The Eyes Of Derek Archer - Vickie York Mills & Boon M&B

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Just a convenience, like I said before, done by proxy and properly witnessed, it’s as legal as any other contract, which is not to say the whole thing can’t be dissolved at the behest of either party.”

      “Well, I don’t know,” Rose said hesitantly.

      Bess carefully avoided looking at Horace, but they both knew the battle was won.

      And what a story it would make, Bess thought gleefully. Of course, she would have to allow a decent interval to pass before she could set it to paper. By then she’d have learned all the gory details of that so-called accident. And naturally she would change the names of all parties involved.

      Rose’s courage held up until nearly the end. It was when she looked down and saw her own shaky signature, Augusta R. L. Magruder, on the marriage certificate, that her knees threatened to buckle and her breakfast threatened to return on her.

      Except that she hadn’t had any breakfast. She’d been too nervous to eat a bite.

      “Oh, my, this is a mistake,” she whispered.

      “You look lovely, my dear,” Horace said, beaming as if it had been a real marriage instead of the mockery it was.

      She didn’t look lovely, she looked green. Given a choice, she’d prefer even sallow to green.

      “Captain Powers will be pleased, I’m sure. You’ve made a good choice, for Bess assures me that your husband is a man of some substance. I’ve, uh—taken the liberty of looking into his—”

      “No.” As they went right on talking, she said it again. “No!”

      Three people in the room turned to stare at her. Bess, who had already started celebrating, Horace, who’d worn a rosebud in his lapel in honor of the occasion; and the dentist from the office down the hall, who had stood proxy for her absent bridegroom.

      “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. You said I could behest myself out of it. How do I start?”

      “Now, Rose,” Bess soothed.

      “He won’t like me. I have a sour disposition, no social graces whatsoever, I’m too tall, and I don’t know the first thing about babies.”

      “Matt’s built like a lodgepole pine, he wouldn’t know a social grace if it reared up and bit him on the behind, and everybody’s tall to a baby. As to your disposition, that’s just worry. It’ll sweeten up once you quit fretting, and he’ll like you just fine. If he don’t, he’s a fool.”

      “What if I don’t like him?”

      “’T’wont make a speck of difference, he’ll be gone soon’s he sees you settled. Boy’s been chafing at the bit to get back to sea ever since he sold his ship.”

      Seeing the determined glint in Rose’s eye, Bess spoke up quickly. “As it happens, however, I just had another excellent idea.”

      Rose wasn’t sure she could survive another of Bess’s excellent ideas, but at the moment she was too weak to do more than sit and listen.

      Chapter Three

      The last piece of trim had been nailed onto Annie’s room just that morning. As Peg had been determined to build it for her, Matt had directed him to add it onto the bedroom at the far end of the hall, privately designating that as Mrs. Powers’s room. He had no intention of sharing his own quarters with the woman.

      Bess and her companion could work it out between them. Bess had her own favorite room with a corner exposure. He seriously doubted she’d do him much good with Annie. As for her friend, if the woman would fill in until his wife showed up, he’d be forever grateful.

      Wife. Some helpmeet she’d turned out to be, Matt told himself bitterly. He’d had her for nearly two weeks now, and had yet to set eyes on the woman, much less benefit from the alliance. According to Bess, she’d been called out of town just after the wedding to look after a sick relative.

      And now, instead of one, he had two women to contend with. Bess hadn’t come right out and said so, but if he knew his aunt, it would be the Widow Littlefield who got stuck with the job of playing nursemaid. Fancying herself a famous writer, Bess could twist words until plain old black and white might mean any of a hundred shades of gray.

      “Mailboat’s headed into the channel, Cap’n, want me to hitch up the cart?” Crank had been baking all morning. One thing about it, with company on board, they’d all eat better. Matt, for one, had had his fill of beans, fish and cornbread.

      “Tell Luther to see to it.” The crew had long since stood down from shipboard protocol, but they still looked to the captain for direction.

      Matt returned to the reports he’d been studying all morning. The Swan was losing money with every haul. The captain signed on by the consortium that had bought her was obviously an incompetent fool with no more business sense than a slab of bacon. According to Matt’s source at the Port Authority’s office, the Swan had lost cargo from improper stowage, lost money by being consistently late delivering consignments, and suffered considerable damage in a hard blow off Barbados. Damage that hadn’t been properly repaired before the turnaround.

      Matt swore. The first ship he’d ever owned, the Black Swan had been his pride and joy. At the rate she was going, by the time he reclaimed her she’d be fit for little more than hauling coal. He’d be damned before he’d do that to her. He’d give her a decent sea burial himself before he would lower her pride any further.

      Briefly, he had even considered buying one of the small, fast schooners and taking up the coastal trade. It would ease the tedium of waiting to get his own ship back. With any luck, on a regular run from Maine to Savannah, he’d not have to see his wife—when and if she ever showed up—more than once or twice a year.

      But the proceeds of selling the Swan were earmarked for buying her back. As long as he kept his focus on that end, he could wait as long as it took. For better or worse, the Black Swan was the one true love of his life, and by damn, he was going to have her back.

      “And then you, Mrs. Powers, wherever you are,” he said softly, “can have Powers Point with my blessing.”

      Rose lay on her side on a filthy pad on a bunk that had obviously been built for someone half her length, her eyes tightly shut as she fought down a fresh surge of nausea. Bess had given her gingerroot to chew on, which had helped somewhat, but by the time the miserable little mailboat had wallowed her way in and out of every tiny village with so much as a two-plank wharf, she was praying only to die quickly.

      As for Matthew Powers and his baby, she fervently wished she had never heard of either of them.

      Bess popped her head through the doorway. “Time to spruce up,” she announced cheerfully. A seasoned traveler, she had spent the entire journey in the pilothouse, swapping tales and taking notes.

      “Just leave me to die in peace,” Rose begged without opening her eyes. She was as spruced as she would ever be. They could dig a hole and bury her at the next stop for all she cared, just so long as she never had to set foot on a boat again.

      “Folks don’t die of the seasickness.”

      “They only wish they could,” Rose said. Bracing herself against the constant rolling motion, she waited a moment to see if she would need the bucket again, then struggled to her feet. “You might as well know, I’m never going back. Not unless someone discovers a land route to the Outer Banks.”

      “Here, chew on this, it’ll make you feel fresher.” Bess handed her a sprig of wilted mint. “Now, pinch your cheeks and do something with your hair, you don’t want your bridegroom to see you looking like the scarecrow’s ghost.”

      “He’s not my bridegroom until I say he’s my bridegroom,” Rose grumbled.

      “That can wait. You’re here to get the lay of the land before you commit to anything more permanent, remember?”

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