The Pregnant Bride

by Catherine Spencer

  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 Ed
mund. “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 p
ointedly 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!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  HE THOUGHT he’d done it—removed himself, permanently, from a situation grown too complex, too fast—but the naked pain in her voice caught up with him just before he moved out of earshot and much though he’d have liked to, he couldn’t walk away from it.

  Burying a sigh, he waited as she stumbled over the coarse gravel toward him. A gentleman would probably have rushed forward to steady her before she broke her neck in her flimsy little shoes, but he’d never aspired to be anything other than what he was: a working guy who’d made a pile of money by learning from experience never to make the same mistake twice.

  A fat lot of good that rule of thumb was doing him now, though. Knowing he’d always been a sucker for a bird with a broken wing should have been reason enough for him to steer clear of her in the first place. That he’d persisted in ignoring the warning bells clanging loud and clear in his mind and had chosen instead to protract the association, was nothing short of foolhardy.

  “What?” Frustration, as much with himself as her, had him barking the question at her.