The Bonny Bride. Deborah Hale
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cast him a questioning look.
“It’s my home port,” Captain Glendenning explained. “Got a little farm near there, where my wife and family live. I won’t get much chance for a visit with them this time. Though I may be able to help my brother-in-law get some hay in.”
“It must be hard for yer wife, having ye away from home so much,” said Jenny.
The captain shrugged, but she detected a slight flinch in his craggy, weathered features. “It costs money to build up a good farm. Money for seed, tools and stock. A man can make good pay with his master’s papers. Besides,” he owned, somewhat sheepishly, “I’m one of those bootless fellows with salt water for blood. Every winter I say I’m done with it, going to settle down on the farm for good. Then come spring, when all the wee shipyards on the river launch their new crop of barques and brigantines, I get bitten by the sea bug again, and I’m off.”
Jenny had to admit the attractions of the life Captain Glendenning described. In six short weeks, she’d come to feel quite at home on the St. Bride. She loved the clean tang of the ocean breeze, and the rhythmic slap of the waves against the hull that lulled her to sleep each night. When a freak easterly filled the barque’s sails and sent her bousing along with her rigging taut and straining, something in Jenny’s soul stirred with a sense of expectancy and adventure.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Lennox.” The captain touched the peak of his cap. “There’s a few things I must see to, before we make Canso.”
Jenny excused Captain Glendenning with a cheery smile. At the moment her heart brimmed with goodwill toward the whole human race. By nightfall they’d be through the Strait of Canso, heading for a short stopover at Richibucto and then on to the Miramichi. Impossible as it had once seemed, her dream was coming true. Thinking of her dream made Jenny remember the man who had made it a reality.
“Thomas,” she called up to the apprentice boy scaling the rigging. “Any sign of Mr. Chisholm?” If Harris was on deck at all, Thomas Nicholson could easily spot him from aloft.
“Back by the poop deck, Miss Lennox,” the boy yelled down.
So Harris was waiting for her in their outdoor school. That was it, Jenny decided in a flash of insight. Preoccupation with the end of their journey had made her forget her reading lessons. That was why Harris had spoken to her so impatiently. She’d sensed his enjoyment of their studies together. It must be a marvelous feeling to open another person’s mind to the world of books and knowledge. One day she would pass along the precious gift Harris had given her, by teaching others to read.
She must settle down and concentrate on her lessons, Jenny chided herself as she went in search of Harris. For one thing, it would help make these last anxious days pass more quickly. Besides, she should enjoy it while she could. Soon there would be no more lessons. No more stimulating discussions. No more good-natured arguments. Somehow, that thought cast a dark cloud over Jenny’s dream of a sunny future.
Harris sprawled on the steps of the poop deck, gazing blindly at the pages of Scott’s The Heart of Midlothian, open before him. He knew enough anatomy to realize that the human heart was merely a muscle pumping blood through the body. Yet he could understand why people had once believed it to be the seat of emotion. Love, in particular. For when love went awry, as it invariably did, it left a heavy weight pressing down on one’s chest. With every beat came a twinge of pain.
Harris heaved a sigh that started somewhere in the region of his toes. He’d been right, back in Dalbeattie, to avoid women. The creatures were nothing but trouble. Not knowing what he might be missing, he’d felt a certain restlessness, a vague sense of discontent. Now his longing had a focus—Jenny. That focus served to concentrate and hone the feeling, until it was heavy enough and sharp enough to lance his heart.
Day after day he’d sat beside her, their hands sometimes brushing or their eyes meeting over the pages of a book. She had a way of looking at him, with those immense heather-colored eyes, that made Harris feel he was the font of all received wisdom. A sage. A hero. Capable of any daring exploit. Her soft, musical voice had wrapped itself around his heart and invaded his dreams.
Jenny Lennox was everything a woman should be—an amalgam of the best of Scott’s romantic heroines. As beautiful as Rowena, as tender as Rebecca, as spirited as Flora MacIvor. And Harris had promised to deliver her to another man. With the date of delivery rapidly approaching, Jenny was eager for it to come. Only one other time in his life had Harris felt so abjectly miserable.
He had no one to blame but himself. He should have known better than to fall in with Jenny’s plan. Six weeks spent with any lass in the close quarters of this barque—had she been half as bonny as Jenny and one-tenth as good-natured—a man would still likely have developed feelings for her. How could he have been so daft?
Well, the time had come to cut his losses. Bandage up his poor mauled heart and buffer it against any worse abuse at the deft, gentle, deadly hands of Jenny Lennox. Harris felt his features freeze into his old intractable mask.
“Harris?” Jenny offered him a conciliatory smile. She was graciously willing to overlook his recent churlish behavior. “Am I late for lessons?”
He didn’t move aside to offer her accustomed seat. Glancing up absently, Harris looked as though he’d been thinking of something else and had scarcely heard her.
“Captain Glendenning says we’ll be through the Strait of Canso by nightfall,” Jenny informed him. “If I promise to concentrate and not go tearing off to the railing every five minutes, do ye think we stand a chance of getting through this next book before we reach the Miramichi?”
“There’s nothing more I can teach ye.” He thrust the book at her. “All ye need now is practice. It’s a sight quicker to read it yerself than to read aloud. If ye keep at it, I’ve no doubt ye’ll get it finished in time.”
Jenny just stood and stared at him. She could not have been more taken aback if Harris had hurled the heavy volume at her head.
“I…I ken ye’re probably right,” she finally managed to say. “It’s just, I enjoy talking the story over with ye, Harris. Ye’re a dab hand at explaining all the parts I don’t understand.”
“Aye, well…” His expressive brows drew together and his lip curled in a frown of distaste. “I fear I won’t have time, Miss Lennox. As ye’ve pointed out quite frequently in the past twenty-four hours, we’ll soon be reaching our destination. I have plans to make.” He waved a hand airily. “Important considerations to review.”
Miss Lennox, was it now? A wonder she didn’t get frostbitten by Mr. Chisholm’s chilly politeness. Jenny composed her face into a mirror image of his haughty expression. She felt a little sick flutter in her stomach. Curse these choppy offshore waters. Her eyes were beginning to sting as well. Blast this briny wind!
“I’d hate to be responsible for taking up yer valuable time, sir. Not when ye have grand plans to make and important decisions to consider.” She snatched the book from his hand. “I’ll remind ye, though…this business of teaching me to read was yer idea, not mine. So ye can quit acting like I’ve imposed on ye.”
Harris refused to meet her challenging stare. “I only thought it was time for ye to get used to reading on yer own. Ye soon won’t have me around to read with.”
Contemplating that prospect made Jenny’s knees tremble. This whole upset, this sudden unexplained hostility between them, provoked a battery of strange and unwelcome emotions in her. Damn Harris Chisholm for getting her all riled up!
“No doubt ye’re looking forward to having me off yer hands,” she said coldly.
“Now, Jenny, I didn’t mean to imply that.”
“Oh didn’t ye, indeed? I’m sure ye’re too polite to come right out and say so. All the same, ye must be relieved I’ll soon trouble ye no further.”
“Now see here…”
“I’m