The Pregnant Bride. Catherine Spencer
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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