Fiona crinkled her nose. Would Ian’s cooking be the same? Something to fill the stomach, but not much pleasure in the experience of it going down? She didn’t have time to consider the question. Fiona marched back up the circular stairway to the lantern housing and watched the horizon. “Dear Lord, I pray no ships will run aground.” From the ever-darkening horizon and the growing intensity of the surf, Fiona knew the storm’s potential impact. And alone with oars she’d never make it out far enough to rescue anyone. All indications were that her small craft would end up at the bottom of the ocean floor, never reaching her destination.
Chapter 2
The wind whistled through the doorway to the outside gallery around the lantern housing. Fiona rolled her shoulders and stretched her back. Hours had passed since Ian left for the house. The sun had set an hour or so ago, though no one could have seen it.
Thank the Lord, a few ships had made it safely into the creek, a small inlet of water where the pilots and fishermen tended to anchor their boats.
The storm whipped around the light in the gathering darkness as the beacon stood firm against the continuous bombardment. Fiona couldn’t see anything beyond the windows except a sheet of black and an occasional streak of yellowish-white lightning.
She refilled the reservoir with whale oil and decided to check on her guest. Ian Duncan wasn’t a bad man, he just…Fiona shook her head from side to side. He simply visited too often. Could she be jealous of all the time he spent with her father? She cherished the one-on-one time she and her father had setting up the light as dusk covered the earth. Ian’s constant interruptions kept her away from the lighthouse. It didn’t matter. Tonight, in her father’s absence, the responsibility to see that the flame never went out rested on her shoulders, and on hers alone.
Fiona tied the oil-skinned coat about her waist then plunged into the elements. The wind howled against her ears. She pulled the thick wooden door of the lighthouse shut and found a rope tied from the house to the lighthouse. Fiona grasped it, grateful for Ian’s thoughtfulness.
Hand over hand, she worked her way to the house. The wind pushed at her body, and she tightened her grip to press forward. The skirt of her dress whipped like an unfastened sail behind her. The rain drenched her face within seconds. At first it felt warm. Now the cold drops worked their way down her neck and dampened her collar.
“A few more feet,” she pleaded with her body. She could make it; she just had to stay focused. She pressed on, her hands tired and cold, straining to keep a secure hold on the damp hemp rope.
The house proved to be a good blockade against the strong wind. Fiona eased her body up against it and squared her shoulders. Returning, she’d be going with the wind. The only problem would be not letting go of the rope, allowing the wind to slam her up against the lighthouse. This would be her one and only trip to the house until the storm passed, or until they were in the eye of the storm, she resolved. Ian Duncan would need to fend for himself. She didn’t have the time, nor the strength, to wait on houseguests.
The warm, tranquil air of the kitchen greeted Fiona as an old hymn sang within her heart.
Jesus, Lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly.
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is high…
The heavenly scent of fish chowder made her stomach gurgle.
“Fiona!” Ian graced the doorway of the kitchen from the living room. “I canna believe ye came with the winds blowin’ so hard.”
Fiona pursed her lips. In spite of herself, she loved the exotic sound of his thick Scottish brogue. Guess I shouldn’t have concerned myself about my guest. “Thanks for the rope.”
“Ye’re welcome, lass.” In two quick strides, he sidled up beside her, helping her remove the saturated oilskins. “Let me dry these by the fire for ye. The chowder’s warm an’ simmerin’ on the stove. Grab a bowl an’ join us.” Ian marched out of the kitchen.
Us? Who else had sought shelter in her home?
Fiona ladled a bowl of the rich creamy chowder and ambled into the living area. Her eyes scanned the room where half a dozen men sat on various pieces of furniture. One young man with red hair and a scruffy beard removed himself and an empty bowl from the table.
“Here you go, miss.” He smiled and bowed, appearing to be the perfect gentleman.
Somehow his lack of a few front teeth made her fight the amused expression that pleaded within her to form on her face.
“Thank you.” Fiona placed her bowl of chowder on the table and sat in the warmed chair. Bowing her head, she offered a quick prayer of thanks to her heavenly Father for the warm food and asked for protection. She’d never been alone with half a dozen male strangers before. Her father, mother, and brothers had always been close by.
“Thank you for allowing us to hole up here during the storm,” an older man, perhaps around fifty, spoke after she raised her head.
“You’re welcome. I’ll be staying in the lighthouse through the rest of the storm. Wind’s too strong to make regular trips to the house.”
“Jacques Peters, miss. Thank you for manning the light. Me and a couple of the boys here used it to get back to Ocracoke.”
That sweet praise meant more to her than Mr. Jacques Peters could ever know. “You’re welcome. Just doing my duty.”
One of the others, a slim man who stood warming himself by the fire, agreed. “Never would have guessed a woman was caring for the light. But you did a right fine job, miss.”
In spite of her resolve not to show pleasure in the praise, an unruly smirk curled her upper lip.
Ian spoke up. “Miss Stemple’s been raised keepin’ the lights. She’ll do a right fine job. Richard, the lighthouse keeper, speaks very highly of his daughter.”
“Where is your father, miss?” An older man with bushy gray eyebrows seated across from her asked.
“Gone to the mainland for supplies to prepare for hurricane season. Guess this one decided to come early.” Fiona spooned another bite of Ian’s wonderful fish chowder.
“I thought it was a hurricane, didn’t I tell ya, boys?” Jacques commented. “Praise be, we made it back alive.”
A round of mumbles and groans in agreement rumbled through the small room.
Fiona finished her chowder. Her silver spoon rang as it settled in the china bowl.
“May I refill yer bowl, miss?” Ian’s calloused hand reached out. A hint of a smile edged his deep brown eyes.
“Wonderful chowder. Thank you, Mr. Duncan.”
“Ye’re welcome, lass. Now, will ye be wantin’ some more?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Ian winked, and Fiona felt her face flush. What silly nonsense was this?
Ian held back a grin. She blushed, Lord. Does she have some affection for me? Or was she simply embarrassed by his forward gesture of winking at her? In either case, Ian clung to a glimmer of hope. He scooped up some chowder and poured it into her white china bowl. So fragile and delicate, but it truly did the job. Just like Fiona herself, he thought. She’d need this hot meal to keep her through the night, he reasoned and topped off the bowl with another pour from the ladle.
He returned to the room where Jacques had captivated Fiona by retelling the story of his arduous journey back to port. She sat on the edge of her seat, hardly noticing her replenished bowl.
“I swear, miss. Them waves were fifteen, twenty feet tall.”
Fiona knitted her eyebrows. “How high is the island?”
Ian caught the concern in her question. “Jacques, thirty minutes ago ye told me the waves were ten feet.”
Jacques replied with a sheepish grin.
Ian turned to Fiona. “My guess is he had eight-to ten-foot waves. Which isna abnormal for these shoals en stormy weather.”
Fiona nodded and grabbed her spoon.
“Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to get you stirred up. The storm’s a big one, that’s for sure.”
“Fishermen do tell fish stories,�
�� Fiona grinned.
Jacques feigned offense, slapping a hand to his chest. “Never more than a foot or two.”
A roar of laughter broke the tension in the room. Ian relaxed. He could see she’d been wondering if the island would be hit with a huge tidal wave or a high tidal surge. No doubt some areas would experience flooding. The creek and most of Pilot Town would be under some water.
Fiona finished off her second bowl of chowder. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to return to the lighthouse.”
“I’ll be saying a prayer for you,” the red-bearded man said.
“Thank you. Pray for the sailors out at sea,” Fiona asked, carrying her empty bowl to the sink.
Ian grabbed her oilskins that were drying by the fire and brought them to the kitchen.
“Fiona,” he whispered. She jumped, unprepared for his presence. “Sorry.”
“I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”
“Can I help?”
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Duncan, but all is under control.” Her stiff voice spoke volumes.
“Let me escort ye back to the lighthouse.”
Her eyebrows raised, and she placed her hands on her hips.
“For my peace of mind. I know ye’d be fine, lass. ’Tis a proper thing for a man to do.” He dared a second wink.
The gentle toss of her head from side to side said no, but the slight hint of a smile on her pale, rose-colored lips said she wouldn’t turn him down.
“Thank ye, Miss Stemple.” He thought of adding how her father would have his hide if he didn’t assist the lass. She sought her father’s approval, he knew instinctively, so he held his tongue.
The howling wind and the pelting rain made it impossible to have any conversation. Fiona hustled down to the lighthouse as if it were her sanctuary.
Sanctuary from what? Ian wondered. Me? The storm?
She opened the heavy oak door and slipped into the dimly lit base of the lighthouse. Ian wanted to follow, wanted to understand this woman, but now was not the time. She had work to do, and so did he. He fought the storm, ignored the biting rain, and inched his way back to the house. Once inside, he settled the men in for the night. He took care of the dirty dishes and placed a small pot on the back of the stove to soak some dry beans overnight.
The oil lamp dimly burned next to him as he took a moment of solitude in Richard and Mary’s bedroom. Silently he read the old Bible he found on the nightstand and prayed. Well into the night he fought the desire to be with Fiona in the lighthouse. She wouldn’t welcome him. If he went, he’d be pressuring her. Pressure and being forced were things he’d fought since he was a teen. His father had always wanted him to become a farmer. He’d come to America to be his own man. Ian understood Fiona’s independence, but he felt his spirit leading him to go to her.
Unable to rid himself of the feeling, he decided he couldn’t make more of a fool of himself than he already had in the woman’s eyes, so he turned down the lamp and went outside. The storm’s winds had increased. In the glow of the light from the lighthouse he could see the trees bending. Tall branches that normally reached for the sky licked the ground.
“Dear God, please keep those out to sea safe an’ anyone on this island from harm.”
The howl of the wind roared past his ears. Salt and freshly churned soil assaulted his nose. The intensity of the storm bore down on the island. Ian grasped the rope with both hands. His feet nearly flew out from underneath him. Cautiously he eased himself into the full brunt of the elemental forces. A stray limb from a tree flew past mere inches from his face and eyes.
“Help me, Lord.”
His hands slipped down the rope. Unsure his strength could match the intensity of this wind, he grasped the rope tighter. Ian considered himself a strong man; he fought to keep his ground. The short trip to the lighthouse from the house exhausted him. He pulled open the oak door and stepped inside.
“Hello?” Fiona called from above.
“ ’Tis I, Ian.”
“Ian Duncan, you’re a foolish man.”
He heard her approaching down the stairs.
“Aye.” More foolish than she had ever known, he suspected.
“Thank you for coming.”
Ian looked up. Her eyes were red and swollen. “Are ye all right, lass?”
“Aye,” she smiled.
Ian’s heart warmed in his chest. “Ye be talkin’ like a Scotsman en no time.”
Fiona laughed.
Ian shed his overcoat and hung it on the peg. “Why were ye cryin’?”
“Nothing really. Lonely is all.”
“Aye, that’s why the good Lord wouldna let me sleep. I’m here to keep ye company.”
“I appreciate it. I can’t sleep. The wind is frightening.”
“ ’Tis worse outside.” Ian gave her a smile of encouragement. “Ye be doin’ a wonderful job. I havena seen the light dim once.”
“These new lamps burn well. The reservoir is deeper; I can load more oil so they can burn longer.”
“Yer father told me about those horrible Spider lamps.”
“Those things were so smoky you’d have to leave the lantern housing just to get some clean air in your lungs,” Fiona recalled.
“Are the lamps filled?” She needed rest, he noticed. Her shoulders drooped—not her normal posture.
“I just finished filling them when you came in.”
“Then go to sleep. I’ll keep watch. When the oil is low, I’ll wake ye.”
“I’m…”
“Doesna the holy Scriptures say that unless the Lord watches over the city the people labor in vain?”
“Yes, but…”
“Fiona, trust me. I will wake ye.” Ian placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ye need the rest. Ye an’ I both know this storm is still coming an’ will be hours before it has passed.”
She nodded her agreement and laid down on the small bunk under the stairs.
Fiona woke, struck by the silence. How long had she slept? “Ian?” she called out. No response. She sprang out of bed. Had something gone wrong? Had he abandoned his post? She shouldn’t have let him convince her to rest. Fiona straightened her skirt and grabbed a bucket of oil to replenish the lamps.
Upon reaching the lantern, she saw Ian outside on the gallery holding the handrail and looking out to sea. Fiona checked the oil reservoir and it was nearly full. Ian must have…
She placed the bucket of oil on the floor and joined him on the gallery. “Ian?”
“Hi, remarkable, isna it?” His hand spanned the dark horizon. A few stars peeked out.
“We’re in the eye,” she stated.
“Aye, that we are, lass. Look around. The world be beaten an’ blown by this here storm, an’ right now, here in the middle, we’re safe.”
“But not for long.” Fiona had often found storms exciting, yet she respected their fury.
“Aye, that be true. But I was ponderin’ life, God, an’ some of His words in Scripture.”
“Which verse?”
“No particular verse at the moment. Just thoughts about how God keeps us safe if we walk en Him. I was thinkin’, if we could stay in the center of the storm, we could travel with it an’ never be harmed by it. And how, if we stay in the center of God’s will, He’ll be protectin’ us from the storms of life that come crashin’ down upon us.”
Fiona gazed at the darkened horizon. Lightning danced around the eye on all sides. The power of God in nature always struck a chord of awe and wonder in her. Ian stepped up behind her and whispered in her ear. “Did ye sleep well, lass?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and slowly kneaded them. An audible groan of pleasure escaped her lips. He turned her to face him. His rich chocolate eyes explored her face then locked on her own. Gently he removed a strand of her wayward curls and smoothed it back in place.
A trickle of excitement raced through her. She placed her hands on his chest. His heart pounded an i
ntense message. Slowly she moved her hands up to his shoulders. Was he going to kiss her? Was she going to kiss him? A force more magnetic than the storm drew her closer toward him.
“Aye, Fiona, I feel it too.”
Chapter 3
He kissed her forehead and pulled her deeper toward his chest. “Not yet, me darlin’, not yet. ”
Fiona didn’t know whether to be furious or grateful for Ian’s self-control and strength. Everything inside of her shouted the rightness of the moment. But what about her call to be a lighthouse keeper? Ian built ships. How could they have a life together?
“Don’t think, me love, just enjoy the moment an’ pray for God’s wisdom an’ peace.”
Could he read her mind? Fiona closed her eyes and nestled her head into the crook of his neck. For such a strong man, he comforted with tenderness.
“As much as I love holdin’ ye, me darlin’, I’m afraid we need to get back inside.”
What? Fiona pulled herself away from him. The storm. How could she have lost track of it? How could he remain so calm?
“Come, Fiona, come inside. We need to talk.”
He reached for her hand and led her back inside the lantern house. They descended the stairs in silence. Down one level, then the second, and finally the circular stairway into the base. He turned up the wick of the oil lamp on the table and escorted her to the cot.
Unable to speak, to think, she followed his lead. He, on the other hand, stepped away and sat on the stairs.
“Fiona, I’m not a rich man, but I make an honest wage.”
He’s talking marriage, she thought to herself.
“I believe God ordains one special person in every man’s life.”
She couldn’t argue with him there; she believed it too. But something wasn’t right here. Granted, she felt comfort, warmth, perhaps even love in his arms, but marriage—after one brief embrace?
Lighthouse Brides Collection Page 2
