An Unsuitable Wife

‘Thanks,’ she said really gratefully. ‘I do seem to be very tired although don’t think I tire easily. I’m as strong as a horse normally; it’s just that—’ She stopped and coloured.

‘You’ve had a tough day,’ he supplied with a suppressed smile.

‘Yes... Goodnight,’ she said uncertainly.

He studied her for a moment and she couldn’t read his expression at all. Then he said quietly, ‘Goodnight, Sid. Sleep well; you really don’t have a thing to worry about.’

* * *

Which was how she came to fall asleep with some confusion among her thoughts—such as the rough diamond she’d assumed was Mike Brennan might not be so rough after all, and wondering how old he was and deciding he must be in his middle thirties but being unable to decide why this should concern her at all. Such as wondering how she was going to tell him that in one respect, at least, she was an utter fraud...

CHAPTER TWO

‘HOW’S that?’

‘It’s really excellent. She sails like a dream!’ Sidonie said enthusiastically. ‘Wouldn’t you just love to own a boat like this?’

Mike Brennan shrugged non-committally. They’d cleared the Abel Point Marina and Pioneer Rocks very early and were sailing down the Whitsunday Passage in light conditions, and added to the magic of Morning Mist there was a slight haze in the air so that the passage looked ethereally lovely in the morning light, a serenade of pale blues, sky and water with the islands appearing insubstantial and as if they were floating themselves. Two dolphins had accompanied them for a time, rubbing their backs under the bow of the boat then curving out of the water joyfully.

Sidonie had been aware as they’d hoisted sail and cut the motor that she’d been under Mike Brennan’s hawk-like scrutiny, and aware that she’d passed his unspoken test, which had given her a curiously joyful little lift herself. Not that she’d ever handled a boat this size before, with its impressive spread of sail, but the rudiments were always the same, and she thought her father, who had taught her to sail, would have been proud of her. Then she thought of Peter Matthews, who had also been impressed by her sailing abilities, and the many happy days they’d spent together on Port Phillip Bay, and blinked a couple of times. Why didn’t I realise until it was too late? she asked herself. I mean realise that what we shared wasn’t the stuff dreams are made of? If only I had I could have spared myself the indignity if nothing else of having to be told he’d fallen in love with someone else. Perhaps even spared him the embarrassment of it all...

‘Penny for them?’ the tall man beside her said quietly.

‘Er—’ She jumped and looked at him ruefully. ‘Oh, nothing really.’

‘It’s a shame to be sad on a morning like this.’

‘You’re right, it is. I’ll stop!’

He smiled briefly. ‘Would some breakfast help?’

‘It certainly would.’

‘Well, if you keep her on this course, I’ll do the necessary. Are you a big breakfast eater?’

‘Oh, no. What do you usually have?’

‘Muesli and fruit, toast and coffee.’

‘So do I!’

‘Well, I’m glad we’ve found a couple of things in common,’ he said, but nicely, and disappeared down the ladder.

I think he is nice, Sidonie found herself reflecting as she held Morning Mist on course with her sails nicely filled. She was not to know that while Mike Brennan could undoubtedly be nice he could also get extremely angry in a very cold and cutting manner...

That discovery came to her the next evening after another lovely day’s sailing, when they were anchored in Stonehaven Bay off Hook Island. Not only had they had a great sail but after they’d anchored he’d lowered the dinghy and taken her coral viewing per medium of a coral viewer held into the water over the side of the dinghy, and she’d been amazed and thrilled at the colourful sight. She’d even said it reminded her of buried treasure and he’d raised an eyebrow and agreed that it was a good description.

Unfortunately, after that, she’d been unable to put off the evil moment any longer—her turn to cook dinner. Breakfast had been a breeze, lunch fairly simple—even she couldn’t do much wrong with cold meat and salad—but there was plump fresh chicken reposing in the fridge awaiting her attentions, and she got a sinking feeling every time she thought about it.

Fortunately, or so she thought at the time, one of the other boats anchored in Stonehaven was known to Mike and when he was invited aboard for a drink and asked her if she’d like to go as well she’d declined and said she would rather start dinner, thinking that she’d be much better off without him breathing down her neck.

She wasn’t. Despite a cook book she found—or, as she later heard herself say, actually because of it. She certainly wouldn’t have been as adventurous without it but when there was cauliflower crying out for a white sauce and the instructions for it, a recipe for honeyed carrots... The list went on.

None of this altered the fact that, an hour and a half later when Mike Brennan returned to the boat, she’d got herself into an unbelievable, not to mention dangerous mess and had just managed to tilt the roasting tray, complete with burnt chicken, pumpkin and potatoes, so that all its contents had slid to the galley floor.

The first words he spoke she heard quite clearly although she couldn’t quite see him through the smoky black haze that filled the boat.

He said, ‘My God...!’ Then, ‘Just what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, Sidonie? Trying to burn the boat to the waterline?’

‘No, no!’ She gasped and coughed then yelped as she burnt herself on the roasting tray.

The next few minutes were confused and not helped by the white sauce, which quadrupled its volume into a billowing, bubbly head and cascaded all over the top of the stove, thereby adding another smell of burning of a slightly different but equally unpleasant nature.

It was only after Mike Brennan had managed to reduce the haze by opening every porthole and hatch that he stopped swearing. Then he surveyed her with blazing blue eyes but said in a voice like ice, ‘How did this happen?’

Sidonie wiped her watering eyes and thought briefly. ‘Food and I don’t get along too well. I mean, I enjoy eating it well enough, there are some things I love, but I’m just not very good at...cooking it. Although I followed the instructions to a T, I do assure you!’

‘You thoughtless, stupid, pedantic, tiresome little girl—why didn’t you just tell me you couldn’t cook?’ he ground out through his teeth. ‘Not only could you have burnt the boat but it will take a week to clean up the mess.’

Sidonie thought again although she felt a bit fearful and looked it. ‘I don’t understand why I can’t cook, you see. And I really thought that without you around to give me an inferiority complex, plus the help of this recipe book, I might just get it right this time.’

He said something extremely uncomplimentary towards her thought processes and added that he hoped she was as good at cleaning up messes as she was at creating them, but when she assured him eagerly that she was he glared at her in a way that made her quake inside, and turned away in disgust.

They worked together for over an hour in a cold, absolutely demoralising silence. Then he said curtly, ‘Leave it now, Sidonie. For one thing I’m tired of tripping over you—go and have a shower or something. I’ll make us something to eat.’

She opened her mouth but received such a devastating blue glance that she closed it and turned away defeatedly.

* * *

He’d made them scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, she discovered when she nerved herself to leave her cabin, washed and cleaned up but feeling like an incredible fool.

She also discovered she was still in Coventry as they ate, and for once she could think of not a thing to say or do to ease the situation.

Then he broke the silence to say with considerable irony, ‘Would I be wrong in surmising your ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend possesses some culinary skills?’

Sidonie winced and looked away. Don’t cry, she warned herself. However hurtful, it was still a horrible thing to say.

‘Sidonie?’

‘I don’t really know. Probably,’ she said gruffly and concentrated on the last little bit of smoked salmon.

‘Probably,’ he marvelled. ‘Even if it were a bare modicum it would have to be an improvement on you.’

She didn’t answer but put her knife and fork together and went to get up but flinched as the inside of her forearm came into contact with the edge of the table. She didn’t see him frown and looked up in surprise when he took her wrist and turned her arm to the light, exposing the nasty little burn she’d received from the roasting dish.

Their gazes caught and held and he said in a different voice, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘About this?’