The Unmarried Bride

The Unmarried Bride

Emma Goldrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

ABIGAIL CONSTANCE SPENCER arched her back to relieve the strain, swept up her skirts under her, and sat down on the stone step that guarded the front porch. Behind her, through the open door, the hall gleamed and the kitchen sparkled. This morning at six Abby had looked pert and determined, while the house had looked as if Attila the Hun had dropped by; now, in the softness of a late summer twilight, the house sparkled and gleamed, while Abby drooped.

She dropped her head forward on to her arms, her straw-blonde hair falling like a mist around her head. It had all been worth it, she told herself. Uncle Theodore, after eighty-nine cantankerous years, had upped and died, leaving the tiny island and his good wishes to his great-grandniece Abigail Spencer.

‘My house and anything she can find in it,’ his will said. ‘She is the only relative I have who refuses to bicker with me.’ It must have been sarcasm, she chuckled to herself. Of all his living relatives, Abby was the one Uncle Teddy had spent years carefully avoiding, which made the bang-up arguments he was always seeking with other family members impossible with her. And besides, she liked the old codger.

Certainly he would never have considered it an advantage that his house stood isolated at the top of one of the two small hills on Umatec Island, looking down on to the hurrying waters of Narraganset Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Isolated, but picture-perfect for a woman who made a precarious living reviewing the endless horde of mediocre novels that rolled off the presses, all for the edification of the readers of the Washington Sunday Mirror.

She had come late in the holiday season because of Aunt Letty. Great-aunt Letty, that was. ‘You’re worn to a frazzle, girl. Practically all bones, you are. You suffer from over-management,’ her great-aunt had lectured. ‘Your mother, your brothers, that crazy newspaper editor—all of them sworn to manage your life for you. Go up to Umatec, and relax.’

So here I am, Abby told herself. Bound and determined to relax. Just as soon as I get all those little jobs finished, I’m determined to relax!

Soft fur caressed Abby’s ankle. She opened one green eye. Cleo, her almost pure-bred collie, was rubbing the silver-grey fur on top of her head against Abby’s bare feet. ‘Pure-bred,’ Abby said, teasing. ‘Hah! Your father was a sheep-dog and your mother came from the South Sea Islands—or something.’ Her dog stared at her from solid green eyes, and turned disdainfully away.

Uncle Teddy had hated dogs! He had certainly been far out to sea concerning Cleo, she thought. Despite the complimentary thought the collie offered one very snobbish sneer down her long nose and wandered away. Tired, Abby dropped her head on her arms again and closed her eyes. How about that? she told herself. Even your own dog won’t talk to you! And then she dozed.

‘What are you doin’ to my house?’ An insistent male demand, coming just forward of her chin. Abigail snapped her head up and opened one eye. Umatec was one tiny spot of an island, one of the chain of Elizabeth Islands that stretched from the underflank of Cape Cod down into Long Island sound. Certainly it was no place to expect a determined four-foot taffy-headed male dressed in a nondescript pair of swimming-trunks and a belligerent look. The look covered more than the swimming-trunks did.

Abby had seen her share and more of belligerent males; it was one of the reasons she had fled the city with her bulging briefcase. Nothing seemed to sting the psyche of endless male detective story-writers more than to read her usually gentle comments in the Sunday Mirror. Why her editors referred to her as the ‘vitriol lady’ she could never understand. And if the writers ever discovered that Cicero was a female the skies would fall.

But this particular male, although out of place, did not seem large enough to cause any serious trouble. She bit on the challenge. ‘As it happens, it’s my house, young man, and I’m cleaning it. Just what the devil are you doing here?’

The freckled face screwed itself up. ‘No, it ain’t your house. I live here. Me and my dad.’ And then a wave of suspicion. ‘Did my dad sell you my house?’

‘I don’t suppose he did.’ Abby patted the step beside her in a tacit offer of debate. The little boy looked her up and down cautiously and backed off one step. He folded his hands behind his back, as if he was not willing to take any chances with the woman in front of him.

‘I inherited this house—and the island too, for that matter, from my uncle Theodore,’ Abby continued. ‘And now that I’ve got the house cleaned up I intend to live here.’

The boy’s upper lip began to quiver. ‘You can’t do that to my house,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna tell my dad. He’ll have you arrested and thrown in gaol. What do you think about that?’

‘I can’t say that I’m terribly pleased. Where is this dad of yours? Hiding?’

‘My dad is the strongestest man in the world. He wouldn’t hide from no girl.’

Abby stood up slowly. His eyes traced her movement. Without heels Abigail was just slightly over five feet ten. In her favourite two-inchers she could look down on many a six-footer. The boy was impressed. He backed off a step or two. ‘An’ he’s awful brave, too. He wouldn’t be scared by no girl. Not even no big girl,’ he amended.

‘Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ Abby assured the boy. What do you suppose? she asked herself. Eight years old? Hard to tell. Abby was the only female in an extended family, all of whose members thought it proper for females—meaning Abigail—to fetch and carry, mind their manners and be otherwise unobtrusive. So she had some perspective on the dominant male. And consider. He thinks his big old dad might have sold his house out from under him. How about that for confidence?

‘I’m thirsty and tired and dirty, and I need a bath—in my bathtub, young man. Why don’t you run along to wherever this daddy of yours is located?’

‘Boy, you’re gonna be sorry.’ The boy backed off another couple of paces, almost tripping over Cleo, who had been attracted by the voices. The dog was no tiny thing. In fact, Cleo could weigh in as a junior-weight wolf, but hadn’t the energy to be mean. The boy, not understanding all this, saw only Cleo’s outside frame and sharp teeth, not the tender soul within. He gulped, glared at the pair of them, then abandoned the field. As he disappeared over the top of the hill Abby could faintly hear him yell, ‘You’re gonna be sorry! You just wait!’

Her dog gave her a quizzical look—the sort that might be interpreted as, Well, what have you done now, Abigail Spencer?

‘If I knew I’d tell you. It’s all fairly confusing as there isn’t enough room on this island for a mouse to hide away all day. He seemed to be talking as if there was some permanence to his visit. Oh, well.’ Abby shook her head and headed back into the house. ‘I’m going to have a bath. And I might take a look in the other bedrooms to see if anything is happening. Care to join me?’

Cleo understood words like ‘bath’ and ‘dinner’, even though the need for a bath was totally beyond comprehension. But she was a willing companion, no matter what the object. The pair of them strolled into the house and up the stairs. As they went into the hall Cleo found her little yellow ball, her favourite toy, and picked it up.

At the top landing Abby stopped and contemplated. It was a huge house, with rooms to spare, all built as additions on the original salt-box. Most of the floors of the additions did not quite match the original construction. As a result there were steps up or down, or slanted floors galore at the junction-points. But the upstairs hall, part of the original construction, looked to be smooth and level and about the size of two lanes at a bowling alley.

Uncle Teddy had been as eccentric as his house. In the course of a wild and woolly life he had won and lost four fortunes, and on the day he died, fighting all the way, he had been drawing up a scheme to make another. His house was built for a monarch, but Uncle had hardly occupied it for more than a summer month each year. And, with the flavour of the turn of the century, it was referred to as a summer cottage.

Abby stroked Cleo’s neck. ‘And he would have made another fortune too, if time hadn’t run out on him.’ The dog woofed agreement. They walked to the end of the hall and looked in the rooms along the way. Abby hadn’t cleaned any of the other bedrooms other than the one she normally used when she came to Umatec Island. Her assigned room was the one furthest from the bathroom, but she had always enjoyed the walk down the hallway. She found luggage and signs of inhabitation in two of the other rooms. Someone was evidently living, very neatly, in Uncle Theodore’s old room and someone else was living, fairly messily, in the room next to hers. Interesting.

The bathroom took up the entire east end of the house. The tub was big enough for three or four and made of Vermont marble. It stood on a two-foot platform above the tiled floor. The entire east wall was glass. The old man had liked to soak in his tub with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other, and watch the boats go up the channel.

‘Dancing girls,’ Abby said, chuckling. ‘Oriental music. Houris?’ Her dog, who had followed close behind her, backed off into the corner next to the door. ‘Some day,’ she mused, ‘I’m going to find out just what a houri is.’ She had a vague idea from reading translations of The Thousand and One Nights, but could never drive herself to actually look up the word, afraid the dictionary might tell her more than she cared to know.

Abby turned on the hot-water tap. From a distance she could hear a click and a roar as the generator came on line. In a moment the hot water poured out of the ornate spout very satisfactorily.

‘I’ll say one thing for Uncle Teddy,’ she told her dog. ‘He never stinted on something he really wanted.’ Cleo laid her head on the cold floor between her front paws. Abby swayed to what she thought was oriental music, and slowly stripped as she gyrated and sang. It was more Hawaiian than oriental, but for a girl who hardly ever stirred more than twenty-five miles from Washington it was a good approximation. A hot bath was the Spencer family recipe for relaxation from cares and Abby was falling into the family habit and forgetting the unexplained people on the island. They could wait—the bath, however, was a necessity!

With a copious gesture she sprinkled bath powder over the water. There were three different kinds. She used some of each. Suds swelled up and over the sides of the tub as she climbed in, sat down, and sighed with relief. The suds came up past her chin. She shovelled a path for herself, and then leaned back and closed her eyes.

The warmth welcomed her, soothing her body and her mind. Gradually her hands drifted smoothly down her long, soft curves. She sighed again, and blew away a suds-cloud that threatened her nose. ‘There’s no doubt about it,’ she told Cleo. ‘I’m in love with Harry Farnsworth.’ And again she sighed at her foolishness. Harry Farnsworth was a character in one of Selby Jones’s detective stories. A fictional character. Tall, blond and powerful, with a sabre scar high on his right cheek. How stupid can a girl get, to fall in love with a fictional character? Disgusted with herself, she pushed it all out of her mind, and began scrubbing.

The sound of a door slamming brought her up sharply. Umatec was too small an island for more than one house. The only thing that came to mind was the small boy and the owners of the luggage in the bedrooms. Access to the island is by small boat only and I know I didn’t invite anyone, she thought. So why should I lock the doors? The little boy—where the devil did he come from? And this father he was bragging about? An escaped criminal from the maximum security prison?

Footsteps. They rattled up the bare wooden stairs and then disappeared into the depths of the hall carpet. Oh, God! Abby sank down into the suds, wishing for a periscope or a weapon—or both. Her hands slid around the sides of the tub. Nothing.

‘So. That’s where you’re hiding.’ An indignant accusation levelled by an angry little boy.

‘I am not hiding, I’m bathing. What the devil are you doing in my bathroom? And what, may I ask, is your name?’

‘My name is Harry. My father is coming. You’d better get out of there. If he finds you there—lordy, if he finds me here!’

Abby sat up and pushed the suds away from her face. The little fellow was trembling. Scared, or just cold? He was barefoot, and still wore nothing but the tatty bathing suit.

‘Your father won’t hurt you,’ she said. ‘That’s against the law.’

‘Law? My father doesn’t care about no laws. And you don’t know him. He’ll murder me when he catches me.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Abby said. ‘After all, we live in a civilised community.’

‘Yeah, civilised. I used some of his good paper to draw on yesterday and he’s just found out. He’ll kill me, lady. Believe! Where can I hide?’

‘He wouldn’t dare—’ Abby stopped in mid-sentence. Somebody dared. The downstairs door slammed again. Really slammed, so that parts of the old house shook.

‘Harry? Harry!’ There were noises as the man downstairs stomped through the living-room, the kitchen, the study, and back to the foot of the stairs.

‘Harry Farnsworth, you’d better get down here before I tan your hide. Harry!’

Harry Farnsworth? It couldn’t be, but there it was. I’m dreaming, Abby told herself. Dreaming it all! Harry Farnsworth is a fictional character in a book!

But the boy believed that Harry was reality. He listened for a moment as the footsteps came up the stairs—heavy footsteps, something on the order of King Kong. The boy looked around for a place to hide. The footsteps reached the upper landing. The next scene was choreographed out of an old Bixby movie. The boy looked over his shoulder at the sudsy tub, then back towards the stairs. Abby, on cue, not willing to share her tub, came up out of the water covered from head to toe with suds, slipped on the marble floor, and skidded off into a corner. She clutched madly as she skidded, and came to a halt with two massive bath-towels wrapped around her.

The boy screwed up his courage and jumped head first into the tub, instantly disappearing into the blanket of suds.

‘Well, I thought the boy was lying,’ drawled a deep male voice, supported by a massive pair of shoulders and as stern a look as Abby had seen since she left St Alban’s Catholic high school. The good Mother Superior, somewhat puzzled by the gangling size of the girl, had spent years trying to convert her into a neat, obedient doll. With not much luck. And now this—whatever—and in her bathroom! She jerked herself up to a sitting position and brushed away enough suds to be able to see clearly.

‘And just what the devil are you doing in my bathroom?’ she demanded.

‘Your bathroom.’

‘My bathroom. This isn’t Highway Ninety-five. And I’m taking a bath.’

‘Your bathroom?’

‘We said that once. Is there something wrong with your hearing?’

‘That’s possible,’ he said.

Such a nice voice, Abby told herself. If I weren’t so angry with him I’d—well, I won’t! Good-sized, too. Well proportioned. Nice tan. An outdoor man. So maybe we could talk this out?

‘My bathroom,’ she said. ‘My uncle left it to me. I mean not just the bathroom, but the house and the island and—well, everything. And now if you would kindly remove yourself I’ll get dressed and—what are you doing?’

‘You claim you’re taking a bath, but you’re sitting in the corner,’ he said menacingly. ‘So why is there another hand in the tub? And if the other half of this act is my son Harry there’ll be hell to pay.’ He came up on to the pedestal step and bent over the tub.

‘No,’ Abby protested. ‘Don’t—’

Cleo had been following the play of the game, and thought she understood the rules. She came up to her feet, walked over behind the man and barked. A very impressive bark, Cleo’s, one that might have come from any self-respecting monster. The man hesitated.

‘Does he bite?’

‘All the time. She bites all the time.’

‘Harry. Come out of there!’ No longer a gentle voice, but rather the kind that tamed hurricanes.

‘Oh, no,’ Abby said. ‘She—’

Whatever nonsense Abby thought her dog would get into was hardly comparable to what actually happened. One more ‘woof’ and Cleo reared back on her hind legs and gave the man a considerable bump on his posterior. It was not an excessively strong attack, but he was already half bent over the tub, and Cleo did the rest. He tottered for a moment, then came head first into the tub. A wave of water came over the edge and splashed down on to the tile floor, taking some of the suds with it. With a squeak of alarm Abby struggled to her feet, wrapped herself securely in the towels, and sidled towards the door.

‘Gotcha,’ the male voice in the tub commented. The boy appeared, coming up out of the suds, suspended by his father’s right arm. A second or two later the man appeared, spitting suds in all directions. He groped for the wet step and set the boy down on the floor. As soon as Harry’s feet hit the floor he started running. But his father maintained a grip on his bathing suit. The lad was making running motions but getting nowhere. The man emerged. Another wave of water splattered out of the tub. Abby, too astonished to notice anything else, just stood there. That last splash of water had washed away almost all the suds on the floor. The man stared at her, while firmly holding the boy’s head in the other direction. ‘Put something on!’ he commanded.

Up to that moment Abby Spencer had been riding high on her anger. Now, with the man’s remark, she looked hastily down. The towel covered her. Not artistically, perhaps, but covered. Her only hope was disdain. ‘As it happens, Whoever-you-are, I’m a good deal better covered than either one of you.’

His father took a good long look, then pushed the boy towards the door. ‘Out, son.’

That’s all he can do, Abby thought. While I’m standing here shivering he’s chasing the boy out of the room. ‘You could go yourself,’ she muttered at him. The towel was slipping off her left shoulder. His eyes bugged.

‘Look, Mrs—’

‘Miss,’ Abby said. ‘Miss.’ And then very slowly, ‘Would you do me the favour of getting out of my bathroom?’ It wasn’t exactly a polite question. The bath-sheet was soaking wet and clinging to her frame like a piece of wet tissue—very revealing and form-fitting. She could see by the look on his face that the towel promised much more than she was even willing to think about. But if she was going to think about it he just about fitted her dream qualifications.

‘Daddy?’ The boy twisted around to see the goings on, and was immediately twisted back again by his father.

‘I’m sorry, Miss—’

‘Spencer,’ she yelled at him. ‘Now will you get out of here?’

‘Out of here? Oh, yes.’ A big grin sparkled across his face, lighting him and half the world. He looked boyish—no longer threatening. He left the room, shepherding his son in front of him. Taking his own darned time about it too, Abby told herself.

He left the door open as he marched his son out in front of him. A chill raced up Abby’s spine. She wrapped the bath-sheet more securely around her. The chill was not entirely due to the wind blowing into the room, she assured herself. A large portion of it was due to the man himself. Not a man, but rather this man. He was having an effect on her that she wasn’t sure she wanted. And yet—?

Not being the tidiest person in her family, Abby turned the switch that emptied the tub, and then looked around at the flood of water on the floor. For some reason it seemed to be eddying over into the corner. Closer inspection showed that a drain was built in that corner and the floor was slightly tilted. ‘Oh, Uncle Teddy,’ she giggled. ‘Just what were you up to in this magnificent tub?’

From downstairs there came the noise of harsh words. It seemed that little Harry was listening while his father did all the talking. Curiosity had always been one of Abby’s major weaknesses. She hurried down the hall to her bedroom, drying herself while she went, and when she reached her room she snatched up a green floor-length beach-robe. Cleo padded docilely along beside her.

No reason to dress, she told herself. He won’t be around that long. She fastened the robe, made a vague effort to dry her hair, but gave it up in disgust. Curiosity and anger were driving her much faster than beauty. Together she and Cleo went down the stairs as fast as they could walk.

The men were making themselves at home in the living-room. Or, as Abby called it, the blue room. It was a dark room with few windows and many drapes, all blue. It gave the appearance of a cave, a blue cave. Since there was no electric power available on the island except from the house generator, the room was softly lit by a pair of propane-powered lamps.

The two males had evidently run through their arguments. The elder was sitting in one of her over-stuffed chairs. He was still soaking wet and he was towelling the boy, who stood between his legs with a big grin on his small face.

‘There,’ the boy said. ‘There’s four of us here in this room and only one of us is wearing shoes. Take your shoes off, Daddy.’

‘Four of us?’

‘Yeah. You, me and her and her dog.’

‘Ah, I forgot the dog. But no, I can’t do that,’ the man returned. ‘She—will be leaving any minute now, and she’ll need my help. That’s what men do for women—they help.’

Abby walked over to the huge couch and sat down, pulling her feet up beneath her. She had walked down the stairs torn between curiosity and growing anger that anyone would be on her island and disturb her peace. ‘Now then, Mr—?’

‘Farnsworth,’ he answered the prompt. ‘Selby Farnsworth. And this is my son Harry—’

‘My name is Henry,’ the child interrupted. ‘Henry Farnsworth.’

A fine pair of liars, both of you, Abby thought. How could he have got the child so well-trained? Harry Farnsworth is a fictional character. Who should know better than me? Selby Jones had written three books and she had panned the first two while the third was—well, almost perfect.

‘Farnsworth,’ she mused. ‘It seems to me that that’s a name I’d choose if I was going to hide out. So tell me, Mr Farnsworth—’ and you could hear the question mark in the name ‘—how long have you been on the island? I’ve been cleaning the house all day and I’ve not seen hide nor hair of either of you. This is a very small island. I can’t believe you’ve been on my island all day without coming up to the house.’

‘My son and I have been on the island for three weeks,’ the man retorted. ‘We went over to Hyannis to do some shopping and sightseeing. I have a lease on this island and this house for six weeks, ending on September fifteenth.’

‘I don’t see how that’s possible,’ Abby said. ‘We’ve got three weeks until September fifteenth and I certainly haven’t signed any lease with you. I don’t intend to wait that long to be rid of you, either. You’d just better pack and leave. You can take the boat you came over in from Hyannis today and go back to the mainland. And while you’re there maybe you should just sit down and check your so-called lease.’