by Kirsten Lynn
He sailed off without any other words between them. She dropped her gaze to the wolf-dog by her side. “He ordered you to stay with me, didn’t he, Wee Jacques?”
The dog gave a snort and fell in step beside her. Gillian breathed deep of the pine surrounding her home. She didn’t need a tree in her house when she had a whole forest just outside the door. The wind whipped her skirts, and the salty air seemed to baptize her and welcome her home. She started climbing the stairs with a bit more caution than she’d descended, and shielded her eyes from the bright sun reflecting off the white stone tower. She traced the thirty-two feet beacon, raised to fifty-six feet above water by the granite bluff, to the black top and red light. It wasn’t as tall as the ocean lighthouses, but their lighthouse was just as important. It was where her husband stood guard over the seas.
Another gust of wind sent her feet moving faster, past the covered walkway that led from the keeper’s house to the lighthouse, and then she climbed the three steps that led her back into the house. Wee Jacques entered on her heels. She hoped Rhys had dressed warm enough against the elements. She tugged off the coat she had failed to button, and glared at the plain cotton prairie dress she wore and the fashion boots that didn’t provide much protection. It wasn’t her husband who needed a lesson in dressing appropriately for January in Maine.
Wiping her feet on the rag rug by the door, Gillian finished gathering the ingredients for the vanilla cake. She’d start the cake baking and then check the light. With renewed purpose and hope for a happy New Year, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
CHAPTER NINE
‡
Gillian picked up the dress she’d worn to meet her new husband and held it to her front, admiring it in the looking glass. The baby blue gown was far above what she should have spent. Emma persuaded her to purchase it, saying she should look her best and dress in the fashion of her station. Funny, but Gillian never dressed in the fashion of her station except if her father demanded it when investors joined them for dinner.
Large, puffed sleeves tapered to a point over her hand. The waist was narrow and then flowed into a full skirt. Velvet in a darker shade of blue graced the neckline and the ties around the sleeves, and a sash around the waist. None of it kept her warm enough, nor did she think Rhys’ eyes would have lit at the sight of her like they did in a simple red wool dress.
Folding the fine fabric, Gillian placed the dress in a large trunk at the foot of their bed. Rhys had cleaned it out for her to store whatever she wanted inside. Maybe someday she’d have a daughter, and while she adjusted the dress for style, she could share the strange circumstances that brought her and Rhys together.
She smoothed the red wool of the dress Ida had loaned her. It was rude to wear the dress again without Ida’s knowledge, but she wanted to wear something nice for her first dinner party. From what little she knew of Ida, she didn’t believe the woman would mind. While the blue dress was too much and would seem audacious with Deacon and Alice, this dress was perfect.
Gillian’s stomach turned at the thought. At least one thing was perfect. She took a deep breath and started preparing for guests. She went to the other bedroom and took inventory. Their guests would stay the night as neither she nor Rhys wanted two people over sixty facing the water after dark.
Hurrying down the stairs, she checked their supper, and her stomach twisted again. Everything seemed to be progressing, so she walked the twenty-one foot hallway to the tower and took the circular stairs to the service room. She gazed out into the bay, waiting for a sight of the Femme Rouge. Twilight was settling on the bay, and with it, a light snow began to fall.
When she spotted Rhys’ sloop, she made sure the light’s wicks were trimmed and oil filled the lamp, and she lit the wicks for the night. Then she scurried down the stairs. Wrapped in one of her husband’s slickers, she made her way on the path Rhys had shoveled through the snow to the bell tower and rang the fog bell. Her husband knew these waters better than any man living, but she wasn’t taking any chances with him. She rang the bell again. Wee Jacques followed close to her in everything that afternoon. Her bodyguard could soon rest as his duties of keeping her safe would be taken over by another.
The bay and granite stones carried the voices of Rhys and their guests. Gillian retraced her steps through the deep snow. She stripped off the slicker and dried her boots. Smoothing back her hair, she stepped from the mirror in the living area just as the three entered through the front door. The men stomped their boots, but kept them on. New Year’s Eve or not, Rhys was on duty, and it seemed Deacon would be taking her place this night as his assistant.
Gillian gathered coats and hung them by the fire. Would Rhys be displeased if she kissed him to welcome him home, or was he a man who preferred not to show affection in front of others? Hanging up the last wool coat, she stepped toward him and raised her face. White teeth shown through his red beard as he smiled, and he brushed a quick kiss over her mouth.
She rested a hand on his chest. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“Me, too, ma petite. For the first time in many years, I’m very happy to be home.”
Not wishing to be discourteous to her guests, she stepped around Rhys carrying the thrill his words had caused. “Mr. Ambrose, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Mrs. Chermont.” The man accepted her hand. “Pleasure is all mine. This is my wife, Alice.”
Gillian turned her attention to the older woman, and she could understand the pride in Mr. Ambrose’s voice. Alice wore a fashionable dress, almost as fashionable as the dress Gillian had tucked away in a trunk minutes before. It was deep royal blue velvet and offset Alice’s stunning silver hair and gray eyes. She glanced at Deacon Ambrose. He was tall and lean with a full head of white hair. His face was weathered like Rhys’, speaking to a life spent outside. His trousers were clean as was his plaid shirt, but the woman before her looked like someone whose escort should be in tails and top hat.
She cleared her throat and smiled. “I’m so pleased to meet you Mrs. Ambrose.”
The woman smiled, and if possible, became more beautiful. “I cannot tell you how pleased I was to hear of your marriage to Rhys. You must call me Alice and ignore the airs I try to put on; it’s a habit Deacon has been attempting to break for almost fifty years.”
Gillian relaxed at the openness and kindness of Alice Ambrose. “Not at all, your gown is beautiful. You should wear it whenever you can.” She waved toward the dining room. “No use standing in the cold doorway, come in, please, and have a seat.”
Alice handed her a basket. “I hope you don’t mind, I brought along a mincemeat pie.”
Gillian wanted to cry with relief. “Mind? I’m so thankful. I’m afraid I tried baking a cake, but got distracted with caring for the light, and it burned.”
“Well, then that’s settled. May I help you in the kitchen?”
“Oh, no, everything is ready. It’s just a matter of dishing it up.”
Carrying the pie as though it were jewels, Gillian made her way through the dining room and into her small kitchen. She carefully slid the pastry from the basket and turned. She almost dropped the pie when Rhys stood right behind her.
On a sharp breath, she placed the pie on the counter before she destroyed this dessert, too. “Rhys?”
“I’ll help dish up dinner.”
She cocked her head. “Thank you. I’m sorry about your cake and the terrible waste of supplies.”
He brushed the back of his hand over the curve of her cheek as was becoming his habit. There was surely magic in his touch. Gillian relaxed so completely it felt as though her bones had melted.
“We can afford a few supplies sacrificed. It smells as if the ham and the rest of supper survived.”
“Yes, and now we have pie.”
He reached above her to retrieve the serving dishes. In doing so, he pressed his body against hers trapping her between his hard muscles and the counter. “Are you here to help me, Rhys, or stir u
s both up when we have guests and shouldn’t be thinking of what I’m thinking.”
A look of pure innocence settled over his face, and he stepped back. “I have no idea what you’re saying, wife; I’m merely getting dishes down.”
“Hmmm…I’m wondering what manner of man I’ve married.”
“A man with a powerful desire for his wife.”
She shoved hot pads at him. “Carve the ham, you scoundrel, before you get us both in trouble.”
His deep chuckle rolled over her like a wave, but it didn’t frighten her, and she let it wash over her and pull her deeper in love with Rhys Chermont. She dropped her gaze from his and started filling bowls with red potatoes and canned corn heated on the stove. She loved him. It frightened her to admit it to herself; she was terrified of letting it slip to him. Today, they’d taken many steps forward, but the truth about her father and his first wife still lay thick between them. She sensed Rhys wouldn’t accept her declaration of love with joy. Yes, he enjoyed hearing how much she desired him, but love was still forbidden.
They finished dishing up the dinner in silence until it was time to join the Ambroses around the table.
“Thank you, Gillian.”
“Whatever for?”
“For tending the light and for all of this. You please me, Gillian Chermont.”
“You’re welcome. You please me, too, Rhys Chermont.”
It was as close as she could come to saying what was in her heart. The urge to hear him say he loved her had become almost overwhelming. Before she said something that would ruin the moment, Gillian pivoted and moved into the dining room.
*
“For being here such a short time, you certainly seem to fit in as though you had been here for years.”
Gillian looked over her cards at Alice. The men had gone to tend the light and bell since the fog seemed determined to keep them away from the party. She’d offered to help, but Rhys told her to stay warm and enjoy her visit with Alice.
“I feel like I’ve been here longer, and I mean that as a compliment to the kindness of the villagers when I first arrived, and the friendship offered by you and Deacon. But mostly because Rhys has made me feel as though I returned home Christmas Eve instead of like a stranger.”
Alice gave a small chuckle and played a card in their game of Rummy. “Deacon almost had to get the smelling salts when he told me what they’d all done and that Rhys went along with the marriage. Although it shouldn’t surprise me. Rhys’ heart has always been too soft, and he’s always rescuing some lost soul starting with the wolf I refuse to call Wee.”
Gillian flinched, and Alice covered her hand. “Not that you’re a lost soul, dear; my mouth started running, and my brain didn’t catch up. I just meant he’d make you feel safe and welcome.”
“I understand. Sometimes I still can’t believe all of this is happening. That I answered the advertisement and actually came Downeast to marry a stranger. He could have been a cruel and horrible man with the ability to write beautiful prose. Instead, it turned out it was a whole village that could write like Byron.”
Alice shook her head. “Everyone loves your Rhys. Since the day he took over the light from Deacon, he became that person everyone adopted as their own. Everyone, that is, except Miriam.”
Gillian focused on the part of Alice’s statement about Deacon being the lighthouse keeper. She would not discuss Miriam with anyone but Rhys. He’d already shared about the local girl who had made sure he noticed her when he visited Bass Harbor. He never said he loved Miriam Granger, just that, eventually, she caught him. Gillian had no desire to know more about the woman.
“I didn’t know this was once your home.”
“Oh yes, for forty years. Rhys is kind enough to let Deacon tend the light from time to time. He’d still be here, but it was time to move on and let younger hands guide our fishermen and sailors home.”
They played in silence for a few more minutes, and Gillian digested all Alice shared. She felt honored and a bit frightened that the people of Bass Harbor chose her for Rhys. They’d probably watch her like a hawk to make sure she was doing right by him, but that didn’t bother her because she intended to do right by him.
“His parents will love you, I’m sure.”
Gillian almost spewed her coffee on Alice. “Rhys has parents?”
“Well, he wasn’t carved from a tree, dear.”
She gave a weak chuckle. “Of course.”
Alice glanced toward the hallway to the tower and shifted her gaze back to Gillian. “I’m sorry dear, but I don’t think these old bones can see the clock strike twelve. It seems as though Deacon plans on working through the night.”
Gillian rose with Alice. “I understand. Let me show you to your room.”
Alice waved her down. “Not to worry. I know my way to the guest room.” She wrapped Gillian in a hug. “May God bless you and your union in the New Year, Gillian. I like you.”
Gillian returned the hug. “I like you, too. I so look forward to visiting with you more.”
Once Alice had gone upstairs, Gillian sank to the sofa. It had been a lovely evening despite Rhys having to shovel in his supper so he could get to his duties. The house sat silent except for the ringing fog bell and the clock on the mantle taking turns cutting into the night. She pushed off the sofa unable to pretend she didn’t want to seek Rhys out.
CHAPTER TEN
‡
Rhys came up the spiral steps and found a vision in red standing by the window in the space outside the service room. He took off his hat and shook it free of snow. She smiled, and before he could think, her arms were around him. “I came to welcome in the New Year with you.”
He returned her embrace, holding her close. “I’m grateful, but what about Alice?”
“She retired a bit ago.”
Taking a step out of his arms, she took one of his hands and rubbed it between both of hers then took the other and gave it the same care. “You should wear your gloves.”
“Forgot ’em.”
He almost came apart when she brought one hand to her pretty mouth, blew her warm breath over it, and trailed kisses over his knuckles. Again, she did the same with the other hand. “Well, don’t forget again.”
He’d make a point of forgetting—often. “No, Mrs. Chermont, I won’t.”
She kept his hand in hers and led him to where a teapot covered in a crocheted cozy sat. “We can’t forget our hot chocolate tonight.”
He smiled. “Wouldn’t want to do that.” He started something that first night, and somehow, it had become a nightly tradition.
She handed him a mug of chocolate. “Where are your parents, Rhys?”
He looked around. “Where did that come from?”
Her shoulders rose and fell. “It’s something we haven’t discussed.”
“They live in Quebec.”
“So you’re Canadian?”
“No, my sweet Gillian. I am American; my parents are Canadian.”
She lifted a brow in question, and he took a long swig of the hot liquid. “My parents came to Maine before I was born, but when I was five, we returned to Quebec.”
“And they’re of French heritage?”
“My father. My mother is of Scottish descent.”
“And they were good to you?”
She sounded as if he said no, she’d head to Canada that night and bring down a horrible wrath upon his parents. He set down his mug and framed her beautiful face with his hands. “Yes, mon plus cher, they were very good to me. They will love you, because I—” He stopped short before he confessed something he wasn’t ready to confess. “Because you are so sweet, they couldn’t help but adore you.”
Sadness entered her eyes. “Even when they know?”
He brushed his lips against hers then decided to savor her mouth for bit even if the clock hadn’t struck twelve. She opened for him without hesitation and offered him everything she had just as she always did every time they kissed…every time th
ey came together. He deepened the kiss and angled her head so he could deepen it further. Her fingernails dug into his biceps, and she made the most erotic noises deep in her throat.
The tower, once chilled, became warm and humid, and he moved his hands over her, learning her curves again even though he knew every one intimately. Gillian leaned closer, giving his hands more. Buzzing filled his ears as his mind went numb, intoxicated by her soft flesh and sweet taste. A bell ringing brought him slowly from the fog she’d wrapped him in, dragging him away from everything and closer to her.
Unable to part from Gillian, Rhys brushed kisses over her face and down her neck until the bell rang again. He leaned back from her, breaking their kiss, but not the contact with his wife.
“You are a siren, for sure, Gillian, but I’d die on the rocks a happy man for following your song.”
She dug her fingers in his hair and tugged his head down until their foreheads touched. “I’d never lead you anywhere you’d be harmed. Maybe just someplace where Deacon wasn’t ringing that dang bell.”
He laughed and stayed in her embrace, his hands resting on her hips. “Today, I realized I had two choices. To wallow in bitterness until I forced you to leave in order to preserve your sanity, or to accept things we cannot change, that you are not your father, and you are not Miriam. If we’re going to survive, the choice was clear. And I want you, Gillian, no matter where you’re from or who fathered you. You are mine now, and this is where you belong.”
She hugged his neck, pressing close. “This is my home, Rhys, and you are mine, too. I’ll forever be grateful to the crazy villagers of Bass Harbor for bringing me to you. When I think if I’d waited, another might have answered that ad…”
Rhys squeezed her close. “I wouldn’t have accepted another. There was a line between your heart and mine from the first time I saw you, and that’s the truth of it.”
“Happy New Year!” Deacon’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs, and Rhys gave Gillian another kiss before breaking the embrace as their friend joined them.
