Gillian: Bride of Maine (American Mail-Order Bride 23) (2 page)

G
illian stepped onto
the platform, and her gaze wandered over each man and woman waiting for a passenger. Rhys Chermont wasn’t hard to spot. He stood at least a head taller than any man there. She observed him while she was yet unnoticed. The regulation dress uniform lighthouse keeper’s black visor hat, indigo blue with a white lighthouse in the center and gold leaves in a half-circle, covered all but the fringe of his ginger hair. Wrinkles formed at the outer corners of his eyes, testament to a man who looked into the sun and worked in the harshest weather. A closely trimmed, red beard covered the lower half of his face, adding some protection from those elements. He pulled up the collar of his heavy, blue wool overcoat that stretched over broad shoulders. He turned then, and his light blue eyes caught and held hers.

He started walking toward her. His stride and carriage were those of a man who knew what he wanted and went after it. He looked neither left nor right, but compelled her to stay put just by the power of his gaze. A small shiver ran up her spine that had nothing to do with the large, wet snowflakes sticking to her face and coat and everything to do with the mountain of a man who stopped just inches from her.

Words from his first letter gave her some reassurance.
…I may seem a bit gruff, and I am built bigger than most men, but rest assured, Miss Darrow, I would sever my hand from my arm before I ever touched you in violence. I may rage a bit, but my temper is quick to cool.

“Miss Gillian Darrow?”

She resisted the urge to look around for the unfortunate woman with that name. Strange how he both frightened her and intrigued her. The hint of a French Canadian accent somehow made him seem softer. “Yes, I’m Gillian Darrow. Are you Mr. Rhys Chermont?”

“Yes, Miss. Pleasure to meet you. I’ll be taking you to Bass Harbor.”

She felt her frown. What a peculiar thing for the man who had sent her the train ticket with the intention of marrying her to say. “Yes, I know. Thank you.” Her response sounded equally odd, but words were now lost to her.

He nodded. “Do you have any other bags?”

Gillian held tight to her carpetbag, which held her only other dress, a few underclothes, the books she treasured most, his letters, a bit of stationery, and her prized possession—her mother’s gilded brush and mirror. “No, this is it.”

“Fine then. I’ll carry that for you.” He took her bag before she could agree or disagree. She opened her mouth and snapped it shut as an ear-piercing whistle cut through the thick, winter night air.

She let out a gasp and stepped back when a wolf came running, tail wagging, and stood by Rhys’ side. He rubbed the wolf behind the ear. “This is Wee Jacques.”

Hysterical laughter burst from Gillian’s lungs. The wolf-dog was almost as big as she was. “
Wee
Jacques?”

The lines at the corners of Rhys’ eyes crinkled deeper and a smile transformed him from formidable mountain to the man in the letters. She lost a piece of her heart in that moment.

“
Oui
, he’s just a small thing. Runt of the litter.”

Gillian continued to smile and fell into step as Rhys ushered her toward the waterfront. Wee Jacques kept between them as their acting chaperone. They walked the short distance in silence, and Gillian took the opportunity to pray and give thanks that Rhys did indeed seem to be a kind man with an easy smile.

As they walked down the docks, the familiar sounds of fishermen talking and waves lapping against the strong, wooden poles of the piers took her back to earlier days. When her father had business in Portland, her mother would bring her down to the docks. She would stare into the horizon, and Gillian would hold her breath, hoping her mother didn’t dive into the sea. During those times, it was if the woman didn’t belong in Maine or with Gillian. She felt a bit like that this night—as though she was home, but at the same time, like she was a bit of a sojourner still seeking a place to call home.

Rhys stopped at a Friendship sloop tied to the dock, bringing Gillian back to the present, and the one man who might help her find a place where she belonged for the future. When he offered her his hand to help her on board, Gillian didn’t hesitate and slipped her gloved hand in his. He surprised her by giving her hand a slight squeeze.

“Father McDonald said you’ve had a rough time of it, Miss; you’ll not see rough days again.”

She held back tears at his vow but wondered again about how odd he was acting. He’d mentioned the priest in his letters, but Rhys knew of her situation directly. He didn’t need Father McDonald telling him her story. She shook off the questions flooding her mind and squeezed his hand back. “Thank you, Mr. Chermont.”

“It’s going to be a cold journey up the coast, Miss Darrow; if you want to go belowdecks to the cabin, it’ll be a bit warmer. Pardon my saying so, but you’re not really dressed for the top deck.”

She pushed down the rise of temper and the desire to inform him she’d taken what little she had left from her wages at the factory to purchase the new dress so she’d have something presentable to marry him in. The slice of the cold wind cutting through her not-so-new wool coat kept her tongue from wagging, and she gave a nod. He was correct, of course, and as a woman born to sailing, she knew it all too well.

She inspected his clothing. He wore heavy, thick woolen slacks. She could see the wool sweater under his peacoat, which was under his overcoat, and heavy boots protected his feet. His slicker laid at the ready beside the wheel. When her gaze made it back to his face, her heart sank that she’d been caught staring.

“Yes, Miss, I’m well dressed for the journey. There’s blankets in the cabin; be sure to wrap one around you. Wee Jacques, take the lady down to the cabin.”

Gillian couldn’t believe she was actually following a dog belowdecks. He hadn’t mentioned the beast in any of his letters, yet they seemed close. She glanced at Rhys once more before stepping through the hatch and heading down the ladder. Something was wrong about all of this, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. He didn’t act the slightest bit nervous that, in hours, she was going to be his wife. However, he did seem like a man who, once a decision was made, it was final, and there was no room for emotions.

Rhys watched the
young woman descend until only the top of her hat was visible and then it disappeared. At least it wasn’t one of those garish numbers with feathers and flowers that looked more like a cake than a hat. By the same token, the blue satin bonnet wasn’t going to do a blasted thing against cold sea spray and snow. Rhys removed his dress hat, tucked it in one of the cedar benches, and took out a wool hat to cover his ears.

Gillian Darrow had been a pleasant surprise from the first moment he saw her. To say she was a handsome woman didn’t give her credit. Her dark hair and eyes contrasted dramatically with creamy white skin, and when she smiled, he’d almost choked on the breath lodged in his lungs. When Father McDonald asked him to sail to Portland and pick up a young woman the priest considered almost family, Rhys offered every excuse not to make the trip. But when the Father shared her tale and explained he’d offered her shelter in Bass Harbor, Rhys couldn’t refuse. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t harden his heart, though God and Father McDonald knew he’d tried for years.

Rhys waved to the harbormaster as the older man helped him cast off, and he raised the main sail first followed by the jib sail. For better or worse, they were on their way. His breath caught at the phrase
for better or worse
, and he couldn’t say why. He gave a sharp, humorless laugh; he could think of one possible reason—his ex-wife fit square in the worse column.

The waters were rough as he sailed the
Femme Rouge
along the Maine coast. Sailing in the winter always held danger. The night seas were rough, but he could navigate them, and his point of sail wasn’t in irons, so that was something going in his favor. He kept the sloop steady.

They’d make it to the Christmas Eve celebration the good folks of Bass Harbor had been planning for months. It seemed the small village had bonded over a common mission since early October. Every time he made it into the village, everyone’s heads seemed to be together chatting away. He’d enter the crowd and the chattering would stop for a second before turning to lobster or the cannery.

A short time later, a shuffle behind him took his mind from Ida’s mincemeat pie, and he turned from the ocean and sails to find a very green Gillian. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and gave him a sad look. Before he could open his mouth, the lady leaned over the side and pitched her stomach to the sea. Wee Jacques looked from Rhys to the woman. The wolf-dog gave Rhys one more look then moseyed over to Gillian and nudged his nose under her hand on the rail as if offering support for her sea-sickness.

Another woman who doesn’t like the sea.

A stone settled in Rhys’ stomach. At least this one didn’t howl and screech. That Wee Jacques took care of the woman affirmed she must have some good in her. Unfortunately, Rhys couldn’t do anything for her since it took his full attention to keep the sloop moving along the coast to the southwestern side of Mt. Desert Island.

It was a sorry thing that Gillian Darrow wasn’t suited to the sea; she might have made one of the men in Bass Harbor a fine wife. Not that Rhys would know what a fine wife looked like. He’d been fooled once by a pretty face and soft touch only to find some of the ugliest things could come in the prettiest packages.

‡

G
illian couldn’t stop
the chills shaking her body as she trailed behind Rhys. Wee Jacques had offered as much warmth and comfort as he could while she suffered from seasickness—a malady she’d never experienced on many prior sailing ventures—and the sheet of ice that now covered her from head to toe. Rhys had forced her to remove her silk bonnet and replace it with his wool hat. He’d suffered with only his dress hat for warmth. He’d placed a dry blanket around her before helping her from the sloop, but she was cold and wet through. Worse, she was humiliated in front of her soon-to-be husband. What must he think of the ninny who couldn’t handle a few waves slapping the boat or the rise and fall of the sea that must have lulled him to sleep many nights.

Though freezing, she let her gaze wander over the small village, and warmth began to move through her, starting at her heart. Candlelight flickered in the windows of the houses and stores, beckoning weary sailors to come and find rest. Pine boughs and red bows decorated the few storefronts they passed. Nature added its own decoration with snow covering the earth and buildings in a fresh coat of winter frost. She shifted her gaze to the dark water, and in the distance, imagined a cliffside lighthouse where the red light shone to guide her home. She shivered with excitement.

Her new home.

Rhys slowed, and she found herself walking by his side. His large, gloved hand rested on the small of her back in a familiar gesture that Gillian didn’t mind. “Here we are. Ida will get you set to rights and then fill your empty stomach.”

His smile and the slow wink he gave her warmed her quicker than warm woolens and Christmas goose. “Thank you for being so kind.”

He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, surprising her. She saw the reflection of her shock in his eyes. “My apologies, Miss Darrow, for my boldness. You are most welcome.”

Gillian could only nod, accepting his apology even as she wanted to lean into that strong hand and take warmth and strength from the comforting caress.

Again, he rested his hand on her lower back and guided her through the door to a community hall. The rush of heat from the room took her breath away almost as much as the cheers. The whole village of Bass Harbor must have gathered round a table full of food and the largest balsam pine she’d ever seen decorated with ribbons, bows, homemade ornaments of gingerbread, and even some wood-carved animals.

Entranced, she stared at the tree until powerful arms wrapped her in a strong embrace. “Miss Gillian Darrow, we’re so pleased you came.”

Gillian stepped from the embrace and met the gaze of a kind older man. He stood almost as tall as Rhys, but was of a slimmer build. Every silver hair on his head was in place, and his steel gaze softened when it met hers. Noticing the white collar, she smiled. “You must be Father McDonald?”

“Aye, that would be me.” The man was tall and thin as a whip, but when he hugged her, she could have sworn a bear had her in its grasp. The priest guided her deeper into the building, and she glanced over her shoulder to make sure Rhys was still with her. He gave her another wink, and he and Wee Jacques followed.

“Father, before we introduce
la
petite dame
to everyone, she’s frozen clear through. Maybe Ida…”

“Of course Ida can.” A round woman who reminded Gillian of the kind Mrs. Ferris, the cook who worked in her father’s home, broke through the crowd. Her green eyes sparked with merriment, and her smile could melt the devil’s heart. Gillian was passed from the priest to Ida, and the woman led Gillian through the hall and outside for just a minute before they entered a small cottage. The inside was clean and tidy with balsam boughs draped on the mantle of a brick fireplace. Three socks hung from the mantle, and Gillian sighed at the sight of a true home.