The Irish Bride by Alexis Harrington Page A

you’re right.”
Turning a sharp eye on him, she asked, “So that was why you were
grinning like Mary’s donkey at the doorway? To deliver this
news?”
    The smile reappeared. “What if I told
you that we won’t be sleeping on deck tonight?”
    Her shoulders drooped with
disappointment. “Oh, no! Is it raining again?” She craned her neck,
trying to see around him through the open door. What could a body
expect in the North Atlantic in late winter besides
rain?
    “ Yes it’s raining, but
that’s not what I’m talking about.”
    But all she heard was the state of the
weather. The prospect of spending the night in steerage filled her
mind. “Dear God, I can’t sleep in that hold, it’s so brutal down
there. I know the poor souls don’t mean to be sick,
but—”
    Aidan took her shoulders and turned
her toward him, mindful of the mess in her hands. “Whisht now,
little red one. Will ye be throttling that chicken all over
again?”
    She looked down and realized she was
squeezing the limp fowl’s neck. She loosened her grip and looked up
into Aidan’s gaze.
    He released one of her shoulders and
reached into his coat pocket to produce a tarnished brass key on a
short, braided leather thong. He looked quite pleased with
himself.
    “ What’s that?”
    “ This, Mrs. O’Rourke, is the
key to our room for tonight.”
    Her brows rose. “Our what ? Are ye having me
on, Aidan?”
    “ No. While I was visiting
with Mr. Morton, we played a few hands of cards. Ye know, just to
be friendly-like. When I won all of his pocket money, I suggested
that he might wager his cabin.” He shrugged. “He lost.”
    “ No!” Farrell was impressed
despite her mild disapproval of his gambling.
    “ Aye, and look at this.” He
reached into his pocket again and brought out a handful of money.
Her eyes widened at the sight. “There’s nearly a pound here.” He
put a coin in her apron pocket. “I owe ye a shilling and six.
Here’s thruppence on account.”
    “ Ye shouldn’t be gambling
and I don’t know that I want money gained that way.”
    He waved her off. “The man wanted to
play cards. Who was I to say no?”
    “ But what about Mr. Morton?
Where will he sleep?”
    He waved a hand. “He said he’ll bunk
with the lads in the forecastle.” He told her about the hand of
cards that had won them this bounty. He’d wagered her sixpence,
somehow turning it into extra money and a cabin for them. On top of
that, he had left the second mate in fine spirits and feeling as if
he’d done Aidan a good turn.
    So Farrell would be sharing that room
with her husband tonight, a prospect she viewed with disquiet.
Sleeping on deck, or even in the hell that was steerage, had
prevented any intimacy between them. He’d not so much as kissed her
cheek since they’d set sail, and that had been fine with her.
Tonight that would change. Those sturdy, capable hands that had
smashed faces in fights and soothed the neighborhood children’s
scraped knees, his lips, that big body—he’d be right next to her
with more privacy than they’d had since that dreadful night at The
Rose and Anchor when he’d tried to claim his husbandly rights. A
tingling shiver raced over her scalp and down her back.
    She looked at the key he held and felt
as if it were as dangerous as a serpent. God in heaven, she
thought, how did Aidan do it? How did he manage to convince others
to do his bidding? He had the gift of blarney, that was sure, with
a wee bit of diplomacy thrown in for good measure. Where he’d
learned the latter, she couldn’t imagine because she’d never seen
much evidence of it back home. He also had a gift for card-playing
and gambling in general.
    “ Well, I have to finish this
business”—she gestured at the chicken—“and then tend to Deirdre
Connagher and Mrs. Dougherty below.” Although a ship’s captain
often acted as physician at sea, all McCorry knew of doctoring,
when he could be bothered, was amputation and purging. At