Never mind, just so long as it was true.
Emmet headed for his favorite chair and collapsed, fanning his face with his straw hat. “I reckon we set the boy in his place,” he said, looking smug despite his flushed face. “Don’t fret, Doree, Grey won’t give you a speck of trouble. He’s a fair man. Gets his dander up when things don’t go his way, but you have to remember, the boy owns near about the whole island. Him, and his father and grandfather before him.”
Which went a long way toward explaining his arrogance, she allowed grudgingly. Even so, he was too tall, too strong and entirely too male. “I don’t like him,” Dora said flatly. “I don’t care if he owns every twisted tree and every grain of sand in sight, he doesn’t own me. And he doesn’t own you—and he doesn’t own our home.”
Emmet smiled, but it seemed somewhat forced. He’s tired, Dora thought ruefully. Walking to the church, then having to stand there until that tedious, slow-talking minister finally pronounced them man and wife—it was enough to test the strength of a much younger man. And then, to be challenged on the way home by the St. Bride…!
“Let me slide your stool closer, then I’ll see what I can do about dinner.”
“To tell the truth, wife, I’m used to eating dinner in the middle of the day.”
“Oh, I know—it’s supper. I keep forgetting. You wait right here and I’ll bring you a glass of your blackberry wine.”
She brought two. Gravely they saluted their union with a silent toast, totally unaware of the brooding man gazing down at their cottage from his vantage point on the highest ridge on the island. Dora made a silent vow that Emmet would never regret marrying her and giving her a home. She would be the best wife any man could wish for, as long as she didn’t have to…
Well. At least she could see that their wedding supper was neither scorched nor underdone. She was beginning to get the hang of cooking, thanks to Sal’s recipe book and Emmet’s patient translations.
Emmet was ready for bed by the time the first few stars emerged. Dora waited until she could hear his soft snores through the closed door, then she heated water and bathed in the kitchen, put on her nightgown, blew out the lamp and sought her own narrow bed. Her last waking thought was that no matter what St. Bride had said—no matter what he thought of her, she was safe here.
In his house on the hill, Grey stared morosely at Meeks’s cottage. She was down there, laughing up her sleeve for making a fool of him. What kind of a woman would take advantage of an old man whose health was so precarious that Grey had actually been meaning to send his own housekeeper down once a day to see to the necessary?
Dammit, he should have made arrangements before he’d left for Edenton. If the woman hadn’t shown up just when she did—if he hadn’t allowed her to distract him—none of this would have happened. Mouse could have gone down each morning to see to the old man’s meals and make sure he hadn’t died of heart failure in the middle of the night. He could have brought his laundry up to the house to be done along with Grey’s.
A wife. Godalmighty, he thought as he watched the last light go off in the cottage below—if there was one thing the man didn’t need, it was a wife. He’d kill himself trying to satisfy the gold-digging little witch.
She’d done it purely out of spite, Grey thought bitterly. Because he’d told her in effect that she wasn’t worthy of being a St. Bridian. Why else would a beautiful young widow who wore fancy pink gowns and flimsy kid slippers marry a man more than twice her age? A stranger, at that.
For his property?
Hell, it was only a cottage, and not even on a fashionable resort beach like Nags Head or Cape May. However, if she thought she could talk Emmet into selling it, she was in for a surprise.
“Damned female,” he muttered. One last glance down at the dark cottage set his imagination off on a pointless and decidedly unwelcome course. Honeymoon dinner, be damned!
Just before the lights went out he’d caught a glimpse of her pink skirts swishing back and forth. From his higher vantage point he could only see the lower half of the room. But the windows were open and he’d heard drifts of laughter. Heard them and wondered what the two of them found to laugh about.
And admitted to himself that any man with a shred of decency would be glad Meeks could laugh again after so long.
“Damned woman,” he muttered. Turning away, he reached for the mail that had come in on the boat that morning. He had better things to do than visualize what was going on down the ridge. One thing for certain, though—if Emmet turned up dead after his wedding night there’d be hell to pay. Grey had made it his business to look after the old man’s health after finding him halfway to John Luther’s place back in December, his lips blue and a look of panic on his face.
He’d carried him home, called in the preacher, and between them they had stayed at his bedside until Grey could get a physician over from Portsmouth Island.
That was when he’d learned the truth—that the poor old man was not only half blind, he had a failing heart. The doctor had given him some pills for his heart, a tonic for his general health, and warned him against hard physical labor. Nothing could be done for his eyes. A lifetime spent on the water, according to the eminent Dr. Skinner, could do that to a man.
But tonic or no tonic, the last thing a man in Emmet’s condition needed was a woman like Dora Sutton, ripe for trouble and not above marrying for spite. Unfortunately, he could hardly crate her up and ship her back to where she came from now, not without upsetting Meeks.
However he would make a point of keeping a close eye on what went on down the ridge. At the first sign of any shenanigans, the lady would find herself hustled onto an outward-bound schooner before she could even slap a bonnet on her head.
The mail. He’d come back fully intending to go through the week’s mail. Already the blasted female was interfering in his business.
The first letter was from Jocephus, written before Grey had arrived for his last visit. He took some small comfort in the fact that occasionally, even with the U.S. Postal Service, things didn’t go according to plan.
“Evan, your nephew and sole heir, continues to do well at his studies. The boy takes his intelligence from me, quite obviously. Ha-ha. Evelyn mails him cookies each week, which I suspect he raffles off for spending money. She spoils the boy something fierce, but then, I suppose all mothers are the same.”
Grey was not in a position to know about all mothers, having lost his own when he was a mere lad. He did know, however, that Evelyn had doted on her only child from the day he’d come into the world, red faced and squalling fit to bust a gut.
Smiling, he refolded the letter and set it aside to be answered in the coming week. He had long since gotten over having fallen in love at the age of nineteen with the toast of Edenton, a beautiful young woman who’d been horrified at the thought of trading her comfortable life for the rugged island of St. Brides.
She had married his brother, instead, and Grey had forced himself to stand as Jo’s best man. He had returned to the island the very next morning, nursing a broken heart and a hangover. Both had quickly mended, and he’d thrown himself into planning the rebuilding of his island community. In the back of his mind there might have been some idea of showing Evelyn just what she had passed up, but somewhere along the way, his motivation had changed.
His determination, however, had not.
Over the next few weeks the pattern the newlyweds had established early on continued. The bride and bridegroom talked together, laughed together and shared tasks, with Dora taking on all those she could manage and watching carefully to see that Emmet didn’t overextend himself.
Emmet talked about places he’d been, people he’d known, triumphs and mishaps in which he’d been involved. At first Dora listened because she owed him that much and more. And then she listened because she was quickly coming to care for this frail, gentle man she had married in such haste. She