The Bonny Bride. Deborah Hale

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.”

      “Just give me a minute, will ye?” Jenny begged. “Before today I’ve never been more than twenty miles from home. This is my first time on a boat.”

      “Very well.” Harris tried not to let it come out as a sigh. “One minute.”

      Some intuition told him to keep his eyes off her, but they refused to obey.

      Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, Jenny slipped it off. Deftly she extracted several pins from her hair. It fell to her waist in rippling chestnut waves, while shorter wisps curled softly around her face. Turning into the wind, she closed her eyes as the fresh breeze billowed her hair out behind her. She looked like the carved figurehead of St. Bride on the prow of the barque—magically, gloriously come to life.

      Harris did not doubt his ability to protect Jenny Lennox from any other man aboard. But was he capable of protecting his own heart from being painfully ravished by her?

      Chapter Two

      “Miss Lennox?” Harris called. Getting no answer, he pounded on her cabin door more insistently. “Jenny!”

      As he’d predicted, a nasty gale had blown up when the St. Bride rounded the treacherous north coast of Ulster. If she’d been crossing the Atlantic in the other direction, with holds full of heavy New Brunswick timber, it would not have been so bad. As it was, running against the wind, lightly laden with mercantile goods, the barque bobbed helplessly in the heavy seas.

      Beneath Harris’s feet, the deck gave a sudden violent roll, sending him crashing against the door of Jenny’s cabin. The flimsy deal boards gave way before him. He lurched into the cabin, barking his shin on something sharp and solid before sprawling onto the floor. Behind him, the cabin door banged open and shut in time to the shifting pitch of the vessel, admitting fleeting flashes of lamplight from the passage. Between those flickers, the small chamber was impenetrably dark.

      Where could Jenny Lennox have gone? Harris wondered as he rubbed his smarting shin. She had agreed not to leave her cabin without him. Women, he grumbled under his breath. Making all sorts of glib promises to get their way. Then they went ahead and did as they pleased, without so much as a by-your-leave.

      A low, anguished moan sounded near Harris’s right ear. Flailing out in the direction of the sound, his hand made solid contact with the clammy flesh of Jenny’s face.

      “Miss Lennox, what are ye doing lying here in the dark?”

      “Dying,” came a weak, raspy reply.

      Beneath the pervading odors of salt water and wet wood, Harris smelled the sour stench of vomit. Masked by the darkness, he allowed himself a wry smile at Jenny’s expense. Apparently, beauty was not proof against the mundane rigors of seasickness.

      He let his hand linger on her cheek. “Ye’re not going to die.”

      “I want to.” The words came up on her rising gorge.

      Harris dodged out of the way as Jenny leaned over the edge of her berth. For several seconds she gagged agonizingly, but with little result. When she sank back onto the pillow again, Harris bent over her. He had to lean close, to make himself heard above the thunder of waves crashing against the hull and the high, fitful whine of the wind.

      “If ye can feel that bad and still make a joke, I expect ye’ll pull through,” he said gently. “Rest, now. I’ll go fetch Dr. Chisholm’s cure for ocean belly.”

      “I don’t care,” Jenny whimpered. “Do what ye like with me.”

      Harris almost laughed. Ye’ve no idea what I’d like to do with ye, lass, he thought to himself. If ye did, ye’d never have made me such a tempting offer, no matter how poorly ye felt. Leaning so close to Jenny, he could feel the warmth emanating from her body.

      He must be daft to even entertain such fancies, Harris rebuked himself as he reluctantly pulled away from her. Minding his tender shin, he felt his way toward the door with ginger steps. Once the gale subsided, he’d have to do something about that broken latch. In the meantime, the damp air below decks had swollen the wood enough to make the door stick shut when he pulled it to.

      He staggered back down the companionway a while later, lantern in hand and a book under his arm. A firm nudge from his shoulder was all it took to push Jenny’s door open again. Harris held the lantern high as he entered the cabin. He was not anxious to injure himself further, nor to pitch face-first onto the slimy floorboards.

      Jenny shrank from the light, pulling a blanket over her head. “Put it out. It’s not so bad when I can’t see everything in the cabin rocking and swaying.”

      Harris took his bearings. Somehow, Jenny’s brass-bound trunk had worked itself out from under her berth. It must have been the culprit responsible for his bruised shin. He cast the trunk a baleful glare and pushed it up beside the head of the berth.

      “I need the light for a minute,” he told Jenny. “Then I’ll put it out.”

      Her head still covered with the blanket, she did not respond. Harris hung the lantern from a hook driven into one of the ceiling beams. He found a heavy stoneware jug of water and tipped a splash of it onto his handkerchief. Securing an enamel basin against future need, he extinguished the lamp. Then he felt his way back to Jenny’s trunk, and sat down on it.

      “Why don’t ye go away and leave me to die in peace?” Jenny moaned. She must have thrown off the blanket, for her words were no longer muffled.

      “All part of the bargain.” Harris found her face and swiped his wet handkerchief across her forehead. “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