Lindsay Armstrong: From Waif To His Wife

‘But-but…’

He scanned her delicate figure beneath an emerald-green bra patterned with pink frangipanis and matching bikini briefs, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Very fetching, Maisie, but believe me, you’re not my type so you’re quite safe. Up you get!’

He pulled her to her feet as a wave of telltale colour mounted in her cheeks, and picked her up to carry her downstairs.

‘Right, into the shower, we’ve got plenty of hot water, so don’t stint until you feel warm right through,’ he ordered and set her on her feet as he opened the bathroom door.

‘But I’ve got no clothes!’

‘I’ll find you some. Just do as you’re told.’

The hot water was wonderful but she finally stepped out and wrapped her slim body in a towel and wrapped another, smaller one round her head. Then she realised that the boat was underway again and wondered in which direction he was going-Manly or Peel?

There was a rap on the door.

‘Yes?’ she called.

‘Go through the other door,’ Rafe Sanderson instructed. ‘It leads into the aft berth and you’ll find some clothes on the bed. Don’t take too long-once I’ve got the anchor down I’ll be making a warm drink for you.’

‘Yes, sir; no, sir; three bags full,’ Maisie murmured beneath her breath, but she did as she was told.

The aft berth had a walk-around double bed with a toffee and peppermint quilted silk coverlet. Her feet sank into deep toffee-coloured carpet, and the fittings were again New Guinea rosewood with brass handles.

She dropped the towel and looked down at herself. She was about three and a half months pregnant but if anything she’d lost a bit of weight. She put that down to stress and the fact that she’d gone through a period of morning sickness-only at night, thankfully, so it hadn’t affected her job-but it had quite put her off food.

Fortunately, that phase had mostly gone quite recently, although she still got the odd twinge. It was also fortunate it had passed because feeling physically dreadful a lot of the time, on top of feeling mentally traumatised, had seen her dither around unable to do anything or make any decisions.

But the only difference so far she could see in her body, apart from the bit of weight she’d lost, was her breasts. Her nipples were darker and more sensitive.

She turned her attention to the pile of clothes on the bed. They were a shade too big for her but she couldn’t quibble about their quality.

She pulled on coffee silk and lace knickers that looked to be brand-new. There was a matching bra but it was too big for her, so she chose a cream singlet with a prim satin bow. Then she put on a pair of green track pants and finally a gloriously snug cream-coloured cable-knit sweater.

It definitely wasn’t new, although it was perfectly clean, but a subtle perfume lingered on the wool.

Whose clothes were these she wondered.

There were no shoes but a pair of socks.

Finally, she looked at herself in the fitted dressing-table mirror. Her irrepressible hair was already starting to curl riotously but since she had nothing to tie it back with she could only comb her fingers through it. But it was the expression in her eyes that really startled her.

She looked somewhat shell-shocked, she decided. But who wouldn’t after diving overboard and having to be rescued? Or was it something to do with being kissed then being dismissed into a “not my type” category?

Of course I’m not his type, she thought immediately. Apart from anything else I’m pregnant by another man. But how did he make me feel so safe and…?

He did save me, she reminded herself as her cheeks started to warm.

Then she heard the different pitch of the motor, indicating slower revs then neutral, and the anchor chain rattled out. She looked out of the porthole to recognise the curved white beach of Horseshoe Bay on Peel Island, and bit her lip.

A few minutes later, as she was trying to work out how to deal with this development, he called out that coffee was ready.

‘How do you feel?’ he enquired as they sat opposite each other in the dining section.

This time there was proper, steaming coffee poured from a stainless-steel pot, and there was a dash of brandy in it.

‘I…Fine,’ she answered. ‘A lot warmer. Uh-thanks for the clothes.’

‘They belong to my sister, Sonia, who comes sailing with me from time to time-in case you’re wondering,’ he said with a dry little look.

‘I…’ Maisie glanced away awkwardly then decided not to pursue the matter.

‘Hmm…Well, you’ve got a bit of colour back in your cheeks. Are you really pregnant?’ he said then.

She blinked. ‘Why?’

‘Because if you are you should curb your apparently natural instincts towards outrageous deeds-like diving off boats and battling the tide,’ he added laconically.

Maisie’s hands flew protectively to her stomach. ‘I didn’t stop to think,’ she breathed. ‘But the doctor did tell me there was no need to cosset myself.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘His version of cosset could differ from yours. However, that seems to answer both my questions.’

‘Both?’

‘Yes. Not only are you pregnant, but you also don’t like the thought of losing the baby.’ His eyes searched hers.

‘No, I don’t.’ Maisie sipped her coffee and tried to find the words to explain.

Because out of the blue, amidst the shock and growing horror of finding herself pregnant and abandoned, the thought had dropped into her mind that she would not be alone in the world now.

She’d examined it carefully from all angles, but none of the obstacles, and her life was going to be strewn with them because of this baby, could douse that thought and it had grown stronger…

‘I-I-would have someone , you see,’ she said at last.

He said nothing but she felt as if that steady grey gaze was probing right through to her soul. Then, ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’

He grimaced. ‘So are you hoping for some kind of a settlement from this-this man?’

‘No.’ She tilted her chin. ‘If he doesn’t want anything more to do with me, I certainly don’t want his charity. But if he has no good reason other than he’s a-a cad and a bounder,’ sudden tears shone in her eyes, ‘who goes around preying on girls, I want to be able to tell him he’s a-he’s a-’

‘An utter bastard?’ he supplied.

She nodded then moved her hands expressively. ‘Not only that. I need, even if he doesn’t want anything to do with us, him to agree to having his name on the baby’s birth certificate. I feel I owe the baby nothing less-to at least know who its father is-wouldn’t you?’

He didn’t comment on that directly. He said instead, ‘You’ve obviously given it a lot of thought.’

‘I’ve had several increasingly miserable months to think of nothing else.’ She wiped her eyes impatiently at the same time as she added an admonition to herself in an undertone, ‘No more tears, Maisie!’

Then she was struck by another thought. ‘But now I haven’t even got a name-unless there is another man with the same name out there!’

Rafe Sanderson watched her and thought his own thoughts. Was she a superb actress he wondered.

Had she hit on an original twist for an old and sorry story? Such as finding herself pregnant and abandoned and deciding to make the best of it? Such as picking his name at random, well, from amongst the suitably well heeled, and concocting a likely tale along the lines of- he said he was you and I really believed him .

His eyes narrowed as he followed the thought. It would have taken a bit of planning. First of all, she’d have had to come up with an uncommon name-she’d probably have had to check that out in Queensland at least-and his did fit the bill. But if so, and the rest of it was a pack of lies, what had she been hoping for?