Alice Sharpe - Wife On His Doorstep

“Who is it?” she said at once as though she’d been standing on the other side of the door, waiting.

“It’s Captain Vermont,” he said sternly, not at all amused she’d chosen his private quarters in which to take sanctuary.

“Please, just go away,” she said.

“Can’t do that,” he told her.

“Why not?”

“Open the door and we’ll talk.”

“No.”

“There are over a hundred people out here wanting to see you,” he told her.

“Well, I don’t want to see them,” she replied immediately.

“Just talk to me, then,” he said.

A long pause was followed by, “Are you alone?”

He looked down the empty passageway. “For the moment.”

“Can’t you just steer the boat back to Portland and leave me be?” she pleaded.

“Maybe I can, but I’m not going to,” he informed her.

Another long pause, then the door opened. Megan made no movement to step aside so John could enter.

“May I come in?”

“What do you want?”

He tapped the brass plaque attached to the mahogany door and said, “This is my cabin.”

Biting her lip, she said, “I’m sorry. I really am.”

John looked under her arm and saw Foggy Dew stretched out in the sunshine, licking an extended leg, her bulging middle attesting to the fact that she’d managed to hold on to the kittens. “Is the cat—”

“She’s fine. She’s almost dry.”

“But you’re scratched,” he said, nodding at her right arm. He didn’t mention what she looked like—how the tears had reddened her eyes, how the designer dress was now tattered and torn, stained with blood, cat hair and river water, how the flowers in her hair had slipped down to just above her left ear. Heck, none of these things detracted from the winsome beauty that was her birthright. Again, he noticed her high cheekbones and the flawless texture of her skin, the wispy blond strands that curled around her hairline, the cupid’s bow shape of her lips, lips absolutely begging to be kissed. John felt a deep jolt. Where in the world were these kind of thoughts coming from?

She stared down at her arm as though aware for the first time that rescuing Foggy Dew had extracted a toll.

He cleared his throat. “Come across the hall and I’ll find the first-aid kit. I know Mrs. Colpepper keeps it in her office. We’ll get you fixed up.”

“It’s not necessary, it doesn’t matter.”

He tried a different angle to budge her. “I know your mother and your fiancé want to see you. You go to Mrs. Colpepper’s office and I’ll escort them—”

“I don’t ever want to see Robert Winslow again,” she stated firmly. “He’s a jerk.”

Was it really possible this was the first time she’d noticed what a creep the guy was? Remembering he was not a counselor but a captain, he mumbled, “I, uh, happen to know there’s a certain amount of...of strain associated with getting married...”

She was shaking her head and new tears were puddling in her eyes. “I thought I could talk to them. I know I’m being evasive, but I need time to think. I just can’t face them all right now—you tell them for me, okay?”

“Miss Morison—”

“Please,” she added, and with an apologetic shrug, slowly closed the door again, leaving John Vermont high and dry and out of a cabin.

He pounded a fist against his leg as he strode down the passageway, determined to find a new captain for this ship pronto. “Damn weddings,” he swore beneath his breath.

An hour later he gave up trying to restrain Megan’s fiancé, figuring that by now she’d probably had second thoughts and was ready to come out and talk...and give him back his cabin.

“Meg? Listen to me. Open the door and let me in.” Winslow’s voice was cajoling.

John stood across the passageway, leaning against a bulkhead, arms crossed, watching.

“No,” she said.

John shook his head. He was beginning to suspect that nothing short of dynamite was going to blast that woman from his cabin, certainly not this bozo’s entreaties. Despite his fervent wish she’d leave, he had to admit a certain amount of admiration for her tenacity.

“I will not go away,” Winslow said. He’d stripped off the tuxedo jacket but still wore the black slacks, the white shirt and the suspenders, all of which had dried, to a point, as had his hair, but his shoes squeaked when he moved. While his voice was still persuasive, his appearance had taken a definite nosedive. He didn’t look quite so smug now.

Running a hand through his damp hair and lowering his voice, Winslow talked to the door. “You’re acting like a child,” he said, his voice as smooth as an oil slick. “You know that, don’t you, Meg? Like a little child, running away, scared and silly. Your behavior is embarrassing me and your family. Heck, it was just a stupid animal, and besides, the big brave captain rescued it, so what’s the harm? Now, come out here. Open the door.”

At his side, John’s hand rolled into a fist, almost ready to give Winslow the thump on the head he’d been asking for. He was unclear whether his desire to beat the tar out of this guy had to do with the degrading way he addressed Megan, his total disregard for animals, or the jab at himself. But the door stayed shut and retreating footsteps behind it announced clearly that Megan had moved back into the room, ending this conversation.

Winslow turned, his sour expression growing even more surly when he found John staring at him. “I hear you own this tub,” he growled.

John nodded.

“Then redeem yourself a little and open the door. You must have a key.”

John smiled. “Actually, I don’t.”

“Then break the lock—”

“And do what, Mr. Winslow? Drag the lady out by her hair? Dump her in the river like she dumped you? Make her walk the plank, keelhaul her, put her in shackles and lock her in the brig?”

For once the man seemed at a loss for words. He moved a few steps away, then turned back and glared at John. “I’m not through with you yet, Vermont! I have friends in high places.”

“Good for you,” John said as he pushed himself away from the wall and opened the door to the bridge, anxious only to return Ruby Rose to shore and get these people off his boat.

Megan closed the drapes and flicked on a lamp. For the first time she caught sight of herself in the long mirror, and she winced. Without pausing to think, she stripped off her wedding dress and tore the ridiculous flowers from her hair, dumping both on the floor.

Little doubts started to kick in as she found a bathroom behind the door with the mirror and washed the blood off her arm. Had she overreacted? Had she, like Robert said, been silly? Did the captain think she was silly? She suddenly had the intense desire to know what he thought, but since there was no way of finding him without risking running into her family and Robert, she decided to stay put.

Four angry red lines attested to the cat’s plight and helped ease Megan’s doubts. She rubbed soap into the wounds, rinsed them carefully, then splashed her face with cold water, pausing to look out the porthole beside the sink. The shoreline was turning from rural to city, which meant they must be close to the wharf.

Back in the cabin she was faced with the prospect of waiting to disembark in her underwear or donning the captain’s spare jacket. As she took it off the back of the chair, she wondered how, and if, she would have the nerve to face everyone. She buttoned all the black buttons. Seeing as she was just a touch over five-five, a good ten inches shorter than Captain Vermont, the jacket fell to below her knees and swamped her. She rolled up the cuffs. It was better than the dress. Anything was better than the dress.

Besides, the garment’s lining slipped easily against her bare skin while the collar was rough against her neck. It smelled of musk, as though aftershave had left its trail. It was like being wrapped in an embrace, comforting somehow. She turned up the collar and hugged the jacket close to her body.

She watched the docking process from the safety of the captain’s cabin, ignoring the repeated pleas that came from the passageway, pleas that begged her to come to her senses.

“I already have,” she whispered.

There was always a feeling of satisfaction when a voyage, no matter how small, was successfully completed, but this time the final docking of the Ruby Rose at the old wharf along the waterfront brought its captain a particularly gratifying wave of relief.

As John took off his gloves and opened the shallow drawer in which he kept them, he suffered the good-natured ribbing of his first mate, Danny Borel. Danny, aware of the wedding fracas, found it especially funny that John was out of a cabin.

As Danny left the bridge for a hot date with a leggy redhead he’d met on deck, John’s eyes fell on the extra set of keys in the drawer. Snapping them up, he tossed them into the air and caught them, chuckling to himself. Now we’ll see...

The first order of business was a post-voyage stroll around each of the three decks. Though he tried to avoid her, Colpepper was lurking by the stairs, waiting for him.

“I have half a mind to quit,” she sputtered.

He thought she had half a mind—period. He said, “It’s been a long day, Colpepper.”

“When I think of the hours I spent—”

Holding up his hand and darting down the stairs, he called, “Save it for tomorrow, will you?”

He snatched an extra bottle of champagne and a couple of spare lobsters off the ravaged buffet table and, thus armed, went back to his cabin and knocked on the door.

He heard music from within, but no one answered the knock. A muffled meow prompted him to use the spare key.

Foggy Dew sat in the middle of the small room, blinking her yellow eyes. John nudged the door closed with his elbow, set the tray on the round table, and picked the cat up, stroking her head.

“You caused a heap of trouble today,” he told the cat right before he spotted the mound of lacy white material in the corner, and in the next glance, Megan, asleep on his bunk, dressed in one of his jackets, her long bare legs crossed at the ankles, her hands resting on her flat stomach. The cat struggled to get down. John set her carefully on the rug, somewhat surprised to see her jump up on the bunk and curl into a ball by Megan’s hip.

For some time he stood off to the side, watching the peaceful—and tantalizing—rise and fall of Megan’s chest as she breathed, admiring the thick sweep of lashes that lay against her cheeks, the gentle repose of her mouth. And, once again, he imagined covering her succulent lips with his own. He imagined gathering her in his arms and kissing her awake. He imagined the look in her eyes....

He shook his head. Crazy thoughts! Ridiculous, inappropriate thoughts he had no business thinking. He made himself turn away from her and all the nebulous yearnings she seemed to inspire.

The sideboard produced silverware, napkins, water glasses. He opened the wine, poured himself a couple of inches and sat in one of the chairs, propping his feet up on another. Megan Morison was as easy on the eyes as she was stubborn, all right. He wanted her to wake up but he suspected when she did she’d start fussing, so he let her be.

The evening was wearing away when she finally stirred. She awoke slowly, and John watched, knowing all the while she was unaware of his presence, knowing he should announce himself. But he liked seeing her yawn and stretch, liked the way her lips curved when she saw the cat beside her. When she finally turned her head and saw him gazing at her, she sat up abruptly, tugging modestly on the jacket.