The Mail-Order Brides

Besides which, he wasn’t altogether immune to her himself. If he’d had no other reason to reject her, that would be enough.

“Mrs. Sutton, I’m afraid you won’t do. I mean this purely as a kindness, for you’d never survive. For the most part the men here are decent enough, but they’re a rough sort. Their wives will have to be tough as nails to stake a claim and hang on to it.”

Grey found it all but impossible to meet her eyes, though he was commonly known as a direct man. Shifting his weight on his big, booted feet, he tried to think of some compelling reason that might convince her to leave. He could hardly tell her that he hadn’t been this tempted by a woman in years, especially not one who reeked of brandy and looked as if she’d just been tipped head over heels out of a handcart.

“I’m tough,” she said, meeting his gaze with surprising directness.

“The nearest doctor is almost a day’s sail from here.”

“I’m healthy as a horse,” she said calmly.

“We’ve no amenities—no shops or tearooms—the kind of places ladies like to spend time.”

“I can do without those.” One by one, she continued to swat down his arguments, as if daring him to send her away.

“Dammit—begging your pardon, ma’am, but you’re too pretty! If I let you stay, the other men will never be satisfied with plainer women, and you must know, those who come out here are mostly ones who can’t find a husband anywhere else.”

She blinked those incredible eyes of hers. At least she didn’t simper. Finally she said, “I can be plain. I am, honestly, it’s just this gown—pink is—it’s so flattering.”

The air left his lungs in a hefty, hopeless sigh. Dammit, he felt like a dog, but for her own sake—for the sake of his peaceable community—for the sake of his own peace of mind, she had to go. “Your return passage won’t cost you a penny. The Bessie Mae & Annie belongs to me, her captain is in my employ. Naturally I’ll pay for your time….” He reached for his wallet.

Pay for her time? Dora thought wildly. Time was not a problem. Time, she had aplenty. What she didn’t have was another place to go. She had burned all her bridges—or rather they’d been burned for her. After coming all the way out to the ends of the earth, where could she go from here? Off the edge?

Pride fought with anger and desperation. After an exchange of letters—two on her part, one on his—her passage had been arranged. It had never once occurred to her that after all that, she would be rejected.

Fighting the urge to batter him with her fists, she forced back her anger and reached for pride. Head held high, she glanced disdainfully at the bills fluttering in his hand and turned away before the tears could overflow. She might have to crawl behind a sand dune to bawl her eyes out on the way back to the boat, but she would die before she would let him see her shed a single tear.

“Mrs. Sutton?” he called after her.

“I don’t need your money,” she pronounced clearly without turning around. “As you said, there are no shops here, no tearoom—why on earth would I even want to stay?”

“But Mrs. Sutton—”

She kept on walking as fast as she could, hoping to be well out of range when the dam broke. As it would. She was just too tired, too empty—too totally without hope, to hold back much longer.

The church. If she could just make it as far as the church…

But before she even reached the church, someone called out in a wavering, pain-filled voice. “Miss? Could I bother you for a hand up?”

Blinking away the moisture, she glanced over the neat picket fence and saw that the man who’d been standing on a ladder when she’d passed by the first time was now lying on the ground.

Without a second thought, she swung open the gate and hurried to his side. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Obviously he was hurt. “My ankle,” he said with an apologetic look. “It’s not as young as I thought it was.”

It took her a moment to realize he was attempting a joke. In spite of her own situation, she was touched. “Let me help you sit up, and then we’ll see what needs to be done.”

He was not a large man. Pain clouded his eyes, but he managed a smile that cut through her defenses. Her own tears would have to wait.

Obviously embarrassed at having to ask for help, he attempted to lean forward to unlace his boots. With a soft, impatient murmur, Dora brushed his hands away and carefully removed his boot.

“Oh, dear.”

“Would you mind fetching St. Bride before he gets away? If he’ll help me into the house, I’ll be fine in no time at all.”

“It could be broken,” she said.

Fetch St. Bride? She’d sooner fetch the devil himself.

“Wrenched it good, that’s all. I’ve broke enough bones to know the difference.” His weathered face had paled noticeably. Dora could only hope he was right. Hadn’t the dragon king mentioned that there was no doctor on the island?

“If you’ll lean on me, I can help you inside. My father sprained his ankle once. They had to cut his boot off, it swelled so quickly.”

The injured man twisted around, peering hopefully at the house on the ridge of dunes while Dora looked for something to help her get him inside. A crutch, or even a walking stick would be perfect, but she was going to have to improvise. Scanning the tidy yard, she looked past the fallen ladder, past a sagging net pen holding a goose and several chickens to a handcart filled with gardening tools and a small wooden crate. Perhaps she could wheel him up to his porch and…

Perhaps not. It would have to be the crate. Dragging it closer, she managed to get him up off the ground and seated. Sweat beaded his furrowed face, but he thanked her as politely as if she’d offered him milk and sugar for his tea.

“As soon as you catch your breath, we’ll take the next step,” she said firmly. She might not measure up to his lordship’s lofty standards, but at least this much she could do before she left. “There now, if you’ll just take my hands…”

He was only a few inches taller than she was, and frail for a man who looked as if he might once have been far more robust. The steps up onto the porch were a problem, but patiently, she supported him until, hobbling beside her, he managed to get inside.

“There now, if you’ll just steer me to the settee I’ll rest a spell until the swelling goes down. I thank you kindly, that I do.”

“Who lives here with you?” Surely he had someone to look after him. The almighty St. Bride would have seen to that.

“Buried my wife two years ago, out by the fig trees. I’ve managed on my own since then. Can’t say I’m not glad you come along when you did, though. If that old gander of Sal’s was to get out again, we’d have had us a real set-to, with me down on his level.”

Hating her feelings of inadequacy, Dora located a towel, dipped it in a basin of cold water and applied it to his swollen ankle. In other circumstances she might have been embarrassed at such an intimacy, but the man was obviously in pain. She could hardly leave him here alone.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go. The boat that had brought her to the island would probably be returning to Bath as soon as it finished its business here. She could hardly go back there.

“I have a few minutes before I have to leave. What else can I do to make you comfortable before I leave?” she asked brightly.

He appeared to consider the offer. And then he said, “You’re one of St. Bride’s women, aren’t you?”

One of St. Bride’s women? How many did the man have, for heaven’s sake?

“You know about that? About the advertisement?” Fighting to keep despair from her voice, Dora managed to smile.

Ignoring her question, Emmet Meeks said, “’Pears to me we could both use a cup of strong tea, missy.”

“Dora,” she murmured. “Dora Sutton.” She had left Adora behind. The only good thing about being rejected was not having to go on with a lie. Or face the shame of admitting how gullible she’d been to believe Henry when he’d said he loved her. Of allowing him to—

Yes, well…from now on out, she was simply Dora.

“Emmet Meeks,” the man replied, still pale, still obviously in pain, but determined to hide it. It occurred to her that they were two of a kind in that respect. “My wife, rest her soul, swore by tea. Said coffee rotted a man’s bones. Reckon maybe that might be what ails mine?” His smile was more of a grimace, but it occurred to her that he must once have been a handsome man.

It also occurred to her that he was not in the best of health, sprained ankle notwithstanding.