Oh, my. His deep, raspy voice skimmed over her. A warm, curious sense of inevitability pulled her a step closer to him. Foot poised in midair, she stopped herself before she took another. “That is quite impossible. You have mistaken me for someone else.”
His gaze instantly dropped to the baby in her arms and his eyebrows slammed together. Bridget could practically hear the thoughts running through his mind. She braced for the unavoidable questions, trying to decide how best to answer them when they came. She was no stranger to uncomfortable questions.
Will surprised her by skirting the issue of baby Grace altogether. “You are Bridget, are you not?”
“I am, yes.” She cleared her throat, comprehending his mistake if he did not. “But I am not your Bridget.”
His frown deepened. Something dark and turbulent flashed in his eyes.
As she recognized the shift in his mood, it occurred to her once again that she should be afraid of the man.
Why am I not more frightened?
They were surrounded by hundreds of people, yes, any of whom would come to her rescue if she screamed for help. But that wasn’t the reason for her lack of fear. It was Will himself. Or rather, his eyes. They were a deep, liquid blue so compelling and beautiful and yet so—very—bleak.
Bridget felt the familiar quickening of compassion in her heart. Something had made this man sad.
The realization brought an unexpected yearning. She’d never been able to turn away from a person in need. Daniel had considered her sympathy for the wounded and disadvantaged her greatest flaw. Bridget considered it her greatest strength. Their difference of opinion had been enough to cause a permanent rift, one that had ultimately torn them apart and brought her profound unhappiness over the past year.
Although she couldn’t explain why, her desire to help this man, this stranger, was different than any other time before. Stronger.
Personal.
Had the Lord brought Will to her for a reason?
No. This entire meeting was a mistake. She didn’t know him. And he didn’t know her, regardless of what he seemed to think.
Baby Grace chose that moment to wiggle in her sleep and then cry out in frustration. Bridget had been holding on too tightly.
Loosening her grip, she took a step back. Away from Will. Away from whatever it was drawing her to him.
The shadows cast by the ship enveloped her, bringing instant relief from the heat of the day.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, wishing she could be of more help but knowing it was best to walk away.
His face turned impassive, but she recognized the desperation that lay just below the surface. He wasn’t going to walk away from her. Not yet. Not until he was certain she wasn’t the woman he’d come searching for.
Oddly enough, Bridget wasn’t surprised by his determination. Will was not a man who accepted defeat easily. She wasn’t sure how she knew that about him. She just knew.
How was it she understood more about his stranger than she had Daniel, a man she’d known all her life and had been willing to marry?
“Perhaps this will spark your memory.” Will reached inside his coat and retrieved what looked like a letter. He unfolded the worn parchment and thrust it toward her.
Rearranging the sleeping baby in her arms, Bridget took the letter. The handwriting with its soft, looping scroll clearly belonged to a female.
A female that was not her.
Nevertheless she read each word slowly, carefully, and soon realized she was holding an acceptance letter. The woman had agreed to become this man’s bride. Not just any bride, his mail-order bride.
Bridget tried not to gasp aloud. She’d heard of such things. The potato famine had left many families destitute, eager to latch on to any lifeline, even if it meant marrying a stranger and moving far from home. But as she looked at Will from beneath her lowered lashes she decided he didn’t seem the type who needed to pay a woman to marry him. He was too handsome, too inherently confident, too…masculine.
Women should be lining up to become his wife.
Yet he’d sent all the way to Ireland for a bride.
Hands shaking, Bridget turned over the letter and skimmed to the bottom. The signature read Bridget Collins.
He did, indeed, have the wrong woman. Sorrow settled inside her heart. The sensation made her feel as though she’d lost something important, life-changing.
She sighed.
Without meeting Will’s gaze directly, Bridget returned the letter to him. “I was right. You have the wrong woman.” Her voice wasn’t quite steady, even to her own ears. “My name isn’t Bridget Collins. It’s Bridget Murphy.”
For a long, tense moment he looked taken aback by her words. He swallowed once, twice and again, each time harder than the first.
“You did not write this letter?”
“I’m sorry, no.” Why she felt the need to apologize, she couldn’t say. But he seemed truly shocked by the news and she wanted to make everything better. If only she knew how.
“I see.” He glanced down at the baby. Understanding dawned in his eyes. “You are already married.”
“No. I am not. I—”
“Forgive me.” He took a step back. A very large step, the gesture confirming her worst fears. He thought Grace was hers and she’d had the child out of wedlock.
“The baby isn’t mine,” she said in a halting voice.
“Of course not.” He turned to go.
“No. Wait.” She reached out a hand to his retreating back then quickly curled it around the baby once more. “Please.”
He swung back around to face her, a question in his eyes.
Although she knew she would never see him again, she couldn’t bear him thinking ill of her. “This is baby Grace,” she said past the lump in her throat. “I’m holding her for my sister.”
It was the truth, if not entirely accurate. The situation was far too complicated to explain in a few succinct sentences.
“I understand.”
Did he? Oh, his words were kind enough, but in the next instant he gave her a formal nod of his head. The gesture was cool, polite and an obvious dismissal. Yet he didn’t leave right away. He just stood there staring at her.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” She meant every word.
“As am I.”
Once again he turned to go. This time he stopped himself before he took the next step. “Might I ask you one last question?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you know Bridget Collins?”
She searched her brain, reviewing all the women and girls she’d met on board the Annie McGee named Bridget. It was a common enough name, so much so she counted four off the top of her head. None of them had the last name Collins, though, not that she remembered. Then again, she hadn’t known most of her fellow passengers’ full names.
Collins. The name triggered a memory, one Bridget couldn’t quite grasp. There was a Collins family back in Castleville and there were several daughters among the eight children. Had there been a Bridget among them?
Yes, that must be why the name sounded familiar. “I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting your Bridget aboard ship.”
“Pity.”