by Jody Hedlund
Later, when Patrick and Josiah came for her and they started back to the lighthouse, she couldn’t look at Patrick for fear he’d see the bold thoughts running through her mind. All she knew was that there was no way she could throw herself at Patrick and initiate a kiss with him. Never.
When they reached the dock in front of the light, Patrick secured the cutter while Emma hoisted Josiah onto her hip.
“What do now, Mamma?” He squinted at her through the sunlight gleaming off the silver waves. Already in the short time she’d known the boy, his freckles had multiplied from his exposure to the sun.
She used her fingers to comb back his hair and then pressed his cap back onto his head. All that day he’d worn his cap. He hadn’t resisted like he usually did. It was almost as if the battle from yesterday had brought them to a new place in their relationship.
Perhaps she’d gained some ground in him seeing her as his mamma, as a real mamma. And maybe by sticking to her word and not giving in to him, she’d earned some authority.
“What do, Mamma?” Josiah asked again.
She looked to Patrick, still in the boat, and raised her brow. The gurgling in her stomach and the position of the sun told her it was past noon. Patrick would probably want to sleep at some point, since he hadn’t had the chance yesterday.
He was winding extra rope around his arm. Even with the waves lapping and the breeze blowing against him, he stood as nimbly as if he’d been born in a boat. “We have time to do something else together. If you’d like, that is.”
Aye. She’d like spending more time together. There was nothing she’d like better. But what could they do? What would be something Patrick and Josiah would enjoy?
She looked around at the open beach that rounded the bend of the isthmus. Sea gulls perched on several of the boulders that rose out of the lake near the shore. She pictured her mam resting on a blanket on the beach not far from their home in Ireland, Dad’s head on her lap, and the two of them smiling as she and Ryan waded and splashed in the sea.
Emma couldn’t remember how old she’d been or what else they’d done. All she remembered was the happiness in her parents’ eyes.
“How about a picnic on the beach?” Emma said. During one of her hikes with Josiah farther up the beach, she’d found a spot that was sandy.
Once she explained what a picnic was, Josiah became enthusiastic about the idea. She wasn’t sure what Patrick thought, but since he didn’t protest, she made quick work of packing the few biscuits Bertie had sent home with them, along with the leftover fish from breakfast.
After they’d walked a little ways, Patrick helped her spread out a spare blanket. Though the June sun had disappeared behind a covering of clouds, it was still warm.
They ate their picnic meal, and when they’d devoured every last bite, they built a tower out of rocks and sand. Then she waded in the water with Josiah, hoisting her skirt but still unable to keep the hem from getting wet. Patrick rested on the blanket, reclining on one elbow and watching them. When his eyes wandered to her exposed ankles, she dipped her chin and pretended not to notice. But somehow she had the feeling she needed to take advantage of his interest, so she settled Josiah back at the stone tower to play and dig some more and then lowered herself onto the blanket next to Patrick. She situated herself so that she could keep an eye on Josiah.
Maybe she wouldn’t be able to throw herself at Patrick and kiss him the way Bertie had suggested, but at least she could sit near him.
A few moments passed and she found herself telling him about Ireland and the picnics she’d taken as a child, trying to cover her nervousness with chatter. Finally she fell silent and couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Patrick watched Josiah too, as if he didn’t quite know what to say either. At last he said, “I have to admit, I’ve never been on a picnic before.”
“Not even as a child?”
“No.” There was a bitter note to his voice that she’d not heard before. With his soft brogue and Irish name, she guessed that he’d immigrated to America just as she had.
“Did your family suffer a great deal during the famine?”
His face hardened, and then he looked away.
“I’m sorry, Patrick. I shouldn’t have asked—”
“My family was already a disaster before the famine.” He closed his eyes as if to block out the painful memory.
“You don’t have to talk about it.” She watched the way the breeze teased his hair.
“When we moved to America, the sins moved with us.” For once the lines in his face made him look older, as though he’d lived through more in his days than most saw in a lifetime.
She didn’t say anything, but instead touched his arm. It was only a brief contact, the merest of grazes. And she wasn’t sure why she did it, except that she sensed the turmoil raging through him and wanted to offer him a measure of comfort.
At her touch, his eyes opened and met hers. He seemed to be trying to read her expression and see into her heart. Even though she was tempted to glance away, she forced herself to stay steady, to look him in the eye. She wanted to be bolder, to let him know that despite his confession of the night before, she wouldn’t refuse his attentions.
But her stomach quivered, and a flush stole up her cheeks. After only a few seconds she shifted her attention to her hands, twisting in her skirt.
He released a soft breath, then flipped over on his back and rested his head against the blanket.
Inwardly she chided herself. She had to stop being so shy around him. “During our picnics back in Ireland, my dad would use my mam’s leg as a pillow. If you like, you could . . .” But she couldn’t finish. She focused again on Josiah piling rocks.
Instead of speaking, Patrick scooted closer and lifted his head onto her lap. As he situated himself, she held her breath and didn’t move.
He closed his eyes and sighed.
After several seconds, she allowed herself to breathe again. And before long she could feel his shoulders relax against her thigh.
“You make a comfortable pillow,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “I might fall asleep here.”
“I won’t mind.” She was glad he couldn’t see the embarrassment that was sure to be brightening her face.
Soon he was asleep, his expression peaceful.
When Patrick’s chest began to rise and fall with the rhythm of deep sleep, she knew he wouldn’t waken easily. She lifted her fingers to his hair and grazed the brown strands that lay against her skirt. It was softer than she expected. She pulled her hand away and watched his face to gauge whether he’d noticed. His eyes remained closed and his breathing steady.
She skimmed his hair again. Still gaining no reaction from him, she let her hand linger. Gradually her touch turned bolder and moved deeper, until she combed through his hair much the same way she did Josiah’s.
When Josiah grew tired of building castles and throwing rocks, she interested him in a caterpillar crawling near their blanket. While the sky had grown more overcast and the air damper with the sign that rain would soon be upon them, she didn’t want this moment with Patrick to come to an end.
She bent over his face and wished she were brave enough to trace the scar on his forehead or run a finger down his slightly bent nose. Her pulse raced faster at the thought of stroking his full lips. She knew she’d never be brave enough to take such liberties were he awake.
But since he was asleep, he wouldn’t have to know she’d touched him. Josiah was bent over and talking to the caterpillar. The boy wouldn’t have to know either.
With a surge of daring, she brushed her fingers against Patrick’s forehead. She traced first one brow and then the other. She stopped, hovering above him, waiting for him to awaken and catch her touching him so intimately.
Yet he didn’t budge, not even to move an eyelash.
She released a pent-up breath and ignored a raindrop that fell on the back of her neck. She allowed herself a small but shaky smi
le. She was overcome with wonder that this handsome man lying in her lap was her husband, and that only a short distance away was their home.
Her life was full. What more could she ask for?
Patrick tried not to move, but with each passing moment it was growing more difficult to pretend he was asleep. He’d awoken to find Emma’s fingers in his hair. Her gentle touch had stirred his blood, but he’d sensed that if he opened his eyes, she’d pull away from him faster than he could blink.
And so he’d kept himself motionless. Then when she stroked his forehead and his eyebrows, desire had surged through him, causing his breath to hitch, even more with the knowledge she hadn’t pushed him away in spite of what she’d learned about him.
He knew telling Emma about his once being a criminal had been the right thing to do, no matter how much it might have cost him. And while she’d been clearly shocked, she hadn’t seemed repulsed. In fact, here she was even now, touching him. His relief was beyond measure, and her gentle caresses were filling him with longing.
He couldn’t keep up the pretense much longer before he did something reckless like pull her down on top of him and kiss her. And then he’d definitely scare her away.
Yet as her hand moved to his cheek and lightly brushed the whiskers along his jaw, he leaned closer for more of her. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He reached for her hand, captured it, and brought her fingers against his lips.
She gasped and started to pull away from him.
His eyes flew open to the mortification spilling across her face.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning back, her cheeks flushed.
He didn’t let go, but instead brought his lips to her fingertips again, hoping she’d read the message written on his face that she needn’t be sorry for anything.
At the kiss, she stopped struggling. She held herself stiffly, but at least she wasn’t attempting to escape him.
Fat raindrops began to plop against his face. Although he knew they should pack up and return home before they all got soaked, he wasn’t ready to break this connection with her. He wasn’t satisfied with a few kisses against her fingertips; he wanted so much more.
He swallowed the rising desire and pressed her hand back against his cheek. He held it there, wanting her to know how much he’d welcomed her caresses.
Her eyes grew rounder.
“Rain, Mamma,” Josiah said. “Me wet.”
At Josiah’s simple statement, she broke away and scrambled backward, so that Patrick had no choice but to sit up. He rubbed a hand across his face, trying to wipe away the stark desire that radiated there just as surely as the Presque Isle Light beamed in the darkness.
Thankfully she turned her back to him and busied herself with Josiah. As the rain began to fall in earnest, they gathered everything and ran back to the house. Stumbling into the kitchen, panting and laughing, rain dripped from their garments and formed puddles on the floor.
“Me wet,” Josiah said again. “Change clothes.” He dropped the half-squished caterpillar onto the table and toddled toward his room.
Emma started after the boy at the same time Patrick did, and they almost collided. “I was going to help him,” Emma said.
“I was too,” he said softly.
She was only inches from him.
The rain pattered hard on the roof. It was a soothing sound, not at all like the thrashing of some of the storms that buffeted the lighthouse. In the cloudiness of the late afternoon, the kitchen was dark, shadowing them both, giving the room a cozy air.
Even in the dimness, he couldn’t help but notice that her wet clothes clung to her. Her shirt plastered her rounded curves, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest only served to draw his attention to the outline of her body.
She followed his gaze downward, gave a soft gasp, and took a quick step back while crossing her arms over herself. “Maybe I should get changed too,” she whispered.
He gave himself a mental shake and forced himself to focus on her pretty face. She started to move past him. He knew he should let her go, but when her shoulder grazed him in passing, he took her by the arm and stopped her.
She sucked in a breath. In the stillness of the room, with only the tapping of rain above them, her soft gasp did something strange to his stomach. He moved sideways until his face brushed against her wet hair. His mouth hovered near her ear. For the longest moment he couldn’t move. She didn’t move either, except that her breathing turned more rapid. The sound of her quick intakes only stirred him until his heart raced with a frenzy he’d never felt before.
“Emma,” he whispered against her hair.
She didn’t say anything in reply. Then slowly she turned her head so that her lips were near his. Her warm breath came in bursts that mingled with his.
He was going to kiss her. He couldn’t help it. His lips grazed hers, as light as a sprinkle of rain.
When she didn’t move away, he gently brushed against her again. He knew he shouldn’t rush things, though he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go without taking her fully and crushing her under the weight of a real kiss.
He pulled back slightly and touched his nose to hers. Again she didn’t turn away.
He leaned in for more of her . . .
“Mamma, help!” came Josiah’s muffled voice, breaking through the charged air that surrounded them.
Emma jumped back.
They both swiveled toward Josiah’s bedroom. He stood in the doorway, naked except for his shirt, which he’d pulled up over his head where it had become wedged at his chin.
“Stuck,” the little boy said through the wet linen.
Emma’s mouth dropped open.
For a moment, Patrick was as speechless as Emma, still struggling to return to reality. She gave a stifled laugh, pressing her hand over her mouth.
The lad made quite an amusing sight with his chubby white body capped by his shirt sticking straight up over his head.
Emma laughed again, unable to contain her mirth.
Patrick grinned, and then before he knew it, he was laughing with her. Sensing that he was the source of their laughter, Josiah started prancing around and giggling.
Finally, Emma crossed to the boy and freed his head from the shirt, and afterward Patrick scooped him up in a hug.
“Go ahead and get changed first,” he said, tossing Emma a smile, “while I take care of this little clown of ours.”
He knew he shouldn’t stare at her, but as she crossed the kitchen, his eyes trailed after her. And when she peeked at him over her shoulder, her smile of pleasure sent a burst of hope through him.
Maybe things would turn out differently from the way they had with Delia. Maybe he’d been worried for nothing. He might not be worthy of Emma, but he could only pray he’d do his best to make her happy.
Chapter 12
The little house shook from a deafening clap of thunder. Emma bolted upright in bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
“Mamma!” Josiah’s terrified cry echoed through the house.
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed to the cold wood floor as a streak of lightning lit up the night sky and was again followed by a bang of thunder that seemed intent on beating down the walls of their home.
Josiah screamed.
Without taking the time to wrap a robe around her thin nightgown, she rushed out of her bedroom, feeling her way through the dark hall and kitchen until she was in Josiah’s room. She gathered his shaking body into her arms and carried him back to her bed.
It took some time for him to stop crying. When he was finally quiet, he lay next to her, sucking his thumb. She’d wrapped her arms around him to comfort him, but as the storm continued to rage, her own fear mounted.
She’d heard sailors talk about the storms on Lake Huron, how they were the most violent of all the Great Lakes. And even though she’d experienced a few squalls during her time on Mackinac Island, none could compare with the one raging outside.
Th
e wind rattled the entire house as if to blow it right out into the lake. It whistled under the door, down the chimney, and through every crack in the windowpanes. At a ripping noise overhead, she drew Josiah closer. The roof was breaking apart.
If the storm was tearing at the house, she didn’t want to think about what it was doing to the tower in its dilapidated condition. Her insides trembled at the thought that Patrick might be in danger.
She wanted to pray for him, that God would keep him safe, that the tower wouldn’t blow away into the sea with Patrick inside. But she wasn’t sure that she could.
She only had to think of Patrick’s bowed head at breakfast every morning, of the sincerity and humility with which he offered his petitions, and she knew she had to try to pray again sometime. Her voice and throat, though, were still rusty, long neglected when it came to prayer.
At dawn, the storm finally blew itself out over the lake, leaving a steady patter of rain against the windows. She waited for the squeak of the back door, signaling that Patrick was done with his keeper duties for the night. But as the minutes passed and the house grew lighter, he still didn’t come.
With Josiah asleep again, she dressed silently and tiptoed outside. She told herself she was only assessing the damage to the house, but the first place she looked was up at the tower.
Through the pelting rain and overcast sky, the beam was still rotating. She searched for the outline of Patrick’s form through the tower’s windows, but couldn’t spot him.
As the rain spattered her face, she tried to quiet the rapid thud of her heart, hoping he’d left the light burning longer because the morning was unusually gray. He would be turning it off soon.
After waiting and watching a few moments longer, she decided she needed to know that he was all right. She dashed to the tower and raced up the winding stairway until she reached the ladder that led to the lantern room.
“Patrick,” she called through gasping breath. She pushed open the hatch and popped her head into the room.
The howling of the wind was the only reply she received.