And that foolish organ, battered from straining after Declan O’Shea, stirred and tried to rise like a bird on the wing.
She opened her eyes. Rabbie Sinclair’s face hung above her, his forehead marked with lines she had never seen there before, placed by worry. They made him look older, and that gave her a shock. Why had she never noticed he was no longer the skinny black-haired lad who had hesitated to speak for his thick, highland accent? They were, all of them, grown.
And why had she never noticed the way he looked at her, the light in his deep blue eyes reflecting the emotion she had just felt when he touched her?
Oh, Rabbie.
She groped for his hand across the surface of the stiff white sheet that covered her. He captured her fingers in his big, warm ones and held tight.
“Rabbie.”
“Lisbeth, you near frightened the life from me.” What did she hear in his voice, deep and musical, that caressed her? That same tenderness she saw in his eyes?
Why had she never guessed? She sighed deeply. There had always been Declan.
Rab leaned forward, and the black hair slid over his brow. Lisbeth fought a strong and unprecedented desire to brush it back.
“What happened?” he asked.
She watched his lips, wondered what it would be like to feel them on hers. By the holy heaven, what had come over her?
“I saw him again—Declan. I tried to follow him. I think I fell.”
Trouble invaded the deep blue eyes. “I feared ’twas something like that.”
“Where am I?”
“Doc Stevens’. You lay out in the rain all night.”
“I hurt all over.” So she did, as if she’d taken a thrashing.
Doctor Stevens appeared in the doorway behind Rabbie. “Ah, I thought I heard voices. Mrs. O’Shea, how do you feel?”
“I ache a bit. My head—”
“You struck it when you went down. I could find no other injuries. My main concern was getting you warm, for you were out in that rain a long time. How are you in your mind?” He slanted a look at Rab. “Does she seem rational to you?”
Rab hesitated, and Lisbeth wondered if he thought about what she had just told him. Could he possibly consider her seeing her dead husband rational? But he nodded, the black hair spilling forward again.
“Well, Mrs. O’Shea, and what took you out in the rain?”
“I had a dream.” Lisbeth’s gaze clung to Rab’s.
“Do you often walk in your sleep?”
“No, Doctor. Never before.”
Doc Stevens frowned. “I dislike the idea of you up the shore on your own, Mrs. O’Shea. I do not believe you’ve been taking good care of yourself; rather I find you too thin and overworked.”
“Don’t worry.” Rab spoke before Lisbeth could. “She will no’ be going back there, not right away. She’ll stay for a time here in Lobster Cove.”
“Is that so, Mrs. O’Shea?”
Lisbeth’s gaze still linked with Rab’s, she nodded.
“Very well, then. There’s only to finish getting you warm before I release you. I prescribe a roaring fire and a hearty meal.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Stevens went out, and Rabbie began to caress Lisbeth’s fingers again. In a low voice he said, “I can no’ bear to think of you in that cottage alone, Lisbeth.”
“But where will I stay? At Mrs. Taylor’s?”
“Nay, wi’ me.”
Her eyes went wide and color flooded her cheeks. “That is scarcely proper.”
“You can live in my quarters; I will stay elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“Does it matter? I will find a bunk, never fear. Better me living rough than you.”
“I don’t wish to put you out. I can stay a few days with Frannie.”
“She has no’ the room. I want you at my place, Lisbeth, where I know you’re safe. Let me do this for you.”
She read again what lay in his eyes, and nodded. She was not sure how she felt about the way Rabbie Sinclair regarded her nor why she’d never before caught any hint of it. But oh, it made her feel so secure.
And she needed so badly to feel secure, if only for a time.
****
“There, get yourself around the outside of that.” Rabbie plopped a large bowl of stew into Lisbeth’s hands—far more than she could eat in three days. She didn’t say so. She sat where he had put her, in the best seat in the house—an overstuffed armchair made shabby and comfortable with years of use. She had a blanket over her knees, and Kelpie lay stretched at her feet.
Lisbeth tried to imagine Rabbie lounging in this chair after a hard day’s work, alone save for the dog. His quarters behind the forge weren’t large and certainly weren’t fancy, but they were warm. A fire roared in the hearth, and comfort seemed to settle around Lisbeth’s shoulders like a second blanket.
“It’s nice here,” she surprised herself by saying. She had been in the forge many times, but back here only once or twice. She’d felt a bit intimidated by Tip Howard, though Rabbie always insisted he had a good heart.
Definitely bachelor’s quarters, not overly neat or organized, belongings scattered about, haphazard. The bed, little more than an oversized cot, lay in the far corner. Yes, she would sleep warm tonight.
And would Declan follow her even here? She wondered.
Rab filled a second bowl of stew for himself and put a third down for Kelpie, who promptly abandoned Lisbeth.
She smiled and took a spoonful of stew. “Good.”
“As you can imagine, a fellow my size does not go hungry often.” Rab perched on a stool and dug into his portion.
Lisbeth eyed him. Large he might be, but all muscle. She knew that for fact, having seen him working in his leather apron many a time. Now, for some unaccountable reason, the thought made her grow warm, even more so than should be caused by the blanket.
Firmly she told herself it had been a long time since she’d been in such intimate circumstances with a man. Despite what she saw, or imagined she saw, in Rabbie’s eyes, he was above all else her friend. She needed to remember that.
“Have you found a place to sleep?” she asked. He had left her at Doc Stevens’ until the good doctor declared himself satisfied with her condition, and returned later to collect her.
“Aye. I’ll just bunk in the stable down the street. Tom Bennett says he does no’ mind.”
Lisbeth wrinkled her nose. “That does not seem right.”
“Och, I’ve slept in much worse places. Anyway, it has a great advantage: Tom is often in and out at all hours and will be able to testify I’m there and not here.”
“Are you so worried about my reputation?”
“I am that worried about any number of things. Tell me again what happened last night.”
Lisbeth lowered her spoon. “I was ready for bed, sitting up by the fire.” Unable, quite, to make herself go to bed alone. “I heard the wind come up and the rain start. Perhaps I fell asleep, I am not sure. I heard the latch on the door lift. It swung open, and he stood there. Declan.”
Rab said nothing. Lisbeth searched his eyes and tried to determine what he thought.
Eventually he said gently, “You might have been still asleep—dreaming.”
It was what she had told the doctor, and how could she say it was not so? She had dreamed of Declan often.
Helplessly, she shook her head.
“You know, lass, you should keep the bar on the door when you are out there alone.”
She asked, because she must, “If he’s a ghost, how could he lift the latch?”
“There is no ghost!”
“Never say you don’t believe in them, given your highland sensibilities.”
“I canno’ say that. But in this case I think the only ghost is the one that haunts your mind—your heart. Lisbeth, maybe all this is a sign you need to put your grieving behind you once and for all.”
That echoed what Declan had said in her dream: Go about your life.
Was that the message he brought from his watery grave? Was she to take up her life, perhaps with Rabbie?
The thought half shocked and half thrilled her. She’d never thought of her good friend that way.
Now that she’d seen what lay in his eyes, though, she couldn’t seem to think of anything else.
Chapter Nine
“I wish to walk out to the cottage this morning,” Lisbeth told Rab as she stirred the porridge.
He had come by early to build up the fire in the forge, and she had called him in to breakfast, the least she could do, she felt, after chasing him from his home.
He stood in the doorway now, clad in his working costume of heavy trousers and leather apron, the black hair tumbling down his neck.
“Nay, Lisbeth,” he said. “Not a good idea, that.”
“I need to collect Mignon’s gown so I can get it finished by Saturday. If she pays me, I will be able to give you back what you lent me, and also put something down at Beatty’s. Then I can buy my own groceries.”
Rab frowned but said nothing. The frown, she decided, did not suit him.
“Besides,” she went on quickly, “it looks to prove a pretty day, and I’d like the exercise.”
“Why not let me go get the dress later when I am finished in the forge?”
“Because you’ve already done enough for me. And, Rab, I’m feeling fine.”
“Are you, then?” He took a step nearer and his gaze seared her face; Lisbeth immediately went breathless.
What in heaven’s name had come over her? She had never before focused on things like the breadth of Rabbie Sinclair’s shoulders or the length of his black eyelashes—or imagined how that Scots burr might sound in the dark. Disconcerting, to harbor those thoughts and feelings toward one of her best friends.
Could he see what lay in her eyes? Perhaps so, for he took another step closer and raised his hand to cup her cheek. The heat of him enwrapped her, along with a barrage of masculinity.
“I like having you here,” he said softly. “Say you’re not thinking of moving back out to that place.”
“I cannot stay here forever.”
“Why not?” Sudden heat flared in his eyes. He bent forward; his fingers caressed her chin, tipped her face up toward his descending mouth.
The first kiss came in but a whisper that brushed her forehead. The second blessed her cheek. Lisbeth tilted her head so the third landed on her lips.
Curiosity made her do it, she told herself. The desire to know. But oh, the sweetness as his warm lips met hers! The softest gift it was—affection rather than demand—yet sensation speared through her like a spring tide.
Lovemaking with Declan had been—well, lovemaking with Declan. He acted always as if he did her a favor by bestowing his attentions, and he demanded his due in return. As his wife, she was expected to pleasure him as he required. Whether she received pleasure in return never seemed uppermost in his mind. For the most part, his charm ended at the bedroom door.
She had adored him so much it never mattered. It had been enough that he belonged to her and her alone; he had chosen her to be his bride.
Now, through the gentle touch of lips on lips, she felt love come streaming, and it moved her as Declan never had.
“Rabbie.”
Did she speak his name into his mouth or only think it? Suddenly the pressure of his lips increased, still making no demand but wooing, persuading. She stretched up on her tiptoes and felt his arms close around her, and draw her home.
When it ended she found both her fists clutched the edges of his apron, fingers brushing his naked chest. The mad idea came into her head: he might lift her in his arms and carry her to the bed in the corner. He might remove her clothing a piece at a time and then his own, the two of them naked together without shame.
For there would never be any shame with this man, only safety and warmth and, perhaps, bliss beyond imagining.
“Rab, you in?” Someone called from the shop: a customer. Rab groaned and tightened his arms around Lisbeth. He rested his forehead against hers.
“Damn! I have been waiting more than ten years for that.”
“Have you?”
“Oh, aye.”
She loosened her fingers from the smock and ran them up his shoulders, delighting in the warmth and strength of muscle. Her fingertips tingled.
“Why did you never say?”
His gaze met hers, rueful yet honest. “How could I? There was always—”
“Sinclair!”
Whoever had entered the shop drew closer. Hastily, Rab released Lisbeth and stepped away, taking all that marvelous warmth with him, and hurried out to the forge. She turned to find the porridge had stuck fast to the bottom of the pan.
Hastily, she drew it from the heat, listening all the while to the sound of Rab’s voice, now speaking to his customer. In her head, she finished the sentence he had begun to her: there was always Declan O’Shea. And it was true; since the first time Lisbeth set eyes on Declan, she had never looked at another man.
That didn’t mean she should have missed seeing how one of her best friends felt about her.
Suddenly she wished she could go back in time and live it all again: not Declan’s death, no—if in fact he was dead, which she found she no longer quite believed. But if she could only see it all, not with a girl’s eyes but a woman’s, catch the beginnings of what it seemed Rabbie did feel. What then?
It had always been about whether Declan would choose her, but what if she should have been the one making the choice?
****
The gift of sweet kisses Rab had bestowed seemed to travel with Lisbeth as she walked north along the coast path to the cottage. On such a fine day the journey did not seem arduous or long. On her right the rocks fell away to the wide expanse of Frenchman Bay, glittering in the sun. It looked so mild and calm she could barely imagine it raging in storm.
Declan had always called the sea his mistress. “Treacherous she is, lass, and will turn on you in an instant. But sure, she is an exciting ride.”
Declan loved excitement. Even at rest—a rare enough state for him—he’d retained a bright gleam in his tawny eyes. What was it about Declan O’Shea that had seized hold of her heart and mind and refused to let go?
Given some distance, it seemed like a magic spell. For she acknowledged now, ruefully, Declan O’Shea had a kind of rough magic about him that had seduced and held her like a dream.
Had those kisses Rab bestowed in his kitchen awakened her? She could not say, yet suddenly everything looked different. A part of her heart would always belong to Declan, but that heart now ached to love again.
The cottage came in sight, perched above its sea wall with the strip of shingle beyond, and white gulls plundering the shore. She quickened her step and, when she drew near enough, saw to her surprise the door stood open.
Ah, but she must have neglected to close it when she ran out after Declan into the night.
Out after Declan.
She cursed softly and hoped the wet would not have blown in, and that Mignon’s gown had not suffered damage.
Had Declan truly been here? Had he returned in the flesh, from the sea? If so, why had no one else seen him? Why didn’t he make his presence known in daylight?
She shouldered the door open more fully and went in. Damp stained the wooden planks just past the threshold, but all else lay as she had left it. Mignon’s gown made a splash of color on the bench, still neatly folded.
The color of Rab’s eyes.
Why think of him here, where she’d only ever thought of Declan: thought, lived, and breathed him?
Slowly, she walked around the cottage, marking things she and Declan had shared—the china bowl covered with tiny rosebuds Frannie had given them for their wedding, the kettle that had once belonged to Declan’s ma. She gathered items she would need at Rab’s, however long she stayed—how long would she stay?—her hairbrush, hairpins, and other items only a woman would require.
All the while, through the open door, the sea retained a presence—the quiet hiss and shush of the waves murmuring like a lullaby. Did the sea truly give even as it took? Sustenance given—life taken. Did it, like Declan himself, weave a spell? Had she any hope of escaping it? For with Declan gone she might eventually put her grief behind her and, just possibly, reach for the promise she saw in Rab Sinclair’s eyes. But what escape could there be, if Declan remained alive?
She paused at the center of the room and closed her eyes, praying to the great, mystical presence outside her door.
Let me have an answer. Let me know if my heart may be free to love again.
The pure fancy of it made her smile ruefully. She moved on to the doorway of her bedroom, hesitated an instant before moving in. Her eyes fell on a splash of bright yellow in the center of the bed.
A crumpled sou’wester lying like a yellow bird, slain.
Chapter Ten
“Nay, lad, hold it like this. And put some power behind those blows.”
Dougie looked at Rab doubtfully. True, Rab reflected, the boy didn’t have a lot of power in his stringy body—yet. Just like the skill, that would come.
Dougie choked up on the handle of the hammer and swung a bit wildly, face shining with sweat and strain. His first time beating the hot iron found him far from ready for it. But Rab remembered all too well the frustration of being assigned the work of a dogsbody with no chance at wreaking the magic. Besides, the lad needed to know just how hard the work was, in the forge.
Would Dougie stick with it? Too early to tell, but after only a couple of days Rab saw how he applied himself. He didn’t learn easily; neither did he shy away from repetition.
“There now, Dougie,” Rab said encouragingly. “You beat on that another half hour or so, and you’ll have done a respectable job.”
Dougie released the hammer and scrutinized the palm of his hand. “Mr. Sinclair, sir, can I ask you a question?”
“You can.” What would it be? How long would it take for the pain in his hands to subside? The ache in his shoulders?
But the boy looked into Rab’s face and said, “Why do you call me ‘Doogie’? My ma calls me ‘Duggie.’ That’s my name.”
The White Gull Page 5
