Gillian: Bride of Maine (American Mail-Order Bride 23) (4 page)

Gillian’s insides burned
at the memory of Rhys’ kiss. She’d had a couple of suitors steal a peck on the lips, but nothing in her twenty-two years matched the power of his lips on hers.

The ceremony seemed to be over, and Gillian couldn’t remember saying her vows or standing again, but Father McDonald told Rhys he could kiss his bride. She braced herself, but this time, his kiss was soft and tender, and over much too soon.

The people of Bass Harbor whistled and hollered, and looked like proud parents each and every one. She wasn’t so sure their subterfuge had been a complete success. Rhys visage darkened with the cheers, and he dropped her hand. They’d gotten their wedding, but at what price to this man and to her? Desire was one thing, love and friendship quite another. If they were to build a life, they’d have to find the last two, or their marriage would crumble like ships against the rocks.

Realizing Rhys’ mood was bound to darken more if forced to sit through a feast and ribald comments by other men about his surprise wedding, Gillian leaned into him as they made their way back to the community hall. “I’d like to go home, if you don’t mind?”

He leaned down closer to her height. “Pardon?”

She stretched to reach his ear without others overhearing. “Would you mind skipping the feast and going home? I’m a bit exhausted after everything.”

He visibly relaxed in front of her. “I don’t mind at all. Thank you.”

‡

I
da refused to
let them go before seeing Gillian eat something. They rushed through a meal, barely tasting the goose or stuffing, and both declined pie. She ran her hand over the head and neck of Wee Jacques, who took his post next to her by the rail of the sloop. She found a soft spot behind his gray, silky ears, and the light blue eyes stared at her in adoration. Fortune smiled on her, and she managed to keep her supper down as Rhys steered the sloop to the cliffside light not far from the village. It wasn’t easy going, but Rhys maneuvered along the rocky coast effortlessly.

A man met them at a boat landing, and Rhys tossed him a line to secure the sloop in her place. “I see ya brought a wife with ya.” The older man smiled as Rhys tossed him her carpetbag and then helped her down the ladder to the shore.

“You knew about this, too, Deacon?”

“Ayuh, not many didn’t. I kept it from Alice until tonight. She would have told you for certain.”

“Then I wish you would have told her.”

Keeping her hand in his, Gillian felt a bit awkward as the men talked around her. Finally, Rhys pulled her to his side. “For all that, this is Gillian Chermont, my wife. Gillian, this is Deacon Ambrose. He and his wife have a small cottage down a bit from the lighthouse.”

Gillian offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Ambrose.”

He accepted her hand and bowed his head for a second. “Mrs. Chermont. Welcome to Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse. Weather stays decent, my Alice will be stopping by soon to make your acquaintance, I’m sure.”

“I’d like that.”

“Too cold to stay outside and exchange niceties,” Rhys grumbled.

Deacon led the way to a set of rough stairs carved into the cliff. Gillian bit her lip and suppressed a groan at the slick steps. Then, shoring up her spine, she followed the older man with Rhys and Wee Jacques behind her.

Halfway up, she breathed a sigh of relief and then promptly slipped. Rhys’ hands encircled her waist. “Steady on, Gillian.”

She gave an uncomfortable giggle and continued up the cliff. Seasickness and now she appeared a clumsy oaf. The words from one of the earliest letters scrolled through her mind.
I need a partner in life, Miss Darrow. A woman I can love, but can also work beside. The life of a lighthouse keeper can be a hardship on a man’s family. I would like a wife who can embrace this life and be my true other half.
At this rate, Rhys would have their marriage annulled by morning.

Climbing the remaining steps, Gillian emptied her lungs of the breath she’d been holding and accepted Deacon’s hand for assistance up the last step and then onto a flat surface, though it was still a bit dodgy. Rhys came up beside her and cuffed his hand around her arm, guiding her to the whitewashed wooden house attached to the matching brick lighthouse.

She tipped her head up and watched the red light in the dome at the top. It wasn’t a foggy night, but with the steady snow it would be a welcome sight to anyone on the water. She remembered hearing about the unique Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse as a child. A red chimney was placed over the lamp inside the Fresnel lens, giving Bass Harbor Head a distinctive red light that could be seen for thirteen nautical miles. She smiled; everything seemed to have a red theme that night.

At the door, Rhys nodded to Deacon. “Thank you for watching the light.”

“Anytime, Rhys.” The man doffed his cap. “Should be good until midnight. Goodnight and congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ambrose,” Gillian responded while Rhys steered her inside. She closed her eyes for a minute before opening them to reveal her home. A sitting room was to her right with a fireplace providing heat to the house. The furnishings were, of all things, a deep burgundy. She almost laughed, but didn’t want to insult Rhys. The scent of balsam pine filled her nose even though she couldn’t see a tree or even a wreath on the door.

His home was lovely and well kept. She turned in the opposite direction to a small dining room with a simple mahogany dining table and chairs. Gillian felt Rhys no more than a step behind her when she walked through the open doorway that led into the kitchen. White and black tile on the floor, and white walls and cabinets kept the room bright even in the soft glow of lamplight. She stared at the large iron stove, imagining next Christmas when she might prepare a feast for her husband…and possibly a child. A table just right for two occupied a corner of the kitchen with a chair on each side.

“It’s not much but…”

She whirled on her new husband. “It’s lovely. A new wife couldn’t ask for more.”

His gaze locked with hers for long minutes as though he was determining if what she’d said was true. She took the time to admire his ice blue eyes and teak-colored skin. A man weathered, but beautiful. He was also a man who probably wouldn’t care to be called beautiful.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I do. I’m sure I’ll be very happy here.”

His eyebrow hitched. “We’ll see,
mon petit chou
.”

Gillian wrinkled her nose. “Cabbage?”

Something in her question made him laugh, and Gillian decided to let go of the fact he’d just called her a small cabbage. “May I see the tower?”

His laughter stopped. “Not tonight.” He cleared his throat. “The privy is just behind the house a few feet. Should you…”

“No.”

He released a breath, and Gillian relaxed again. She continued to explore the kitchen with her gaze, not wanting to rattle around in his house her first night here.

He raked his fingers through his ginger hair, and Gillian had the sudden urge to run her fingers through the thick waves as well.

“Would you like some hot chocolate? Best I can do for a Christmas treat.”

“I’d love some. Thank you.”

He followed her back through the dining room, placed her bag by the stairs, and nodded up the stairs. “Bedroom’s up there. We’ll head up in a bit. I’ll get our hot chocolate.”

Gillian could only nod and stare up the narrow staircase. He’d definitely said
we’d
head upstairs to the bedroom. On the train, she’d hoped the man she married would want to give it some time before consummating the relationship, but with Rhys, it seemed right she’d become his true wife this Christmas. So why was she shaking as if he’d tossed her into Frenchman’s Bay?

“You’re shivering, Gillian. Go sit by the fire, we’ll have our chocolate there.”

She didn’t correct his assumption about why she was shivering. She pointed her feet in the right direction and managed somehow to move them to the sitting room. Looking the room over, she weighed her options. She could be safe and take one of the overstuffed chairs with the length of a throw rug separating them, or sit on the sofa and see if Rhys would sit next to her. She took her place on the sofa.

The warmth from the fire relaxed her, and Gillian watched the snowfall through the windows. Now that she was inside and safe, she admitted it was beautiful. Large, wet flakes just right for snowball fights and making a snowman. Her mother used to help her build a snowman every year, and then they’d go into the house and have hot chocolate. That is, until her mother fell ill and left Gillian when she was eleven. After that, snowman-making was rare, and her life turned into avoiding her father and spending time with the servants.

The sound of boots on the hardwood floor brought her back to her new home. She saw the same quandary play out on Rhys’ face regarding where to sit. In the end, he sank down next to her on the sofa and handed her a mug of hot chocolate.

“Merry Christmas.” She lifted her mug in a toast.

He returned the gesture. “Merry Christmas.”

They sat before the fire, drinking their chocolate and watching the snowfall for a time before he spoke. “Sorry, I don’t have any decorations up.”

“That’s fine. It saves us having to take them down.”

His head bobbed in a slow nod. Taking her mug, he set both on an end table. “It’s hard to get out here, Gillian. I want you to know, you won’t have many visitors. Alice Ambrose will be about it, and she can only make it at rare times. I’ll try to get you to the village when I can, but in the winter…”

He stopped when she placed her hand over his. “I’m not much for entertaining, Rhys. And I’ll have you. I’d like to help you with the light…with the house…with whatever you need.”

He turned his hand so hers rested in his palm, and he closed his large, calloused hand around hers. “Are you sure? Are you really sure this is the life you want?”

She held his gaze. “Yes, I’m very sure. I think love can grow between us. I think we can have a good life here.”

“You’re a strange sort of woman, Gillian Chermont. You’ve known me only hours, and we’ve shared two kisses and fewer conversations, yet you speak of love between us.”

“I like my name attached to yours, and yes, I think if we give each other a chance, love will grow.”

He leaned forward, and Gillian met him halfway, her lips parted in anticipation. When his mouth took hers, he instantly deepened the kiss. He tasted of chocolate, the salt of ocean spray, and outdoors. Gillian wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed closer. She opened her eyes to find him watching her respond to his kiss.

Rhys broke the kiss, but she gasped when he gave her bottom lip a small nip. He moved his mouth to her neck, and Gillian angled her head to give him better access as he trailed opened-mouthed kisses along the curve of her neck. She raked her nails over the back of his neck at the pleasure shooting through her as his rough beard marked her tender flesh.

His moan blended with hers, and Gillian felt the pull and desire for more. She felt her forehead wrinkle in frustration that he wasn’t close enough, and a slow burn simmered low in her belly. His hands smoothing over her curves should have shocked her; instead, they fueled her need.

He lifted his head and moved his hands to her hair, releasing the up-do she’d fashioned in haste at Ida’s. Her hair cascaded thick and heavy over her shoulders and down her back.

His eyes were no longer icy, and blue flames danced as he picked up a lock of hair and smoothed it between two fingers. “Beautiful.”

Gillian moved her hands from around his neck and smoothed them over his face and down to the solid wall of muscle of his chest. He’d taken off the heavy peacoat and sweater, and through the flannel of his shirt and his undershirt, she could feel his heartbeat. Then she did what she’d wanted to do earlier and combed her fingers through the thick, red waves of his hair.

“Are you sure, Gillian? Once we do this…”

She cut him off, pressing her lips to his for another kiss before leaning just a breath away. “I want this…I want you.”

Taking her hand in his, he rose, bringing her up with him. He turned on his heel and led her up the stairs. Gillian glanced at her bag and almost stopped him so they could bring it upstairs. He glanced over his shoulder, and Gillian’s breath caught. No, she wouldn’t need her nightgown this night; of that she was sure.

‡