Love Unexpected (12 page)

She thought she'd cried all the tears she could, but at his gentleness the tears pooled again.

“There, there, lass.” His voice was as tender as a caress.

She blinked back the tears, not wanting to dampen his shirt. But he held her close, enveloping her and beckoning her to lose herself within his hold. After only a few seconds of trying not to cry, she let her body sag into him and let her tears find release.

He didn't say anything. He just held her.

“I'm sorry, Patrick,” she finally said through a snuffle. “I know I'm not what you were expecting in a wife and mother. And you can row me back tomorrow to Burnham's Landing so that you can start looking for someone more capable—”

“You made a good soup, Emma.” He pulled back and locked eyes with her. “I'm sorry I didn't tell you that sooner.”

His words gave her pause, and she examined his face, the sincerity creasing his brows and the apology radiating from his expression. “I never had a mam to teach me how to cook or how to take care of a wee one. It was just me and Ryan and my dad for many years—”

“You'll learn,” he said.

“But what if I don't? What if I can't?”

“You're a kind woman, and you're good to Josiah. That's what matters most.”

“Now that you know what an inept wife you got, I won't hold it against you if you want to find a different woman.”

She was surprised when he lifted a hand and brushed at one of her stray strands of hair. He let his fingers linger against it before tucking it behind her ear. “I don't want anyone else,” he said quietly. “Neither of us is perfect.” A shadow flitted across his face. “Me least of all.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I told you, though, that you could leave if you weren't happy here. And I'm a man of my word. I'll let you go if that's really what you want.”

She wanted to shout that what she really wanted was to stay with him. Yes, it had been a hard first week, but she'd also been at peace. When she'd cleaned the house, she was delighted to know it was her home too. When she'd readied the garden, she was relieved that she wouldn't have to move before she saw the fruits of her labor. And when she'd fixed the chicken coop, she was excited to think about next spring and the possibility of seeing the new chicks hatched.

She'd thought about Patrick showing her more about the light and how it worked and how rewarding it would be to spend her life helping him save lives. And sometimes when Josiah was especially cute or good, she even pictured the day in the not-so-distant future when she'd have a baby of her own. Maybe several children.

Aye, this place, this lighthouse, it was the home she'd always dreamed about. And Patrick was better than any husband she'd ever attract on her own.

He waited for her answer, his brow furrowed, his eyes sad.

She wished she was bold enough to stroke his cheek and reassure him. Instead, she offered him a small smile. “If you're sure you don't mind all my faults . . .”

“As long as you're willing to put up with mine,” he said.

“Aye, since you're terribly hard to put up with.” Her smile grew.

Seeing her smile, he gave a half grin. “I'm more terrible than you realize.”

“But at least you can cook.”

“And you make wonderful coffee.”

She laughed softly. “At least I do one thing well.”

His expression turned serious. “You do many things well, Emma.” He lifted his fingers but hesitated before gently brushing another loose piece of hair off her face.

Only then did she consider the fact that they were kneeling just inches apart, that his face was a hand's span away from hers.

Maybe he would kiss her again.

As embarrassing as the idea was, and as tempted as she was to duck her head, she forced herself not to move. How else would he know that she wouldn't mind his attention if she always turned into a shy butterfly around him?

As if he'd heard her thoughts, his gaze dropped to her lips and he stared for a long moment. His breathing turned ragged, and his chest rose and fell more rapidly.

She was sure he would lean in closer. She wasn't the expert at reading desire upon a man's face, but surely that was what was written in his features.

She held her breath and waited.

And when he finally wrenched away from her and stood stiffly, she released a whoosh of air but found that she was strangely disappointed.

“I need to head up to the light,” he said in a strained voice.

She nodded and stared at his boots.

He didn't move. “There's something you should know about me. About my past . . .”

“It's okay, Patrick,” she assured. “We agreed to let the past stay in the past—”

“I have a criminal record.”

His words slammed into her and took her breath away. She waited for him to go into more detail, to tell her what he'd done. But he stood silently as if his pronouncement were a death sentence in and of itself.

Apparently he hadn't been joking when he'd said he was more terrible than she realized.

She dragged in a breath and tried not to let him see her trembling hands. She couldn't look him in the eyes, yet she knew she had to say something.

“I stand by what I said before—let's keep the past in the past.”

For a long moment he said nothing. Then he sighed. “Good night, lass.”

“Good night, Patrick.”

As he walked away, her mind raced. Exactly what kind of man had she married?

E
mma picked up Patrick's coat from the end of the bed where he'd shed it after changing out of his work clothes into his Sunday best. He'd said that even though they didn't have a church building in the area, he held his own worship service every Sunday morning.

Occasionally, when Holy Bill was in the area, the reverend would lead a service. Yet that was only once a month or so, as he had to split his time between the various communities along the lakeshore.

She could hear Josiah chattering to Patrick in the sitting room as they waited for her to join them. She'd asked them to spare a moment while she changed into her Sunday best too—not that she had anything fancy. Nevertheless, she'd donned her cleanest shirt and newest skirt, and she'd twisted her hair into a knot, trying to capture the runaway wisps with pins.

She hadn't been able to stop thinking about Patrick's confession from the night before. She'd lain in bed trying to decide what crimes a man like Patrick had committed. After ruling out almost everything from murder to thievery, she'd finally decided
he probably hadn't done anything too terrible. If he had, he'd be in prison. Surely whatever he'd done had been only minimal, some petty crime.

Even so, Bertie's warning echoed through her head.
“Things aren't what they seem.”
What if Patrick had a side to him that she hadn't yet seen? A more volatile side . . .

Emma rubbed her hands over his coat. Did she dare search his pockets? Hadn't she promised him she wouldn't bother with his past? Besides, she only had to think of how he'd come to her in the garden last night, of his tenderness when she'd been upset, the way he'd held her and comforted her and reassured her that he wanted her to stay. She couldn't imagine how Patrick could be capable of anything other than the utmost kindness.

No matter his past, she liked the man he was now. Perhaps she was going against her better judgment, but she wanted to give him a chance.

Aye. She wanted to pretend he'd never said anything about being a criminal. Why couldn't she? Holy Bill had given his word that Patrick was a changed man. And from what she could tell, the reverend was right.

She couldn't find any faults with Patrick, not yet anyway.

She clutched his coat. Then, with a glance toward the door, she brought the garment to her face in what she could only describe as an immature and girlish need to have more of him.

In spite of the new revelation, her mind brimmed with the memory of being in his arms, the hardness of his chest, the steadiness of his heartbeat against her cheek. She had a keen need to be in his arms again.

“What am I to do?” she whispered into the quietness of the bedroom as that strange physical longing returned to her.

At their wedding he'd told her he wouldn't expect anything
of her, and she'd understood that to mean in the physical sense. But now that she had a real home, she wanted a real marriage too. She'd never had a relationship of any kind with a man other than with Ryan and her dad.

How was she supposed to act? What kinds of things was she supposed to do in order to let Patrick know of her interest in him? After all, they were husband and wife. Why couldn't they be together as such eventually, especially if she ever hoped to have more children?

She pressed her face into his coat. It was all him. It had his shape, his touch, his warmth. She sucked in a deep breath and caught his unique aroma of wind and sea. A faint wisp of something else lingered. She lifted the coat higher, following the scent to the collar where it grew stronger.

It was an exotic scent of jasmine or some other woman's perfume.

Emma flung the coat back on the bed and took a quick step back. She stared at the dark linen, and another of Bertie's warnings clanged in her head.
“He needs the extra money because
he's secretly giving it to someone. A woman.”

It couldn't be true that Patrick was involved with another woman. Aye, he'd been gone all of yesterday and he hadn't told her where. But he didn't seem to be the kind of man who would spend his free time and hard-earned money visiting loose women.

Then again, he'd confessed to being a criminal. What if his cavorting with women had been part of his crimes?

She turned away from the coat, refusing to look at it again. She had to stop imagining the worst about him. As she left the room and tried to forget about the womanly scent on the coat, she struggled to put aside the panic that had come over her.
When she stepped into the sitting room and Patrick glanced up at her warily from his chair near the unlit hearth, her heart pinched with the realization of how little they knew about each other.

His dark brown hair was combed neatly. The crisp whiteness of his shirt brought out the tan of his skin and the green of his eyes. He exuded strength in every limb. He was an attractive man, as sweet and sensitive as he was handsome. How could she compete for his affection with another woman?

Not that there was another woman, she reminded herself.

As she listened to him read Scripture, lead them in prayer, and then close with a hymn, she resolved to do a better job not being so shy. Maybe she could find ways to gain his attention, to make herself more appealing to him. And maybe if they got to know each other better, she could put to rest Bertie's warnings.

Patrick closed his well-worn Bible and fingered the lettering on the front reverently. Emma sat in the rocking chair opposite him and held Josiah. She'd been surprised when the boy had climbed on her lap and was even more astonished when he'd snuggled against her and listened attentively to Patrick. Of course, he'd sucked his thumb the entire time. But he'd seemed content to be in her arms instead of having to sit with Patrick as he usually demanded.

Perhaps her attempt at disciplining him yesterday hadn't been a failure after all.

“What we do now, Daddy?” he asked, sliding forward on her lap.

The June sunshine coming in the sitting room's open window had warmed the room, and yet Emma relished the coziness together. This was her home now. She'd swept and washed the floor until it shone. She'd dusted away the cobwebs. She'd even
added a few decorations, like the tall crock she'd found in the shed that she filled with a bouquet of cattails, and the pair of tin candle holders she'd polished and placed on the mantel.

Patrick took a sip of his coffee left over from breakfast. “I think we should let your new mamma decide what to do today, don't you?”

Josiah nodded, then cupped her cheek with his tiny hand. “What do, Mamma?”

She looked at Patrick for his interpretation this time.

“We take turns picking an activity to do together on Sunday,” he explained, setting his Bible on the desk, which was still in disarray. “Sometimes we go hiking or take a boat ride or visit with neighbors down at Burnham's Landing.”

She nodded and sifted through the possibilities the day held.

“Maybe you'd like to visit your brother?” Patrick offered, rising from his wing chair.

A lump formed in her throat. “I'd be grateful for the chance to see him, but I don't want to trouble you.”

“It wouldn't trouble me, Emma.”

“If you're sure . . .”

“Last I saw Ryan, he was asking about you.”

“He was?” She smiled at the thought that Ryan missed her too. “I hope he wasn't
asking
you with his fists.”

“Close.”

“Then for your safety I'd better go visit him and reassure him I'm doing well.”

“That would be mighty nice of you.” Patrick grinned. The relief in his expression told her he was glad they were bantering again, that he'd been worried about her reaction to his confession.

She felt it would be unfair to shun him now that he'd told
her more. The truth was he'd tried to warn her before they got married. For her part, she'd been too excited, too desperate to pay much attention.

And now that they were married, she would have to take the good with the bad. After all, he was accepting her despite her faults. Shouldn't she do the same for him?

When they arrived at Burnham's Landing, she was disappointed to discover Ryan had gone hunting with the Burnham men farther inland. But Bertie Burnham invited her into the cabin for coffee and biscuits.

Sunshine poured through the doorway, lighting the hovel and revealing the unswept floor, the faded curtains that were in need of a good wash, the heap of cold ashes on the hearth, and an unwashed kettle on the table. They apparently hadn't used the broom she'd fixed.

After they were seated, Bertie perched on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs like a barn owl. Her sharp eyes seemed to take in every detail of Emma's appearance, from her wind-tossed hair to the damp hem of her skirt.

“Nope.” Bertie's bonnet covered most of her head, except for her long narrow braids. “Don't expect them back until nightfall. I told Fred I wanted victuals besides fish to fill my belly and that he shouldn't come home until he had something.”

“Has Ryan said anything about when he's planning to leave?” Emma asked, breaking off a bite of the perfectly flaky biscuit and trying not to think of her own burnt biscuits.

“He doesn't seem to be in a big hurry,” Bertie said. “What do you think, Mother?”

The widow Burnham sat in a rocker positioned near the window, her knitting needles clicking at top speed. Her lips were pursed tightly. She didn't seemed any more pleased to see Emma
now than she had when Emma stood wet and shivering in her doorway the first time they'd met.

“Besides,” Bertie said, not waiting for her mother-in-law's response, “I keep telling Ryan to stay off the steamers right now. It's too dangerous with that pirate boat lurking in the area.”

Emma nodded, letting hope inflate her heart. Maybe Ryan would stay longer until the threat from pirates had subsided, at least until she had the chance to see him again and give him one last hug good-bye.

Bertie glanced to the open door of the log cabin, as if to be sure they were alone, and then sat forward. “Maybe you're having second thoughts about staying out there with Patrick?”

“Of course not.” She hoped her words didn't come out too fast.

“I don't suppose you've noticed anything suspicious?” Bertie asked, probing further.

“Nay,” Emma said. Did she dare say anything about Patrick's criminal past? She had the feeling Bertie didn't know about it, otherwise she would have already told Emma. Perhaps Patrick's first wife, Delia, hadn't revealed anything to her cousin.

Whatever the case, Emma decided she needed to hold Patrick's confession in confidence as well.

But would it hurt to mention Patrick's trip yesterday and the perfume on his coat? She hesitated and then decided that for now she'd keep those details to herself too.

“Patrick has been very good to me. I can't complain about anything. Except . . .”

Bertie's bony shoulders stiffened. “Except what?”

Heat flamed Emma's cheeks. There would be nothing wrong with asking Bertie for advice on how to make herself more attractive to her husband, would there? The woman had conceived
four sons. She obviously knew something about capturing the attention of a man. She could surely give her some ideas for how to win Patrick's favor.

Emma picked at the thin golden crust on the top of the biscuit. She had to ask now before she lost her courage. “I know Patrick's busy and he works at night.” Her voice dropped to a mere whisper. “But most of the time he's aloof and he hasn't shared the bed with me . . . yet.” Emma didn't dare look up. She couldn't bear to see what Bertie thought of her now that she knew the truth.

Bertie harrumphed. “I'm not surprised.”

“I'm sure he misses Delia.” Emma rushed to speak, hoping to cover her embarrassment. “I guess I shouldn't expect him to be interested in me yet, not when he's still in love with the wife he just lost.”

“He didn't love Delia.” Bertie spat the words. “And he certainly doesn't miss her.”

Emma glanced up at the woman in time to see anger flash in her eyes.

“I bet it has to do with that other woman I told you about,” Bertie said. “He's probably getting his needs met in some other woman's bed and has no desire for yours.”

Emma wanted to protest, but how could she? Not after his disappearance all of yesterday and the scent of perfume on his clothes this morning. Still, there was something overly cynical in Bertie's assumption, and it stirred her need to defend Patrick. “I don't think he's unfaithful. He's much too kind—”

“Anyone can put on an act. The fact is, he needs a mother for Josiah. And he needs an assistant to help with the light. That's it. He doesn't need you for a wife. He didn't need Delia for a wife either.”

Emma took a sip of her coffee to hide her confusion. She knew
Patrick had married her for practical reasons, but what if those were his
only
reasons? What if he'd never had any intention of having a real marriage? Maybe that had been his arrangement with Delia too.

It would certainly account for the fact that he didn't seem all that sad about her passing. For that matter, neither did Josiah.

“As I told you before, I'm not one for gossiping.” Bertie spoke through a bite of biscuit. “But I don't want to see a young lady like you suffer unnecessarily.”

Emma hadn't suffered yet, not in the least. “Maybe I can try to make him want me for a wife. Maybe you can give me a few tips . . . tips for attracting a man . . . ?”

Bertie chortled. The older widow Burnham stopped her knitting to glare at Emma. It was the kind of look that said she thought Emma was nothing but a hussy.

The room became stifling, the scent of fried fish almost too much to bear. Emma started to rise. “I'm sorry. I'll just go. I knew I shouldn't have asked.”