Читать книгу Mistaken Bride - Renee Ryan - Страница 11

Chapter Two

William Black stood in muted astonishment. That hair. Wild and glorious, the sight of those untamed curls refusing to obey their pins drew him yet another step forward.

Was this woman his future bride, the one he’d sent for all those months ago?

Surely not. Yet several people had pointed at her when he’d mentioned her name—Bridget—and then given her ordinary description of brown hair and dark eyes.

There had to be some mistake. There was nothing ordinary about the woman. She was a blend of the unexpected and the extraordinary, a beautiful female impossible to overlook. In short, everything he avoided in a woman.

As if to mock him, a beam of sunlight escaped like a finger through a crack in the clouds, landing directly on her, bathing her in golden brilliance. Under the bold light of midday she looked delicate, inviting, almost ethereal.

What if this was his Bridget?

He’d paid for her passage and promised to marry her, promised to make her a much-needed part of his family. He couldn’t go back on his word, regardless of his current misgivings. Duty and honor were the principles that guided his life, all that a man had left when everything else was stripped away.

Will swallowed, remembering what had driven him to acquire an Irish mail-order bride in the first place. Irish women were supposed to be honest, hardworking and proper.

No proper woman had hair like that.

Whoever she was, the beauty staring back at him was perfectly unsuitable to become the mother of his three-year-old twins.

Not after the pain Fanny had put them through this past year and a half.

For a dangerous moment Will’s mind fled back in time. To the day when he’d been fool enough to think he could make his marriage work. When he’d thought love was enough to conquer every obstacle thrown their way.

He knew better now. He would never marry for love again. His children deserved stability. And his poor mother deserved relief from the physical demands of caring for a pair of toddlers, no matter how well-behaved.

If this woman with her wild hair and commanding eyes was the one with which he’d corresponded, then Will would honor his promise. As he would any other business transaction. But what would become of his family then?

Mind made up, he continued forward, then stopped, frowned, dropped his gaze. The woman was holding a baby in her arms.

The letter hadn’t mentioned a child. Had his intended lied to him? A burning throb knotted in his throat. Was she using him to—

He cut off the rest of his thoughts. He was jumping to conclusions before he’d even met her. The baby might not be hers. And there was still no proof this was indeed his bride.

Will owed it to his children to find out for sure, before he brought the woman into his home and his life. As much as he wanted stability for the twins he would not condemn them to living with a woman of loose morals. Not again. Not ever again.

Closing the distance, he forced a smile on his lips and put as much charm into his voice as possible. “Are you Bridget?”

“I…well, yes.” Her lovely Irish lilt washed over him and brought an odd sensation of comfort. “Yes, I am Bridget.”

An echo of a smile trembled on her lips and Will found himself responding in kind.

Despite his first impression, this woman with her radiant smile and soft expression looked the picture of innocence. A bolt of yearning struck him out of nowhere.

Will ruthlessly suppressed the unwelcome sensation. He didn’t want, or need, a wife for his own sake.

“Hello, Bridget. I’m Will,” he said without feeling. “Your future husband.”

* * *

Her future…what? Her…her…husband?

The boldly spoken words echoed around in Bridget’s mind, yet she couldn’t make sense of them. She must have misunderstood the stranger—no, not a stranger anymore. Will, his name was Will.

Bridget shook her head free of her jumbled thoughts and tried to focus on the relevant matter at hand. He wasn’t here to claim Grace.

Relief made her legs go weak. But then confusion took hold. Surely this man, this…his name was Will. Surely Will hadn’t just referred to himself as her future husband.

It was really quite absurd to think that he had.

So Bridget waited for him to continue, or rather to explain himself in greater detail.

He remained completely, perfectly silent.

When the moment stretched into the uncomfortable, she swallowed several times and then opened her mouth to respond.

To her horror, nothing came out.

She snapped her mouth closed.

And still, Will held to his silence, with only a hint of impatience in his stance.

All Bridget could do was blink up at him in return. He towered over her by at least six inches. The breadth of his shoulders and the powerful muscles beneath his finely cut jacket indicated a man familiar with physical labor.

Bridget should be afraid of him.

She was not.

She was, however, rendered speechless. Still.

“I…I…” The rest of what she’d meant to say sputtered out in a gurgle. She swallowed and tried again. “I’m sorry, I must have heard you incorrectly, you said you were my, my—”

“Future husband.”

Oh, my. His deep, raspy voice skimmed over her. A warm, curious sense of inevitability pulled her a step closer to him. Foot poised in midair, she stopped herself before she took another. “That is quite impossible. You have mistaken me for someone else.”

His gaze instantly dropped to the baby in her arms and his eyebrows slammed together. Bridget could practically hear the thoughts running through his mind. She braced for the unavoidable questions, trying to decide how best to answer them when they came. She was no stranger to uncomfortable questions.

Will surprised her by skirting the issue of baby Grace altogether. “You are Bridget, are you not?”

“I am, yes.” She cleared her throat, comprehending his mistake if he did not. “But I am not your Bridget.”

His frown deepened. Something dark and turbulent flashed in his eyes.

As she recognized the shift in his mood, it occurred to her once again that she should be afraid of the man.

Why am I not more frightened?

They were surrounded by hundreds of people, yes, any of whom would come to her rescue if she screamed for help. But that wasn’t the reason for her lack of fear. It was Will himself. Or rather, his eyes. They were a deep, liquid blue so compelling and beautiful and yet so—very—bleak.

Bridget felt the familiar quickening of compassion in her heart. Something had made this man sad.

The realization brought an unexpected yearning. She’d never been able to turn away from a person in need. Daniel had considered her sympathy for the wounded and disadvantaged her greatest flaw. Bridget considered it her greatest strength. Their difference of opinion had been enough to cause a permanent rift, one that had ultimately torn them apart and brought her profound unhappiness over the past year.

Although she couldn’t explain why, her desire to help this man, this stranger, was different than any other time before. Stronger.

Personal.

Had the Lord brought Will to her for a reason?

No. This entire meeting was a mistake. She didn’t know him. And he didn’t know her, regardless of what he seemed to think.

Baby Grace chose that moment to wiggle in her sleep and then cry out in frustration. Bridget had been holding on too tightly.

Loosening her grip, she took a step back. Away from Will. Away from whatever it was drawing her to him.

The shadows cast by the ship enveloped her, bringing instant relief from the heat of the day.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, wishing she could be of more help but knowing it was best to walk away.

His face turned impassive, but she recognized the desperation that lay just below the surface. He wasn’t going to walk away from her. Not yet. Not until he was certain she wasn’t the woman he’d come searching for.

Oddly enough, Bridget wasn’t surprised by his determination. Will was not a man who accepted defeat easily. She wasn’t sure how she knew that about him. She just knew.

How was it she understood more about his stranger than she had Daniel, a man she’d known all her life and had been willing to marry?

“Perhaps this will spark your memory.” Will reached inside his coat and retrieved what looked like a letter. He unfolded the worn parchment and thrust it toward her.

Rearranging the sleeping baby in her arms, Bridget took the letter. The handwriting with its soft, looping scroll clearly belonged to a female.

A female that was not her.

Nevertheless she read each word slowly, carefully, and soon realized she was holding an acceptance letter. The woman had agreed to become this man’s bride. Not just any bride, his mail-order bride.

Bridget tried not to gasp aloud. She’d heard of such things. The potato famine had left many families destitute, eager to latch on to any lifeline, even if it meant marrying a stranger and moving far from home. But as she looked at Will from beneath her lowered lashes she decided he didn’t seem the type who needed to pay a woman to marry him. He was too handsome, too inherently confident, too…masculine.

Women should be lining up to become his wife.

Yet he’d sent all the way to Ireland for a bride.

Hands shaking, Bridget turned over the letter and skimmed to the bottom. The signature read Bridget Collins.

He did, indeed, have the wrong woman. Sorrow settled inside her heart. The sensation made her feel as though she’d lost something important, life-changing.

She sighed.

Without meeting Will’s gaze directly, Bridget returned the letter to him. “I was right. You have the wrong woman.” Her voice wasn’t quite steady, even to her own ears. “My name isn’t Bridget Collins. It’s Bridget Murphy.”

For a long, tense moment he looked taken aback by her words. He swallowed once, twice and again, each time harder than the first.

“You did not write this letter?”

“I’m sorry, no.” Why she felt the need to apologize, she couldn’t say. But he seemed truly shocked by the news and she wanted to make everything better. If only she knew how.

“I see.” He glanced down at the baby. Understanding dawned in his eyes. “You are already married.”

“No. I am not. I—”

“Forgive me.” He took a step back. A very large step, the gesture confirming her worst fears. He thought Grace was hers and she’d had the child out of wedlock.

“The baby isn’t mine,” she said in a halting voice.

“Of course not.” He turned to go.

“No. Wait.” She reached out a hand to his retreating back then quickly curled it around the baby once more. “Please.”

He swung back around to face her, a question in his eyes.

Although she knew she would never see him again, she couldn’t bear him thinking ill of her. “This is baby Grace,” she said past the lump in her throat. “I’m holding her for my sister.”

It was the truth, if not entirely accurate. The situation was far too complicated to explain in a few succinct sentences.

“I understand.”

Did he? Oh, his words were kind enough, but in the next instant he gave her a formal nod of his head. The gesture was cool, polite and an obvious dismissal. Yet he didn’t leave right away. He just stood there staring at her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” She meant every word.

“As am I.”

Once again he turned to go. This time he stopped himself before he took the next step. “Might I ask you one last question?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you know Bridget Collins?”

She searched her brain, reviewing all the women and girls she’d met on board the Annie McGee named Bridget. It was a common enough name, so much so she counted four off the top of her head. None of them had the last name Collins, though, not that she remembered. Then again, she hadn’t known most of her fellow passengers’ full names.

Collins. The name triggered a memory, one Bridget couldn’t quite grasp. There was a Collins family back in Castleville and there were several daughters among the eight children. Had there been a Bridget among them?

Yes, that must be why the name sounded familiar. “I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting your Bridget aboard ship.”

“Pity.”

It was, indeed.

“Thank you for your understanding, Bridget, I mean, Miss Murphy.” He shoved his hat onto his head. “I apologize for disturbing you and the child.”

A heartbeat later he was gone, disappearing into the crowd to continue the search for his bride.

Feeling oddly lost without his company, Bridget watched him weave through the maze of people and piles of luggage along the wharf. He moved with masculine elegance, the fluid motion proving he was a man used to controlling his body, confident in who he was and exceedingly comfortable in his own skin.

It was a very attractive, heady combination of traits. Just watching him made her feel very feminine.

In spite of the awkwardness of their meeting, Bridget had liked him. Even now as she watched him search for his bride, concentrating only on the faces of women near her same age, she felt a pull of—something. Something strong and lingering and very, very pleasant. Attraction?

Maybe.

Or perhaps the sensation was simple curiosity. Yes, that must be it. She couldn’t possibly find this man attractive when she knew the potential for heartache. Her sisters claimed she was a romantic, but that did not make her naive. Giving in to curiosity, she wondered what possible scenario would induce a man like Will to seek out a mail-order bride, a man with undeniable breeding, wealth and good looks.

Before she could contemplate the matter further, Nora returned.

“I found our luggage,” she said, a wee bit breathless, her eyes shining. “It’s on the other side of the gangplank, about a hundred yards down.”

When Bridget merely blinked at her, Nora indicated the spot with a jerk of her head.

Realizing she was expected to respond, Bridget nodded.

Eyebrows pulling together, Nora made an impatient sound deep in her throat. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t seem yourself.”

“I… It’s…nothing. I’m simply preoccupied.” That was true enough. “There are so many new things to see and hear, to feel, to comprehend. My head is spinning.”

“It’s all very exciting.” Nora reached out her arms. “I’ll take Grace now.”

Bridget handed over the baby without argument.

Hoping for one last glimpse of Will, she lifted onto her toes and caught sight of another familiar set of faces heading straight for them.

Head held high, marching along in all her regal glory, Mrs. Fitzwilliam led her new charges through the bustling wharf. The three McCorkle brothers following in her wake watched the activity around them with wide eyes. Although it had taken Bridget a while to warm up to the imperious widow, the boys had been a different matter. From the moment Bridget had met them, they’d inspired her sympathy and her faith. She was pleased to see them find a happy ending with Mrs. Fitzwilliam as their foster mother.

As was her custom, the older woman had chosen to wear a dress designed in the latest fashion. The pale blue silk, adorned with delicate lace and ribbon trim, was undeniably beautiful but couldn’t possibly be comfortable in the midday heat.

The widow didn’t seem to notice. She looked cool, elegant, her dark auburn hair contained in a beaded snood that would have been more fitting for a ballroom. Bridget wondered briefly where her attendant Stillman had gone. Perhaps to hire a carriage?

“Well, hello, my dear Murphy sisters.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam drew to a stop, her nose in the air, eyes cast downward. “I see you still have that precious baby with you.” She reached out and caressed Grace’s cheek with a loving, gentle touch. “Such a beautiful child.”

Nora accepted the compliment with genuine pride in her eyes, as though the baby was her own. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Nodding her approval, Mrs. Fitzwilliam continued studying Grace’s sweet face. “My stepgranddaughter Mary had the same coloring.”

At the mention of the girl, a sad, faraway look entered Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s eyes. The widow’s quest to find her missing relative had led her to make this trip to America. The rebellious Mary had run off with her boyfriend, Thomas. The lack of any contact from the girl, not a single letter, had left Mrs. Fitzwilliam quite concerned, enough to seek the help of a professional.

“Will you be meeting with a detective soon?” Bridget asked, unable to hold her tongue in light of the distress she saw in the woman’s gaze.

“As soon as possible. Oh, yes indeed. As soon as possible.”

“You will keep us informed?” Nora asked.

Never taking her eyes off the baby, she gave one firm nod. “You may count on it.”

After touching Grace’s cheek one final time, Mrs. Fitzwilliam turned her attention back to Bridget. “Enough with all this gloom.” She shook her head as if to wipe away the remains of any negative thoughts swirling around. “Now tell me, my dear girl, are you prepared to claim your new home today?”

“Oh, aye,” Bridget answered, all but cradling her reticule against her waist as snugly as Nora held the infant. “You will come visit us once we’re settled, yes?” She made eye contact with each of the McCorkle boys. “The invitation includes you three, as well.”

“Thank you,” Gavin, the oldest of the brothers, answered for all of them. “We would enjoy that very much, Miss Bridget.”

“Then it’s agreed.” Bridget punctuated her statement with a smile.

Gavin smiled back. Tall and lanky, at just eighteen he was on the cusp of manhood and took his role as big brother seriously. Emmett and Sean were considerably younger than him, eight and ten years old respectively. Despite the age difference there was no mistaking the three belonged to one another. All had the same reddish blond hair, pleasing features and big blue eyes.

They were a little rough around the edges, but they were good boys with big hearts. Back in Ireland they’d nearly starved to death in a workhouse.

“…and once Stillman hires the carriage the five of us will head to my home here in Boston.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s voice broke into Bridget’s thoughts. “After I meet with the detective and determine my next step concerning Mary, we will make the trip to Faith Glen.” She spoke as if the four of them were already a family.

Who would have thought the haughty woman of weeks ago would turn out to be so—sweet. Bridget felt her smile widening. The widow was doing a wonderful thing, taking in the boys and raising them as if they were her own kin.

Although Gavin had done his best to provide for his younger brothers, he wasn’t educated and had had no job prospects in America. The McCorkles had taken a large risk when they’d set out to stow away on the Annie McGee. The Lord had protected them when things hadn’t worked out as planned. Their leap of faith had ultimately brought them a kind, if somewhat stern, benefactor in Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

God was good. And now the lonely widow had a family of her own.

Would Will’s story end so happily?

Rising to her toes, Bridget caught his attention just as he left another group of women. At the questioning lift of her eyebrows he shook his head in the negative.

Bridget lowered back onto her heels and sighed.

“Bridget Murphy.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s tone held a considerable amount of reproach. “Were you flirting with that man?”

Flirting? “No, of course not.”

“And yet, I wonder. I saw you speaking with him earlier, without the benefit of a chaperone in sight.” The widow’s eyes had turned a hard, dark blue, reminding Bridget of the imposing woman they’d first met on the ship weeks ago.

Refusing to be intimidated—after all, she’d done nothing wrong—Bridget raised her chin in the air. “Yes, I spoke with him earlier. But I assure you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, nothing unseemly occurred between us.” The words tumbled out of her mouth. “He mistook me for his bride.”

She realized she’d spoken too plainly the moment Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s eyes narrowed.

“That man thought you were his bride?”

Nora gasped at the implication. But before she could speak, Mrs. Fitzwilliam sniffed loudly, her disapproval evident in the unladylike sound. The gesture reminded Bridget that the woman had always adhered to a strict moral code of conduct.

A wave of heat rose in Bridget’s face. She glanced at Nora, noted her widened gaze, then hastened to explain. “It wasn’t unseemly, but rather a simple mistake. He thought I was his mail-order bride. Her name is Bridget, as well. And aside from sharing her name, apparently I fit the woman’s description, too.”

After a moment of consideration—a long, tense moment where Bridget fought the urge to continue defending herself—Mrs. Fitzwilliam conceded the fact with a short nod of her head. “I suppose that could happen.”

She sounded as skeptical as she looked. But Bridget had other concerns besides earning Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s approval on the matter. “He still hasn’t found her,” she said more to herself than the rest of the party.

As if to prove her point, Will approached another group of passengers disembarking from the Annie McGee. After a brief conversation, he walked away empty-handed. Again.

“Wait a minute.” Nora swung into Bridget’s line of vision, her face full of concern. “Did you say the man’s bride has similar features as you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you remember, Bridget?” Nora said. “The terrible accident when the girl fell from the forecastle onto the deck.”

“I…” Bridget closed her eyes and thought back. A young girl with dark hair had fallen to her death. There was some confusion over her identity. In fact, Flynn had feared the dead girl was Bridget at first, and had gone to inform Maeve of the terrible accident. They’d all been happily surprised when Bridget had joined them in the middle of his story.

“Yes, oh, my stars, yes,” Nora said with more conviction than before, her voice breaking into Bridget’s thoughts. Nora gasped as though remembering the moment when they’d thought Bridget was dead. “It was all so horrible.”

Bridget remembered now. The girl had died early in the voyage. Maeve, acting in the role of Flynn’s medical assistant by then, had been upset over the entire matter, especially when they hadn’t been able to identify her conclusively. Bridget wasn’t even sure they knew her identity still, not without doubts, but she did remember hearing someone say that she was called Bridget.

“Oh, dear.” Could this be the reason why Will hadn’t located his bride yet? Because she was dead?

The crowds had thinned out and, still, he continued searching for his bride. To no avail.

Bridget couldn’t bear to watch any longer. She had to tell him what she knew. Or at least what she thought she knew. She and Nora could be wrong. But if they were correct, if Will’s bride had died during the sea voyage over, someone needed to tell him. And that someone should be her, not some stranger who wouldn’t take care with their words.

Bridget bid a hasty farewell to Mrs. Fitzwilliam and the boys, then set out.

“Bridget,” Nora called after her. “Where are you going?”

“I must tell him about the accident.” She tossed the words over her shoulder, her mind made up, her feet moving quickly.

“Bridget, it’s really none of your concern.”

Oh, but it was. It had become her concern the moment Will had introduced himself to her.