MacGregor's Bride

by Barbara Dan

  "I'd give anything to find a buyer." Bruce bolted down his whiskey and gazed at nothing through the dirty window.

  An idea clicked in Harris's brain. "Why not spruce the place up?" he asked. "Shouldn't be too difficult."

  "I haven't the time, and I'm sure as hell not going to live there! Without Angela and the bairns—" He shook his head, and Harris saw Bruce's eyes well up.

  Robbie Harris scratched his chin, thinking. "Suppose I could find someone to whip the place into shape for ye?"

  Bruce eyed his friend suspiciously. "How much is it goin' to cost me, Shylock?"

  "A couple of months' wages for a housekeeper, 'tis all. You'll be out of town anyway, an' I know just the person. Don't worry, lad. The lady in question is an impeccable housekeeper. Given a free hand, she could turn a pigsty into a palace."

  Bruce looked doubtful. "The house requires more than heavy cleaning, Robbie. The place is a wreck."

  "Give me the keys and your permission, an' it's as good as done. Trust me, lad."

  "There's not a stick of furniture in the place," Bruce warned his old friend.

  "And haven't I got a warehouse full of furniture, thanks to you?" said Robbie Harris with a gleam in his eye. "Besides, the lady may have a few bits an' pieces of her own."

  "How do you know this 'lady' will take the job?"

  Harris tapped his noggin and gave a sly wink. "She needs a place to stay. An' you need a housekeeper, right?"

  "Right," Bruce said slowly, thinking something fishy was going on. "Well, I guess it won't hurt. Hire her—at a fair wage, mind you! Nothing exorbitant."

  His old friend eyed him with amusement. "Who knows, lad? By the time it's all cleaned up, you might decide to bring a new bride into the house, instead of sell it."

  Bruce rose and clapped Harris on the shoulder. "Enough meddling, Robbie! By the time I get back from Cuba, I expect my agent will have it sold. That is, if this housekeeper is half as good as you claim."

  Chapter Three

  Lydia's spirits were lighter already. The note delivered yesterday afternoon had taken care of her immediate problem, a roof over her head and a modest wage. Now all she had to do was pack her things and pick up the keys at the warehouse office.

  Mr. Harris had hired her to set up housekeeping for an out of town widower. He also made it clear that she would have the place completely to herself. Occasionally she might have to show the house to prospective buyers, but otherwise she would be given a free hand managing the house.

  After a quick trip out Old Point Road to locate the house, since she was so near the beach, she planned to dig for clams. Her bucket and shovel sat at her feet, as she swung up behind her horse and slapped the reins against his rump. She would be able to go clamming often, once she settled into her new post.

  She had always found that the ocean restored her spirits faster than anything. So it was that, feeling quite jaunty, she decided to give herself permission to take the day off. She would take good care of the absentee owner's house, but she wouldn't become a slave to it. She would spend any spare time figuring out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

  It was another sweltering day, but the breezes off the Sound felt delicious against her skin. She felt as if she was finally leaving more than eight years of servitude behind, as she headed down Ocean Avenue toward the water. She carried a picnic basket, a blanket, and a book of her favorite poetry.

  Tucking up her skirts, she removed her shoes and stockings and set out to explore. The mouth of the inlet seemed an ideal spot for clamming. In a fanciful mood, Lydia drifted along, gathering pyrola, delicate Queen Anne's lace and tiny pink blooms. The long grasses and feathered silvery plumes bowed to her in the wind as she strolled toward the wet sand. A sandpiper picked its way along the water's edge, and a large flock of wrens sprang from the marshes at her feet. As she followed the receding waters down to the sea, a stiff breeze caught her bound hair, freeing long strands, and billowing her skirts.

  Her hands juggling flowers, a picnic basket, and clamming tools, rendered her defenseless against the elements, but for once she paid no heed to her casual, wind-blown appearance. Once she reached the sheltered spot near the sandstone promontory, the breezes wouldn't be so strong.

  When she reached the secluded beach, Lydia set down her belongings and spread out her blanket. And since her hair was already a shambles, she pulled the last few pins and shook her head, allowing the long tangles to blow freely in the wind.

  She walked to the water's edge, sea foam lapping at her bare ankles, as her feet scrunched the soft oozing sand, the water squishing between her toes. Terns worked the waters offshore, diving and catching fish, while the tide slowly ebbed. She sighed, knowing she would have to wait till the tide went out far enough for her to glean the best clam beds.

  Retreating out of the wind, she settled down to wait on the rocky point. Fishing a succulent peach from her basket, she stretched lazily and took a bite. Contentedly she leafed through her book of poems. Soon lulled by the rhythms of the sea, she surrendered to its enchantment and slept.

  * * *

  The morning's catch was even better than the previous day. Bruce could have stayed out longer, but there was a limit to how many fish he could take and still call himself a sportsman. His entire life revolved around the sea, yet for him fishing was recreation, not business. He fished just enough to stay in tune with nature, not abuse or waste its bounty. He had caught plenty of sea bass for Mrs. Rafferty and Mrs. Harris, and the lobster trap he'd baited yesterday held three.

  He hoisted sail and set out for the river's mouth.

  His mind drifted back to the rich seafood his fiery Portuguese mother used to prepare. Just thinking about a pot of clam chowder and garlic bread made his mouth water. Aye, he decided; he would stop along the way and add a few clams to the day's catch.

  Spotting the Point, he tacked in close to shore. Stripped to the waist, his chest bronzed by the warm sun, he lowered his sails and, rolling up his pant legs, he slipped overboard to beach his small craft.

  Hauling his boat high onto the beach, Bruce congratulated himself on his timing. Low tide. He snatched a spare bucket from the boat and set off down the beach toward the low promontory. Climbing an outcropping of worn sandstone boulders, he spotted a pair of trim ankles and dainty pink toes peeking out from a sandy alcove in the rocks.

  His first inclination was to leave the owner of such lovely lower extremities undisturbed. But since there was no movement, his intrusion would hardly be noticed, now would it?

  Curious, he came into full view of an enchanting, slender sea nymph. Or so his fancy led him to believe. She slept on her right side, the hem of her dress slightly soiled by wet sand and sea water. Her face and shoulders were covered by the most glorious mass of long hair, the color of spun flax. She had fallen asleep reading, for the pages of a book fluttered at her side.

  A wave crashed on the other side of her sheltered haven, and as though responding to the sound of the sea, she sighed deeply, her breath coming long and relaxed. Spellbound, Bruce leaned forward, watching her roll and stretch deliciously in her sleep, her arms unfurling gracefully until her upper torso lay open against the warm sand. As the wind gently ruffled her skirts, riveting his attention on the swell of her left hip, his gaze explored the length of her sinuous body.

  He swallowed hard, feeling the first stirrings of desire in two years. Since losing Angela, he had never really looked at another woman. Shocked at where his thoughts were leading him, he felt as if he was somehow being unfaithful to her memory. Even so, he couldn't tear his eyes away. A part of his life that he'd thought dead was disturbingly sensitized, and the suddenness of his discovery shook him.

  His gaze swept her body once more, taking in the tiny waist, the curve of her breasts, the astonishingly white flesh swelling above the round, scoop-necked bodice. The graceful long curve of her neck lay exposed, and a soft breeze teased the ends of her long tangled tresses against skin as velvet smoo
th as a rose. Through the disarray, his eyes fell upon gently pouting lips and just a glimmer of perfect white teeth. A tiny straight nose, light brown eyebrows, and long silken lashes the color of deep mahogany sealed the spell of enchantment.

  Bruce bent forward, not believing who and what he was staring at. She was all flaxen gold, pink and white. Lying there, she seemed to belong to another age, a time of myths and gentle chivalry. Aye, and poetry.

  He reached down and picked up the book beside her. His eyes fell to the words of the Scottish poet, Bobbie Burns: 'O my Luve is like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune.'

  He recalled satin and lace and ruffles in her bedroom. A nosegay of wild flowers lay beside her. And love poetry. Leafing through her book, Bruce suppressed a chuckle. Oh, aye, Mrs. Masters was a fraud, all right! His lips curved in gentle amusement, as he spied on the woman before him.

  He would have liked to remain and enjoy the view, but, he reminded himself, the tide would soon be coming in again.

  At least his search for a digging tool wasn't in vain. Next to her pail was a serviceable shovel. Well, he wouldn't disturb her peace, or his own, by waking her. Best let this sleeping beauty dream on! And in return for using her shovel, he would share his bounty.

  He moved down to the water's edge, testing for the clams' breathing holes by tapping with the shovel. The spurt of two clams trying to escape down through wet sand soon set him to digging. He scooped out a hole and, using his hands, felt around the edge. With his fingers, he quickly found the siphon necks and grasping the steamers, eased them into the hole he'd dug. He had chanced upon a good sized colony.

  When his bucket was full, Bruce straightened, ready to call it a day. The tide was moving in, the water already to his knees. Going to return the shovel, he found Lydia Masters still asleep. Shrugging, he took her bucket down to the water's edge, filled it, and transferred a couple of dozen clams from his catch. He walked back up the beach, carrying both buckets.

  After he set his own catch in the bottom of his sailboat, he returned to where she lay, fully intending to put the bucket down and leave without disturbing her.

  The idea of her waking to find her work done tickled him. Let her speculate all she wanted, perhaps even wonder if she'd dug them in her sleep! Aye, and most likely she'd give him a tongue lashing, if she knew he'd done it.

  He nearly got away scotfree.

  The pail and shovel lay where they were before, and he was just straightening to leave when he heard her gasp. Turning, he found himself gazing into eyes the same violet-blue color as some of the wilting field flowers at her side.

  "You!" Lydia sat up, her hand going shakily to her breast. Sure she looked a fright, she ran her fingers through her hair, her mouth suddenly gone dry. To encounter Captain MacGregor on this lonely stretch of beach made her feel vulnerable. Almost naked.

  She stared wide-eyed at his bare chest and his rolled-up pant legs. Short dark hair covered his chest, forearms and calves. His dark skin and black hair rippling in the wind made him look like a . . . well, a great pirate, which was, after all, not far from the truth!

  She scrambled to her feet, brushing sand from her skirt.

  "What do you think you're doing here?" she demanded.

  "Clamming, same as you." He grinned, openly amused by her ruined appearance and her attempt to conceal her confusion.

  "Well, find someplace else!"

  His warm velvet brown eyes fell upon her bare toes, squirming uneasily in the sand.

  "Relax, Mrs. Masters. Your secret is safe with me."

  Lydia shivered, for his silky voice aroused in her more than the wind's faint spray of sand across her face. "Secret?"

  "'O my Luve is like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune.'" He smiled, revealing even white teeth against his tanned face.

  She stood there, growing uncomfortably warm beneath his frankly amused gaze. Slowly her throat constricted, and the oddest sensations stirred, warning her that the enemy within her own breast was more to be feared than the one confronting her. His strong features were full of good humor and compellingly sensual.

  Returning her stare with his own admiring one, Bruce dipped his head in the direction of her bucket. "My thanks for the use of your shovel. I hope those are sufficient payment."

  Her mouth fell open, as she spotted the pail half full of clams. Guardedly she turned a look of cool indifference on him. "That’s not necessary. I can dig my own."

  "Too late. The tide's halfway up the beach again."

  His near-naked masculinity quite overwhelmed her. Fortunately safety lay close at hand. All she had to do was pick up her things and head back to her horse and rig, tied at the end of the path. She knew the folly of being alone with such a man, but somehow all such practical thoughts of making a dignified exit fled.

  Nervously she ran her tongue around wind-parched lips. "You might have wakened me in time, Captain."

  He blinked; she had interrupted his own fantasy. "In time? For what?"

  "So I could go clamming."

  "You looked so peaceful, I didna want to disturb you." A merry twinkle appeared in his eyes. "Besides, I wasn't sure you wouldn't have thrown your bucket at me, if I did."

  "Either you have a guilty conscience, Captain MacGregor, or you must think I’m a violent person." She bent down to gather her belongings.

  "Actually, I know nothing of you, Mrs. Masters. And, for what it's worth, my conscience is as pure as a heavenly dove."

  She looked up, startled by such a confession on his lips and his poetic flair. "No one is that pure, Captain," she scoffed.

  "'Tis my experience that people usually accuse others of their own sins, dear lady."

  "And what is that supposed to mean?"

  He only laughed and, handing her the bucket, helped her adjust her bundles. "Nothing really. But the worst sin is not being true to oneself." He gave her a disconcerting look. "Of showing a false face to the world."

  Lydia bridled. "Are you so comfortable with yourself, then, that you have nothing to hide?" she asked, lowering her eyes.

  His eyes clouded. "Enough questions, Mrs. Masters. If we don't get moving, we'll be trapped by the sea."

  "Oh! You're quite right." She walked ahead of him around the sandstone barrier toward the marshy grasses on the knoll. Then she turned, eyes moist, and looked up at him. "Please forgive me, Captain. I didn't mean to pry," she said softly.

  He smiled at her sudden gentleness; it was the first time she'd shown that side of herself to him. "You weren't prying. And the answer is yes, I know what it is to be happy. Truly happy."

  "Well, then, I'm glad."

  Lydia turned, her fair hair swinging about shoulders slumped with discouragement, and started toward her carriage. As Bruce watched her go, he felt a surge of compassion, and guilt, for suggesting that his life was happy, when it no longer was. Tolerable it was, but certainly not happy. How must it seem to a woman who had learned only two days prior that her husband was lost at sea? Suddenly he wanted to let her know that he understood.

  "Mrs. Masters!" He loped up to her and took the bucket and other bulky items from her arms.

  "Yes?" She stood looking up at him curiously.

  "It would be remiss of me not to tell you— Well, I understand what it is to lose that happiness. I didn't mean to seem insensitive to your situation."

  "My . . . situation, Captain?"

  "Your grief. It must be especially hard for a woman to lose her husband."

  Now, why did he get the insane feeling that he'd just said the worst possible thing? Yet her face tightened, and she was back to being the same tightly closed, angry woman he had first met.

  She forced a laugh. "My grief. How could I have forgotten? Do you know, Captain, this day started out to be one of the nicest I've had in years. Too bad you had to come along and disturb my peace!"

  She turned and ran, forgetting all about her blanket, her basket, and her pail of clams. Bruce stood for a second, dumbfounded. What had he s
aid that was so hurtful?

  Suddenly he was angry. He would be damned if he understood how the woman could misconstrue his good intentions! He glanced down at her personal belongings in his arms, then set out after her, his long swift stride overtaking her, even though she was still running.

  "Just a damn minute!" He swore under his breath, as she picked up the pace, trying to put more distance between herself and him.

  "Keep your clams, Captain MacGregor!"

  Suddenly she snatched the pail from him. She swung back and sloshed him with salt water, sand, and the results of a half-hour's dedicated digging.

  "Hold on there!" he roared. Dropping her picnic basket and blanket, he grabbed her, half intending to beat her backside black and blue. But as his hands closed on her slender shoulders, he stopped. She was trembling uncontrollably, her eyes frightened, like a wounded doe about to be set upon by dogs.

  "Jesus!" he cried. "What is it with you, woman?"

  "Please . . . Take your hands off me!" Her voice was choked, imploring.

  He loosed his grip, still holding her in check. "I meant no insult by what I said. Are you so daft?" The Scottish burr slipped out before he realized.

  "It is you who is daft, not I!" she flared, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. "Now leave me be!"

  The wind was up, and he felt the chill cold water she had flung in his face, as it dripped down his muscled chest. "Not until you pick up all these clams," he said through clenched teeth.

  "Why should I?" She raised her chin in cool defiance.

  Bruce hadn't seen a stare like that since he put down a mutiny a few years back. Well, he'd done nothing to justify such hostility, and there would be no mutiny. She royally deserved an education in manners on her backside, but he would settle for a little humility.