The White Gull

by Laura Strickland

  “House.” This time he waved an arm behind him in the direction of the sea.

  Lisbeth struggled to shrug off another wave of dark terror.

  “The White Gull came in without you, broken in pieces.”

  “The White Gull?”

  “Your boat—your trawler. Surely you remember?”

  He shook his head.

  “You put out to haul your traps. There was a storm.”

  “Storm’s coming.” His speech slurred as if his tongue would not quite fit in his mouth. “Lisbeth. Came home.”

  Lisbeth’s heart twisted in her chest. Whoever this man who had come home to her after a year might be, he wasn’t Declan—not her Declan with the winsome smile and the charming patter, with the lies and the excuses. His once-charming lips hung slack, and the beguiling eyes stared at her like those of a stranger.

  “What’s befallen you?” she asked with horror and compassion. “Was the White Gull hit by lightning? Did you fetch up on the rocks? Swim ashore?”

  “He can’t answer you; he doesn’t know.”

  The new voice came from behind Declan. He turned his head and moved aside like an obedient child to admit a woman who stood wrapped in a cloak against the wind. Abruptly, the rest of the pieces fit together in Lisbeth’s mind.

  “Mignon.”

  Mignon stepped in and closed the door carefully behind her.

  “He’s been with you,” Lisbeth said, “at your house—all this time.”

  “Finders keepers,” Mignon said with a sly smile. “That was the rule of the schoolyard, wasn’t it? I found him on the rocks that night, up by my house—on that little strip of shingle. Don’t you remember I showed you the path when you were there?”

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t fetch up where the White Gull came in. No one thought to look so far south—no one but me. Because I was in on the plan.”

  “Plan? Declan—?” Lisbeth turned to him, but he merely blinked at her, his tawny eyes uncanny in the light from the lantern on the table.

  “You stupid woman,” Mignon sneered. “You think he wanted to be with you? Only you? Never! He was seeing me—bedding me—even before your wedding. When he went through with it, married you to spite me, so I swore—well, then I married Claude to make him jealous. And he was. He couldn’t keep away.”

  “Not from you or Maggie Grier. She has his child.”

  Mignon’s lips curled in satisfaction. “She’s not the only one.”

  “I know. I should have figured it out sooner. You practically taunted me with it, didn’t you?”

  “You always were a stupid chit. I never understood what he saw in you. But you wouldn’t bed him without the ring. He got bored with you soon enough.”

  “So you planned to—what, steal him?”

  “That’s as good a way to put it as any. Once I got rid of Claude—oh, don’t look so shocked, it’s easy enough to do when you know what to put in a nightcap—Declan and I wanted some time together.”

  Declan turned his face toward her when she spoke his name, like an intelligent hound. She smiled at him—not the kind of smile she’d given Lisbeth, but one of pure love.

  “He was supposed to upset the trawler in the storm that afternoon and then come to me. We figured we’d have several days and nights together before we let him be found. Just a little holiday from you, Lisbeth. But the White Gull got hit by lightning, and he went overboard below the bluffs.”

  “What—what happened to him?”

  “I think he hit his head, either when he went over or on the rocks near the shore. You know what a strong swimmer he is. But even he had trouble fighting that sea in the condition I found him. I only did find him because I was watching for him, keeping a lookout on the shore. But for me, he would have died anyway. What harm to let you think yourself a widow, when you very nearly were?”

  “You’re mad,” Lisbeth breathed.

  “No, I saved him, pulled him ashore, and helped him up that path between the rocks. Like salvage, I get to keep him.”

  “But he barely knows who he is! Does he know who you are?”

  “Oh, yes.” Fondly, Mignon touched Declan’s pale cheek. “He was much worse than this at the start. Lately he’s begun to remember…things.”

  “Me. This cottage. It’s why he came searching.”

  “Lisbeth.” Declan took a step toward her, his gaze fixed on her face.

  Kelpie growled again.

  “Keep that beast away from me—and him,” Mignon ordered. “We’ll take care of some business here, and then it will be done.”

  “Done? You can’t expect me to keep quiet about all this!”

  “You’ll be very quiet, Lisbeth, before the night is through. Foolish of you, coming way out here in this weather. And how ironic for you to die in the same kind of storm as your husband. Once you’re out of the way, I can reveal that Declan didn’t die after all—I can have him return home. We’ll have a good life together with our child and Claude’s wealth. And I’ll have marriage, this time, to the man I always wanted.”

  “Mignon—he’s not Declan!”

  “He is, though, deep down.” Again she looked at the wild-headed creature beside her with adoration. “He remembers more of himself every day. He will forget you once you’re dead. I will be his everything.”

  “You’re wrong, Mignon. He knows me, he cares—else he would not have come here again and again.”

  Mignon laughed, a harsh, stark sound. “We shall see. Or rather, I shall. You will be at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “And how do you mean to accomplish that?” Lisbeth tipped up her chin. “You will never get near me, past Kelpie.”

  Mignon nodded at Declan. “Take care of the dog.”

  “No.” Lisbeth stepped in front of Kelpie, who promptly butted her with his great head. “You’ll not harm him.”

  “Then put it outside into the storm. Declan, you do it. Wouldn’t want your little wife escaping now, would you?”

  “Wife. Lisbeth.”

  Declan moved toward her, and Kelpie barked and snarled. Lisbeth buried her fingers in the fur at the back of Kelpie’s neck and held on.

  “Enough of this nonsense.” Mignon marched to the corner and took up an oar propped there. “Finish the dog, and let’s move on. We need to be done with this by the height of the storm. Then, Declan darling, you and I will wait out the worst of the weather here.” She shot Lisbeth a look of pure spite. “I think I’ll have him in your bed.”

  “Kelpie, come!” Lisbeth dashed past Declan, who stood like a rock, and hauled the door open.

  “No!” Mignon screamed and swung the oar in her hands. It took Lisbeth in the shoulder and back even as the wind seized her, and Kelpie slipped from her grasp.

  Behind her, Mignon shrieked, “Declan! Declan, stop her. Do not let her get away!”

  Panic rose into Lisbeth’s throat. She knew she must flee, yet the sight that met her eyes froze her where she stood.

  The sea rose before the driving storm like a black beast and poured over the rocks toward her. She had no idea where Kelpie had gone, or which way to run.

  Light spilled out the open doorway behind her. Everything else seethed with water, wind, and motion. Instinct bade her duck down against the stone break wall where she might not be easily seen. Her ears, filled by the rush of the storm, could no longer hear anyone approach. Her shoulder, where she’d been struck, screamed with agony.

  Rab, her heart cried. But she could not imagine how even his love could save her now.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The storm pursued Rab as he pelted up the shore and then overtook him, roaring like a black monster. In an instant he became drenched to the skin. Far worse, he began to lose his bearings. How far ahead did the cottage lie? Could he have passed it in the dark?

  No, for he thought he saw a glint of light up ahead, and then came the sound of a dog barking wildly. Kelpie? But the big Newfoundland never barked that way.

  Rab gasped
and, from somewhere, found the strength to increase his speed. Waves had started crashing over the rocks at his right hand. But now, blinking hard against the rain, he saw the dark bulk of the cottage dimly rimmed in light.

  “Lisbeth!” he hollered. “Kelpie!”

  His words were snatched away by the wind almost as soon as he voiced them. But he heard Kelpie bark again, the sound coming and going in gusts, shredded by the storm.

  He ran on, the rain dashing against his back, and virtually skidded to a halt when the tableau playing out before the cottage met his eyes.

  Two people stood facing one another, arguing. One of them, to his amazement and consternation, appeared to be Mignon LaMarche. The other was—

  Declan O’Shea.

  Rab blinked violently, but the light spilling from the open door of the cottage showed the man plainly: bare red head, stocky body, squared shoulders—it looked like Declan, but then again it didn’t. Something in the stance and the way he held his head seemed wrong.

  Rab could not see Kelpie anywhere, and neither of the two people standing in the spill of light saw him, Rab.

  Mignon screamed, “Find her! Then finish it. Do you want to be parted from me?”

  “No. Mignon, no!” Declan shouted back at her, and Rab couldn’t tell to what he referred. Did they speak of Lisbeth?

  “Lay the ghosts that haunt us, that haunt you, Declan! It will be better once she’s gone. We’ll be happy then. Free to love one another.”

  “No!” Declan bellowed it like a madman.

  “If she tells what she knows, they’ll take you away from me. Is that what you want?”

  Astonishingly, Declan began to cry, the sounds barely distinguishable from the storm. For one fey instant, to Rab, Declan became the storm, raging and furious.

  Kelpie chose that moment to lunge forward out of the darkness. He leaped at Declan as he had that other night on the trail, and both of them, man and dog, went down. Mignon screamed, ran to the cottage, and came back carrying what looked like an oar. She swung it high and brought it down on the struggling duo. Rab heard no sound over the wind, but only Declan struggled to his feet.

  “No!” To Rab’s increased horror, Lisbeth started up from the base of the break wall where she must have been sheltering.

  “Grab her!” Mignon cried, and Declan closed his arms about his wife the way strong waves might capture a boat at sea.

  Rab hollered again; they did not hear him. The three of them, with Lisbeth struggling, started away toward the strip of shingle to the north of the break wall, Mignon still carrying the oar in her hands.

  Like a man stunned, Rab followed. He stooped down when he reached Kelpie, terrified by what he would find. The big dog whined when Rab touched him, raised his head and licked Rab’s hand. The breath left Rab’s body in a rush.

  “All right, boy? Can you get up?”

  The dog rose to his feet and shook himself. He gazed away toward the shingle before loping off with Rab in his wake.

  Madness, to go down to the shore on such a night. Waves clawed and dragged at the shingle, and the wind howled like ten banshees. Rab could barely see those ahead of him, had no hope of hearing what they said. It appeared Declan now carried Lisbeth in his arms.

  What did Mignon intend to do? Toss Lisbeth into the sea? Would Declan let her? What lay between Mignon and Declan, anyway?

  No time now for asking questions. He needed to get that oar away from Mignon.

  He charged forward on the Newfoundland’s heels and reached Mignon an instant after Kelpie leaped for her arm and knocked her down. Mignon screamed, and Rab wrestled the oar from her hands.

  “What goes on here?” he shouted. “Lisbeth!”

  Declan heard him this time and swung around with Lisbeth caught in his arms. The only light now was the weird radiance cast by sea and storm, but Rab needed no illumination. He had been waiting over a decade to take on Declan O’Shea.

  “Put her down,” he roared.

  To his surprise, Declan obeyed and set Lisbeth on her feet, where she swayed perilously. Something appeared to be amiss with her left arm; it hung limp at her side.

  Instinctively, Rab reached for her. “Lisbeth!”

  “My wife.” Declan’s arm came out, barring the way. “I remember now. She is my wife. You always wanted her, Sinclair. That’s why I came back for her.”

  Rab rarely lost his temper, but he felt rage sweep over him now, the way the sea overswept the rocks. He leaped for Declan without thought, a hundred small insults to repay and a score finally to settle.

  It felt good and satisfying to smash his fist into Declan’s face with all the power behind it he’d earned pounding iron. He knew Declan for a scrapper, and a dirty fighter at that, but Declan had not his size or strength. He had just hauled back for a second blow when he heard Kelpie bark again, and Lisbeth screamed.

  Both he and Declan turned at the sound, their battle momentarily forgotten in mutual concern.

  “Jaysus!” Declan breathed.

  Mignon had grasped hold of Lisbeth and dragged her, hampered as she was by her injured arm, toward the sea. Even as Rab watched she threw Lisbeth down on the stones awash with water and lifted a rock in her hands. Her arms moved in a blur and the sea came in to snatch Lisbeth from the stones.

  “No!”

  Which of them bellowed it? All three—Kelpie included—leaped forward into the foam. Rab could just see Lisbeth’s head bobbing in the black water, and the terrified gleam of her eyes.

  Declan planted a hand in Rab’s chest. “No. I’m the stronger swimmer.”

  He plunged into the water even as Mignon leaped in an attempt to snatch him back; her fingers missed the hem of his sou’wester by inches. With a moan, she was left standing in water to her knees.

  Rab stripped off his jacket and shoes. True, he was no swimmer, but damned if he would stand by while Lisbeth—his Lisbeth—drowned in the sea. Upon the thought, he caught sight of a black blur pursuing Declan: Kelpie fought the wild water.

  Rab counted the heartbeats shuddering in his chest while he strained to catch a glimpse of Lisbeth in order to swim out to her. He could no longer see any heads—light, red, or black—in the heaving sea.

  Beside him, Mignon moaned again. “Gone—gone!”

  “Nay.” Rab saw something move in the darkness. A head—no, two. He cursed as rain drove into his eyes and he lost sight for an instant. Then…

  “They’re coming out,” he told Mignon. “Hold on.”

  A crashing wave broke, soaking both Rab and the woman beside him. Out of it came the big Newfoundland, dragging Lisbeth by the back of her gown.

  Mignon wailed. “No! Declan, where’s Declan?”

  Ignoring her, Rab dashed forward, took Lisbeth in his arms, and towed the exhausted Newfoundland ashore. They moved all the way up to the rocks, where Rab strove for a good look at Lisbeth, sprawled across his arms.

  She looked dead, but even as despair seized him she stirred, coughed, and vomited up water.

  “God, Lisbeth!” Heedless, he drew her to him. “By God!”

  “Declan!” Standing in the roaring foam, Mignon still shrieked and called. Rab narrowed his eyes as the sea arose in a mighty heave. In that instant, Mignon disappeared from the shore. Did the water steal her or did she plunge in, searching for the man she had chased so long?

  He got to his feet and stood, striving desperately for a glimpse of either of them. None. And the fury of the storm only increased, sending waves reaching for the place where the three of them huddled together.

  “Come, lad,” he bade the weary Newfoundland at last, when his heart told him all hope had gone. He gathered Lisbeth up into his arms and made for the cottage, which awaited them with an open door, a single, beckoning light.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “He returned to the sea from whence he came,” Lisbeth said through chattering teeth. She could not get warm even though Rab had kindled a fire in the hearth and wrapped her in every blanket he could
find. The cold seemed to come from within her, and words tumbled out, unstoppable.

  “Perhaps he never was real after all.”

  “No, do not begin wi’ all that.” Rab spoke soothingly, but his voice betrayed him, as shaken as she. “’Twas a real, flesh-and-blood man I fought out there. Must I show you my hands?”

  He came to sit beside her on the bench, where he pulled her into the further warmth of his arms.

  Lisbeth eyed the broken skin on his knuckles and relaxed, but not much. “Are you sure Kelpie’s all right?”

  “Aye.”

  The valiant dog lay at their feet. Rab had checked him with careful fingers when they came in, taken a cloth and dried him.

  “He’s a hero, is this dog. Pulled you out of the sea—a thing I do not believe I could have done in that storm. ’Tis what they do, Newfoundlands. And to think Declan sneered at me when I took him in trade.” Rab’s voice broke abruptly and his arms tightened around Lisbeth, mindful of her shoulder. “He shall have the best beef bones, one a day for the rest of his life.”

  Lisbeth shivered again and stole a look at the door. “What if they come back?”

  “They will not, my bonny heart. I believe they are gone.”

  “But—”

  “Whisht, lass. He was a stronger swimmer than me, sure, but he could not reach you. He tried.”

  “And she went after him, just as he—” Lisbeth faltered. “You’re right; he was real. She kept him hidden this last year—she told me all of it before you got here. They had planned for him to scuttle the White Gull in that storm so they could spend some time alone together. He’d been seeing her—bedding her—since before we wed. But something went wrong. He was hurt when he ditched the trawler.”

  She tipped her face to look into Rab’s eyes, deeply shadowed and grave. “He wasn’t right in his mind, Rabbie. I don’t know if you could tell.”

  “Aye.”

  “He was…empty. Not Declan anymore. But she had always wanted him so much she didn’t care. She took him home with her anyway and lived with him in secret. She killed her husband so they could be together. And she let me think Declan was dead.”