The Bonny Bride. Deborah Hale
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“I promised yer father I’d see ye safe to Miramichi.”
Fumbling in his coat pocket, he produced a small flask. Supporting Jenny’s shoulders with one arm, he held it to her lips. “Take a sip of this. If ye can keep a bit of it down, it’ll help ye sleep. I ken that’s as much as we can do for ye tonight—let ye sleep until the storm’s past.”
She sat bolt upright, spitting a fine spray of whisky into his face. “What is that stuff? It tastes foul!”
“Fouler than what’s in yer mouth already?” Harris growled, mopping his face with the handkerchief. “For yer information, this is the finest single malt whisky—good for a variety of medicinal purposes, including the treatment of seasickness. Now drink it!”
Reluctantly she obliged. Harris could almost hear her grimace at the taste of the liquor.
“Lie back, and let that settle a minute before we try another drop.”
“I’ll never keep it down. It’s burning all the way!”
“Aye,” he replied dryly. “It’ll light a fire in yer belly, too. Now, while we’re waiting for the whisky to do its work, ye need something to keep yer mind off how miserable ye feel. If ye’d let me light the lantern again, I brought a book I could read to ye.”
“What’s the book?” she asked.
Harris thought he heard a note of longing in her voice.
“One of my favorites—Walter Scott’s Rob Roy.”
“Oh.”
Never had he heard so wistful a sound as that brief word.
“It’s no use,” Jenny said finally. “I couldn’t bear the light. Rob Roy—it sounds a brave story. What’s it about?”
“Take another drink of the whisky first.”
She submitted with a sigh of resignation. Though she gasped as the whisky went down, she did not spew it back up again. Harris took it as a sign his prescription was working after all.
Hunching forward, he brought his mouth close to Jenny’s ear so he would not have to shout above the storm. Harris began to relate the story of Frank Osbaldistone and his adventures with the outlawed Rob Roy McGregor. Now and then, he lapsed into Scott’s dramatic prose, reciting whole passages from memory. At regular intervals, he paused to prop Jenny up and administer another dose of whisky.
“Feel any better?” he asked after an hour had passed without further bouts of vomiting.
“I feel queer,” she replied in a thick, drowsy voice, “but not so bad as before.”
“I’ll go away and let ye sleep then.”
She groped for his hand. “Stay. Yer story keeps my mind off my stomach. It must be grand to be able to read books like that.”
“I’d be happy to lend ye anything I have,” Harris offered. “I expect ye haven’t had much money for books.”
Sinking back on her pillow, Jenny gave an oddly bitter laugh. “No money. No time. No learning.” She sniffled. “I fear I’ll be a right disappointment to Roderick Douglas—an ignorant farm girl who can’t read a word or write her ain name.” Her words trailed off into quiet sobs.
That would be the whisky at work, Harris decided. It often had the unfortunate side effect of making the drinker wax maudlin.
“There, there.” He wiped her face with his handkerchief. “Wist, now. Ye’ll upset yerself and end up sick to yer stomach again. It’s a daft chap who’d complain of a bonny bride like ye, Jenny Lennox.”
“What are ye doing here anyway, Harris Chisholm?” She pushed his handkerchief away. “I ken ye reckon I’m stupid and common. I’ve seen ye look down yer long nose at me often enough. Go ’way, now. I don’t need yer drink, nor yer stories, nor yer pity, neither.”
Harris could hear her moving about in the narrow berth—turning her back on him, most likely. For a moment he sat, not knowing what to say or do. He’d always thought of pretty girls as heartless, impervious creatures. It had never occurred to him that they might have easily bruised feelings or entertain the same kinds of self-doubt that plagued him. It came as an unpleasant revelation that his bristling demeanor, intended as a purely defensive measure, might have wounded one of their number.
If the light had been shining and Jenny not addled and half-asleep from the whisky, Harris would never have said what he said next. “I reckon nothing of the kind. Ye oughtn’t mind me, anyhow. I ken well enough there’s no lass’ll want anything to do with me. It saves my pride a mite to pretend I don’t care. I’d no notion to offend ye, and I beg yer pardon if I have.”
He felt a sudden need to make amends. “We’ve a good five or six weeks more at sea…”
Jenny groaned at the very thought.
“It’ll not all be as bad as this, I hope,” Harris continued. “Once this squall passes and ye find yer sea legs, I could teach ye to read, if ye’ve a mind to learn.”
The bedclothes rustled again as she turned toward him. “I’d love to. It’s something I’ve always wanted. I used to envy my brothers when they went off to school. Since I was the only girl, Ma couldn’t spare me. One winter I pestered Ian to teach me, but we didn’t make much headway. I was always that worn-out at night, I’d fall asleep over my books before I could learn anything.”
Harris wondered whether she realized he was still listening, or whether she had fallen to reminiscing aloud. He heard the plaintive, hungry edge in her voice.
Apparently she had not forgotten him, for suddenly she asked, “Why do ye want to put yerself to all the bother?”
“We fairy godfathers like to do a thorough job.” Harris chuckled. “It’s a point of professional pride, ye ken. Any other wishes ye’d like me to grant while I’m about it? Straw spun into gold? Pumpkin turned into a fine coach?”
“If ye can teach me to read, and see me safe wed to Roderick Douglas, ye’ll have made me the happiest lass in the world. I only hope ye don’t plan to ask for my firstborn as payment.”
“Would that be a problem, then?” Harris asked facetiously. “I recollect ye promised me anything in yer power to grant, with no provision exempting yer firstborn. I can amend the contract, but it’ll mean charging an added penalty.”
Jenny did not reply immediately. Harris wondered if he had strayed into uncomfortably familiar territory with his jest about her future offspring. The wind had audibly lessened, he noticed in that moment of silence. The pitch and roll of the barque had also slackened to a gentler undulation.
“I’ll pay yer penalty with a wee spell of my ain,” Jenny said at last. “I’ll turn ye into the kind of charming gentleman who can have his pick of the lassies.”
Harris laughed outright. “If ye can perform that kind of magic, ye’d better mind they don’t burn ye for a witch, lass.”
“I’ll give ye yer first lesson right now,” she murmured. “The next time ye speak to a woman, pretend ye’re in the dark and she’s a mite tipsy with her first taste of strong drink. Then ye talk to her just like ye’ve talked to me tonight—soft and kindly. After five minutes, I wager she’ll not even notice those scars on yer face.”
Jenny woke to the sound of footsteps and voices in the companionway. Fine shafts of sunshine squeezed into the cabin through chinks in the deadlight. Morning had dawned, and the gale had passed. Her stomach still felt queasy, but infinitely better than it had the previous night. This relief was offset by the dull pain that throbbed in her forehead.
Quite nearby, she heard a man snoring. The walls between the cabins must be as thin as paper, she grumbled to herself. Rolling over in the tight quarters of her berth, she came nose to nose with Harris Chisholm, snoring serenely with his head resting on her pillow.
“Mr.