Читать книгу The Pregnant Bride - Catherine Spencer - Страница 8

“…UM…” SHE muttered. “Er…who is this? That is, I…um…”

Duplicity didn’t come naturally to her and he clearly recognized an amateur when he heard one. Cutting short her bumbling reply, he said curtly, “It’s Edmund Delaney, Jenna. And you just phoned me, right?”

“Yes,” she admitted faintly, wishing for the second time in a day that seemed doomed never to end, that she could disappear off the face of the earth and spare everyone further grief. “I wanted to make sure I’d…thanked you. Properly, that is. For coming to my rescue at dinner.”

He sounded as if he might be having a hard time choking back a laugh when he replied, and she could scarcely blame him. Her pitiful attempt at subterfuge was as transparent as glass. “You thanked me,” he said. “And you were very proper.”

“But just saying the words doesn’t seem enough. I feel you deserve more than that.”

Dear heaven, woman, rephrase that quickly before he decides you’re making a play for him and offering more than you’re prepared to give!

“Wh…what I mean is, may I buy you breakfast in the morning? As a token of my gratitude, you understand? Say about nine, in the main dining room?”

“Afraid not,” he said cheerfully. “I won’t be here.”

Either it was just one rejection too many, or else she was courting insanity to be so crushed by his answer. Clearing her throat to dislodge the great lump of disappointment threatening to strangle her, she aimed for nonchalance. “Oh, that’s too bad. Then I guess we won’t see each other again.”

“I’ve chartered a boat to take me fishing at dawn and don’t expect to be back much before noon.”

The rush of relief she experienced at that piece of news was almost as disconcerting as hearing herself suggest, with an eagerness which could only be described as pathetic, “What about lunch, then?”

“I have a better idea,” he said, after a small, contemplative pause. “Why don’t you come fishing with me? There’s nothing like reeling in a fighting salmon to take your mind off your other troubles.”

He was being kind. Again. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I don’t know the first thing about fishing.”

“Only one way to learn,” he said. “I’ll be leaving here about five-thirty. Meet me in the lobby downstairs if you change your mind.”

Well, it was out of the question. For a start, all she’d brought with her was her honeymoon luggage and it didn’t include hip waders and oilskins, or whatever it was that fishing persons wore. Furthermore, she’d be lousy company and he’d already put up with enough of that. He didn’t need the aggravation of wondering if the weepy woman hanging over the side of the boat was planning to end it all by diving headfirst into the saltchuck.

But when, after a night of fitful sleep, she found herself wide-awake at five the next morning, with the beginning of another beautiful day hovering on the horizon, watching the sunrise with Edmund Delaney didn’t seem such a bad idea after all.

Because she and Mark had planned to walk on the beach, she did have a pair of jeans in her suitcase, and a lightweight jacket and a pair of rubber-soled shoes. The day stretched before her, depressingly empty. And there was nothing more enervating or unattractive than a woman so steeped in self-pity that even she was getting tired of herself. So why not take Edmund up on his offer?

She found him leaning against the front desk, thumbing through a map of the area. Dressed in jeans also, with a heavy cream sweater over a navy turtleneck and his dark hair still damp from the shower, he was an undeniably handsome sight. But it was his aura of confidence and strength that brought to her mind the shocking thought that he’d never take the easy way out by appointing someone else to do his dirty work, the way Mark had.

Edmund Delaney was made of sterner stuff.

“Well, what do you know!” he said, his smile touching the cold recesses of her heart with surprising warmth. “Looks as if I’m going to have company, after all.”

He drove a dark green Lincoln Navigator, a big and powerful vehicle to match the man who owned it. It smelled of leather and a pleasant hint of the Douglas firs which grew in such profusion along the coast.

Settling himself behind the wheel, Edmund fired up the engine and slewed a glance her way. “Ready to catch some fish?”

“Willing to try, at any rate.”

His grin was startlingly white in the faint glow of early morning. “Good woman!”

Mark favored a Porsche so sleek and low-slung that, most of the time, the view from the windshield was largely blocked by the rear end of the car in front. In Edmund’s vehicle, she was perched up high enough that, if there’d been any other traffic on the road at that hour, she’d have been able to see clear over it to the fishing village nestled at the foot of a steep hill three miles away.

Except for those times when he tuned in to a news station to keep track of the stock market, Mark preferred to listen to classical music. Edmund plugged in a Best Of Rock ’n’ Roll CD and throughout the journey, thumped the rim of the steering wheel in time to the manic din of Jerry Lee Lewis belting out “Great Balls of Fire.”

She was out of her element. She was with a man who could be a serial rapist for all she knew about him. She was planning to spend the day at sea with him. No one knew where she was. No one would miss her—at least not for at least a week, by which time she could be fish food. Her situation had all the makings of a TV murder mystery.

At the very least, she should have been nervous. Instead, she felt safe and warm. Removed from the familiar world and the cares it had thrust at her.

She knew the reprieve was temporary, that ultimately, she’d have to go back and start to put her life together again. But for now, being able to focus on something new and different was enough to let the healing of old wounds begin. And that, surely, was a gift she couldn’t afford to turn down.

By the time the Navigator rolled to a stop on the fishing dock, the sky had lightened to a pale aquamarine which reflected coldly off the quiet waters of the harbor. Slinging a canvas bag over one shoulder, Edmund took Jenna’s hand and guided her down the ramp toward a fleet of boats bobbing gently on the tide.

“The twenty-four-foot Bayliner on the end is ours and it comes complete with breakfast. If we hustle, we could be out on open water in time to see the sun come up over the mountains.”

Not in her wildest dreams had she expected she’d truly enjoy herself. She’d viewed the excursion as just another way to distract herself from dwelling on the shambles of her wedding day. But the peace and beauty of the setting worked an amazing magic.

Although the air was chilly, the sky was blue, the waves a gentle rolling motion beneath the boat, and the coffee and freshly baked sweet rolls which Hank the skipper served for breakfast, pure heaven.

“You doing okay?” Edmund asked, as they motored out to a point about five miles north of the village. “Not feeling queasy or anything?”

She shook her head. “I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in weeks. The days leading up to the wedding were hectic, what with the various parties and showers.” Cradling her coffee mug in her hands, she leaned against the bulkhead, closed her eyes, and lifted her face to the sun. “In fact, I’m so comfortable I could easily fall asleep.”

She hadn’t intended acting on the words, especially not so promptly, but when she next became aware of her surroundings, the boat rocked at anchor, her head was cushioned by a life jacket, a blanket covered her from the waist down, the sun was riding high above the mountains, her watch showed a quarter to nine—and she needed a washroom in the worst way.

Above her on a sort of raised deck, the men were chatting idly. Hank sat in a swivel chair which allowed him to keep an eye on the fishing poles angled in brackets attached to either side of the back of the boat. Edmund lounged against the instrument panel. Trying to be inconspicuous, Jenna slithered off the bench and down the laddered steps to the cabin, trailing the blanket behind her.

Below, she found a table flanked by two upholstered benches, a sloping desk covered with navigation charts, a kitchen of sorts—and, praise the Lord, a washroom! Heaving a sigh of relief, she made a beeline for the latter.

She returned on deck to a scene of high excitement. Edmund hauled on one of the lines while Hank hung over the side of the boat with a net in his hand, all the while bellowing, “Keep the tip up! Keep reeling him in!”

She saw a flash of silver a few yards off, a thrashing just below the surface of the water, and shortly after, Hank scooped a salmon into the net and brought it on board.

Jumping down to where she stood, Edmund seized her around the waist and practically hoisted her off her feet. “Would you look at that beauty!” he gloated. “A coho, and sixteen pounds at least!”

Personally, the closest she ever came to any kind of salmon was after it had been nicely filleted, perfectly grilled, and served on a plate with a lemon and parsley garnish. Although she found it delicious, it certainly never stirred her to the kind of exuberant delight infecting Edmund. But she hadn’t the heart to tell him so. Staggering a little as he released her, she said instead, “You’re right, it’s beautiful! Now what do you do with it?”

“Club it over the head and put it out of its misery,” Hank informed her laconically. She must have blanched at the image he brought to mind, because he went on, “Might be best if you went back below deck and scrambled up a dozen eggs while we take care of business.”

Edmund nodded agreement. “Go,” he said. “You don’t need to see this and it’s been a long time since we had fresh coffee. You know how to use a propane stove, or do you want me to light it for you?”

“I can manage,” she said, unable to drag her gaze away from the fish still flopping around on the deck, and mortified to find her eyes suddenly filling with tears. Poor thing! Just moments before it had been wild and free; now it had to die to satisfy the primeval hunting instincts in a couple of otherwise civilized men.

Noticing her distress, Edmund said quietly, “You want me to toss it back overboard, sweet pea?”

“No,” she said, dashing away the tears. “From the looks of it, it would probably die anyway.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

“You must think I’m an absolute fool to get so overwrought about a mere fish.”

His blue eyes darkened and his voice was almost tender when he replied, “I don’t think any such thing. Go crack some eggs in a bowl and find a frying pan. And if you need help with the stove, just give a shout.”

She found butter, eggs and mushrooms in the cooler, more rolls in a bag on the tiny counter, coffee in a jar by the sink, and a cast iron frying pan in the oven.

When Edmund swung down into the cabin fifteen minutes later, she’d buttered half a dozen rolls and had a huge mushroom omelet sizzling in the pan.

“Came to lend a hand,” he said, “but I can see I’m not needed.”

“Not in the kitchen, at least.”

He ducked his head until his eyes were on a level with hers. “On a boat, it’s called a galley, Jenna.”

Kitchen, galley—call it what he liked, it wasn’t designed for two, especially not when one of the occupants stood over six feet and weighed close to a hundred and ninety pounds. No matter how careful she was, every time she moved, whether it was to turn the omelet or pour boiling water over the coffee grounds, one part of her or another brushed against him.

She could detect the faint smell of soap on his skin, feel the warmth of his breath in her hair, the heat of his body at her back. The experience left her oddly short of breath.

“You want to eat outside?” she practically wheezed.

“You bet. Got to keep an eye out to make sure the fishing lines stay clear.”

She stuffed the rolls into a basket, plunked three coffee mugs on top and shoved the lot into his hands. “Then make yourself useful and take all this on deck while I finish the eggs.”

“Sure. And don’t even think about trying to climb into the cockpit with that coffeepot. I’ll bring it up.”

I pay other people to take care of things like that, Mark had informed her, the one time she’d made the mistake of asking him to help clear away the dishes after she’d made dinner for him at her apartment. Once we’re married, you won’t have to lift a finger. We’ll have an entire staff to look after the cooking and housekeeping.

But I like cooking, she’d protested. And I like being in charge of my own kitchen.

There’s a difference between being in charge and taking on the role of household drudge. Armstrong wives don’t appear in public with dishpan hands.

Lithe and agile, Edmund swung down into the cabin and closed in on her again. “How much longer before those eggs are ready, woman?” he said, eyeing the frying pan devoutly. “The smells floating up top have driven us to drink. Hank’s lacing the coffee with rum.”

“They’re done,” she said, dividing the omelet into three unequal parts and sliding the two larger portions onto plates. “These are for you and Hank and I’ll be right behind you with mine.”

When he’d gone, she fanned her face with a dish towel and decided there was a lot of truth to the old saying about getting out of the kitchen if a person couldn’t take the heat. She definitely couldn’t take the kind of heat Edmund Delaney generated!

His head reappeared in the open hatch. “Want me to bring up anything else?”

What she wanted was a few minutes in which to collect herself, because try as she might, she found herself constantly comparing him to Mark and finding her former fiancé coming up short. How could that be when Mark was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? The possible answers were too disturbing to contemplate.

“Good grub,” Hank announced, when she came up on deck. “You ever want a job, you’ve got one. Tourist season’s just around the corner and I could use a cook like you.”

The idea had merit. Her bruised spirit craved the prospect of a simple life, uncomplicated by the demands of a family who, sadly, had viewed her marriage to Mark as a passport to high society and easy living. The anonymity of being a stranger in a remote village cut off from the stress and bustle of the Lower Mainland held enormous appeal.

Edmund was watching her closely. “Tempted by the idea?”

“Good grief!” she said, pressing her palms to her cheeks. “Am I that easy to read?”

“Clear as glass,” he said, his blue eyes disconcertingly intent. “Your face is an open book. You’d make a lousy poker player.”

I make a lousy everything, she almost replied, the self-pity she’d managed to subdue suddenly rearing up again.

Was it the bright, sunny day that made her fight it? The grandeur of the scene around her beside which her little tragedy seemed pitifully insignificant? Or the man sitting across from her and seeing into her heart so much more clearly than Mark ever had? “Then I’d better stick to cooking,” she said, drumming up a smile even though the effort made her face ache.

Hank looked hopeful. “You takin’ me up on my offer?”

“Thanks, but no,” she said, her smile more genuine this time. “I have other things I need to do.”

Like fighting her demons, laying certain ghosts to rest, and facing the rest of her life without Mark.

She gave an involuntary shudder at the enormity of the task facing her, and hugged her elbows close to her chest.

“Wind’s pickin’ up,” Hank observed, squinting at her in the sunlight. “Usually does about this time of day. Might be best if you found something a bit heavier to wear than that flimsy jacket you brought with you.”

“I don’t need—” she began, but Edmund cut her off.

“Yes, you do.” He reached into his canvas bag and pulled out an extra sweater. “Put this on, sweet pea. It’ll cut the wind out and keep you from catching cold.”

It was easier not to argue, and truth to tell, comforting to have him care. Obediently, she slipped the sweater over head. Thick and heavy like the one he was wearing, its sleeves hung well below the tips of her fingers and the hem reached almost to her knees.

“Sure it’s big enough?” Hank snickered. “Looks to me as if there’s room for two in there.”

“Not quite,” she said, her senses swimming as Edmund slid his fingers along the back of her neck to free her hair trapped inside the collar. “But you’re right. I won’t make any Best Dressed Lists with it.”

“It isn’t the packaging that counts,” he said, slinging a arm around her shoulders and giving her a friendly hug. “I thought you were smart enough to know that.”

He meant nothing special by the gesture, she was sure. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to lean into his solid strength, and pretend, just for a minute, that she was on her honeymoon and married to a man like him.

Heavenly days, where was her head, that she’d even entertain such an idea?

“Is it too late for me to try my hand at fishing?” she said, hurriedly pulling away and pretending an interest in the contents of the tackle box before she showed herself completely lacking in good judgment and wrapped her arms around him.

“Sure you want to try?”

She inspected the wicked-looking hooks and grimaced. “Not if I have to use one of these. They’re instruments of torture.”

“You can use a barbless hook,” Hank said. “Lots of folks do if they can’t stand the sight of blood.”

She ventured a glance at Edmund. “I suppose you think I’m ridiculously squeamish.”

“You suppose wrong—again. We’ve already got one salmon in the cooler. We don’t need another.”

“Well,” she said doubtfully, “if you’re sure you don’t mind…?”

“I’ll make you a deal. You can throw back anything you catch if you’ll come with me to The Dungeness Trap tonight.”

“Dungeness Trap?”

“Don’t look so suspicious. It’s a restaurant in town that serves the best crab you’ve ever tasted, not the local den of iniquity!”

“I don’t know….”

“I’m not asking you to sign over your firstborn, Jenna,” he said persuasively. “I’m simply inviting you to have dinner with me.”

“But I can’t keep imposing on your time like this. You’ve already done so much and been so…kind.”

“Hey, I’m no Boy Scout, if that’s what you’re thinking! The way I have it figured, you owe me. I’ve had to listen to your tale of woe and it’s your turn to listen to the grisly details of mine.” He extended his palm. “So what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

She placed her hand in his and tried to dismiss as indigestion the little spurt of pleasure churning her stomach as his fingers closed around hers. “We have a deal.”

“Sweet pea,” he said, his grin so disarming that she went slightly weak at the knees, “you just made my day!”

From the outside, the restaurant looked like little more than a dimly lit shack perched on pilings over the water. Inside, though, it was cosy and comfortable, with oil lamps on the tables, heat blasting from the big open hearth, and fishing nets strung with glass floats anchored from the ceiling. A wine rack covered one wall. At the rear of the room, a woman played a guitar. Beyond a serving hatch was the kitchen with a brick bread oven and huge stainless steel pots simmering on a gleaming range.

“Just as well I made a reservation,” Edmund said, after they’d been shown to a table overlooking the harbor. “The place is packed.”

None of the men wore ties, though, and for the most part, the women were in slacks and sweaters. “I’m afraid I’m very much overdressed,” Jenna said, nervously smoothing the full skirt of her velvet dinner dress.

Edmund looked up from the wine list he’d been perusing and frowned. “Didn’t you hear me, this morning? It’s what’s underneath the surface that matters.”

“Mark felt appearances were critically important.”

“Mark sounds like an ass.”

Determined to be fair, she said, “No. It’s just that his family is well-known and he has a reputation to uphold. He was brought up to believe that since he’s handling other people’s money, it’s important to project the right image. Clients like to feel they’re in capable hands.”

“And you bought that load of rubbish?”

She looked away, embarrassed. What would he say if she admitted that, after they became engaged, Mark had gradually taken over picking out her wardrobe for her, right down to the shade of her stockings? As an Armstrong wife, you’ll be scrutinized from head to toe every time you appear in public. Slip up and your photo will be plastered all over tomorrow’s newspapers.

“Hey, I’m sorry!” Edmund reached across and covered her hand with his. “You’ve got enough to deal with, without me getting on your case. I’ve never met the guy and have no business passing judgment on him. But just for the record, what you’re wearing now is stunning. Blue suits you.”

“It’s part of my trousseau. The only clothes I brought with me were those I’d packed for my honeymoon.”

He leaned back and gave her such a thorough inspection that she practically squirmed. “Mark doesn’t know what he’s missing, Jenna. If he did, he’d surely be here now, instead of me.”

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, more rattled by his compliment than she cared to admit. “This isn’t his kind of place at all!” Then, realizing what she’d said, she clapped a horrified hand to her mouth.

“Too upscale, you mean?” Edmund’s eyes danced with mischief.

“Oh!” she gasped. “You must think me so ungracious!”

His face took on a sober cast and he rearranged his cutlery before finally saying, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“What was it about this Mark person that made you decide to marry him?”

She lifted her shoulders, mystified that he couldn’t figure that out for himself. “I loved him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t understand what you mean. Love doesn’t have to have a reason.”

“Sure it does, Jenna. We might like a lot of people, but as a rule, we love very few. What made him special?”

She thought about that for a minute, then said, “At first, he was interesting and fun and exciting…and…”

And a little bit insecure. Too much under his father’s controlling thumb. Too much in thrall to the family name and reputation.

“Go on.”

“He seemed to need me.” I made him feel important in his own right. With me, he was somebody other than the son who always did his father’s bidding. “We became friends.”

“And lovers?”

“Eventually, yes.” Silly to feel uncomfortable with the admission. She was twenty-seven, after all; well past the age of consent. “We were compatible. Comfortable with each other. His family accepted us as a couple. So, when he proposed…”

I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no.

“…I accepted. I was ready for marriage and I thought we’d be happy together.” Irritated to find herself trying to justify a decision which, at the time, had seemed absolutely right, she flung out her hands. “What does it matter? He obviously didn’t agree, and now I have to accept that, too.”

“How did he break the news that the marriage was off?”

“He had his best man deliver a letter to the church.”

“He had his best man deliver a letter?” Edmund made no effort to mask his disgust. “Jeez, I take back my apology. The guy’s pure pond scum!”

“He’s not nearly as bad as I’ve made him sound. If anything, he’s a rather unhappy man. I thought I could change that. Apparently, I was wrong.”

“A guy who sends someone else to do his dirty work isn’t fit to be called a man, Jenna! And what I find hard to understand is why you feel compelled to go on defending him.”

“Because if I don’t,” she cried, at her wits’ end with his probing questions, “I look like an even bigger fool for having agreed to marry him in the first place. And my pride’s taken enough of a beating for one week.”

Edmund drew in a long breath and gestured for the waiter. “Mark’s the fool, sweet pea,” he said, “but if you can’t see that without my having to beat you over the head with the idea, we might as well drop the subject.”

They feasted on steamed crab dipped in melted butter and washed down with white wine, but although the meal was every bit as delicious as he’d promised, Edmund became increasingly withdrawn and never did make good on his promise to share some of his own history. Nor did he suggest lingering once they’d finished eating. Indeed, his taciturnity during the drive back to The Inn made her wonder if he regretted having invited her to dinner to begin with.

The path from the parking area to The Inn wove among plantings of shrubbery interspersed with the pale faces of daffodils. Concealed floodlights showcased the mighty cedars looming in the background. Strategically placed benches just big enough for two lurked in the shadows. Piano music drifted through the darkness, the notes falling soft and clear in the night.

Everything about the place spelled couples, romance, honeymoons, happy-ever-after. Added to Edmund’s aloof silence, it was more than she could bear.

Just a few yards farther on, the path forked, with one way leading directly to The Inn’s front door and the other descending to the beach. As they approached it, Edmund stopped. “I’m too restless to turn in, so I’m going for a walk,” he said, looking pointedly at her high heels. “I’d ask you to join me but you’d break an ankle in those shoes, so I’ll say good night instead. You should sleep well after the day you’ve had.”

Numbly, she watched him turn away, and willed herself to do the same. To walk into The Inn and not look back. To accept that her interlude with him had come to its inevitable end.

His silhouette became indistinct, swallowed up by the night. The sound of his footsteps crunching over the gravel grew fainter.

Do him and yourself a favor and disappear inside before you say something you’ll live to regret, Jenna! He can’t fix what’s broken in your life and you have no business expecting him to try. He’s already done enough.

She swallowed, and braced herself to face the night alone. Her self-confidence had already eroded into near oblivion. Why expose it to further abuse? But no amount of common sense could ease the raging loneliness in her heart, or prevent her from calling out just before he disappeared from sight, “Edmund, wait! Don’t go without me, please!”