it had been wild and free; now it had to die to satisfy the primeval hunting instincts in a couple of otherwise civilized men.
Noticing her distress, Edmund said quietly, “You want me to toss it back overboard, sweet pea?”
“No,” she said, dashing away the tears. “From the looks of it, it would probably die anyway.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
“You must think I’m an absolute fool to get so overwrought about a mere fish.”
His blue eyes darkened and his voice was almost tender when he replied, “I don’t think any such thing. Go crack some eggs in a bowl and find a frying pan. And if you need help with the stove, just give a shout.”
She found butter, eggs and mushrooms in the cooler, more rolls in a bag on the tiny counter, coffee in a jar by the sink, and a cast iron frying pan in the oven.
When Edmund swung down into the cabin fifteen minutes later, she’d buttered half a dozen rolls and had a huge mushroom omelet sizzling in the pan.
“Came to lend a hand,” he said, “but I can see I’m not needed.”
“Not in the kitchen, at least.”
He ducked his head until his eyes were on a level with hers. “On a boat, it’s called a galley, Jenna.”
Kitchen, galley—call it what he liked, it wasn’t designed for two, especially not when one of the occupants stood over six feet and weighed close to a hundred and ninety pounds. No matter how careful she was, every time she moved, whether it was to turn the omelet or pour boiling water over the coffee grounds, one part of her or another brushed against him.
She could detect the faint smell of soap on his skin, feel the warmth of his breath in her hair, the heat of his body at her back. The experience left her oddly short of breath.
“You want to eat outside?” she practically wheezed.
“You bet. Got to keep an eye out to make sure the fishing lines stay clear.”
She stuffed the rolls into a basket, plunked three coffee mugs on top and shoved the lot into his hands. “Then make yourself useful and take all this on deck while I finish the eggs.”
“Sure. And don’t even think about trying to climb into the cockpit with that coffeepot. I’ll bring it up.”
I pay other people to take care of things like that, Mark had informed her, the one time she’d made the mistake of asking him to help clear away the dishes after she’d made dinner for him at her apartment. Once we’re married, you won’t have to lift a finger. We’ll have an entire staff to look after the cooking and housekeeping.
But I like cooking, she’d protested. And I like being in charge of my own kitchen.
There’s a difference between being in charge and taking on the role of household drudge. Armstrong wives don’t appear in public with dishpan hands.
Lithe and agile, Edmund swung down into the cabin and closed in on her again. “How much longer before those eggs are ready, woman?” he said, eyeing the frying pan devoutly. “The smells floating up top have driven us to drink. Hank’s lacing the coffee with rum.”
“They’re done,” she said, dividing the omelet into three unequal parts and sliding the two larger portions onto plates. “These are for you and Hank and I’ll be right behind you with mine.”
When he’d gone, she fanned her face with a dish towel and decided there was a lot of truth to the old saying about getting out of the kitchen if a person couldn’t take the heat. She definitely couldn’t take the kind of heat Edmund Delaney generated!
His head reappeared in the open hatch. “Want me to bring up anything else?”
What she wanted was a few minutes in which to collect herself, because try as she might, she found herself constantly comparing him to Mark and finding her former fiancé coming up short. How could that be when Mark was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? The possible answers were too disturbing to contemplate.
“Good grub,” Hank announced, when she came up on deck. “You ever want a job, you’ve got one. Tourist season’s just around the corner and I could use a cook like you.”
The idea had merit. Her bruised spirit craved the prospect of a simple life, uncomplicated by the demands of a family who, sadly, had viewed her marriage to Mark as a passport to high society and easy living. The anonymity of being a stranger in a remote village cut off from the stress and bustle of the Lower Mainland held enormous appeal.
Edmund was watching her closely. “Tempted by the idea?”
“Good grief!” she said, pressing her palms to her cheeks. “Am I that easy to read?”
“Clear as glass,” he said, his blue eyes disconcertingly intent. “Your face is an open book. You’d make a lousy poker player.”
I make a lousy everything, she almost replied, the self-pity she’d managed to subdue suddenly rearing up again.
Was it the bright, sunny day that made her fight it? The grandeur of the scene around her beside which her little tragedy seemed pitifully insignificant? Or the man sitting across from her and seeing into her heart so much more clearly than Mark ever had? “Then I’d better stick to cooking,” she said, drumming up a smile even though the effort made her face ache.
Hank looked hopeful. “You takin’ me up on my offer?”
“Thanks, but no,” she said, her smile more genuine this time. “I have other things I need to do.”
Like fighting her demons, laying certain ghosts to rest, and facing the rest of her life without Mark.
She gave an involuntary shudder at the enormity of the task facing her, and hugged her elbows close to her chest.
“Wind’s pickin’ up,” Hank observed, squinting at her in the sunlight. “Usually does about this time of day. Might be best if you found something a bit heavier to wear than that flimsy jacket you brought with you.”
“I don’t need—” she began, but Edmund cut her off.
“Yes, you do.” He reached into his canvas bag and pulled out an extra sweater. “Put this on, sweet pea. It’ll cut the wind out and keep you from catching cold.”
It was easier not to argue, and truth to tell, comforting to have him care. Obediently, she slipped the sweater over head. Thick and heavy like the one he was wearing, its sleeves hung well below the tips of her fingers and the hem reached almost to her knees.
“Sure it’s big enough?” Hank snickered. “Looks to me as if there’s room for two in there.”
“Not quite,” she said, her senses swimming as Edmund slid his fingers along the back of her neck to free her hair trapped inside the collar. “But you’re right. I won’t make any Best Dressed Lists with it.”
“It isn’t the packaging that counts,” he said, slinging a arm around her shoulders and giving her a friendly hug. “I thought you were smart enough
