Deborah Hale - The Bonny Bride

In dreams nurtured by Scott’s epic romances, Harris had often imagined how sweet it might be to have a woman look at him tenderly, speak to him lovingly. When instead the lassies drew back in fright—or worse, pity—it hurt him. Out of his pain and anger he spoke coldly, or sharply.

That only made matters worse. He’d be much better off living in a place with as few women as possible, and those few safely married to other men. New Brunswick, a northern frontier colony across the Atlantic, would fill the bill perfectly. Without the distraction of pretty girls to fuel his hopeless fantasies, he could channel his abilities into the quest to make something of himself.

Harris felt his brows draw together and his face harden into a stern, intractable mask. Jenny Lennox appeared to sense his antagonism. Staring deep into his eyes, she willed him to look at her, to hear her out, and to grant whatever she might ask.

“It’s like this, Mr. Chisholm—I’m going to Miramichi, New Brunswick, on the St. Bride, same as ye are. Have ye heard I’m to wed Roderick Douglas?”

Refusing to let her draw him into a two-way conversation, Harris gave a stony nod.

“I meant to travel with the Lowell Walkers. Now I hear tell Mr. Walker has suffered an accident and they won’t be sailing with us after all. My father will never let me board that boat if I don’t have somebody he trusts to look out for me. There’re no other women passengers on the St. Bride and ye’re the only man aboard I’ve any acquaintance with. I need ye to promise my pa ye’ll see me safe to Miramichi.”

She paused to gulp down a breath. Harris detected a slight tremor in the ribbons of her bonnet.

“I…” The word came out in an adolescent squeak. Clearing his throat, Harris tried again, consciously modulating his voice to its accustomed deep baritone register. “It wouldn’t be fitting.”

Privately he bristled at the insult. What was he—some eunuch to be entrusted with protecting a woman from the lascivious attentions of the real men on board the St. Bride? Because Miss Lennox wanted as little as possible to do with him didn’t make him immune to her charms.

“Why not just wait and take a later boat?”

“Because…” A husky note in her voice portended tears.

Harris wanted to throw back his head and howl with vexation. As if women hadn’t enough other advantages in the age-old struggle between the sexes! The creatures could dissolve into tears at the drop of a hat, reducing a man to quivering mush.

“Because I’ve paid my passage money already,” she said. “I don’t expect the agent will want to hand it back again, just because Pa objects to my traveling alone.”

“Surely yer…intended, Mr. Douglas, can spare a few coins more for another passage.” A somewhat less positive note crept into Harris’s voice.

“Even if he would pay again, by the time I send word, I’ll have lost three months. I ken Mr. Douglas would like to wed soon. It’ll be less trouble to find himself another lass.”

Harris stood there grim and silent. Roderick Douglas would be a fool not to wait for a rare bride like this one.

“So that’s how it stands, Mr. Chisholm.” She summed up her case. “Either I sail on the St. Bride today, to be the wife of a rich man, or I go off to London to be a scullery maid in some rich man’s kitchen.”

Having uttered so dire an ultimatum, her lips unexpectedly twitched into a teasing grin. “Did ye ever fancy yerself as a fairy godfather?”

Part of Harris wanted very much to oblige her, but another part protested. Jenny Lennox embodied everything he hoped to flee. It made no sense to take him with her. “Well…”

Perhaps sensing his indecision, she brought all her powers of persuasion to bear. “Roderick Douglas is a man of influence in Miramichi. I expect he’ll be grateful to ye for helping me out. Whatever ye want—money, a job…anything. Ye’ll have only to ask and I swear I’ll do all in my power to grant it.”

She cast him a look of desperate sincerity, as though making a pact with the devil. Stung by the implied comparison, Harris opened his mouth to refuse once and for all. Then Jenny Lennox reached out and took his hand.

“Please?”

Her touch was so soft and warm. Harris could not find it in his heart to deny Roderick Douglas the chance to feel it. Perhaps he’d follow Douglas’s lead, Harris thought—make his fortune in the colonies, then send home for a bride.

“Aye. I’ll do it,” he agreed at last, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll see ye safe to Miramichi.”

Jenny swayed slightly on her feet. For a moment Harris feared she might faint from surprise and relief. He gripped her hand to steady her. Returning his firm hold, she pumped his hand in a vigorous shake to seal their agreement.

“It’s a bargain, then. I swear I’ll be no bother to ye.”

For an instant Harris did fancy the role of fairy godfather. How often in a lifetime was one given the power to grant another person’s dearest wish? There was something rather edifying about the prospect.

“If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never be able to thank ye enough.” With those words, she lavished upon Harris a smile of such sweet esteem that he felt entirely repaid for whatever the undertaking might cost him.

The St. Bride eased out of Kirkcudbright Bay on the ebbing tide. Her passengers clustered at the taffrail to catch a final glimpse of the homeland they never expected to see again. Acutely aware of being the only woman on board, Jenny stood apart from the male passengers. She waved her handkerchief in a last farewell to her father and Kirstie.

The barque’s timbers creaked. Pulleys squealed as sailors adjusted the rigging. When the wind began to fill them, the sails flapped like giant sheets on a clothesline. Above all these noises rose the deep voice of the first mate. He bellowed instructions to his crew for the disposition of various booms, spars and sails. Several inexperienced sailors looked as puzzled as Jenny by this nautical cant. Others might have understood the orders, but appeared too overcome with the aftereffects of drink to accomplish much.

Remembering the bold, speculative stares that had greeted her arrival on the St. Bride, Jenny suddenly appreciated her father’s concern for her safety. Aware of the substantial presence of Harris Chisholm looming protectively behind her, she moved closer to him. God bless his perpetual scowl and the facial scars that gave him such an air of danger. With her fierce-looking escort, Jenny knew she was safe from anything worse than a few impudent stares.

After the barque rounded Little Ross, most of the passengers abandoned the top deck to the fresh winds off Solway Firth. Harris and Jenny lingered at the taffrail after the others had gone below decks.

“Are ye wishing ye’d waited for another boat, after all?” Harris squinted in the direction of the western horizon.

The question came a little too close to reading her mind for Jenny’s comfort. She replied with more conviction than she felt. “That was not an option, if ye’ll recall. I’m glad to be on my way to New Brunswick, and I thank ye again for making that possible. I trust ye’ll be able to look out for me.”

Her words made Harris abruptly aware of the grave responsibility he’d undertaken. “I want to make certain we’re clear on terms,” he growled. “Ye’ll not leave yer cabin for any reason unless I’m with ye. Ye’re not to let anyone in. Is that understood?”

Jenny nodded readily.

“Good.” He headed for the companionway that led to the lower decks. “We ought to find our cabins, settle in and get a bite of supper. I don’t like the looks of that sky. Unless I miss my guess, we’re in for heavy weather before we clear Ireland.”