Another two months had passed, and they had left Egypt far behind. Rosalie had taken that long to come to terms with her new reality. She was going to be a mother in five months, perhaps even less time than that. And still she had not told her husband. She carried on as though nothing had changed, mending and cooking—to the ship cook’s chagrin—and sometimes sitting at the keyboard, though she played less and less until finally she stopped altogether.
Everything had been peaceful and lovely, even the weather. Though she had noticed Liam looking at her strangely, as if asking the question—when would she tell the truth to his brother?—Breandon suspected nothing, was as happy as ever. She had overcome her “homesickness,” for his sake, but now it was time to tell him the truth.
It was time to unleash whatever storm she must. Breandon would be thrilled, she had no doubt of that. He would be even more pleased to know she was not truly ill. But her role on the ship and as his wife would change. And the men would not be so happy…
“Brean, love, I have something to confess,” she said at last, the words bitter on her tongue. What a wretched woman she was, and wife too. She sat on the edge of their bed, brushing her hair out before she braided it for bed. Four…five…six… Counting the strokes until she reached a hundred helped her focus and helped steel her.