by Kirsten Lynn
The waters were rough as he sailed the Femme Rouge along the Maine coast. Sailing in the winter always held danger. The night seas were rough, but he could navigate them, and his point of sail wasn’t in irons, so that was something going in his favor. He kept the sloop steady.
They’d make it to the Christmas Eve celebration the good folks of Bass Harbor had been planning for months. It seemed the small village had bonded over a common mission since early October. Every time he made it into the village, everyone’s heads seemed to be together chatting away. He’d enter the crowd and the chattering would stop for a second before turning to lobster or the cannery.
A short time later, a shuffle behind him took his mind from Ida’s mincemeat pie, and he turned from the ocean and sails to find a very green Gillian. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and gave him a sad look. Before he could open his mouth, the lady leaned over the side and pitched her stomach to the sea. Wee Jacques looked from Rhys to the woman. The wolf-dog gave Rhys one more look then moseyed over to Gillian and nudged his nose under her hand on the rail as if offering support for her sea-sickness.
Another woman who doesn’t like the sea.
A stone settled in Rhys’ stomach. At least this one didn’t howl and screech. That Wee Jacques took care of the woman affirmed she must have some good in her. Unfortunately, Rhys couldn’t do anything for her since it took his full attention to keep the sloop moving along the coast to the southwestern side of Mt. Desert Island.
It was a sorry thing that Gillian Darrow wasn’t suited to the sea; she might have made one of the men in Bass Harbor a fine wife. Not that Rhys would know what a fine wife looked like. He’d been fooled once by a pretty face and soft touch only to find some of the ugliest things could come in the prettiest packages.
CHAPTER THREE
‡
Gillian couldn’t stop the chills shaking her body as she trailed behind Rhys. Wee Jacques had offered as much warmth and comfort as he could while she suffered from seasickness—a malady she’d never experienced on many prior sailing ventures—and the sheet of ice that now covered her from head to toe. Rhys had forced her to remove her silk bonnet and replace it with his wool hat. He’d suffered with only his dress hat for warmth. He’d placed a dry blanket around her before helping her from the sloop, but she was cold and wet through. Worse, she was humiliated in front of her soon-to-be husband. What must he think of the ninny who couldn’t handle a few waves slapping the boat or the rise and fall of the sea that must have lulled him to sleep many nights.
Though freezing, she let her gaze wander over the small village, and warmth began to move through her, starting at her heart. Candlelight flickered in the windows of the houses and stores, beckoning weary sailors to come and find rest. Pine boughs and red bows decorated the few storefronts they passed. Nature added its own decoration with snow covering the earth and buildings in a fresh coat of winter frost. She shifted her gaze to the dark water, and in the distance, imagined a cliffside lighthouse where the red light shone to guide her home. She shivered with excitement.
Her new home.
Rhys slowed, and she found herself walking by his side. His large, gloved hand rested on the small of her back in a familiar gesture that Gillian didn’t mind. “Here we are. Ida will get you set to rights and then fill your empty stomach.”
His smile and the slow wink he gave her warmed her quicker than warm woolens and Christmas goose. “Thank you for being so kind.”
He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, surprising her. She saw the reflection of her shock in his eyes. “My apologies, Miss Darrow, for my boldness. You are most welcome.”
Gillian could only nod, accepting his apology even as she wanted to lean into that strong hand and take warmth and strength from the comforting caress.
Again, he rested his hand on her lower back and guided her through the door to a community hall. The rush of heat from the room took her breath away almost as much as the cheers. The whole village of Bass Harbor must have gathered round a table full of food and the largest balsam pine she’d ever seen decorated with ribbons, bows, homemade ornaments of gingerbread, and even some wood-carved animals.
Entranced, she stared at the tree until powerful arms wrapped her in a strong embrace. “Miss Gillian Darrow, we’re so pleased you came.”
Gillian stepped from the embrace and met the gaze of a kind older man. He stood almost as tall as Rhys, but was of a slimmer build. Every silver hair on his head was in place, and his steel gaze softened when it met hers. Noticing the white collar, she smiled. “You must be Father McDonald?”
“Aye, that would be me.” The man was tall and thin as a whip, but when he hugged her, she could have sworn a bear had her in its grasp. The priest guided her deeper into the building, and she glanced over her shoulder to make sure Rhys was still with her. He gave her another wink, and he and Wee Jacques followed.
“Father, before we introduce la petite dame to everyone, she’s frozen clear through. Maybe Ida…”
“Of course Ida can.” A round woman who reminded Gillian of the kind Mrs. Ferris, the cook who worked in her father’s home, broke through the crowd. Her green eyes sparked with merriment, and her smile could melt the devil’s heart. Gillian was passed from the priest to Ida, and the woman led Gillian through the hall and outside for just a minute before they entered a small cottage. The inside was clean and tidy with balsam boughs draped on the mantle of a brick fireplace. Three socks hung from the mantle, and Gillian sighed at the sight of a true home.
“My goodness child, you are frozen solid. Why didn’t that silly man have you belowdecks? Rhys is usually better about things like this.”
“He tried,” Gillian defended. “But I’m afraid I suffered a bit of malaise and was forced to the main deck.”
Ida patted Gillian’s hand. “Oh, poor lamb. What a big day this has been for you. Well, let Ida get you set to rights, and then we can get on with the festivities.”
Gillian could only nod as the whirlwind known as Ida gathered a dress and underthings from armoires and bureaus, and shoved them in her arms. “There you go. They’re my daughter’s, but with the baby on the way, she can’t wear ’em. They should fit, and they’re warm. Would you like a hot bath before you dress?”
Gillian self-consciously slipped the wool cap from her head. “Oh, no, thank you. You’re very kind, but I think we should be getting on with…things.”
“Yes, indeed! Get dressed by the fire, dearie; no one will bother you here. I can’t tell you how excited we all are. The whole town has been abuzz since the first letter.”
The older woman pressed her lips tight together as though she’d said something she shouldn’t. Gillian thought maybe Ida wasn’t sure how she would feel about Rhys sharing her letters with his friends. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, either.
“Thank you, missus…” Gillian realized she didn’t know the woman’s surname.
“Mrs. Seiders, but please call me Ida; everyone does, even when my Henry was alive. I was never Mrs. Seiders. Always just Ida.”
Ida was still carrying on a conversation with herself as she left Gillian by the fire to change her clothes. In town less than ten minutes and it seemed she’d found one friend.
Gillian stripped from the dress she’d purchased specifically for her day and almost cried. What a waste of funds for a bit a frippery that hadn’t proved practical in the least. She made short work of removing her cold, wet undergarments and getting into those Ida supplied, then stepped into the plain, red wool dress.
She turned and caught her reflection in a full-length looking glass. She’d wanted to look pretty for her new husband; instead, she looked as she did every day when she and the other women went to the factory. The face in the mirror frowned back at her, and she shook her head, chastising herself for being vain and ungrateful. She was warm, and the clothes offered were clean and well-kempt. The red wool dress was actually becoming. Gillian preferred the straight sleeves
to the big puffs at the shoulder. It tapered at the waist before flowing in an A-line to the tops of her boots. It fit her much better than the lacy, frilly mess that lay on the floor. She would not become her father who thought silks and fine cloth made you a better person even when your soul was dark and your heart had been blackened with greed and lust.
The vision of her father’s face contorted with anger and shock that she would disobey him swam before her eyes. He’d found a pretty, young bride, and neither wanted Gillian’s interference in their lives. Drawing on the strength she’d admired in her mother, Gillian refused to marry her father’s friend, a man older than he was, and walked away from that life, leaving everything including her father’s name. She’d taken her mother’s maiden name and made a new life in Massachusetts, until another greedy, selfish man decided his needs were greater than others.
Smoothing the front of the simple dress, Gillian smiled. It was perfect for a Christmas wedding. Her smile grew when she remembered Rhys would be sporting red as well, only it would be in his beard.
She gave a self-deprecating laugh at the sight of her hair going in every direction. She wouldn’t indulge in vanity about the dress she wore, but she most definitely would straighten the rat’s nest the wool cap had made of her chignon. A ginger-haired lighthouse keeper would be the next man in her life. May he prove to be always as generous and good-hearted as he’d been this night. If so, there was nothing he could ask of her that would be too much.
CHAPTER FOUR
‡
Rhys couldn’t put his finger on what he wasn’t being told, but he was being kept in the dark about something for sure. Everyone was as friendly and jovial as they usually were at Ida’s Christmas Eve dinners, but no one quite met his gaze, and there was a bit of shifting from one foot to the other. Father McDonald kept glancing his way as if he wanted to speak, but couldn’t work up the lung power to get the words out. Even young Charlie, who was never at a loss for words and had been full of questions the last two months, seemed to shovel in a bite of something every time Rhys came near. Rhys rested one elbow on top of the mantle and sipped the hot cider. He scanned the room from the table covered in treats to the portion of the wood floor left open for dancing. Something didn’t smell right, and the balsam pine wasn’t covering the scent of deception.
“There she is.” Father McDonald opened his arms once again to Gillian. Rhys pushed the drink of hot cider past the lump in his throat at the sight of her. The wool dress was nothing special, but on her, it might as well have been silks from Paris. With her dramatic coloring, the red set off her almost-black eyes, and her cheeks now glowed a soft pink as her color returned.
She smiled at the priest but lifted her gaze to meet Rhys’, and her smile grew until, like a sailor to a mermaid’s song, he was drawn to her side. “I see Ida managed to get you warm.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m ready now, if you are.”
Rhys lifted an eyebrow in question. “Ready for what?”
Her eyebrow mirrored his. “Why, to get married.”
Rhys laughed. Nothing was funny about her words, but the thought of him ever marrying again was so ludicrous, laughter was the only response that made sense. That was until he saw those dark eyes fill with unshed tears, which then escaped and cascaded down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry I’m not what you wanted.”
She turned to flee, but Rhys caught her arm and brought her back into his space. “Any man would want you, Gillian, who had a mind to marry. I don’t have a mind to visit the altar.”
She jerked her arm away. “Then why did you place an advertisement for a wife? Why did you write me such beautiful letters? Was I a joke? Something to amuse you?”
He swore a blistering oath. “Letters? An advertisement?”
“Children, follow me.” Father McDonald walked past them, and they fell into step as though they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Rhys didn’t miss the guilty looks on the faces of the villagers they passed, and his heart sank with each step.
Once they entered a back room used for food preparation, the priest let his gaze rest on Gillian and then on Rhys as if giving each a silent blessing. “I’m afraid we did something out of love for you, Rhys, but let it simmer too long without your knowledge. And Gillian, you dear, were brought here by the village, not Rhys, though we hope you’ll be his wife this night.”
“What the—”
Father McDonald raised a hand to cut off Rhys before he could curse. “You’ve been lonely for years now, Rhys, and afraid to open your heart again. We all love you and only wanted to see you happy as you were before. So I took an advertisement out in the Grooms’ Gazette in your name. I provided the highest of recommendations to meet the paper’s, and the matchmaker, Miss Miller’s, high standards.” The priest nodded to Gillian. “Miss Darrow answered, and through her letters, she entered our hearts, as well. When I asked you to retrieve a young woman I thought of as family, it wasn’t a lie. At least not a complete lie.”
Rhys noticed the priest mumbled the last line and crossed himself. He ground his teeth and held back the line of profanity burning his tongue.
“So you wrote to me?” Gillian swayed, and Rhys rested a hand on her back to keep her steady.
The priest nodded. “Yes. Young Charlie would pepper Rhys with questions after we received your letters. Then we would meet in the church and compose a letter in reply we hoped was truthful as possible using his answers.”
“So that’s why Charlie was suddenly so interested in everything I was doing and my feelings on marriage.”
“I’m afraid so, Rhys.”
Father McDonald reached into his jacket and pulled out a bundle of letters. “These are Gillian’s letters to you. I hope you’ll read them, son.”
Rhys took the bundle and gave a sharp nod. He wanted to rail against the priest and people of the Bass Harbor, but he couldn’t. His gaze fell to Gillian, her face upturned to meet his in an honest and open fashion.
“So, we won’t be married tonight?”
Rhys’ fisted his hand and let it drop from her back. “No. I’m sorry, Gillian, but I have no intention of marrying again.” It felt strange using her given name, but it also felt very comfortable and right.
Her shoulders dropped in defeat as hope died in her dark gaze. “I understand. This is the chance I took.” She rested her palm on his cheek. “I am sorry though. You seem like a good man. I so wanted a good man.”
With that, she turned and walked from the room. Rhys turned his ire on Father McDonald. “How could you do that to her? She’s a fine lady; anyone can see it, and you’ve all lied to her and brought her here under false pretenses.”
“They weren’t false, Rhys. Moreover, I think your heart is already telling you that truth. I still believe you should marry her and marry her this night.”
“How can you ask that of me when you know everything about Miriam? You helped secure the annulment by the Church, for Pete’s sake.” How the priest could dismiss those dark months of petitioning the church for an annulment on the grounds of adultery, Rhys couldn’t fathom. It hadn’t taken long for Rhys to realize Miriam wasn’t cut out to be his wife, and his infatuation with her died before the end of their first year, but her betrayal cut him to the core. “Do you think I’ll take another woman to the seclusion of the lighthouse, so she can grow to hate me and then leave me for a rich man? No, Father, the shame of one divorce is enough to last me my whole life.”
A strong hand landed on Rhys’ shoulder and squeezed. “When I received Gillian’s first letter, I read in her words the longing for peace and, yes, even seclusion. I also recognized a loving and faithful heart. Do you think we chose the first woman who wrote? We prayed and dissected every word for anything that might lead us to believe she would deceive you. I found nothing. Would you leave her single, penniless, and alone here in Bass Harbor, or send her back to an unknown, and I’m sure, equally harsh fate in Massachusetts? Or would you send her away to
find another young man who might be cruel to her and shatter the soft heart we’ve both seen?”
“You’re blackmailing me, priest, turning this on me. You’re the one who brought her here; you can care for her.”
Father McDonald’s eyes gleamed as his head bobbed in a slow nod. “True. We might be able to find her another husband among the young men here.”
Rhys felt the heat of jealousy and rage pump enough blood into his brain that he thought his head might explode. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for this, priest. Bring her to the church, and let’s see it done. Blast you for this, Father, and blast you and the village. I’m sure Gillian will be cursing you all as well after days with me.”
He stomped out the door without a backward glance. The church stood lit and he let loose a booming curse at their plans as he almost yanked the door off its hinges. He stood at the altar not glancing at the crucifix or anything that might cool his temper. He couldn’t say why the threat of Gillian finding another man here was his breaking point, but the thought of coming to the village and watching her with a husband, or worse, her belly round with another man’s child, made him see red.
As though conjured by his thoughts, Gillian stepped through the doors and made her way to him. No one followed her inside. She tilted her head to one side, and her mouth curved in a smile. “You don’t have to do this, Rhys. Whatever Father McDonald said, I don’t want you to marry me out of an obligation that was never yours.”
Before he could think his actions through, Rhys, pulled her to him and captured her mouth with his. He coaxed her lips apart and deepened the kiss, keeping her anchored to him with one arm around her waist. She moaned as he taught her how to kiss him back. When she pressed closer, Rhys broke the kiss but kept her secured to him.
