Gillian_Bride of Maine

by Kirsten Lynn

  I only want a lover and friend who will remain so when my hair is gray and he must shout into an ear trumpet for me to hear him declare his love. A man who will think me beautiful when I am disheveled and exhausted. A man who will hold my hand, not because something is wrong, but because he cannot resist the feel of my flesh against his. A man who will laugh with me and cry with me, share our hopes and dreams, and kiss me senseless every morning for the rest of my life. I desire a man who wishes to watch every sunrise and every sunset with me through the years ahead, and will indulge me with the silly traditions I tend to form. I do not care about your past, Mr. Chermont, and hope you will do me the courtesy of forgiving me mine. If you hold even a few of the qualities listed above, and I believe you do, I would be honored to become your wife…

  Rhys returned his gaze to the top of the page and the date. The letter was dated before Charlie asked him what a woman could possibly say that would change his mind and he would marry again. He read the lines again. This. This is almost word for word what he told Charlie a woman could say that would break down every wall and restore his heart. He kept reading through the letters and found in the last letter she began calling him Rhys. She must have questioned his formality at the train station, but being Gillian, she didn’t mention it for his sake.

  He continued through the long letters and felt a frown forming at what wasn’t in the pages. She wrote of being born and raised in Maine, which pleased him since she’d know of the harsh winters and be more familiar with customs and places. She didn’t say where. One letter described her father’s scheme to marry her off, so he could marry a much younger woman and get Gillian out of the house. She didn’t say who her father was.

  Her signature at the bottom of the first letter caught his attention. It was as if she started to write an “N” but changed it to a “D”. Rhys brought the letter closer to his eyes, but before he could dissect her handwriting, a heavy fog rolling in caught his attention, and he bundled the letters for another day.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‡

  Gillian carried a basket of food and drink up the spiral staircase of the lighthouse tower. She’d prepared a tray at first, but thought better of it, not wishing to trip and tumble all the way down. She smiled at her husband who was watching out the window in the anteroom outside the service room.

  “Since you can’t come to supper, I’ve brought supper to you.” She lifted the heavy basket in triumph.

  Rhys took the basket from her. “You’re a godsend, mon petit chou. I’m starving, and this fog refuses to lift.”

  Gillian narrowed her gaze. “I don’t like being called a small cabbage, Rhys. Cabbage is sour and really the worst of vegetables.”

  He shrugged and she realized he really didn’t care what she liked to be called. “What would you like to be called then? Mon amant?”

  She gasped and stepped back as if he’d slapped her. “Never.”

  Rhys took her hand bringing her closer. “I’m sorry, Gillian; I’m frustrated and tired, and this is no way for you to spend your Christmas Day. I took my frustration out on you. I would never call you my lover in such a way.”

  She nodded but stepped out of his grasp. Opening the basket, she removed a thin blanket, spread it on the floor, and started unpacking the cold chicken, cheeses, bread, and wine along with the pie she’d managed to bake. It was a meager Christmas dinner, but she’d been excited to share it with Rhys. She lifted her gaze to his. “I’ve never had a Christmas picnic. Will you join me?”

  He folded to the floor and joined her. “It would be my honor. I truly am sorry, and after you’ve been such a help to me.”

  She sat back on her heels, kneeling before him. “I’m sorry I snapped at you for calling me your little cabbage. It was silly, and you were trying to be sweet. It’s been a long day for both of us. We’re adjusting to being around one another and then…”—she smoothed her skirt that was already perfectly smooth—“adjusting to what happened last night. We’ve both had two very busy, and at times, strange days.”

  Rhys poured their wine into the glasses, handed her a plate, and took one for his food. “Our making love, do you regret it?”

  He loved watching her cheeks turn pink. She’d referred to their consummation by every term, but what it was. “No. I quite enjoyed it.”

  It was Rhys’ turn to feel the heat crawl up his neck. He hadn’t thought she’d be that direct. “So, we’ll be doing it again?”

  “I hope in the near future. I’ve been praying for hours for the fog to lift.”

  Rhys burst out laughing. “You please me, Gillian.”

  Gracious, her face beamed as though she’d swallowed the moon. “I’m glad. You please me, too, Rhys.”

  He gave a shrug and tore off some cold chicken from the bone. “Well, give it time before you render your final verdict.”

  She leaned forward and took one of his hands in both of hers. “Don’t say that. I’m not her, Rhys; I’m not your first wife. I’m glad I please you, because I’m afraid you’re stuck with me forever.”

  “So they wrote to you about Miriam?” He knew they had from her letters, but he hadn’t been a part of that conversation.

  “Yes, and I’m ashamed for them. That was not their story to tell. But I’m glad I know, so when I see the hurt in your eyes, I know it isn’t me who put it there.”

  “I wonder if you’re real sometimes. I’ve known good people all my life. But you are so sweet, it’s almost impossible.”

  She moved closer to him. Rhys already liked that about his wife; she never remained far from him. “I’m really not so sweet. I can be abrasive and haughty at times, and there are times when I curse worse than any sailor.”

  He didn’t tell her he already knew the latter, because she’d dropped an unsavory word when they were in bed together. He hadn’t minded then and didn’t now. He just couldn’t get his head wrapped around where his heart was going with Gillian.

  She pressed her mouth to his, and Rhys startled before cupping her face and enjoying the feel of her soft lips against his, and her sweet taste that was sure to beat out any pie she brought for their picnic. She broke the kiss and smiled. “I like the feel of your beard on me.”

  He gave a huffed laugh. “You sure don’t mind telling it how it is, wife.”

  “You’re my husband; I want you to know everything.”

  “Then where in Maine are you from?”

  Her chest rose and fell in a deep breath as though she was preparing to confess to Father McDonald. “Bath.”

  A cold chill ran up his spine. He hated to ask the next question—as if some sort of mystic power told him he didn’t want to know the answer, and another power said he already did. “And who is your father?”

  Tears filled her eyes as if she knew her answer would change everything between them. “Edgar Nulton.”

  It did. He clasped her jaw between his forefinger and thumb. “How long did you know?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Know what?”

  “Don’t play games, Gillian, if you harbor any hope of our marriage surviving past the next five minutes. When did you know?”

  “Please, Rhys, I don’t understand, truly I don’t. I know my father’s reputation as a ruthless man is well known. But I don’t know what he did to you.” Her hand cuffed his wrist. “Please stop; you’re hurting me.”

  He released her face immediately, appalled at the red marks his fingers left, but still too enraged to apologize. “You can honestly say you didn’t know your father bedded my wife and then married her? That your stepmother is the whore I married, Miriam Granger?”

  She pushed back from him as if he’d suddenly contracted smallpox. “Oh, Rhys, no! No! My mind never even put the two together. She never used your name, and I left soon after they announced their engagement.”

  Rhys pushed to his feet, his six-foot three height towering over her. He wanted to tower over her, to intimidate her. By the fear in those dark, hypnotic eyes and the tears
pooling there, he figured he was managing to do just that. “Why use Darrow?”

  “It was my mother’s maiden name. She was good and kind and wonderful, and I wanted to honor her and forget him.”

  He looked out the window at the cove covered in dense fog. How appropriate as a fog drifted over his heart. “Go downstairs, wife. I wish to be alone.”

  She stood and gathered most of the items into the basket. “I’ll leave some food for you.”

  He didn’t want his heart to soften. He wanted to hold on to the bitterness and let it turn him hard again. He shouldn’t have allowed a beautiful woman, a few sweet lines in a letter, and one night of passion to soften it to begin with. “Take it all. I won’t be in the mood for food this night.”

  She rested a hand on his arm and compelled him to meet her gaze. “Please don’t let him do this, Rhys. He’s evil and destroys everything good. Don’t let him destroy what we’ve built in just a short time.”

  He caressed her face where he’d been rough. “Leave me for a bit, Gillian; let me brood and digest this news.”

  A spark of hope lit in her eyes like a lone star breaking through the clouds after a storm. “Should I leave you some supper?”

  Drawn to her in a manner that frightened him, he brushed a kiss on each of her cheeks. “Yes. Bring up some hot chocolate in a few hours and we’ll share the last of Christmas together.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him close. “Thank you.”

  “Go now. Just for a bit.’

  She nodded, gathered her basket, and left. Her footfalls reminded him of the many trips she’d made up and down the stairs bringing him supplies, or just checking to make sure he didn’t need any coffee or anything. She’d been everything he’d prayed his wife would be…until he heard who her father was. No one chose who fathered them. Rhys had been fortunate with a kind father and mother who raised him to be kind and fair with others. So how did the devil raise an angel for a daughter?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‡

  Gillian sat at the desk and tried to write a letter to her friends. If she’d seen to it Christmas morning she would have had nothing but good news. Now, on the day before the New Year, she wasn’t so sure. Rhys hadn’t been cruel since his initial reaction, but he hadn’t been the same. He still came to her bed, and during those times, he let his guard down and let her enjoy him and give him pleasure as much as he gave her pleasure. But he never stayed long. She knew a lighthouse keeper’s busiest hours were at night, but he seemed all too eager to return to his duties.

  During the day, she’d catch him staring at her as if he expected her to grow horns and a pointy tail. She fought between her growing feelings for him, her sorrow at what her father had done, and her anger at Rhys for looking at her and seeing the same kind of person as her father instead of seeing her.

  Picking up the pen, she decided to tell her friends the truth.

  Dear Emma & Rose,

  I hope you enjoyed a Merry Christmas, and I wish you both much happiness in the New Year. I am married now, right and proper. Rhys is everything he claimed in his letters and so much more.

  You will never believe it was actually the people of Bass Harbor writing to me on Rhys’ behalf. He didn’t even know about me until I announced we were to marry. I don’t know what changed his mind, but in the end, he took me as his wife.

  He is very handsome. So tall, the top of my head rests on his chest. He has a full, red beard, and blue eyes that are warm or ice depending on his mood. He is kind, my friends, something I’ve longed for in a man, and he has a great wolf-dog that, as I write, is guarding me by lying by my feet.

  The first night and day were a dream. Then I told him who my father was. In a cruel twist of fate, the very wanton my father married was Rhys’ first wife. Since finding out who fathered me, there has been a distinct chill in the air when we are in the same room. He is still extremely affectionate, but there is a distance greater than when we were strangers.

  I can only ask for your prayers for us. I am determined to keep him now that I know him. I cannot say I am in love with my husband, but it will be a short trip for my heart to get to that point. I shall also send a letter of the same to Willow.

  I miss you all terribly and wish we could huddle together as we used to and share our dreams and miseries face to face instead of on paper. Please write and let me know if you’ve decided to join the rest of us in this insanity of finding a husband. You can address your letters to the Bass Harbor post. Rhys has a box there and will pick up our mail as he can.

  Happiest of New Years to both of you!

  Love and friendship always,

  Gillian

  “Gillian!”

  She almost sent the pen flying as Rhys’ booming voice filled the sitting room. Gillian hurried and shoved the letter into an envelope before she turned to find him standing in the room like a captain ready to give orders. His feet were braced apart, and his hands rested on his hips.

  “I’m sorry; I was writing and didn’t hear you. Did you need something?”

  His mouth turned in a wicked smile, and he scooped her up out of the chair and held her in his arms. His mouth crashed on hers in a hard kiss. “Yes, ma petite. I need my wife.”

  “For what?”

  “This.”

  He kissed her again, this time taking all the time in the world to taste her and allow her to taste him back. When he broke the kiss, she filled her burning lungs with air. “Rhys? Why?”

  She didn’t bring up the fact that he still held her cradled in his arms. No use in being stupid about the situation. He began walking toward the kitchen. “I don’t know. Do I need a reason to want to be with you?”

  “Not at all. I’m thrilled you do. It’s just this is a bit new after days of you trying to avoid me.”

  “Exactly. Look at all those days wasted. Gorgeous blue days when I could have snuck away from the light and made love to my sweet wife.”

  “In the daylight?”

  “All day.”

  She gave his chest a small shove. “You’re not suggesting…right now?”

  “Alas, no. Not that I wouldn’t mind you talking me into it. But I was wondering if you could man the light for a bit? I’d like to sail over to Deacon and Alice’s and invite them to a New Year’s Eve supper. Of course, you’d have to make the supper unless you wanted beans.”

  Gillian roped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “I’d love that, Rhys. Thank you.”

  “So, I take it you won’t be talking me into a mid-day tryst. I’m not so hard-headed I couldn’t change my mind.”

  She laughed. “You are truly the finest man I’ve ever known.”

  He gave her a quick kiss and set her on her feet. “Considering the men you’ve known, ma petite, that isn’t much of a compliment.”

  She searched his face for the hard lines and icy stare he would get from time to time, but warm blue eyes to rival the cove in spring and his smile assured her he was teasing. “I better get up to the light.”

  He took her hand. “You don’t have to stay up there the whole time, Gillian. It’s a gorgeous day, so I extinguished the light this morning. Just light the wicks at sunset, and make sure the vents are positioned correctly. You remember what I showed you?”

  “Yes, all of it.” She’d relished the times over the past days when he’d educated her on the basics of the lighthouse. Those were moments when he didn’t see her as the devil, and showed trust in her.

  “You better decide what feast you’ll be preparing. I’ll warn you, Deacon outeats Wee Jacques any day.”

  She gave him a kiss. “Be careful.”

  “I will. Funny how the thought of getting back to a beautiful woman can make a man more cautious.”

  Gillian gave him one more hug and then started searching the cupboards and icebox to see what she might put together for a New Year’s Eve celebration. Rhys walked by her on his way out, and she let out a yip when he slapped her backside.<
br />
  She couldn’t say what had gotten into her husband. That morning, he’d been as distant as the past days; then, out of the blue, he was treating her like they’d been married for years. She would accept this as a belated Christmas gift and not question the whys and what fors. Gillian turned back to her pantry and started removing flour, sugar and other ingredients for a cake. She ran to the door and grabbed her worn wool coat. She tried not to slip as she ran across the yard and down the steps to the boat landing.

  Rhys’ forehead folded in a scowl. “Are you trying to kill yourself, Gillian?”

  “What kind of cake is your favorite?” She rushed the words while she still had air in her lungs.

  Rhys continued to scowl at her until he gave a low chuckle. Wee Jacques stood between her and Rhys as if deciding with whom he wanted to spend his afternoon.

  “Vanilla suits me just fine, Gillian. I’m a man with simple tastes.” He captured her mouth with his and ran his tongue over her lips as he stepped back. “Except in the woman I married.”

  “Vanilla it is.” She wondered for a minute if she could still take him up on his offer.

  “Don’t go giving a man those looks, mon ange, unless you’re willing to forgo the party.”

  She shook her head and wished she had a mirror to see her expression. She’d like to know for future reference when she didn’t want to meet her neighbors and welcome in the New Year with friends.

  “Tonight then.” Rhys cast off the line and jumped into the sloop. “I’ll have to console myself with vanilla cake.”