by Barbara Dan
"This is the first I've heard it," Bruce growled.
"So that's what the smock wedding was all about. To keep from paying my husband's debt to Seth." Suddenly furious, she advanced on Bruce with balled fists. "How many other people did you hit? I suppose by now my good name has been trampled in the mud!"
"Don't give me that, madam." Bruce waggled his finger menacingly under her nose. "You knew the purpose of a smock wedding. Bradshaw and I were only looking out for your interests."
"Oh, you were looking out for somebody's interests, all right! Your own!" She planted her fists on her hips and glared.
"Aye, that, too. Hey, simmer down. I didn't know Burton was your brother when I hit him." The fierce look Bruce shot at Burton connected like a volley of musket fire at point blank range. "Considering what transpired, I'd gladly do it again."
Lydia gasped. "You haven't even got the good grace to apologize?"
"No, I will not."
Badly shaken by this revelation into her husband’s character, Lydia backed away from his menacing scowl. Suddenly she saw him in an entirely new light—as a formidable despot who commanded his ship with an iron hand—no, fist! Certainly he was not a man to have as an enemy.
"I cannot imagine what possessed me to marry you," she told him.
Bruce uttered a harsh laugh. "Little hypocrite! We both know why you married me."
Lydia flinched. Was this the same man with whom she had frolicked in bed like some playful harbor seal? Her face flaming, Lydia forgot all the tender emotions he had touched off inside her. She couldn't bear to admit how quickly she had gotten carried away by blind passion— and for the second time, too! Was she to endure yet another loveless marriage?
Overcome by the thought, she buried her face in her hands.
Bruce transferred his glare from Lydia to his brother-in-law. "Burton, unless you have some earth-shattering news to tell my wife, I suggest you leave."
"Look, MacGregor, I never meant to start any trouble." Seth turned to kiss his sister on the cheek. "I’d better leave, Lydia, before I spoil things for you."
"Oh, Seth—"
"Lydia, I only came to say I hope you'll be genuinely happy—and to bury the hatchet," he quickly added, "since the reason that kept us at odds for so many years no longer exists."
Lydia saw genuine regret in her brother's face, but his words were a long time in coming. She burst into tears.
Bruce put a protective arm around her. "Burton, I won't have you upsetting my wife."
"That was never my intention, MacGregor. I'm shipping out tomorrow on the Archer, Lydia. I didn't want to sail without telling you how sorry I am about the past eight years."
"God keep you safe, Seth!" Lydia burst out.
Seth stepped back, not wanting to provoke MacGregor further. "Well, that's mostly what I wanted to say, sis. And if I can ever do anything to make up for all the wrongs I've done you, I hope you'll let me know." He stood awkwardly, cap in hand.
"Thank you." Apologizing always came hard to him, she knew; how much easier it would have been if they had been alone.
"You'd best be going, Burton." His eyes granite-hard, Bruce stood towering over the pair. It was all he could manage not to throw Seth off the property bodily.
"Take care of yourself, Seth," Lydia whispered. "I-I’ll be praying for you."
Bruce opened the door grimly.
Seth raised his eyebrows, comparing Bruce's territorial stance against Frank's arrogant indifference. "’Bye, sis," he shook his head, "I think this husband suits you much better."
"Goodbye, Seth."
Bruce stood like a stone statue, while sister and brother quickly hugged. He refused to shake hands with a man who’d made his wife so deeply unhappy. Lydia was much too forgiving, to his mind.
When they were alone again, Lydia swung into Bruce. "How could you!"
"Don't play the innocent with me, madam." Arms akimbo, Bruce stared her down. "You and your own brother competing for the affections of the same man?" He shook his head in disbelief. "What I can't understand is why you put up with it all those years."
Lydia flushed, having no argument against his accusation. "I-I blame Frank more than Seth for what happened."
"Hell, that's no excuse." Bruce turned away in disgust and picked up his sea chest.
Lydia looked at his broad back and the set of his jaw. She could sense Bruce slipping away from her emotionally, just when she needed him the most. The old familiar chill of loneliness settled in her heart like a deep abiding sorrow.
"Bruce," she whispered. "Please don't hate me." She reached out to him, then shrank back, as he spun around and gave her a scathing look.
"You knew, yet you looked the other way," he said, towering over her. "How an intelligent woman with your spirit could permit such a thing is beyond me!"
"I was barely seventeen when I married Frank," she cried, withering under his fiery accusation. "When I found out, I had no one to confide in, nowhere to turn."
"Surely you could have gone to your clergyman, or another relative."
"Not without hurting everyone involved! Don't you see, Bruce?" she pleaded. "How could I hurt two people I cared for so deeply?"
"Didn't it matter that you were throwing away your own happiness?"
"Of course, it mattered!" Lydia cried, and her clenched fists rose to her trembling lips. "A little piece of me died every day, just thinking about the mistake I had made. But what was I supposed to do? My father was in failing health. If he’d known, it would have surely killed him."
"I doubt that, Lydia," Bruce said harshly. "People are tougher than that."
"Please don't look at me like that," she whispered, flinching under his piercing gaze. His handsome features had lost all signs of his former kind and gentle humor.
"Well, I suppose not much can be done about past mistakes," he sighed heavily. "But if I ever set eyes on him again, I shall take particular delight in giving him the heave-ho. So, madam wife, you make damn sure you heed my warning, for his sake—and your own!"
"You are an unfeeling brute!" she raged helplessly.
"This is my house, madam, and you are my wife!" he told her in no uncertain terms, almost as if he were handing down a life sentence. He grasped her chin firmly so she couldn't avoid his blazing eyes, or his right to command. "What I say goes, Lydia. I'll tolerate no mutiny."
"I hate you, Bruce MacGregor," she whispered rebelliously.
"Your judgment is altered, because he's your brother.” he said.
"Even once, did you hear him mention money while he was here?" she countered, following him outside on the front steps.
“I'm in a better position to know a manipulating bastard when I see one," he growled.
Despite his harsh words, he fought to rein in his temper. Deep down, he sympathized with her dilemma. Sometimes life got complicated, and people got hurt, whether intentionally or not.
All the wasted years she had suffered!
But he would permit anyone . . . ever again . . . to hurt her.
He had sworn an oath to love and protect her all the days of his life. Aye, he thought, once she cooled down at bit, she’d appreciate where he was coming from. Seeing her shiver in the cold, Bruce put his arm around her and escorted her, balking all the way, back inside the warm vestibule.
"Don't look so forlorn, my dear. I shall return soon,” he chucked her under the chin, “if for no other reason than to keep an eye on you. Meanwhile I expect you to behave yourself."
Lydia tried to pull away. "I don't care if you never come back."
His lips twisted into a faint smile, seeing how easily she blew hot and cold. Bruce gave her a gentle but firm look. "Lydia, I say this for your own good: Your brother has brought you enough misery. He'd like nothing better than to keep you in turmoil."
He saw how hard it was for her to accept his counsel. Damn her stubborn pride! He had wanted their marriage to begin on equal footing, and already he found himself having to take a difficult stand. "I'll not
permit him, or anyone else, to come between us, do you understand?"
Lydia nodded reluctantly. He was asking a hard thing of her, but she knew her marriage must take precedence, even over family, if it was to succeed. Even so, after years of bitterness, seeing Seth had rekindled a desire in her heart to be reconciled. She needed to believe old grievances could be laid to rest.
Only now, when it might be possible, her husband, a virtual stranger, ordered her not to see Seth. It wasn't an easy decision, but she made it now, as they gazed into each other's eyes. Both knowing full well that it might be months before they saw each other again—perhaps an eternity.
Suddenly she regretted parting with such unpleasantness hanging between them."Bruce, I'm sorry all this came up at such a bad time," she said, taking a step closer.
"I am sorry, too, Lydia." Bruce lightly touched the silky curl on her shoulder. "God willing, we'll be together again soon. In the meantime, please bear in mind that I only want your happiness."
Wishing he could have handled things differently, he turned wordlessly to go.
Huddled in her thin silk wrapper, Lydia heard the door click behind him, leaving only a cold blast of wintry air to remind her that he was gone.
* * *
Slowly Lydia made her way back upstairs with a heavy heart. What had possessed her to marry a seafaring man? They were never home. How would she keep occupied? She groaned, knowing the answer: more housekeeping.
Even so, the sight of her clothing and Bruce's, strewn casually about the master bedroom, not to mention the half-consumed food, empty wine bottle and glasses, hit her like a dash of ice water. Clearly, passion had triumphed over order. An unmistakably sensual aroma permeated the bed chamber. The blankets, sheets and pillows, tossed helter-skelter, brought home with sobering force that she had, indeed, crossed a new frontier.
There would be no turning back, no matter how tempted she might be to retreat.
On slightly unsteady legs, she walked in and shut the door, surveying the evidence of a night spent in emancipating lovemaking, and marveled. A miracle had taken place in this room. A man and a woman had found love. She wrapped her arms around herself, holding close the memories of shared rapture. Their wedding night had been as tempestuous as two people going over Niagara Falls in a lifeboat!
Her first impulse was to crawl beneath the warm pile of quilts and comforter. If only she could recapture the feeling of being so well loved and never let it go! Sitting on the edge of the huge fourposter, her hand absently stroking the sheet, she remembered how beautiful Bruce had made her feel. Last night seemed almost like a dream—as nebulous as a pirate ship sailing off into the mist. Just as Bruce and his ship would soon elude the British patrolling the Sound.
Below she heard Patience and Prudence Harmes quietly performing chores that were her responsibility now. Bruce had left to resume command of his ship. Should she not take charge of her new home?
Chiding herself for letting daydreams eclipse her sense of duty, Lydia walked into the dressing room to find a sensible house dress. The first thing she saw was the basin of cold shaving water and the discarded towel on the floor. She smiled, and then she laughed, as reality hit home: Bruce, her brawny Bruce, was a very untidy person. But even that didn't upset her, as it would have in days gone by. She saw instantly that it was simply not in his nature to trouble himself with the small details. His was a bolder style! Indeed, she wondered if his boldness wasn't what had drawn her to him all along!
In all the disarray around her, Lydia saw a reminder that she must never attempt to withdraw from this astounding man, or the journey she had embarked upon. And she conceded, with some sadness, she mustn't let anything come between them, including her brother.
If only she hadn't lost her temper! She had much to make up for in her behavior toward her husband. Instead of giving Bruce a proper send-off, she had railed at him. She had let him go without a kind word or an embrace!
* * *
Lydia drove her carriage along slippery back streets to the dock, wheels and hooves clattering madly. Halfway down on the wharf's wooden planks, she managed to rein in the horse. She jumped down and ran along the icy pier, nearly frantic to catch Bruce before the tide took him out to sea.
She spotted his ship already a distance out in the Thames River.
"Bruce, oh, Bruce," she called, only to have the wind mockingly fling away the words still hovering on her lips. She had missed him by minutes. He was pulling away, just when she wanted to share one last tender embrace and let him know— Oh, could it be that she loved him?
She shook her head, wondering at her impetuous decision to see him off. What if she blurted out the wrong thing? Bruce, being a pragmatic man, would dismiss any professions of love as the wild imaginings of a lovestruck romantic. She smiled wistfully, admitting that few ever found true love. If she was smart, she'd settle for friendly cooperation; it seemed to work for many women. But somehow she couldn't deny what she felt in her heart.
The sting of tears froze on her cheeks and lashes. There he was—on the quarterdeck! A tiny thrill made her rush forward to the end of the pier.
* * *
Bruce stood next to his bo'sun, issuing orders. He looked so tall and commanding, his collar turned up against the chill wind, his black hair partially covered by a woolen cap.
"Take care of yourself, my darling," Lydia whispered, pressing her mittened hand to her lips. Hoping he might look back and see her, she waved gaily.
From the deck, Bruce did see her, and his heart leapt with unexpected pleasure. 'Twas a glorious sight, Lydia in her dark mantle, long strands of her blond hair fluttering in the wind. Through his spyglass, he saw her wave again, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright. A girlish figure in fluttering skirts on the end of the pier.
His heart curiously warmed, he grinned broadly and returned her salute.
The smell of tangy salt brine and frost hit their nostrils, as they watched each other disappear from sight, separated by the ever broadening gulf of brackish grey river water. Overhead the plaintive scream of a seagull, swooping low over the ship, echoed the lonely heart's cry of two lovers, whose time together had been too brief, their parting too abrupt.
So many things left unsaid.
Goodbye, my love.
Chapter Fifteen
Three weeks after Bruce sailed, Lydia awakened to a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. At first she feared it was a premonition, that something terrible had happened to Bruce. Then she decided it was a case of nerves, brought on by all the changes taking place in her life.
As a new bride, she was soon caught up in a constant round of social teas and sewing bees. To help the war effort, she knitted socks, ripped up old sheets and rolled bandages, and collected clothing and food for the destitute families of sailors lost at sea. Setting up her loom, she wove heavy woolen blankets for the few wounded men fortunate enough to have straggled back to port to receive proper medical care.
Normally the fast pace she set for herself should have eased her mounting anxiety, but it only grew worse. Mrs. Harris called at the house regularly, but there was never any news of Bruce. Only about how badly the war was going. No wonder her stomach was upset!
Finally, dragging herself through chores one freezing February morn, Lydia did some counting on her fingers and figured out why she was never far from the slop jar.
Of course! Why hadn't she recognized the symptoms right away?
Astounded, Lydia sat down in her kitchen and cried for one solid hour. Finally she wiped her eyes on her muslin apron with a shaky smile.
To think she had actually worried that her malady might be fatal! Relieved beyond belief, Lydia felt a flush of proud anticipation, as she awaited Bruce's return. How pleased he will be, she thought fondly.
But as the sight and smell of food continued to bring waves of nausea, Lydia began to feel less charitably toward her husband. In vain did she try various combinations of food—nothing worked. Then one day, following a nea
r fast of three days, she came across the tin of chocolates Bruce had given her the afternoon he proposed to her.
Having received no word from her husband in over three months, her morale was at a dangerously low point. Hoping to put a quick end to her miserable existence, Lydia crammed several creamy chocolates in her mouth. All the while, she cursed the handsome brute who had turned her world—and her stomach—upside down.
The fragrance of chocolate and nougat—and then, as she indulged still further on orange-raspberry creams—merged on her palate, making the juices trickle deliciously over her tongue.
Lydia paused to lick her sticky fingers and waited, expecting a fiery protest of hot bitter gall to fill her throat at any second. When no such disaster occurred, she decided not to question the strange workings of nature. She picked up the tiny volume of poetry Bruce had given her, along with the chocolates, and plopped down on the settee before the parlor fire.
From that day on, she never suffered from queasiness. She obtained Mrs. Rafferty's secret recipe for fudge and indulged regularly, although using considerably more restraint than on that first occasion!
Nearly her old self a few days later, Lydia accompanied Mrs. Harris to a wives' meeting to roll bandages, exchange the latest news of the war, and pray. Most of the women in Alice Graham's drafty parlor had men of their own out at sea, and these weekly meetings bound them together in their common concern.
Now taken up in the rigors of staying awake during Mrs. Perkins' long-winded prayer for the souls of the Ballantine's crew, Lydia pinched herself. Somehow she just couldn't get excited about the spiritual condition of these men, even though they were out fighting "not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers," as the Good Book and Mrs. Perkins kept reminding the earnest ladies seated around her on hard, straight-backed chairs.
Too well Lydia knew the power of the flesh to distract and diminish the human spirit. Lately all she thought about was the physical! She missed Bruce so much that her desire for him drove everything else from her thoughts. Eyes closed, she dwelt upon Bruce's dark brown eyes and rugged virility. Her prayers were neither patriotic nor spiritual. By the time the last "amen" sounded, and the meeting moved on to refreshments, she felt flushed all over.