The Bonny Bride. Deborah Hale

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      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. Chisholm, what are ye still doing here?” Jenny shrank back into the corner of the berth, gathering the blankets protectively over her chest.

      Harris sat up on her trunk, pulling his head and torso off their resting place on the berth. “Where? What?” He peered around the cabin through half-closed eyes. When they focused on Jenny, he gave a visible start.

      “I must’ve fallen asleep telling ye the last of Rob Roy.” He yawned and stretched his long arms.

      “Do ye know what this means? If word gets out that I’ve been entertaining ye in my cabin all night, my reputation’ll be ruined. Roderick Dhu will never have me for a wife! How could ye let this happen?”

      “I?” Harris drew himself up indignantly. “Ye were the one who begged me to stay. ‘Do what ye like with me,’ ye said. ‘Stay and tell me more of the story,’ ye said. Ye reckoned ye were going to die of the seasickness but I nursed ye through it. And this is the thanks I get. Bawling at me like a fishwife. Making it sound as though I forced my way into yer cabin and attacked ye in the night!”

      “Ye did bust down my door!” Jenny accused him.

      “That was an accident, and well ye know it. Now keep yer voice down, woman, or ye’ll have the whole crew onto us. We both know nothing happened last night to sully yer fair reputation—unless ye count puking on my shoes and spitting whisky into my face.” Harris started to laugh at the thought.

      In spite of herself, so did Jenny.

      “I’ll keep mum about my being here if ye will, and no one the wiser,” Harris assured her. “Besides, if it does get back to Roderick Dhu and he jilts ye over it, I promise to make an honest woman of ye.”

      Jenny seized her pillow and fetched Harris a solid clout on the ear. “If ye do anything to queer my wedding with Roderick Dhu, Harris Chisholm, I won’t marry ye supposing ye’re the last he-creature in North America!”

      Fortunately, Harris was able to steal out of Jenny’s cabin that morning without being caught. The crew was too busy assessing storm damage, while the other passengers were dealing with their own seasickness in varying degrees. Later that day, in a show of innocent concern, he helped the ship’s carpenter repair Jenny’s broken door latch.

      Jenny kept to her cabin all that day, with the excuse of recovering from her bilious attack. When she finally emerged the following morning, she treated Harris with the frosty politeness reserved for particularly odious strangers. To his surprise and amusement, Harris found himself unable to take offense. When one had nursed a woman through a bout of seasickness, Harris discovered, the lady in question—no matter how attractive—permanently lost her ability to intimidate a fellow.

      It might also have been partly due to Jenny’s admission of her own inadequacies. Perhaps it owed to his status as her protector. Whatever the reason, Jenny Lennox had pitched headfirst off her pedestal. Harris found it an odd and rather heady experience, being on equal footing with a woman. As he might never enjoy such a novelty again, he decided to make the most of it while it lasted.

      He gave Jenny precisely forty-eight hours to grow tired of her own company. Then he made his overture.

      “Do ye plan to give over snubbing me before we get to Miramichi?” he asked with good-natured disinterest, as he escorted her back from breakfast.

      She appeared to have trouble preserving a straight face. “Ye ken my snubbing ye for two days squares yer snubbing me for years?” Her eyebrow cocked in an expression of bewitching arrogance.

      “No.” His mouth twitched with the effort to suppress a smile. “But I ken feeding ye all my good whisky, and resisting the urge to brag of spending the night in yer company, does weigh heavy on the balance.”

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