Love Unexpected (13 page)

“Sit down, young lady,” Bertie snapped.

Emma plunked back into her chair and folded her hands on her lap.

Bertie stared at Emma until she squirmed. “You're right,” she finally said. “You might as well test him. Maybe you'll gain his confidence enough to find out what's going on.”

“That wasn't what I meant—”

“Yes, that's a good plan,” Bertie continued. “You can turn on the charm, and if he falls for it, then I'm sure you'll be able to ask him all kinds of questions about everything that happened. And if he doesn't fall for you, we'll know why.”

“Why exactly?”

“Why? Because he's in love with another woman, that's why.
Most likely an unsavory woman who he doesn't want any of us God-fearing people to know about.”

Emma shook her head. “Maybe there's another explanation.”

“Have you searched through the house, through his belongings for evidence like I told you to?”

Emma didn't respond, deciding against telling Bertie she'd almost checked his pockets.

“So, what should Emma do to attract him, Mother?” Bertie asked.

Widow Burnham laughed. “You're speaking nonsense, the both of you. Leave me out of it.”

Emma took another bite of biscuit, but it stuck to the roof of her mouth.

“It's been quite a few years since I've had to attract a man,” Bertie said, flinging first one braid and then the other over her shoulders. “But I was quite good at it in my day.”

“What did you do?”

“Not to boast, but mostly all I had to do was look real purty.”

Emma tried hard to picture the thin woman with her dour face as pretty. It was hard to imagine. But then again it had been long ago, and time and hard work had a way of changing people's appearance.

If Bertie had once been able to make herself look pretty, maybe there was hope for Emma. Maybe she could try to fix her hair nicer or keep her fingernails cleaner.

“And when you get him alone,” Bertie said, “don't be shy about giving him a kiss.”

“Me? Kiss him?” Emma's voice squeaked, and her stomach quivered at the scandalous nature of their conversation. She hoped Patrick and Josiah wouldn't decide to show up at that moment.

Bertie nodded. “You just go on and give him a kiss, and that'll
be all the invitation he'll need to sweep you up in his arms and carry you to the bedroom.”

“Oh my.” Emma fanned her overheated face with her hand. “I just can't imagine myself doing such a thing.”

“If he hesitates, then you'll know he's got himself another woman. Ain't no man who can resist a young woman like you throwing herself at him unless he's blind or has himself a lover already.”

“Thank you, Bertie. You certainly are wise in these matters.” Emma's body sizzled with embarrassment, and she was desperate to change the subject. “Now perhaps you'd be kind enough to give me more of your cooking wisdom too.”

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 smile. 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.