The Bonny Bride

“Jenny!” he hollered again, straining to catch her reply no matter how feeble. “Jenny, where are ye, lass?”

He called and called, scarcely mindful of the swells that washed over him. Even after his rational self had abandoned hope, he continued to cry out her name like some plaintive last lament.

“Harris?”

It was scarcely more than a sigh on the wind, and he wondered if his drowning mind was playing tricks on him. Or perhaps her departing soul coaxed him to a final voyage with her.

He did not care.

She had called his name and he must answer.

“Here, Jenny! I’m here. Can ye come to me, lass?”

“Harris!” It was louder this time and definitely closer. A human voice, choked with fear and exhaustion. No flying angel or echo in his mind, but a lass of flesh and blood struggling to stay afloat.

Battling the opposing billows, he struck out toward the sound, desperately roaring her name whenever he could catch breath enough.

Then, suddenly, she was there. The only other living being in an endless storm-tossed night. Forgetting the need to stay afloat, forgetting his own name in the dizzying relief of finding her again, Harris clasped Jenny to him. She did not even struggle as they subsided beneath the waves and into the relative tranquility below.

And so they might have ended, had not Harris felt his foot strike solid firmament. Surely, it could not be…

With the last ebb of his strength, he anchored his feet to the sand and straightened up. To his amazement, his head and shoulders cleared the surface of the water—at least in the troughs between waves. His wounded arm blessedly numb, he pulled Jenny’s head free of the water, too.

Together they sputtered and strained for air until Harris was able to gasp, “I can touch bottom, Jenny! We must be near the shore.”

“Shore? Then we’re saved!” Clinging to him as though she never meant to let go, Jenny began to laugh. And sob.

Harris held her tight—marveling at how natural it felt to have her in his arms, wishing the moment would never end.

But like all sweet things, its time was finite.

As Jenny’s weeping calmed, Harris sensed her shivering. Until then, he’d been too preoccupied with staying afloat to notice the temperature of the water. It was surprisingly warm. Warmer than the rain that continued to lash them. For all that, it was cooler than their bodies and slowly it was leeching the life from them. They needed to reach land and find shelter.

“We have to get out of the water before ye get any colder.” Harris took a tentative step or two in each direction, trying to figure which way led to shallower water, and eventually to shore.

“What I wouldn’t give for a bit of light,” he muttered. His own teeth began to chatter.

Cautiously he made his way forward, heartened to feel more and more of his chest and back exposed to the air. Bared to the howling wind, the parts of him above the surface felt more chilled than those beneath.

“There, I can touch bottom, too!” cried Jenny. “Come on Harris, the beach can’t be much farther.”

They wallowed several steps more before Harris realized what was happening.

“Hold on, Jenny. Come back this way, lass. The water’s getting deeper again.”

“No, it isn’t.” she protested. “It can’t be.” A plaintive note of exhaustion in her voice told Harris she recognized the truth even as she denied it.

“This must be one of those sandbars the ship fetched up on,” he said. “God knows how far it is to shore, or which way.”

“What can we do?” wailed Jenny. “We have to find land.”

“So we will,” replied Harris with far greater assurance than he felt. “We just have to hang on here until we’ve enough light to see the way to shore.”

“How l-long do ye k-ken that’ll be?”

“I haven’t a notion, lass. It feels as though this night’s lasted a thousand years, already. There’s two things we need to do if we’re to last till sunrise. We’ve got to keep as warm as we can and we’ve got to keep awake.”

“How c-can we k-keep warm? It’s not like we can light a fire or pull a blanket around us.”

Harris tugged her toward him, wrapping his arms around her once more. “This is the only warmth we have, Jenny. Now rub yer hands on my back, like I’m doing to ye. As for keeping awake, we’ll have to help each other there, as well. We’ll talk. Do ye mind how fast the hours went by when we got to work arguing over something in one of Walter Scott’s books?”

“Aye.” Jenny didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Ye’re right about keeping warm, though. I feel a mite warmer already.”

So did Harris.

Not just warm, but positively hot. In one part of his anatomy at least. He felt a rush of exasperation with his carnal nature, almost as intense as the rush of straining pleasure in his loins. Here he stood, poised on the brink of doom, yet his body perversely yearned to procreate. He prayed that Jenny, in her innocence, would not grasp the import of the eager bulge in his trousers.

“What will we talk about, then?”

Her question brought Harris back to himself with a start. What were they to speak of? Not the situation in which they found themselves, surely. Not their slim chances of surviving the night. Not this awkward but necessary embrace and the sensations it provoked…in him at least. They needed to occupy their thoughts with something far removed from this storm-swept strand. Preferably something warm.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I’m willing to entertain suggestions.”

Jenny did not immediately reply.

Harris grasped desperately for something to fill the silence and hopefully prime the conversational pump. It seemed absurd to be making small talk when, at any moment, they might die in each other’s arms.

“I think the rain has eased.” He tossed his head to twitch back the sodden hank of hair that clung to his brow. At the same time he chided himself for being the most unoriginal creature on the planet—commenting on the weather at such a time.

“I wonder if this is how folk in the Old Testament felt when God sent the flood?” mused Jenny. “I mind Pa reading the story of Noah to us. All in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in dry land, died.”

She shuddered, and Harris knew it was not entirely due to the cold.

“I ken even God took pity on those drowning sinners in the end,” Jenny added. “Didn’t he promise Noah never again to destroy mankind by flood?”

“Better flood than fire.” The words were out of his mouth before Harris could recall them.

For an instant he hoped Jenny had not recognized the significance of what he’d said. Then he felt the back of her fingers slide along his jawline in the most tentative caress.

“Is that how ye came by yer scars? In a fire?”

“Aye. When I was a wee lad.”

“Do ye mind how it came about?”

Harris hesitated. He had never spoken of the fire or its aftermath to another living soul. Under any other circumstances, he might not have divulged anything to Jenny, either. But this second brush with mortality had dredged up long-buried memories of his first. Besides, there was something about the blind physical contact between them that inspired confession.

“I don’t recollect much about it,” he admitted. “At least not when I’m awake. I have dreams though, of the smoke and the burning. I wake up drenched in sweat with my heart pounding like I’ve run a mile.”

“Did yer ma die in the fire?”

Somehow, Harris sensed she had not meant to ask this impossibly painful question. Yet, for reasons he could not fathom, he felt compelled to answer.

“Die? No. For all I ken, she may be living yet.”

“I don’t understand, Harris. How can ye not ken whether yer ain ma is dead or alive? Whereabouts is she?”

“I haven’t a notion. She ran away after the fire, so Father said. We never heard from her again.”

“I’m sorry, Harris.”

She was, too. He could feel it emanating from her fingertips and soaking into him. He could feel as she turned her face and pressed her cheek over his heart. He could feel it in the subtly different way she held on to him. Almost as though she wanted to cradle his lanky frame in her arms.

“Do ye mind anything of her at all?”

“No.” That was not quite true, and though he could not think why, it was suddenly very important to him that Jenny know the truth. “At least, I never tried to. There are one or two memories that come to me now and again, though, when I least expect them.”

“Aye?” It was a question, and a prompt for him to continue.

“I can hardly remember what she looked like, yet I sometimes get a flash of the way her chin tilted when she laughed. And sometimes, when I’m half-asleep, I can smell her scent and feel the brush of her kiss on my forehead…”

His voice choked off. Lifting his face to the night sky, he let the rain scour it like a torrent of tears.

“Harris?” There was cold fear in her voice. “The water’s getting deeper again, isn’t it?”

She was right. Even in the troughs between waves, the water level was higher than it had been.

“The tide must be rising.” He strove to keep the disquiet from his own voice—without success.

“I can’t die now, Harris. I’ve never lived until these past six weeks.”

Harris fought to quench the flicker of hope her words engendered. She must mean her anticipation of wedding Roderick Douglas. “You’re not going to die, Jenny. You’ve too much pluck. Mind about Mr. Douglas. He’s waiting for you in Chatham and ye don’t strike me as the kind of lass who’d disappoint her bridegroom.”

He expected her to launch into a litany of Roderick’s virtues. Harris braced himself to bear it. At least it would distract her from the peril of their situation.

“What made yer ma run off, Harris?” she asked instead, with quiet gravity. Her question took him so much by surprise he fairly staggered.

“That’s the one other thing I mind about her, Jenny. Her eyes whenever she looked at me after the fire. She left because she couldn’t bear the sight of me.”

What made him think anything had changed? He still bore the marks of the fire, and once again a woman he cared for was about to walk out of his life. Without a backward glance. Leaving behind nothing but sweetly taunting memories and wounds upon his heart that would scar him all over again. It made him long to give up the struggle and simply lapse beneath the waves with Jenny in his arms.

“I don’t believe it.” Her words stirred Harris from his painful reflections. He struggled to grasp what she meant.

“No mother would do such a thing. She may have had other reasons a child would never ken.”

“Such as…?”

Jenny fought to put it into words. How could a man understand the ceaseless drudgery and soul-consuming isolation? Perhaps the fire that scarred Harris had also wrought destruction on the Chisholm croft, making his mother’s lot harder than ever. But enough to leave her son behind? Jenny found that hard to credit.

“Ye don’t mind how it is for a woman, Harris. I ken well enough what it’s like to crave something different. Something better. It could be yer ma felt that way, too.”

Her words met with silence at first.

Then came a low, thoughtful murmur. “Aye, lass. I reckon it could be.”

She couldn’t bear the thought of Harris dwelling on such bitter memories in what might well be his last hours. Jenny berated herself for raising the subject in the first place. Recklessly she cast about for any diversion.

“Do ye mind what I wish, Harris?”

“Aye, lass.” He sighed. “I’m yer fairy godfather, after all. Ye wish to wed Mr. Douglas and live prosperously ever after.”

“Besides that.”

“Aren’t ye being a mite greedy to wish for more besides?”

“It’s not that kind of wish, anyhow. More a…regret.”

“Ah, regret.” His voice lingered over the word. “There’s something I know about. What do ye regret, Jenny? Besides setting foot aboard an unlucky vessel like the St. Bride.”

“I regret…” Her whole consciousness suddenly fixed upon the two warm spots on her body. Her bosom, which nestled against his belly, and the shifting spirals on her back described by the caress of his hands. “I regret that I never got to know ye better while we lived in Dalbeattie. Who knows but we mightn’t have made a match?”

She felt the quiver in his belly before she heard his laugh. It was a queer sound—at this time and in this place.

“Can you just picture it, lass? If some old crone with the second sight had accosted us outside the kirk and told us we’d end up like this. Do ye ken we’d have stalked off in high dudgeon or laughed ourselves hoarse?”

“Ye’d have stalked off. I’d have laughed.”

Her quip made Harris laugh harder still. It was so irresistible a sound, Jenny could not help joining in. For a time, the warmth of that shared laughter and the contact between them held the cold, and the wind, and the darkness at bay.

Like a candle burning fitfully in its last puddle of wax, this tiny pocket of light also guttered and failed. Somehow, the cold black void oppressed Jenny even more after that sweet moment of relief. She began to shiver again and a deep weariness threatened to engulf her.

“I don’t reckon I c-c-can last much longer, Harris.”

“Ye mustn’t give up, lass. Mind about Mr. Douglas and yer wedding.”

This was the second time he’d urged her to think about Roderick, and for some reason it irked Jenny. She knew perfectly well she should be thinking about her future husband and the life that awaited her in Miramichi—if only she could hold on until daybreak. If they were not her greatest motive for living, what else could be?

Hard as she tried to focus on thoughts of her wedding, every notion in her head turned obstinately back to Harris Chisholm. From all she had learned of him in the past six weeks, Jenny knew with utter certainty that her death would haunt him. Unmerited feelings of responsibility and guilt would consume him. That was no fit way to repay the enormous debt she owed him.

“Aye,” she murmured drowsily. “I’ll do my best to hang on, Harris. For ye.”

Fighting the deadly lassitude that grew heavier and more strength-sapping with each passing moment, Harris held Jenny closer. In a futile effort to stanch the ebb of her energy, he rubbed her back and arms with increasing vigor. All the while, two brief, whispered words echoed in his thoughts and fired his desperate effort to save her.

“For ye.”

It was no dream of handsome, wealthy, powerful Roderick Douglas that stirred Jenny and roused her failing will to live. It was her feelings for him. Scarred, poor and insignificant, he still had the power to lure her back from the siren song of peaceful oblivion.

“For me, Jenny. That’s right. Hang on for me. I can’t lose ye, Jenny. Not now. I’ve been waiting all my life for ye, though I never knew it. Stay with me, lass. Jenny? Jenny!”

The pull of death was too strong. Harris could almost feel it sucking her life away. Like a giant whirlpool, dragging her into the depths of eternity. Grasping helplessly for anything that might rouse her, he lifted Jenny as high as his waning strength would allow.

And he kissed her.

Not the way he’d kissed her in his cabin on the St. Bride, a lifetime ago. Then he had taken a kiss from her. Wresting by force what he knew she would never surrender willingly. Taking some perverse satisfaction from her reluctance, for it made him the master.

This time he gave Jenny a kiss, buoyed by the improbable hope that she might want it after all. At first her lips felt cool and slack to the touch, but Harris paid no mind. He molded his mouth to hers, making it an instrument of supplication and enticement. Nuzzling, caressing, satiating, he used his lips and tongue to beseech and beguile her back to life.

What effect it had on Jenny, Harris could not tell at first. But the embers of his own strength rekindled. His heart beat faster, sending feverish blood pulsing through his veins with renewed potency.

Then he felt it.

The gentlest flutter of her tongue. A subtle movement of her lips. The pressure of his kiss, oh so delicately reciprocated. Somehow he had changed roles from the fairy godfather to the prince, with vistas of “happily ever after” opening before him.

So intent was he upon Jenny, and nursing this flicker of life within her, that Harris scarcely heard oars rhythmically hitting the water. The muted sound of voices did rouse him, however, though he could not understand the words.

Wrenching his attention from Jenny, he glanced around to find that dawn had stolen upon them. The rain had eased to little more than a drizzle, and the wind had died. Though it was still not fully light, Harris could make out the shoreline, no more than a hundred yards away. Then he saw the boat—a long canoe, approaching from the distant opposite shore.

Mustering the last crumbs of his strength, he held Jenny with his good arm and raised the wounded one in the air.

“Here! Help!” he called in a voice so weak and raspy he hardly recognized it.

A voice from the boat exclaimed, but Harris could not make out what. Confident they’d been spotted, he let his arm fall.

As the canoe drew close, Harris saw two rugged men wielding the paddles.

“Lord-a-mercy,” cried one. “These must be the folks that washed overboard of the wreck.”

With what little grasp of consciousness he still possessed, Harris wondered how they could ever haul him and Jenny aboard without upsetting their precariously balanced craft. It proved no easy feat, their efforts hampered by Harris’s ebbing strength and Jenny’s deadweight. The men were obviously masters of their strange vessel, for in time they prevailed.

“Lay down with your missus and hang on to her,” advised the older-looking of the two men.

Too weary to explain that Jenny was not his wife, Harris followed the order. The boatmen doffed their coats and laid them over the supine pair. Taking up their paddles again, they struck out for the far shore with urgent speed.

They spared breath for speech only once.

The boat had been making swift progress for some time when Harris heard one of the men gasp “Think they’ll make it?”

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