“Why should you think that?” Billy’s expression turned sour. “He did not like staying here after losing his family—both his parents dead, and then his brother, as well. You know how close the two of them were—inseparable. Too many memories, so he said.”
“But that was a year ago.”
Billy spat again and looked at Lisbeth once more, pointedly this time.
“I see you’ve had time to move on, Mrs. O’Shea. Is Rab here your new man? A replacement for Declan, like?”
Lisbeth felt as if someone had struck her. Quite truthfully she replied, “No one could replace Declan.” Except perhaps his brother, in some cruel ruse.
“I need to put out,” Billy declared, “if I’m to earn any coin this day.”
“Aye,” Rab agreed mildly, “I need to open the forge, as well.”
“Off with you then”—Billy made a shooing motion with his hands—“and stop bothering a man.”
Rab smiled and nodded; he turned away and Lisbeth followed, Kelpie still glued to her side.
“I do not believe a word of it,” Lisbeth said as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Nor I,” Rab agreed.
“But why did he turn so ugly? And from what, besides grief, could Pat have fled?”
“We have to talk about that,” Rab said seriously.
Disquiet touched Lisbeth’s heart. “Tell me, Rabbie.”
“That, Lisbeth, is a matter for when we’re alone.”
Chapter Seventeen
Rab both longed for and dreaded unburdening himself to Lisbeth about what he knew. Best over quickly, he thought as they walked home. But when they arrived, he had not one but three customers waiting, not the least a horse that had thrown a shoe.
Lisbeth and Kelpie went inside, and he stripped off his shirt, donned his leather apron, and got to work. Not until much later, when the early dark drew down, did he have a chance to catch his breath and turn his thoughts to what must be said.
How to tell someone her husband might have fathered a child on another woman? He did not know. The prospect felt even more difficult because part of him—a part of which he was not proud—wanted to destroy Lisbeth’s memory of Declan. He wanted her to turn to him, instead, to see him as the better man. He needed to own up and admit that.
He entered his quarters, after closing the shop, to find the fire burning cozily and supper ready for the table. But Lisbeth looked at him with anxious eyes.
“I have your meal here,” she gestured. “But if you’d rather talk—?”
“I would. Will it keep warm?”
She nodded and dried her hands on her apron. Who would have thought—Lisbeth Parsons in his home, tending his hearth. Over the years, Rab had fantasized about this a hundred times as he lay in that bed alone. And now…
He caught her hand. “Come and sit down.”
“You’re frightening me, Rab. Is it something dire?”
They sat facing one another on opposite ends of the bench by the fire.
“In truth, I scarcely know how to tell you. We spoke before, Lisbeth, about the things that were said of Declan.”
Her fey eyes went wide with alarm. “You told me there might be proof he was unfaithful to me, but you never said what.”
Sorrow on her behalf flooded Rab’s heart. All at once he knew he would have wished to spare her this knowledge even if it meant she saw him, Rab, as the better man. “Lisbeth, he loved to charm women, just as he charmed you. I know for a fact one of those women was Maggie Grier at the Hogshead.”
Lisbeth’s skin flushed red and then drained to white. Her lips parted, but only a single word came. “When?”
“Not long before the White Gull came ashore. Maggie has a child—”
Lisbeth sprang to her feet and stared at Rab as if she’d never seen him before.
“His? Declan’s?”
“That is what I do not know. The bairn, a wee lad, is the spit of him. I saw the child when I took Dougie home to talk to his ma about him ’prenticing. The bairn is four months old.”
He saw the flicker in her eyes as she added up the months. She raised her hands to her mouth.
“But,” Rab hurried to say, “it occurred to me the child could be Pat’s. You ken how alike they were. And Pat did leave in a hurry. That’s why I want to talk to him.”
“Billy knows something. Yes, the child could be Pat’s. Pat could be playing tricks on me for some reason. But you say Declan was—was with other women also?”
“I have no proof of it. But tongues wag, and I saw him myself on more than one occasion talking to women.”
“Why did you not tell me, Rab?” she wailed. “Why not come to me if you knew such a thing, and you one of my closest friends?”
“Because, as I say, I had no proof, before seeing Maggie’s bairn. Because I did no’ want to break your heart. And because of how I felt about you.” Rab got to his feet. Helplessly, he said, “I did not want you to love him, Lisbeth. I thought if I brought you such news you might take it as an attempt to turn you from him—to me.”
“By God,” she breathed through her fingers, “what a tangle. I want to see her, Rab, talk to her, make her admit the truth.”
“Who, Maggie? Best not.”
“But only she knows whether she lay with Declan or Pat. Oh, how could he do this to me? I mean, I knew what he was—whatever you think, I am not a fool. I knew he smiled and chatted to other women. I thought it meant nothing to him; it was just Declan being Declan. Because he chose me. He married me! I thought that meant something. And I never thought he would break sacred vows.”
Rab did not know what to say. He dared not touch her, strung taut as she was. He watched tears gather in her eyes and spill over, and he thought, with sickness in the pit of his stomach, she loves him after all.
But it seemed these were tears of anger. “I need to see her—and this child. She knew he was married. How could she?”
Rab shook his head. “I don’t think Maggie Grier lives by ‘shoulds.’ Pat will know the truth. I want to close the shop for a few days and go looking for him.”
“He may be right here in Lobster Cove.”
“So he may.”
“Anyway, you can’t close the shop; you need the custom.”
“Nothing is more important than getting to the bottom of this.” Rab ached to cradle her in his arms, but he refrained.
“How will you know where to begin looking?”
“I thought I’d hire a boat, put in at some of the ports northward, see if I can get word of him.”
Slowly, Lisbeth nodded.
Giving in to irresistible temptation, Rab touched her cheek. “I want you to promise me one thing while I’m gone—nay, two things: you will keep Kelpie with you at all times, and you will stay away from that cottage up the shore.”
Lisbeth nodded again and seemed to relax a bit. “I am grateful to you for telling me the truth, Rabbie. And I know you better than to think you would relate such a thing out of spite.”
“Good.” Rab breathed a deep sigh. He wished he could ask her for more, whether this knowledge changed the way she felt about Declan, and if, upon his return, Rab might hope for something besides friendship.
Of course for that, her husband—unfaithful or not—would in truth have to be dead.
****
Hours later Lisbeth lay in the bed alone, victim once more to thoughts that would not let her sleep. At the side of the bed lay Kelpie; she could hear her faithful guard breathing.
Too bad Declan had not proved as faithful.
She felt bruised to the point of numbness by the information Rab had imparted, but not surprised—no, not nearly as surprised as she should be. On some level had she known she did not possess all of Declan? Had she suspected that, despite the vows they took together, no one could possess all of him? Who could trap quicksilver in her hands and hope to hold onto it?
Since that first day at school when Declan held the door open for her and gave her his matchless sm
ile, she had been able to see nothing else. The fact that Declan had chosen her above all the others who pursued him to wed—including Mignon with her fine gowns and air of privilege—had blinded her to all else.
Now she wondered what she had actually felt for Declan, besides infatuation and enchantment. Those emotions seemed so different from what she now felt for Rab: deep as the sea, strong as bedrock, vital as her own blood.
Rab had elicited from her two promises—to keep Kelpie close by and to stay away from the cottage while he was away—and she would never break any promise to this man.
Good thing, then, he hadn’t made her promise to stay away from Maggie Grier.
Chapter Eighteen
Lisbeth stood near the end of Maple Street, overlooking Lobster Cove harbor. She had just watched Rab’s boat sail out of sight on an achingly clear morning, all blue skies and cool air. Kelpie stood at her side, strong as a furry boulder, the dog having been instructed by his master to look after Lisbeth.
What had she seen in Rab’s eyes at going? Softness toward her, longing she reciprocated. Determination, as well. They could say little to each other with Jeff O’Conner, who owned the boat Rab had hired, standing by. Jeff would sail with Rab; at least she need not worry about him sailing on his own.
A chill chased its way up her spine like the touch of winter. A year ago, a man she loved had sailed away from her and had not returned. Please God, it would not happen again.
A man she loved. And did she love Rabbie Sinclair? It suddenly seemed impossible not to love him with her every breath and every heartbeat. Only the enchantment under which she’d lived had kept her from seeing that for so long.
But now the illusion Declan had cast over her life dissipated and blew away like early mist. All the while she’d struggled to keep things together and their heads above water in the cottage up the shore, he’d been stepping out on her, seeing other women, lying to her and deceiving, coming home and trading her that smile in return for her constancy, expecting his rights in their bed. In their bed, and who else’s? Lisbeth couldn’t know that, but she had one name and meant to ask.
With determination she turned about, giving her back to the wide, blue sea, and started up Maple Street, the dog pacing at her side. The Hogshead would be closed at this hour. She could only hope Maggie Grier would be awake.
Lisbeth knew where the woman lived, in a tiny house out back of the tavern. She rapped on the door before which she and Kelpie waited.
Young Dougie would be off at school. Lisbeth did not want him overhearing the conversation she planned. Behind the door, though, she could hear a babe wailing. She knocked again, and an instant later the door was pulled open.
She had never before spoken to Maggie Grier, save in passing. A latecomer to Lobster Cove, Maggie had not attended school with the rest of them, though she had to be close in age to Lisbeth.
Now, Lisbeth observed, Maggie looked older. The clear light revealed lines in her face and a gulf of emptiness in her blue eyes. She wore a nightdress, not overly clean, beneath a robe that gaped open, and her blonde hair hung on her shoulders in a tangle. Behind her the unseen infant continued to cry.
Declan’s child? Lisbeth’s stomach clenched, and for an instant her resolve wavered. She could not do this! But she refused to continue being deceived and lied to; she wanted the truth.
Maggie looked as surprised to see Lisbeth as if she’d opened the door to receive a slap. The expression in her eyes sharpened, and a thin smile came to her lips.
“What do you want?”
“I hoped for a word. I’m Lisbeth O’Shea—”
“I know who you are,” Maggie interrupted. Hostility laced her words, and her gaze swept Lisbeth head to toe and back again.
“Please,” Lisbeth said stiffly. “I believe we are overdue for a conversation.”
“This isn’t a good time.”
“Is there an appropriate time for what I need to say?”
With a grimace, Maggie swung wide the door. “Suit yourself.” She nodded at Kelpie. “But leave that outside.”
The interior of the little house, as small as Lisbeth’s cottage, did not smell clean. Lisbeth’s nose caught a hint of spoiled food, unchanged nappies, and what might be whisky, all underlain by the smell of dirt. The room into which Maggie ushered her was dim, but she could see through a doorway to another room beyond, where the baby wailed.
“What do you want?” Maggie did not invite Lisbeth to sit. Nor did she appear to notice the babe’s cries.
I want to see your child, want to know if it belongs to my husband. But Lisbeth didn’t quite have the courage to say the words, not faced with Maggie’s hard stare.
“Don’t let me keep you from picking up your baby,” she said instead. “I’ll wait.”
Maggie shrugged. “Does him good to cry, clears his lungs out.” Maggie’s gaze sharpened. “Or is it him you came to see?”
Lisbeth’s stomach dropped. For an instant she felt breathless.
Maggie gave another tight smile. “Who told you? That blacksmith of yours? You must be thicker than two planks if you didn’t guess what was going on before this—what that husband of yours was.”
“Yes, I must.” Suddenly, Lisbeth’s legs threatened to give way. Maggie nudged her toward a chair.
“There, sit.”
She watched as Lisbeth lowered herself unsteadily, and wrapped her robe more tightly about herself. Her expression softened slightly.
“You truly didn’t know? How could a woman be married to Declan O’Shea and not know? Everybody else did.”
Lisbeth shook her head; humiliation burned in her cheeks.
Maggie went on, “Wasn’t just me, you know. There were women all up and down the coast. He’d put out in that scow of his and go to see them—and by ‘see’ I do not mean looking.”
“How often?” Lisbeth asked in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. “How often did he—come to you?”
“Depended. If he was in the Hogshead drinking—mostly afternoons—he came here after. I wasn’t averse; he was a good-looking man, better than my usual, if he was a bit heavy-handed in bed. I don’t see the best lovers in my profession. It was all about the game with Declan anyway—not the deed. He liked charming women, winning them, persuading them to what he wanted. He thought he was…what do you call it? Irresistible.”
“Did he pay you?” Lisbeth thought of how carefully she had eked out the coin back home, how there was never enough, how they were forced to subsist most often on the little bit she earned sewing till her fingers ached. Had he taken what he did earn hauling lobsters and spent it here, not just for whisky?
But Maggie laughed. “Declan? Never! He did you a favor by tumbling you—at least that was how he saw it.”
“And how did you see it?” Lisbeth raised her eyes to Maggie’s face. “You knew he was married. Not even a year! Didn’t that matter?”
“Why should it? If that redheaded rascal wanted to go spreading his seed around and his wife too stupid to notice, what’s that to me?”
“Woman to woman—” Lisbeth began.
Maggie snorted. “What woman ever lifted a hand to help me since I got here five years ago? Which of you offered friendship? Do not come crying to me now, Mrs. O’Shea. You had his name—that’s all.” She lifted her chin. “I got his brat.”
“Then for the love of God, go pick the child up.” Lisbeth could no longer stand the sound, which had lessened to a weaker mewling.
“He’ll cry himself back to sleep in a minute.” But Maggie shrugged again and took herself into the other room, where the cries abruptly ceased.
She emerged a moment later with a babe on her shoulder. Even in the dim light, Lisbeth could see his hair shining like an orange beacon.
Could still be Pat’s, she told herself. But Maggie had already admitted being with Declan.
Her stomach turned within her, but she said, “May I see him?”
Maggie obligingly turned the babe around in he
r arms. His face looked blotchy from his long cry, and he waved his fists angrily. But his eyes, which regarded Lisbeth with interest, were Declan’s eyes, tawny and golden.
“Mark him, them eyes—don’t they?” Maggie said with some satisfaction. “If his father was still alive I’d have no trouble making him pay for this one.”
She’d have trouble getting Declan to pay for anything, Lisbeth reflected, and it shocked her that she could think of Declan with such sour acknowledgement. For so long she had determinedly kept him as her bright star. Now that image of him, like her world, had shattered around her.
“What’s his name?” she asked huskily.
“Timmy. And I’ll have a hell of a time raising him on my wage.”
If anyone could call what Maggie did raising: even from here, Lisbeth could tell the child needed to be changed.
But Maggie sat herself on a second chair opposite and said, “He wants feeding, if I’m to keep him from hollering again.” With no sign of modesty, she opened her robe and lowered one side of her nightgown. Timmy latched on hungrily.
“All the same, males,” Maggie said acerbically. “They want the breast.”
Suddenly sure she would be ill, Lisbeth gripped the arms of her chair. Her head spun in slow circles.
Declan was not the man she’d believed him to be.
Maggie gave her an appraising stare. “Ain’t it about time you gave up playing the grieving widow anyway? It’s been a year, and I hear you’re tumbling the blacksmith.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“All over the tavern that you’ve moved in with him.”
“That’s not true. I mean, I’m staying at his place, yes, but he’s been sleeping elsewhere.”
Maggie gave a careless shrug. “My advice, if you want it, is forget Declan. The blacksmith seems a steady sort.”
Lisbeth hesitated, not knowing if she dared ask the question in her mind. At last she drew a deep breath and said, “You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“Sinclair? Only when he came to ask about Dougie. Sinclair’s not the sort to visit me.”
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