The Bonny Bride

by Deborah Hale

  “Because I’ve paid my passage money already,” she said. “I don’t expect the agent will want to hand it back again, just because Pa objects to my traveling alone.”

  “Surely yer…intended, Mr. Douglas, can spare a few coins more for another passage.” A somewhat less positive note crept into Harris’s voice.

  “Even if he would pay again, by the time I send word, I’ll have lost three months. I ken Mr. Douglas would like to wed soon. It’ll be less trouble to find himself another lass.”

  Harris stood there grim and silent. Roderick Douglas would be a fool not to wait for a rare bride like this one.

  “So that’s how it stands, Mr. Chisholm.” She summed up her case. “Either I sail on the St. Bride today, to be the wife of a rich man, or I go off to London to be a scullery maid in some rich man’s kitchen.”

  Having uttered so dire an ultimatum, her lips unexpectedly twitched into a teasing grin. “Did ye ever fancy yerself as a fairy godfather?”

  Part of Harris wanted very much to oblige her, but another part protested. Jenny Lennox embodied everything he hoped to flee. It made no sense to take him with her. “Well…”

  Perhaps sensing his indecision, she brought all her powers of persuasion to bear. “Roderick Douglas is a man of influence in Miramichi. I expect he’ll be grateful to ye for helping me out. Whatever ye want—money, a job…anything. Ye’ll have only to ask and I swear I’ll do all in my power to grant it.”

  She cast him a look of desperate sincerity, as though making a pact with the devil. Stung by the implied comparison, Harris opened his mouth to refuse once and for all. Then Jenny Lennox reached out and took his hand.

  “Please?”

  Her touch was so soft and warm. Harris could not find it in his heart to deny Roderick Douglas the chance to feel it. Perhaps he’d follow Douglas’s lead, Harris thought—make his fortune in the colonies, then send home for a bride.

  “Aye. I’ll do it,” he agreed at last, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll see ye safe to Miramichi.”

  Jenny swayed slightly on her feet. For a moment Harris feared she might faint from surprise and relief. He gripped her hand to steady her. Returning his firm hold, she pumped his hand in a vigorous shake to seal their agreement.

  “It’s a bargain, then. I swear I’ll be no bother to ye.”

  For an instant Harris did fancy the role of fairy godfather. How often in a lifetime was one given the power to grant another person’s dearest wish? There was something rather edifying about the prospect.

  “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never be able to thank ye enough.” With those words, she lavished upon Harris a smile of such sweet esteem that he felt entirely repaid for whatever the undertaking might cost him.

  The St. Bride eased out of Kirkcudbright Bay on the ebbing tide. Her passengers clustered at the taffrail to catch a final glimpse of the homeland they never expected to see again. Acutely aware of being the only woman on board, Jenny stood apart from the male passengers. She waved her handkerchief in a last farewell to her father and Kirstie.

  The barque’s timbers creaked. Pulleys squealed as sailors adjusted the rigging. When the wind began to fill them, the sails flapped like giant sheets on a clothesline. Above all these noises rose the deep voice of the first mate. He bellowed instructions to his crew for the disposition of various booms, spars and sails. Several inexperienced sailors looked as puzzled as Jenny by this nautical cant. Others might have understood the orders, but appeared too overcome with the aftereffects of drink to accomplish much.

  Remembering the bold, speculative stares that had greeted her arrival on the St. Bride, Jenny suddenly appreciated her father’s concern for her safety. Aware of the substantial presence of Harris Chisholm looming protectively behind her, she moved closer to him. God bless his perpetual scowl and the facial scars that gave him such an air of danger. With her fierce-looking escort, Jenny knew she was safe from anything worse than a few impudent stares.

  After the barque rounded Little Ross, most of the passengers abandoned the top deck to the fresh winds off Solway Firth. Harris and Jenny lingered at the taffrail after the others had gone below decks.

  “Are ye wishing ye’d waited for another boat, after all?” Harris squinted in the direction of the western horizon.

  The question came a little too close to reading her mind for Jenny’s comfort. She replied with more conviction than she felt. “That was not an option, if ye’ll recall. I’m glad to be on my way to New Brunswick, and I thank ye again for making that possible. I trust ye’ll be able to look out for me.”

  Her words made Harris abruptly aware of the grave responsibility he’d undertaken. “I want to make certain we’re clear on terms,” he growled. “Ye’ll not leave yer cabin for any reason unless I’m with ye. Ye’re not to let anyone in. Is that understood?”

  Jenny nodded readily.

  “Good.” He headed for the companionway that led to the lower decks. “We ought to find our cabins, settle in and get a bite of supper. I don’t like the looks of that sky. Unless I miss my guess, we’re in for heavy weather before we clear Ireland.”

  “Just give me a minute, will ye?” Jenny begged. “Before today I’ve never been more than twenty miles from home. This is my first time on a boat.”

  “Very well.” Harris tried not to let it come out as a sigh. “One minute.”

  Some intuition told him to keep his eyes off her, but they refused to obey.

  Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, Jenny slipped it off. Deftly she extracted several pins from her hair. It fell to her waist in rippling chestnut waves, while shorter wisps curled softly around her face. Turning into the wind, she closed her eyes as the fresh breeze billowed her hair out behind her. She looked like the carved figurehead of St. Bride on the prow of the barque—magically, gloriously come to life.

  Harris did not doubt his ability to protect Jenny Lennox from any other man aboard. But was he capable of protecting his own heart from being painfully ravished by her?

  Chapter Two

  “Miss Lennox?” Harris called. Getting no answer, he pounded on her cabin door more insistently. “Jenny!”

  As he’d predicted, a nasty gale had blown up when the St. Bride rounded the treacherous north coast of Ulster. If she’d been crossing the Atlantic in the other direction, with holds full of heavy New Brunswick timber, it would not have been so bad. As it was, running against the wind, lightly laden with mercantile goods, the barque bobbed helplessly in the heavy seas.

  Beneath Harris’s feet, the deck gave a sudden violent roll, sending him crashing against the door of Jenny’s cabin. The flimsy deal boards gave way before him. He lurched into the cabin, barking his shin on something sharp and solid before sprawling onto the floor. Behind him, the cabin door banged open and shut in time to the shifting pitch of the vessel, admitting fleeting flashes of lamplight from the passage. Between those flickers, the small chamber was impenetrably dark.

  Where could Jenny Lennox have gone? Harris wondered as he rubbed his smarting shin. She had agreed not to leave her cabin without him. Women, he grumbled under his breath. Making all sorts of glib promises to get their way. Then they went ahead and did as they pleased, without so much as a by-your-leave.

  A low, anguished moan sounded near Harris’s right ear. Flailing out in the direction of the sound, his hand made solid contact with the clammy flesh of Jenny’s face.

  “Miss Lennox, what are ye doing lying here in the dark?”

  “Dying,” came a weak, raspy reply.

  Beneath the pervading odors of salt water and wet wood, Harris smelled the sour stench of vomit. Masked by the darkness, he allowed himself a wry smile at Jenny’s expense. Apparently, beauty was not proof against the mundane rigors of seasickness.

  He let his hand linger on her cheek. “Ye’re not going to die.”

  “I want to.” The words came up on her rising gorge.

  Harris dodged out of the way as Jenny leaned over the edge of he
r berth. For several seconds she gagged agonizingly, but with little result. When she sank back onto the pillow again, Harris bent over her. He had to lean close, to make himself heard above the thunder of waves crashing against the hull and the high, fitful whine of the wind.

  “If ye can feel that bad and still make a joke, I expect ye’ll pull through,” he said gently. “Rest, now. I’ll go fetch Dr. Chisholm’s cure for ocean belly.”

  “I don’t care,” Jenny whimpered. “Do what ye like with me.”

  Harris almost laughed. Ye’ve no idea what I’d like to do with ye, lass, he thought to himself. If ye did, ye’d never have made me such a tempting offer, no matter how poorly ye felt. Leaning so close to Jenny, he could feel the warmth emanating from her body.

  He must be daft to even entertain such fancies, Harris rebuked himself as he reluctantly pulled away from her. Minding his tender shin, he felt his way toward the door with ginger steps. Once the gale subsided, he’d have to do something about that broken latch. In the meantime, the damp air below decks had swollen the wood enough to make the door stick shut when he pulled it to.

  He staggered back down the companionway a while later, lantern in hand and a book under his arm. A firm nudge from his shoulder was all it took to push Jenny’s door open again. Harris held the lantern high as he entered the cabin. He was not anxious to injure himself further, nor to pitch face-first onto the slimy floorboards.

  Jenny shrank from the light, pulling a blanket over her head. “Put it out. It’s not so bad when I can’t see everything in the cabin rocking and swaying.”

  Harris took his bearings. Somehow, Jenny’s brass-bound trunk had worked itself out from under her berth. It must have been the culprit responsible for his bruised shin. He cast the trunk a baleful glare and pushed it up beside the head of the berth.

  “I need the light for a minute,” he told Jenny. “Then I’ll put it out.”

  Her head still covered with the blanket, she did not respond. Harris hung the lantern from a hook driven into one of the ceiling beams. He found a heavy stoneware jug of water and tipped a splash of it onto his handkerchief. Securing an enamel basin against future need, he extinguished the lamp. Then he felt his way back to Jenny’s trunk, and sat down on it.

  “Why don’t ye go away and leave me to die in peace?” Jenny moaned. She must have thrown off the blanket, for her words were no longer muffled.

  “All part of the bargain.” Harris found her face and swiped his wet handkerchief across her forehead. “I promised yer father I’d see ye safe to Miramichi.”

  Fumbling in his coat pocket, he produced a small flask. Supporting Jenny’s shoulders with one arm, he held it to her lips. “Take a sip of this. If ye can keep a bit of it down, it’ll help ye sleep. I ken that’s as much as we can do for ye tonight—let ye sleep until the storm’s past.”

  She sat bolt upright, spitting a fine spray of whisky into his face. “What is that stuff? It tastes foul!”

  “Fouler than what’s in yer mouth already?” Harris growled, mopping his face with the handkerchief. “For yer information, this is the finest single malt whisky—good for a variety of medicinal purposes, including the treatment of seasickness. Now drink it!”

  Reluctantly she obliged. Harris could almost hear her grimace at the taste of the liquor.

  “Lie back, and let that settle a minute before we try another drop.”

  “I’ll never keep it down. It’s burning all the way!”

  “Aye,” he replied dryly. “It’ll light a fire in yer belly, too. Now, while we’re waiting for the whisky to do its work, ye need something to keep yer mind off how miserable ye feel. If ye’d let me light the lantern again, I brought a book I could read to ye.”

  “What’s the book?” she asked.

  Harris thought he heard a note of longing in her voice.

  “One of my favorites—Walter Scott’s Rob Roy.”

  “Oh.”

  Never had he heard so wistful a sound as that brief word.

  “It’s no use,” Jenny said finally. “I couldn’t bear the light. Rob Roy—it sounds a brave story. What’s it about?”

  “Take another drink of the whisky first.”

  She submitted with a sigh of resignation. Though she gasped as the whisky went down, she did not spew it back up again. Harris took it as a sign his prescription was working after all.

  Hunching forward, he brought his mouth close to Jenny’s ear so he would not have to shout above the storm. Harris began to relate the story of Frank Osbaldistone and his adventures with the outlawed Rob Roy McGregor. Now and then, he lapsed into Scott’s dramatic prose, reciting whole passages from memory. At regular intervals, he paused to prop Jenny up and administer another dose of whisky.

  “Feel any better?” he asked after an hour had passed without further bouts of vomiting.

  “I feel queer,” she replied in a thick, drowsy voice, “but not so bad as before.”

  “I’ll go away and let ye sleep then.”

  She groped for his hand. “Stay. Yer story keeps my mind off my stomach. It must be grand to be able to read books like that.”

  “I’d be happy to lend ye anything I have,” Harris offered. “I expect ye haven’t had much money for books.”

  Sinking back on her pillow, Jenny gave an oddly bitter laugh. “No money. No time. No learning.” She sniffled. “I fear I’ll be a right disappointment to Roderick Douglas—an ignorant farm girl who can’t read a word or write her ain name.” Her words trailed off into quiet sobs.

  That would be the whisky at work, Harris decided. It often had the unfortunate side effect of making the drinker wax maudlin.

  “There, there.” He wiped her face with his handkerchief. “Wist, now. Ye’ll upset yerself and end up sick to yer stomach again. It’s a daft chap who’d complain of a bonny bride like ye, Jenny Lennox.”

  “What are ye doing here anyway, Harris Chisholm?” She pushed his handkerchief away. “I ken ye reckon I’m stupid and common. I’ve seen ye look down yer long nose at me often enough. Go ’way, now. I don’t need yer drink, nor yer stories, nor yer pity, neither.”

  Harris could hear her moving about in the narrow berth—turning her back on him, most likely. For a moment he sat, not knowing what to say or do. He’d always thought of pretty girls as heartless, impervious creatures. It had never occurred to him that they might have easily bruised feelings or entertain the same kinds of self-doubt that plagued him. It came as an unpleasant revelation that his bristling demeanor, intended as a purely defensive measure, might have wounded one of their number.

  If the light had been shining and Jenny not addled and half-asleep from the whisky, Harris would never have said what he said next. “I reckon nothing of the kind. Ye oughtn’t mind me, anyhow. I ken well enough there’s no lass’ll want anything to do with me. It saves my pride a mite to pretend I don’t care. I’d no notion to offend ye, and I beg yer pardon if I have.”

  He felt a sudden need to make amends. “We’ve a good five or six weeks more at sea…”

  Jenny groaned at the very thought.

  “It’ll not all be as bad as this, I hope,” Harris continued. “Once this squall passes and ye find yer sea legs, I could teach ye to read, if ye’ve a mind to learn.”

  The bedclothes rustled again as she turned toward him. “I’d love to. It’s something I’ve always wanted. I used to envy my brothers when they went off to school. Since I was the only girl, Ma couldn’t spare me. One winter I pestered Ian to teach me, but we didn’t make much headway. I was always that worn-out at night, I’d fall asleep over my books before I could learn anything.”

  Harris wondered whether she realized he was still listening, or whether she had fallen to reminiscing aloud. He heard the plaintive, hungry edge in her voice.

  Apparently she had not forgotten him, for suddenly she asked, “Why do ye want to put yerself to all the bother?”

  “We fairy godfathers like to do a thorough job.” Harris chuckled. “It’s
a point of professional pride, ye ken. Any other wishes ye’d like me to grant while I’m about it? Straw spun into gold? Pumpkin turned into a fine coach?”

  “If ye can teach me to read, and see me safe wed to Roderick Douglas, ye’ll have made me the happiest lass in the world. I only hope ye don’t plan to ask for my firstborn as payment.”

  “Would that be a problem, then?” Harris asked facetiously. “I recollect ye promised me anything in yer power to grant, with no provision exempting yer firstborn. I can amend the contract, but it’ll mean charging an added penalty.”

  Jenny did not reply immediately. Harris wondered if he had strayed into uncomfortably familiar territory with his jest about her future offspring. The wind had audibly lessened, he noticed in that moment of silence. The pitch and roll of the barque had also slackened to a gentler undulation.

  “I’ll pay yer penalty with a wee spell of my ain,” Jenny said at last. “I’ll turn ye into the kind of charming gentleman who can have his pick of the lassies.”

  Harris laughed outright. “If ye can perform that kind of magic, ye’d better mind they don’t burn ye for a witch, lass.”

  “I’ll give ye yer first lesson right now,” she murmured. “The next time ye speak to a woman, pretend ye’re in the dark and she’s a mite tipsy with her first taste of strong drink. Then ye talk to her just like ye’ve talked to me tonight—soft and kindly. After five minutes, I wager she’ll not even notice those scars on yer face.”

  Jenny woke to the sound of footsteps and voices in the companionway. Fine shafts of sunshine squeezed into the cabin through chinks in the deadlight. Morning had dawned, and the gale had passed. Her stomach still felt queasy, but infinitely better than it had the previous night. This relief was offset by the dull pain that throbbed in her forehead.

  Quite nearby, she heard a man snoring. The walls between the cabins must be as thin as paper, she grumbled to herself. Rolling over in the tight quarters of her berth, she came nose to nose with Harris Chisholm, snoring serenely with his head resting on her pillow.