The Pregnant Bride (2 page)

Was that what had made Mark change his mind at the last minute? Had he felt he was nothing more than a cash cow, even though Jenna would have loved him just as dearly if he’d been dirt-poor?

The breeze picked up, tugging at the formal hairdo her stylist had created just that morning. Hugging her arms against the chill, Jenna swung back to the stranger. “I left a note at my parents’ house telling them I’d be away for a few days and not to worry about me. Satisfied?”

“I guess,” he said, “but I still don’t see why you’d want to cut yourself off from them.” He inclined his head toward The Inn perched majestically on the rocks to their right. “Or why you’d want to hole up in a place designed for couples and lovers. Seems to me that’s just rubbing salt in the wounds.”

He subjected her to another penetrating stare and she felt color stealing into her cheeks. “Oh, brother, let me guess!” he exclaimed, enlightenment dawning. “You were supposed to honeymoon here, right?”

“At least I knew I’d have a room reserved,” she said defensively. “The bridal suite, in fact, complete with champagne on ice and flowers by the bucketful.”

He circled her as if she were some rare species of sea life accidentally washed ashore. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

She stared at her feet, feeling more foolish by the minute. “At least it’s the last place anyone would think to come looking for me.”

He laughed then, a rich warm rumble of amusement borne away on the breeze. “You’re going to be okay, you know that?” he said, tipping up her chin with his finger and smiling down at her. “Any woman with the guts to face her demons in the one place she’d expected to find true love is a real survivor. What say we head back to The Inn and I buy us both a drink to celebrate?”

Well, why not? The only thing waiting for her in the suite was a bed big enough for two and no one to share it with. “All right,” she said. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

“Yeah,” he said, tucking her hand under his arm and towing her back the way they’d come. “But keep it under your hat, okay? I don’t want the word to get out.”

His name was Edmund Delaney and she found herself enjoying his company more than she’d have thought possible an hour before. He was an entertaining host, articulate, amusing, and unquestionably the most attractive man in the room. She sat by the fire and sipped the cognac he ordered and, for a little while, she was able to push the fiasco of her wedding day to the back of her mind. Eventually, though, the evening came to an end.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he offered and because she dreaded being alone, she accepted.

Taller than Mark, broader across the shoulders, and more powerfully built, he loped up the stairs with the graceful ease of an athlete at the peak of fitness. “Give me your key,” he said, when they arrived at her door, and as she handed it over, she noticed his hands were lean and tanned and capable, and just a little callused as if he worked with tools. Mark had a manicure every week and wouldn’t have known one end of a hammer from the other.

“Here you are.” Edmund pushed open her door, dropped the keys into her palm and folded her fingers over them.

If he’d said, “Sleep well,” she’d probably have managed to end the evening with a modicum of dignity, but his more sensitive “Try to get some sleep,” had the tears burning behind her eyes all over again.

Mutely, she looked up at him.

His fingers grazing her cheek were gentle. “I know,” he murmured. “It isn’t going to be easy.”

He left her then and she knew a shocking urge to call him back and beg him not to make her face the night alone. It wasn’t that she wanted him to make love to her or anything like that; she just needed the warmth of human contact, the feeling that someone in the world cared—not that a two-thousand-dollar wedding dress had gone to waste, or that four hundred guests had been cheated of a seven-course dinner, but that
she
somehow survive the crushing blow to her self-esteem and live to face another day.

Not until his footsteps had faded into silence did she venture into the room. A fire burned in the hearth and beyond the wide windows a half-moon floated over the ocean. The maid had turned down the bed on both sides and left foil-wrapped chocolates on each pillow. Hadn’t she noticed there was only one set of luggage, only one toothbrush in the bathroom?

Unable to face the bed, Jenna sank down on the rug before the fire and because there was no longer any ignoring them, let the ghastly events of the day wash over her.

It had begun well enough, with sunshine and clear skies. There’d been no hint of impending disaster as she’d ridden with her father to the church, no sense of something amiss as her bridesmaids fussed with her veil and whispered that the groom and his family had not yet arrived. Mark and his father were often late, held up by international phone calls and such. “That’s the price of doing business,” Mark had said, when she’d once had the temerity to complain. “Money before pleasure any day of the week.”

Including their wedding day, it had seemed!

“They’ve taken a wrong turn and got lost,” her father joked. “Or been stopped for speeding.”

But as the minutes stretched and still no groom, the smiles had shrunk and the speculation had begun, rippling over the congregation like wind over a cornfield. Finally, “I have another wedding in half an hour,” the minister had said, coming out to where she waited in her wedding finery. “I’m afraid that unless Mr. Armstrong and his party arrive in the next few minutes, we’ll have to reschedule your ceremony for another time.”

By then, though, a dull certainty had taken hold and Jenna knew that Mark wasn’t going to arrive, not in the next few minutes and not ever. Instead, Paul King, his best man, had shown up, red-faced and apologetic.

“So sorry, Jenna,” he’d stammered, handing her an envelope. “Wish I didn’t have to be the one to bring you this. Wish there could have been a happier ending….”

The letter was brief and full of empty excuses aimed at softening the blow of rejection.
…afraid I won’t make you happy…can’t give you what you want…you deserve better, dear Jenna…a wonderful woman who’ll make some lucky man a wonderful wife…forgive me…some day you’ll thank me…this hurts me as much as I know it will hurt you….

“What does it say?” her mother had asked in a horrified whisper, and when she hadn’t replied, had snatched the paper out of Jenna’s hand, read it for herself, and let out a squawk of outrage. “He can’t do this!” she’d cried. “We’ve got sixty pounds of smoked salmon waiting at the club! Your father had to extend his line of credit at the bank to finance this wedding!”

The bad news had spread quickly, rolling through the church like an anthem. Heads had turned, necks craned, feet shuffled. And throughout it all, Jenna had stood at the door, bouquet dangling from one limp hand, wedding veil floating in the May breeze, silk gown whispering around her ankles and a great empty hole where her heart had been.

What was the correct protocol for a bride left waiting at the altar? Throwing herself off the nearest bridge hadn’t appealed although, when she first read the letter, she had, briefly, wished the floor would open up and swallow her. But what her mother referred to as her “infernal pride” had come to her rescue. Somehow, from somewhere, she’d manufactured a kind of frozen calm to get herself through the ordeal suddenly confronting her.

Hooking her train over her arm, she made her way back to where the limousines waited and climbed into the one which had brought her to the church and had her honeymoon luggage stowed in the trunk. “There will be no wedding,” she informed the startled driver as he raced to close the door for her, and directed him to her apartment.

While he transferred her suitcases to her car, she’d changed into the first clothes she laid hands on, scribbled a note for her parents and given it to him to deliver, and within twenty minutes was speeding down the highway to the ferry terminal. What was supposed to have been the happiest day of her life had turned into a nightmare of titan proportion, witnessed by half the social elite in the province and another hundred from out of town, and she had known only that she had to escape, quickly, before the blessed numbness passed and the pain took hold.

She’d managed pretty well—or so she’d thought. Bolstered by a confidence which in reality was nothing more than a continuation of the daze which had steered her through the hours since her aborted wedding, she’d ignored the voice of caution and decided to brave The Inn’s dining room. Why should she hide away in her suite? She’d done nothing to be ashamed of!

But confronting the other diners had proved more of an ordeal than she’d expected. If she’d worn a sign plastered to her forehead, declaring her Abandoned Bride of the Year, she couldn’t have felt more exposed or vulnerable.

She owed Edmund Delaney a huge debt of gratitude….

As if they had a will of their own, her eyes swung from their contemplation of the flames in the hearth to the telephone on the little occasional table beside the fireplace.

Should she call him? Invite him to lunch, perhaps, as thanks for his having saved her from making an even bigger fool of herself at dinner?

Not a smart move, Jenna,
her cautious conscience scolded.
Chasing after a man you hardly know, only hours after you were jilted by the man you planned to marry, smacks more of desperation to find a replacement than gratitude!

True enough! So why was she lifting the receiver, why requesting that a call be put through to the room of one Edmund Delaney? And why, having gone that far, did she stare in horrified fascination at the telephone when he picked up on the second ring, then immediately hang up and flee to the bathroom as if he were in hot pursuit?

There was a phone in there, too. It rang before she had the door closed. “We must have been cut off,” Edmund Delaney said, when she finally found the courage to answer. “Good thing it was an in-house call and the front desk was able to reconnect us. What can I do for you?”

“…U
M
…”
SHE
muttered. “Er…who is this? That is, I…um…”

Duplicity didn’t come naturally to her and he clearly recognized an amateur when he heard one. Cutting short her bumbling reply, he said curtly, “It’s Edmund Delaney, Jenna. And you just phoned me, right?”

“Yes,” she admitted faintly, wishing for the second time in a day that seemed doomed never to end, that she could disappear off the face of the earth and spare everyone further grief. “I wanted to make sure I’d…thanked you. Properly, that is. For coming to my rescue at dinner.”

He sounded as if he might be having a hard time choking back a laugh when he replied, and she could scarcely blame him. Her pitiful attempt at subterfuge was as transparent as glass. “You thanked me,” he said. “And you were very proper.”

“But just saying the words doesn’t seem enough. I feel you deserve more than that.”

Dear heaven, woman, rephrase that quickly before he decides you’re making a play for him and offering more than you’re prepared to give!

“Wh…what I mean is, may I buy you breakfast in the morning? As a token of my gratitude, you understand? Say about nine, in the main dining room?”

“Afraid not,” he said cheerfully. “I won’t be here.”

Either it was just one rejection too many, or else she was courting insanity to be so crushed by his answer. Clearing her throat to dislodge the great lump of disappointment threatening to strangle her, she aimed for nonchalance. “Oh, that’s too bad. Then I guess we won’t see each other again.”

“I’ve chartered a boat to take me fishing at dawn and don’t expect to be back much before noon.”

The rush of relief she experienced at that piece of news was almost as disconcerting as hearing herself suggest, with an eagerness which could only be described as pathetic, “What about lunch, then?”

“I have a better idea,” he said, after a small, contemplative pause. “Why don’t you come fishing with me? There’s nothing like reeling in a fighting salmon to take your mind off your other troubles.”

He was being kind. Again. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I don’t know the first thing about fishing.”

“Only one way to learn,” he said. “I’ll be leaving here about five-thirty. Meet me in the lobby downstairs if you change your mind.”

Well, it was out of the question. For a start, all she’d brought with her was her honeymoon luggage and it didn’t include hip waders and oilskins, or whatever it was that fishing persons wore. Furthermore, she’d be lousy company and he’d already put up with enough of that. He didn’t need the aggravation of wondering if the weepy woman hanging over the side of the boat was planning to end it all by diving headfirst into the saltchuck.

But when, after a night of fitful sleep, she found herself wide-awake at five the next morning, with the beginning of another beautiful day hovering on the horizon, watching the sunrise with Edmund Delaney didn’t seem such a bad idea after all.

Because she and Mark had planned to walk on the beach, she
did
have a pair of jeans in her suitcase, and a lightweight jacket and a pair of rubber-soled shoes. The day stretched before her, depressingly empty. And there was nothing more enervating or unattractive than a woman so steeped in self-pity that even
she
was getting tired of herself. So why not take Edmund up on his offer?

She found him leaning against the front desk, thumbing through a map of the area. Dressed in jeans also, with a heavy cream sweater over a navy turtleneck and his dark hair still damp from the shower, he was an undeniably handsome sight. But it was his aura of confidence and strength that brought to her mind the shocking thought that
he’d
never take the easy way out by appointing someone else to do his dirty work, the way Mark had.

Edmund Delaney was made of sterner stuff.

“Well, what do you know!” he said, his smile touching the cold recesses of her heart with surprising warmth. “Looks as if I’m going to have company, after all.”

He drove a dark green Lincoln Navigator, a big and powerful vehicle to match the man who owned it. It smelled of leather and a pleasant hint of the Douglas firs which grew in such profusion along the coast.

Settling himself behind the wheel, Edmund fired up the engine and slewed a glance her way. “Ready to catch some fish?”

“Willing to try, at any rate.”

His grin was startlingly white in the faint glow of early morning. “Good woman!”

Mark favored a Porsche so sleek and low-slung that, most of the time, the view from the windshield was largely blocked by the rear end of the car in front. In Edmund’s vehicle, she was perched up high enough that, if there’d been any other traffic on the road at that hour, she’d have been able to see clear over it to the fishing village nestled at the foot of a steep hill three miles away.

Except for those times when he tuned in to a news station to keep track of the stock market, Mark preferred to listen to classical music. Edmund plugged in a
Best Of Rock ’n’ Roll
CD and throughout the journey, thumped the rim of the steering wheel in time to the manic din of Jerry Lee Lewis belting out “Great Balls of Fire.”

She was out of her element. She was with a man who could be a serial rapist for all she knew about him. She was planning to spend the day at sea with him. No one knew where she was. No one would miss her—at least not for at least a week, by which time she could be fish food. Her situation had all the makings of a TV murder mystery.

At the very least, she should have been nervous. Instead, she felt safe and warm. Removed from the familiar world and the cares it had thrust at her.

She knew the reprieve was temporary, that ultimately, she’d have to go back and start to put her life together again. But for now, being able to focus on something new and different was enough to let the healing of old wounds begin. And that, surely, was a gift she couldn’t afford to turn down.

By the time the Navigator rolled to a stop on the fishing dock, the sky had lightened to a pale aquamarine which reflected coldly off the quiet waters of the harbor. Slinging a canvas bag over one shoulder, Edmund took Jenna’s hand and guided her down the ramp toward a fleet of boats bobbing gently on the tide.

“The twenty-four-foot Bayliner on the end is ours and it comes complete with breakfast. If we hustle, we could be out on open water in time to see the sun come up over the mountains.”

Not in her wildest dreams had she expected she’d truly enjoy herself. She’d viewed the excursion as just another way to distract herself from dwelling on the shambles of her wedding day. But the peace and beauty of the setting worked an amazing magic.

Although the air was chilly, the sky was blue, the waves a gentle rolling motion beneath the boat, and the coffee and freshly baked sweet rolls which Hank the skipper served for breakfast, pure heaven.

“You doing okay?” Edmund asked, as they motored out to a point about five miles north of the village. “Not feeling queasy or anything?”

She shook her head. “I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in weeks. The days leading up to the wedding were hectic, what with the various parties and showers.” Cradling her coffee mug in her hands, she leaned against the bulkhead, closed her eyes, and lifted her face to the sun. “In fact, I’m so comfortable I could easily fall asleep.”

She hadn’t intended acting on the words, especially not so promptly, but when she next became aware of her surroundings, the boat rocked at anchor, her head was cushioned by a life jacket, a blanket covered her from the waist down, the sun was riding high above the mountains, her watch showed a quarter to nine—and she needed a washroom in the worst way.

Above her on a sort of raised deck, the men were chatting idly. Hank sat in a swivel chair which allowed him to keep an eye on the fishing poles angled in brackets attached to either side of the back of the boat. Edmund lounged against the instrument panel. Trying to be inconspicuous, Jenna slithered off the bench and down the laddered steps to the cabin, trailing the blanket behind her.

Below, she found a table flanked by two upholstered benches, a sloping desk covered with navigation charts, a kitchen of sorts—and, praise the Lord, a washroom! Heaving a sigh of relief, she made a beeline for the latter.

She returned on deck to a scene of high excitement. Edmund hauled on one of the lines while Hank hung over the side of the boat with a net in his hand, all the while bellowing, “Keep the tip up! Keep reeling him in!”

She saw a flash of silver a few yards off, a thrashing just below the surface of the water, and shortly after, Hank scooped a salmon into the net and brought it on board.

Jumping down to where she stood, Edmund seized her around the waist and practically hoisted her off her feet. “Would you look at that beauty!” he gloated. “A coho, and sixteen pounds at least!”

Personally, the closest she ever came to any kind of salmon was after it had been nicely filleted, perfectly grilled, and served on a plate with a lemon and parsley garnish. Although she found it delicious, it certainly never stirred her to the kind of exuberant delight infecting Edmund. But she hadn’t the heart to tell him so. Staggering a little as he released her, she said instead, “You’re right, it’s beautiful! Now what do you do with it?”

“Club it over the head and put it out of its misery,” Hank informed her laconically. She must have blanched at the image he brought to mind, because he went on, “Might be best if you went back below deck and scrambled up a dozen eggs while we take care of business.”

Edmund nodded agreement. “Go,” he said. “You don’t need to see this and it’s been a long time since we had fresh coffee. You know how to use a propane stove, or do you want me to light it for you?”

“I can manage,” she said, unable to drag her gaze away from the fish still flopping around on the deck, and mortified to find her eyes suddenly filling with tears. Poor thing! Just moments before it had been wild and free; now it had to die to satisfy the primeval hunting instincts in a couple of otherwise civilized men.

Noticing her distress, Edmund said quietly, “You want me to toss it back overboard, sweet pea?”

“No,” she said, dashing away the tears. “From the looks of it, it would probably die anyway.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

“You must think I’m an absolute fool to get so overwrought about a mere fish.”

His blue eyes darkened and his voice was almost tender when he replied, “I don’t think any such thing. Go crack some eggs in a bowl and find a frying pan. And if you need help with the stove, just give a shout.”

She found butter, eggs and mushrooms in the cooler, more rolls in a bag on the tiny counter, coffee in a jar by the sink, and a cast iron frying pan in the oven.

When Edmund swung down into the cabin fifteen minutes later, she’d buttered half a dozen rolls and had a huge mushroom omelet sizzling in the pan.

“Came to lend a hand,” he said, “but I can see I’m not needed.”

“Not in the kitchen, at least.”

He ducked his head until his eyes were on a level with hers. “On a boat, it’s called a galley, Jenna.”

Kitchen, galley—call it what he liked, it wasn’t designed for two, especially not when one of the occupants stood over six feet and weighed close to a hundred and ninety pounds. No matter how careful she was, every time she moved, whether it was to turn the omelet or pour boiling water over the coffee grounds, one part of her or another brushed against him.

She could detect the faint smell of soap on his skin, feel the warmth of his breath in her hair, the heat of his body at her back. The experience left her oddly short of breath.

“You want to eat outside?” she practically wheezed.

“You bet. Got to keep an eye out to make sure the fishing lines stay clear.”

She stuffed the rolls into a basket, plunked three coffee mugs on top and shoved the lot into his hands. “Then make yourself useful and take all this on deck while I finish the eggs.”

“Sure. And don’t even think about trying to climb into the cockpit with that coffeepot. I’ll bring it up.”

I pay other people to take care of things like that,
Mark had informed her, the one time she’d made the mistake of asking him to help clear away the dishes after she’d made dinner for him at her apartment.
Once we’re married, you won’t have to lift a finger. We’ll have an entire staff to look after the cooking and housekeeping.

But I like cooking,
she’d protested.
And I like being in charge of my own kitchen.

There’s a difference between being in charge and taking on the role of household drudge. Armstrong wives don’t appear in public with dishpan hands.

Lithe and agile, Edmund swung down into the cabin and closed in on her again. “How much longer before those eggs are ready, woman?” he said, eyeing the frying pan devoutly. “The smells floating up top have driven us to drink. Hank’s lacing the coffee with rum.”

“They’re done,” she said, dividing the omelet into three unequal parts and sliding the two larger portions onto plates. “These are for you and Hank and I’ll be right behind you with mine.”

When he’d gone, she fanned her face with a dish towel and decided there was a lot of truth to the old saying about getting out of the kitchen if a person couldn’t take the heat. She definitely couldn’t take the kind of heat Edmund Delaney generated!

His head reappeared in the open hatch. “Want me to bring up anything else?”

What she wanted was a few minutes in which to collect herself, because try as she might, she found herself constantly comparing him to Mark and finding her former fiancé coming up short. How could that be when Mark was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? The possible answers were too disturbing to contemplate.

“Good grub,” Hank announced, when she came up on deck. “You ever want a job, you’ve got one. Tourist season’s just around the corner and I could use a cook like you.”