, too.”

  It took a full minute to gather her scattered thoughts enough to reply, “I know what to do for a hurricane. I’ve lived here all my life, remember?”

  “Humor me,” he advised.

  The edgy roughness in his voice startled her. Before she had a chance to question it, he covered her mouth with his. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, wishing with all her heart that their marriage was a real one. That Sam had proposed in the traditional fashion instead of having half a dozen shotguns do his proposing for him. And she wished that the letter her father had left wouldn’t make a difference. Just when she was on the verge of saying to hell with everything and begging her Beaumont husband to take her to bed and make her his wife, he set her on her feet.

  “Okay, Sam,” she said, still bemused by his embrace. “I’ll make a list of what we need. Then I’ll head over to Drake’s and pick up anything we’re missing. What else do you want me to do?”

  “I’ll take down the screens and board up the windows if you’ll gas the bikes. Secure Lulubelle, too. This storm’s moving in fast, so I’m not sure how much time we’ll have to get ready. Supplies come first, okay?”

  “Got it.”

  Before she could do as he requested, he swept her into his arms again, holding her tight. “You should get off the island.”

  “It’s too late, Sam. You know that. They’ll be taking the ferries into harbor by now. Besides, I’m not willing to leave you.”

  He brushed her hair from her face. “Oh, yeah?” he said with a crooked smile. “And why not?”

  “Because you’re my husband.”

  “You still can’t admit the truth, can you?” Did he even realize how he wound her hair around his finger? Or had it become so automatic a gesture that it escaped his notice?

  “What truth?” As if she didn’t know.

  “You love me, Annie. But you’re either too stubborn or too afraid to admit it.” He framed her face and kissed her again, more deeply this time, with a desperate passion she couldn’t mistake. “I was a fool to wait to make love to you. If we survive this storm, I’ll correct that small oversight. And when I’m done, I’ll rip down that damned sign and use it for kindling.”

  “You’d better,” she whispered. “I really don’t want to be the only married virgin in town.”

  “You won’t be,” he assured her, reluctantly putting her out of temptation’s reach. “As much as I’d like to take you upstairs and slam the knobs off the bedroom door, we don’t have time. Not for the sort of wedding night you deserve.”

  “It’ll be all right, Sam. We’ve survived worse than this. We’ll slam those knobs off soon enough.”

  “Don’t tempt fate to prove you wrong, sweetheart.” Or me, he might as well have added.

  With a cheeky grin, she headed for the kitchen. She could feel his gaze on her back, watching her as though he had all the time in the world instead of a thousand chores piled up. She worked on sauntering. But it only made her hips ache and her hair bounce into an even more unruly tangle beneath the veil and garland of flowers she still wore. She also had the sneaking suspicion the choked sound he made was a bitten-off laugh. How deflating.

  After packing away Pansy’s veil and dropping the flowers into a bowl of water, Annie set to work. As the day progressed, she found she barely had a chance to catch her breath, let alone enjoy her newly married state. And with each fading hour, her list grew longer instead of shorter. Most worrisome of all, Annie noticed that Sam’s mood was gradually disintegrating.

  At first, she thought it was exhaustion. The plywood for boarding up the house was heavy and awkward and difficult to maneuver on top of a ladder. With so many windows to cover, it would tax a small army of workers. She even tried to attribute his edgy behavior to sexual frustration. His restraint last night on top of the unwelcome demands caused by the hurricane would try the patience of a saint. She should know, she thought with a scowl. It sure tried hers. Whatever the actual cause, it shredded Sam’s self-control.

  He never took his temper out on Annie, though. In fact, he said very little. But she couldn’t help noticing how his mouth formed a taut line, as if he was fighting a constant battle to bite back careless words. And the look in his eyes worried her. The islanders had always described him as having wicked Beaumont eyes. She’d heard the joking reference practically from the day she’d been born. Heck, from the moment she’d first looked into them, she’d been utterly captivated. But today they contained a wildness that shocked her, reflecting the frantic expression of a caged animal desperate for a means to escape his pris
on.

  Had marriage done that to him? she wondered uneasily.

  Wisely, she chose not to confront him. Demanding an explanation would only release the beast from his cage and no doubt he’d rip into the first innocent to cross his path. The fact that she’d be that innocent didn’t escape her notice. So she bided her time, continuing with the endless list of preparations still to be accomplished.

  By late afternoon, the wind had picked up to the point it would soon be too dangerous to go outside. As a final chore, Sam rode the motorcycles into the boathouse. She could hear the powerful thunder of their engines as he gunned the throttle in order to get them up the steep ramp to the platform he’d hastily constructed to hold them. Unless the sound flooded above ten feet or the storm tore the roof off, they’d be safe enough.

  “I think that’s it,” he announced as he entered the kitchen. He was filthy and exhausted, lines of strain etched deep into his face. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn he’d waded out into the sound and rolled around in the muck and mire.

  “I’ll have dinner ready the minute you’re out of the shower.”

  “I’m not hungry.” He eyed her damp hair. “I see you’ve already washed up.”

  She shrugged. “When the power goes, so will the water. I thought it might be a wise precaution.”

  “I’ll get the generator as soon as we’ve recovered from the storm. At least that way we can run the water pump when the next hurricane hits us.” He looked like he wanted to say more. Heck, he looked like he wanted to do more, which told her how high his adrenaline must be running. “Guess I’ll head on upstairs.”

  He reappeared a short time later, dressed in clean jeans and a cotton T-shirt. His hair had been momentarily tamed, which provided a sharp foil to the static of primitive energy that continued to pour from him. They ate dinner, their silence at odds with the staccato pelt of heavy rain and the building howl of the wind. Every so often, they’d catch the sporadic clatter of heavy tree branches knocking against their neighbors. It would grow worse and they both knew it. Annie leaned forward and adjusted the flame on the hurricane lamp she’d lit in case the power went while they were eating. She’d used scented kerosene, hoping he’d find the subtle odor of lavender and lemon soothing.

  “I filled the tub,” he announced abruptly.

  “Good. We’ll need it for sponge baths. We have plenty of bottled drinking water. I’ve also put empty buckets in the foyer and a stack of old towels on the steps just in case we spring any leaks.”

  More silence. “I should check the doors and windows one more time,” he declared suddenly.

  “It’ll keep until after you’ve eaten.” Thinking he might argue, she selected a tender piece of chicken and hand-fed him. He ate as though ravenous. “Not hungry, huh?” she teased.

  His eyes had that look again, the blackness so absolute it seemed to swallow the light. “You shouldn’t be with me right now.”

  His comment caught her by surprise. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “It’s not safe.”

  She stared at him, amusement vying with bewilderment. “Sam, you’re my husband. Of course I’m safe with you.”

  Frustration radiated from him. “You don’t understand, Annie.”

  “Then explain it so I will.” When he remained stubbornly silent, she leaned forward, catching his hands in hers. “If you couldn’t bring yourself to hurt me last night, what makes you think you might now?”

  He carefully disengaged himself from her hold. “I’m not...myself. My control is shot. I’m not...I’m not thinking straight.”

  Her brows drew together. He’d been on edge all day, and as the storm approached, he’d grown progressively worse. Oh, good heavens! The storm. “You have storm euphoria, don’t you?” she demanded.

  His mouth tightened. “Myrtle told you?”

  “Not that you have it, no. But I know that’s her name for it. I’d never heard the term until Bertie started talking about how antsy Pansy gets whenever a hurricane comes through. Myrtle seemed familiar with the reaction.”

  “Antsy,” he repeated. “That’s a good way of describing it. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch.”

  “Oh, Sam,” she murmured. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one. She says it’s quite common, but that it bothers some people more than others.”

  “It only happens with hurricanes,” he said. “I think it’s the extreme low pressure, though I don’t know if they’ve done any scientific studies on the phenomenon. All I can tell you is that the more the barometer bottoms out, the more restless I get. For some it’s euphoria. For others it’s a sort of madness.”

  “And you’re one of the others?”

  “Yeah.” He was silent for a moment, as though struggling to express what he felt. “The closer the hurricane, the worse it becomes. I can’t think straight. Words become a jumble in my head. I can’t settle. My emotions—”

  “Get a bit edgy?” she suggested tentatively.

  His laughter confirmed her guess. “A bit. I’m irrational. I make foolish decisions. Once, when I was fourteen, I tried to climb onto the roof to remove a tree branch at the height of the storm. Myrtle had to physically restrain me.”

  “Good heavens, Sam! You must hate it.”

  “It’s the loss of control that I hate more than anything.” He fixed her with a warning look. “So now you know. As the storm gets closer, I’ll get worse.”

  She tried to temper his mood with humor. “It has the opposite effect on me. I get more and more sleepy.”

  “Sleep might be a good idea. You can curl up somewhere out of harm’s way while I pace the floor.”

  “It gets that bad?” she asked sympathetically.

  “Bad enough that compassion will only irritate the hell out of me.”

  A slow smile built across her face. “Was my compassion leaking? Sorry. I hate when that happens.”

  For an instant, amusement relaxed the lines bracketing his mouth. “And maybe you’d better not smile at me, either.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “No? Why is that?”

  “Because it’ll tempt me to use you as a means to ease my tension.” He shoved his plate to one side. “And that’s no way for a bride to celebrate her wedding night.”

  “I thought that was the whole idea of a wedding night. To ease all those intriguing little tensions,” she replied lightly.

  “Not in my current mood, though I appreciate the offer.” He kicked back his chair and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check the house again.”

  Annie hastened from her seat and circled the table. She placed a tentative hand on his arm. “Is there anything I can do?”

  The power flickered then, the lights briefly dimming before regaining their intensity. Sam gritted his teeth, the muscles across his jaw pulled taut. “No, thanks. Your best bet is to stay well clear of me until morning.”

  He backed away from her, his face falling into shadow. His hands were balled at his sides, the strain building within him as forcefully as the wind built toward full hurricane strength. She’d never felt so inept or uncertain. He needed her. But she didn’t know how to help him. She could go to bed as he’d requested. Or she could...

  Silently, she slipped upstairs and waited until Sam’s relentless pacing brought him into the bedroom with the infamous knobs. Trailing after him, she shut the door and turned the old-fashioned brass lock. The soft click brought him around.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’ve decided to have myself a wedding night.”

  “I warned you that would be a bad idea.” He held out his hand. To her dismay, she saw that it actually trembled. “Give me the key.”

  “I will. In a bit.”

  There was a loud pop as a tree twisted in two, then a thundering crash as it hit the ground. Instantly, the lights winked out. Annie pulled a small flashlight from her pocket and trained it toward the nightstand where she’d left candles an
d matches at the ready. A moment later, flames danced merrily, pushing the shadows to the far reaches of the room.

  “Please, Annie,” he whispered harshly, “you don’t want to do this. Let me out of here.”

  “You need me, Sam. I can help.”

  “The smartest thing you can do right now is to lock that door with me on the other side of it. You gonna do the smart thing, wife?”

  She held the key high enough for the candlelight to flicker off the brass. Then she dropped it down the front of her dress. “Does that answer your question?” Cautiously, she approached, keenly aware that he eyed her with a dangerous hunger. “You don’t have to talk. Pace if it makes you feel better. I have a few things I need to take care of before we start.”

  Another tree crashed to the ground, this one farther away. Even so, he flinched. “What things?” he asked as though desperate for a distraction.

  She crossed to the rickety chair and prayed it had enough stick-to-it for one more usage. She lowered herself onto the edge, relieved when it held. “I did something today that I haven’t done in ages,” she announced.

  He tried to stand still; she could see the effort he expended in the attempt. Gusts of wind beat against the house as though determined to hammer a way in. “What?” He prowled the length of the room. “What did you do?”

  “I put on stockings.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, the heavy waves tumbling across his forehead, emphasizing his rakish appeal. “It’s humid as hell, Annie. Stockings would be sort of foolish in this weather, I’d have thought.”

  “Maybe.” She slipped off her sandals. “Course, these are pretty special stockings.”

  That held him in place. For the first time, he didn’t seem to notice the shriek of the wind or the desperate clatter of the branches clawing against the side of the house. “Special how?”

  “Special because they end at the thighs and require special equipment to stay up.” She tilted her head to one side. “You know the special equipment I mean?”

  “Garters. You’re wearing garters?”

  “Just like a fancy city girl.” She held out a foot and flexed her ankle, contemplating her toes. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe it is foolish to wear them considering this heat.”