Gillian: Bride of Maine (American Mail-Order Bride 23) (5 page)

G
illian woke as
a chill hit her warm flesh where Rhys’ body had been wrapped around hers. She shifted in the bed as he pulled up his trousers. She was thankful the room rested in darkness except for a bit of moonlight through the curtains as her cheeks heated with the memory of all they’d done, and now as she watched him dress.

“Rhys?”

He sank back onto the bed and ran the back of his hand over the curve of her cheek. “Go back to sleep, Gillian. I have to tend the light.”

She moved closer to him. “I could help. Just give me…” This time he cut her off with a kiss before pulling just far enough away so he could speak. He pressed his forehead to hers.

“I want you to sleep tonight. You need your rest after giving yourself to me.”

The heat in her cheeks rose to feverish levels, and she swallowed. “Okay. But next time, I’ll help.”

He smiled and brushed a kiss on her forehead. “Next time.”

With that, he pushed off the bed, yanked on a shirt, and was gone. Gillian snuggled under the heavy quilts, seeking the warmth now missing from their bed. In a desperate act, she moved to his side of the bed to absorb the heat he’d left there. She wasn’t sure if this was how it was supposed to be in a marriage like theirs, and wondered if other women so brazenly gave themselves just hours after meeting their men. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she couldn’t bring herself to care. They were married, and there was no sense in denying either of them this part of marriage. She snuggled deeper under the quilts and chuckled. Plus, she’d quite enjoyed it and knew she’d given Rhys pleasure as well.

There was one moment during their time when a strange look had crossed his face like he pictured another. In a flash, it had disappeared, and he called Gillian’s name, but it still cut at Gillian’s heart. She knew from his letters…or the letters sent by the village…he’d been married before, and his first wife had played him false and divorced him. She didn’t want him picturing that witch’s face when he was with her. She came here knowing exactly what a lighthouse keeper’s life entailed, and she welcomed it. When she sent the first letter, she’d decided if she agreed to marry the man once they met, it would be forever. She’d given her vows to Rhys, and to Rhys she’d remain true all of her days.

A twinge of guilt hit her in the stomach. She knew his past, but she hadn’t been as truthful about hers. Yes, she’d written about being from Maine and troubles at home sending her to Massachusetts, and the fire that had her searching for a new home. She hadn’t mentioned where in Maine she was from or who her father was. She’d have to set that right with Rhys, and she’d have to do it that very day.

Rhys swore. He
should have been tending the light an hour ago. And of all things, he shouldn’t have been bedding Gillian Darrow…he shook his head… Gillian Chermont. What had he been thinking? It was one thing to offer a woman a home, but tying her to him in the most base fashion after only knowing her a few hours was unconscionable. He’d wondered at her innocence when she’d been more than willing, but an innocent she was, and that was even more reason not to act like an animal who couldn’t control his needs.

Did she really understand the life she’d just signed up for? A lighthouse keeper was tied to the light. Yes, Deacon would watch the light for him for a few hours here and there, but it was his responsibility and one he didn’t take lightly. He’d received commendations from the inspectors, and he took pride in his work. His pay wouldn’t stretch far. At $550 a month he was far from a wealthy man. The coal allowance along with the allowances for meat, provisions and, of course, oil for the lamp kept him comfortable, but there wouldn’t be much extra for new dresses or fancy bobbles. What had he done?

Blast him, it had been wonderful though. Gillian was as giving with her body as she’d proven to be with everything. He’d never experienced such a night. That she’d slept snug against him and woke when he moved from her had broken through a wall he’d long been building around his heart. Miriam slept as far away as possible and never moved when he left the bed to tend the light. What was he saying? What did he even know of her?

Rhys continued to trim the wicks of the lantern and adjusted the vents to ensure the lantern panes wouldn’t fog since the wind had changed direction. He would have to clean the lamp chimneys, but he stepped over to one of the windows. Searching the waters for any vessels, he took out the packet of letters, and when nothing moved on the water, he began to read. There were only three, but Gillian had written long letters filled with important and mundane details of her life. When he got to the part about Mr. Brown starting the fire, he wished the man wasn’t already dead. The ass could have killed the women and all for his own greed. She wrote of how Roberta introduced them all to the
Grooms’ Gazette
and how her friend Willow was the first to leave and marry. He read of Rose and Emma, both still undecided if finding an unknown man to marry was right for them, and how Emma was a bit arrogant, desiring wealth before considering marriage. But the love for her friends shone in each line, and the happiness she felt for Willow at finding a man she could love and admire once again sliced at his heart. He hoped Gillian could say the same someday.

I only want a lover and friend who will remain so when my hair is gray and he must shout into an ear trumpet for me to hear him declare his love. A man who will think me beautiful when I am disheveled and exhausted. A man who will hold my hand, not because something is wrong, but because he cannot resist the feel of my flesh against his. A man who will laugh with me and cry with me, share our hopes and dreams, and kiss me senseless every morning for the rest of my life. I desire a man who wishes to watch every sunrise and every sunset with me through the years ahead, and will indulge me with the silly traditions I tend to form. I do not care about your past, Mr. Chermont, and hope you will do me the courtesy of forgiving me mine. If you hold even a few of the qualities listed above, and I believe you do, I would be honored to become your wife…

Rhys returned his gaze to the top of the page and the date. The letter was dated before Charlie asked him what a woman could possibly say that would change his mind and he would marry again. He read the lines again. This. This is almost word for word what he told Charlie a woman could say that would break down every wall and restore his heart. He kept reading through the letters and found in the last letter she began calling him Rhys. She must have questioned his formality at the train station, but being Gillian, she didn’t mention it for his sake.

He continued through the long letters and felt a frown forming at what wasn’t in the pages. She wrote of being born and raised in Maine, which pleased him since she’d know of the harsh winters and be more familiar with customs and places. She didn’t say where. One letter described her father’s scheme to marry her off, so he could marry a much younger woman and get Gillian out of the house. She didn’t say who her father was.

Her signature at the bottom of the first letter caught his attention. It was as if she started to write an “N” but changed it to a “D”. Rhys brought the letter closer to his eyes, but before he could dissect her handwriting, a heavy fog rolling in caught his attention, and he bundled the letters for another day.

‡

G
illian carried a
basket of food and drink up the spiral staircase of the lighthouse tower. She’d prepared a tray at first, but thought better of it, not wishing to trip and tumble all the way down. She smiled at her husband who was watching out the window in the anteroom outside the service room.

“Since you can’t come to supper, I’ve brought supper to you.” She lifted the heavy basket in triumph.

Rhys took the basket from her. “You’re a godsend,
mon petit chou
. I’m starving, and this fog refuses to lift.”

Gillian narrowed her gaze. “I don’t like being called a small cabbage, Rhys. Cabbage is sour and really the worst of vegetables.”

He shrugged and she realized he really didn’t care what she liked to be called. “What would you like to be called then?
Mon amant
?”

She gasped and stepped back as if he’d slapped her. “Never.”

Rhys took her hand bringing her closer. “I’m sorry, Gillian; I’m frustrated and tired, and this is no way for you to spend your Christmas Day. I took my frustration out on you. I would never call you my lover in such a way.”

She nodded but stepped out of his grasp. Opening the basket, she removed a thin blanket, spread it on the floor, and started unpacking the cold chicken, cheeses, bread, and wine along with the pie she’d managed to bake. It was a meager Christmas dinner, but she’d been excited to share it with Rhys. She lifted her gaze to his. “I’ve never had a Christmas picnic. Will you join me?”

He folded to the floor and joined her. “It would be my honor. I truly am sorry, and after you’ve been such a help to me.”

She sat back on her heels, kneeling before him. “I’m sorry I snapped at you for calling me your little cabbage. It was silly, and you were trying to be sweet. It’s been a long day for both of us. We’re adjusting to being around one another and then…”—she smoothed her skirt that was already perfectly smooth—“adjusting to what happened last night. We’ve both had two very busy, and at times, strange days.”

Rhys poured their wine into the glasses, handed her a plate, and took one for his food. “Our making love, do you regret it?”

He loved watching
her cheeks turn pink. She’d referred to their consummation by every term, but what it was. “No. I quite enjoyed it.”

It was Rhys’ turn to feel the heat crawl up his neck. He hadn’t thought she’d be that direct. “So, we’ll be doing it again?”

“I hope in the near future. I’ve been praying for hours for the fog to lift.”

Rhys burst out laughing. “You please me, Gillian.”

Gracious, her face beamed as though she’d swallowed the moon. “I’m glad. You please me, too, Rhys.”

He gave a shrug and tore off some cold chicken from the bone. “Well, give it time before you render your final verdict.”

She leaned forward and took one of his hands in both of hers. “Don’t say that. I’m not her, Rhys; I’m not your first wife. I’m glad I please you, because I’m afraid you’re stuck with me forever.”

“So they wrote to you about Miriam?” He knew they had from her letters, but he hadn’t been a part of that conversation.

“Yes, and I’m ashamed for them. That was not their story to tell. But I’m glad I know, so when I see the hurt in your eyes, I know it isn’t me who put it there.”

“I wonder if you’re real sometimes. I’ve known good people all my life. But you are so sweet, it’s almost impossible.”

She moved closer to him. Rhys already liked that about his wife; she never remained far from him. “I’m really not so sweet. I can be abrasive and haughty at times, and there are times when I curse worse than any sailor.”

He didn’t tell her he already knew the latter, because she’d dropped an unsavory word when they were in bed together. He hadn’t minded then and didn’t now. He just couldn’t get his head wrapped around where his heart was going with Gillian.

She pressed her mouth to his, and Rhys startled before cupping her face and enjoying the feel of her soft lips against his, and her sweet taste that was sure to beat out any pie she brought for their picnic. She broke the kiss and smiled. “I like the feel of your beard on me.”

He gave a huffed laugh. “You sure don’t mind telling it how it is, wife.”

“You’re my husband; I want you to know everything.”

“Then where in Maine are you from?”

Her chest rose and fell in a deep breath as though she was preparing to confess to Father McDonald. “Bath.”

A cold chill ran up his spine. He hated to ask the next question—as if some sort of mystic power told him he didn’t want to know the answer, and another power said he already did. “And who is your father?”

Tears filled her eyes as if she knew her answer would change everything between them. “Edgar Nulton.”

It did. He clasped her jaw between his forefinger and thumb. “How long did you know?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Know what?”

“Don’t play games, Gillian, if you harbor any hope of our marriage surviving past the next five minutes. When did you know?”

“Please, Rhys, I don’t understand, truly I don’t. I know my father’s reputation as a ruthless man is well known. But I don’t know what he did to you.” Her hand cuffed his wrist. “Please stop; you’re hurting me.”

He released her face immediately, appalled at the red marks his fingers left, but still too enraged to apologize. “You can honestly say you didn’t know your father bedded my wife and then married her? That your stepmother is the whore I married, Miriam Granger?”

She pushed back from him as if he’d suddenly contracted smallpox. “Oh, Rhys, no! No! My mind never even put the two together. She never used your name, and I left soon after they announced their engagement.”

Rhys pushed to his feet, his six-foot three height towering over her. He wanted to tower over her, to intimidate her. By the fear in those dark, hypnotic eyes and the tears pooling there, he figured he was managing to do just that. “Why use Darrow?”