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.