From Waif To His Wife. Lindsay ArmstrongЧитать онлайн книгу.
only months ago?
He kissed her briefly, not even parting her lips, then lifted his head and stared into her green eyes, so wide and so shocked but at variance with the unresisting way she stood in the circle of his arms.
And something she couldn’t read flickered in his expression before he let her go. Then he immediately started to undress her.
Maisie came back to earth with a thud.
‘No,’ she gasped, ‘no!’ And attempted to stop him.
‘Listen,’ he commanded, ‘the only reason I’m doing this is because there’s no point in you dripping all over the saloon carpet—I have no designs on you!’
‘But you’ve just k-kissed me,’ she objected.
‘That was something else.’
‘How could it be? I mean—I mean, how do I know I won’t end up discarded and pregnant again?’
He paused and looked into her eyes, very green but supremely confused and wary, and a faint smile touched his lips. ‘I don’t think you can be pregnant twice at the same time.’
She bit her lip in frustration. ‘You know what I mean.’
He shrugged. ‘It was to make up for insulting you and being all superior and cynical. It was a salute for being told to go to hell in a rather foolhardy, but nevertheless decisive manner I couldn’t help admiring. That’s all.’
Maisie stared at him, uncharacteristically speechless, and he took the opportunity to strip off her top and push her trousers down then he sat her down so he could take off her shoes.
‘Besides which,’ he added, ‘I have seen it all before.’
‘But—but…’
He scanned her delicate figure beneath an emerald-green bra patterned with pink frangipanis and matching bikini briefs, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Very fetching, Maisie, but believe me, you’re not my type so you’re quite safe. Up you get!’
He pulled her to her feet as a wave of telltale colour mounted in her cheeks, and picked her up to carry her downstairs.
‘Right, into the shower, we’ve got plenty of hot water, so don’t stint until you feel warm right through,’ he ordered and set her on her feet as he opened the bathroom door.
‘But I’ve got no clothes!’
‘I’ll find you some. Just do as you’re told.’
The hot water was wonderful but she finally stepped out and wrapped her slim body in a towel and wrapped another, smaller one round her head. Then she realised that the boat was underway again and wondered in which direction he was going—Manly or Peel?
There was a rap on the door.
‘Yes?’ she called.
‘Go through the other door,’ Rafe Sanderson instructed. ‘It leads into the aft berth and you’ll find some clothes on the bed. Don’t take too long—once I’ve got the anchor down I’ll be making a warm drink for you.’
‘Yes, sir; no, sir; three bags full,’ Maisie murmured beneath her breath, but she did as she was told.
The aft berth had a walk-around double bed with a toffee and peppermint quilted silk coverlet. Her feet sank into deep toffee-coloured carpet, and the fittings were again New Guinea rosewood with brass handles.
She dropped the towel and looked down at herself. She was about three and a half months pregnant but if anything she’d lost a bit of weight. She put that down to stress and the fact that she’d gone through a period of morning sickness—only at night, thankfully, so it hadn’t affected her job—but it had quite put her off food.
Fortunately, that phase had mostly gone quite recently, although she still got the odd twinge. It was also fortunate it had passed because feeling physically dreadful a lot of the time, on top of feeling mentally traumatised, had seen her dither around unable to do anything or make any decisions.
But the only difference so far she could see in her body, apart from the bit of weight she’d lost, was her breasts. Her nipples were darker and more sensitive.
She turned her attention to the pile of clothes on the bed. They were a shade too big for her but she couldn’t quibble about their quality.
She pulled on coffee silk and lace knickers that looked to be brand-new. There was a matching bra but it was too big for her, so she chose a cream singlet with a prim satin bow. Then she put on a pair of green track pants and finally a gloriously snug cream-coloured cable-knit sweater.
It definitely wasn’t new, although it was perfectly clean, but a subtle perfume lingered on the wool.
Whose clothes were these she wondered.
There were no shoes but a pair of socks.
Finally, she looked at herself in the fitted dressing-table mirror. Her irrepressible hair was already starting to curl riotously but since she had nothing to tie it back with she could only comb her fingers through it. But it was the expression in her eyes that really startled her.
She looked somewhat shell-shocked, she decided. But who wouldn’t after diving overboard and having to be rescued? Or was it something to do with being kissed then being dismissed into a “not my type” category?
Of course I’m not his type, she thought immediately. Apart from anything else I’m pregnant by another man. But how did he make me feel so safe and…?
He did save me, she reminded herself as her cheeks started to warm.
Then she heard the different pitch of the motor, indicating slower revs then neutral, and the anchor chain rattled out. She looked out of the porthole to recognise the curved white beach of Horseshoe Bay on Peel Island, and bit her lip.
A few minutes later, as she was trying to work out how to deal with this development, he called out that coffee was ready.
‘How do you feel?’ he enquired as they sat opposite each other in the dining section.
This time there was proper, steaming coffee poured from a stainless-steel pot, and there was a dash of brandy in it.
‘I…Fine,’ she answered. ‘A lot warmer. Uh—thanks for the clothes.’
‘They belong to my sister, Sonia, who comes sailing with me from time to time—in case you’re wondering,’ he said with a dry little look.
‘I…’ Maisie glanced away awkwardly then decided not to pursue the matter.
‘Hmm…Well, you’ve got a bit of colour back in your cheeks. Are you really pregnant?’ he said then.
She blinked. ‘Why?’
‘Because if you are you should curb your apparently natural instincts towards outrageous deeds—like diving off boats and battling the tide,’ he added laconically.
Maisie’s hands flew protectively to her stomach. ‘I didn’t stop to think,’ she breathed. ‘But the doctor did tell me there was no need to cosset myself.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘His version of cosset could differ from yours. However, that seems to answer both my questions.’
‘Both?’
‘Yes. Not only are you pregnant, but you also don’t like the thought of losing the baby.’ His eyes searched hers.
‘No, I don’t.’ Maisie sipped her coffee and tried to find the words to explain.
Because out of the blue, amidst the shock and growing horror of finding herself pregnant and abandoned, the thought had dropped into her mind that she would not be alone in the world now.
She’d examined it carefully from all angles, but none of the obstacles, and her life was going to be strewn with them because of this baby, could