by Sarah Abbot
The truth was, Abby had gotten under his skin, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out how she’d managed it. More tenacious women had tried their hand at it, and had failed miserably.
There had been many…too many. It wasn’t a fact he was proud of, but his past was what it was. He’d never been able to let a woman in completely, because he knew firsthand what could happen when a man let a woman possess him, heart and soul.
He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his hands over his face as if to scrub away the memories of the women he hadn’t been able to love: Michelle, the brilliant young attorney who’d seemed to wither when he left her; Sophia, the woman who’d wanted nothing more than to marry him, have his babies, love him forever; Angie, the poet with the tender eyes and even softer heart. Last but not least, there had been his wife, Jennifer…the woman who couldn’t get over the fact that his heart was closed and might never open enough to satisfy her. He’d seen it in her eyes that he never loved her enough, never met her right there, in the place reserved for absolutes: absolute love, absolute commitment, absolutely hers.
He’d wanted to. He’d tried to. But he’d failed. He knew in the soul of him that he couldn’t love in a heart-shattering sort of way. Quite frankly, he hadn’t thought it was possible. For him, anyway.
Every one of those women had deserved better than him, but for some unfathomable reason, none of them believed it.
Now this: a face he couldn’t get out of his head, a voice he heard even in his sleep, a scent that thrilled him to his bones.
What was he supposed to do about it? How could he make right the fact that he had been all over her?
But she was all over you, too, said a little voice in his head.
Things were officially out of hand.
He shoved himself out of his chair, strode across the length of the room, and glared through the window into the morning.
Something inside him was changing. Some sort of shift had occurred—an internal rift that had allowed a part of himself to slip out, and part of Abby to slip in. Something of his steely rage had vanished, something of his untouchable soul had succumbed, and at that moment, at that precise moment of weakness, something of her tenderness had seeped from her flesh and melted into him.
A hitch in his heart brought him up short of breath. He had changed, and there was nothing he could do to change back.
He’d never been on this side of the equation before. Caring this much left him feeling off-kilter, out of control, crazy with frustration.
And what about this stalker business?
Number four: find a way to get Abby out of that cottage.
The cottage was far too remote, far too insecure for his liking—but he had a feeling that nothing short of eviction would budge Abby from the place.
Ryan smiled to himself, struck with a bolt of inspiration that made him want to pat himself on the back.
He grabbed the telephone book, looked up the number for Carl Watson—the contractor Cora used when work was required on any of her properties—and dialed.
He knew exactly how to get Abby out of that cottage, and with a smile on her face, to boot. She’d made it very clear that she wanted a bathroom, and that was just the ticket to get her safely tucked away…where?
An apartment would be almost as vulnerable as the cottage if she were there alone, and Ronnie’s place was way too small. His place, he decided firmly, was out.
Of course. Cora’s. Abby would be safe there.
Carl picked up his phone at last.
“Hey Carl, Ryan Brannigan here. Listen, I have a job for you up at Artist’s Cottage…bathroom addition…Do you think you could get started right away?…Tomorrow? Yeah, that would be perfect…Why don’t you come on down to Rum Runner’s and we’ll go over the details.”
He hung up the phone, satisfied despite the mess he was mired in.
Ryan’s chest squeezed. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t love Abrielle Lancaster.
Even though he wanted to.
History, he decided, was a damnable thing.
Chapter Twenty-three
Overnight, it seemed as if autumn had burrowed its roots into the earth, steadily eased them outward like tentacles intent on tranquilizing the last flourishes of summer. Abby had moved in with Cora temporarily, but she was eager to return to Abandon Bluff.
Despite Cora’s hospitality, she still felt off-kilter because of her hasty cottage exodus.
The one thing she knew for sure was that Ryan was responsible for the contractor who’d arrived suddenly and announced he was there to begin the new bathroom addition. He’d shown her the work order and told her that she was to pack and go to Cora’s house while the construction was under way.
A quick call to Cora had caught the woman completely off guard. She hadn’t arranged for the renovation for another week, and had no idea why the contractor had arrived so early.
But Abby had known, just as clearly as she knew that Ryan Brannigan was a man who got exactly what he wanted, even when what he wanted was a woman out of her cottage.
She steamed a little at the thought. Really, she ought to have torn a strip off the man, but every time she worked up the ire to burst into his office, both guns blazing, the thought of hot baths, long showers, and a flushing toilet stopped her dead in her plumbing-loving tracks.
Plus, he was so busy dealing with the aftermath of the fire, the last thing he needed was a distraction from her. That was why he hadn’t called, wasn’t it?
Abby lifted the lace curtain on Mavis O’Donnell’s front window and peered into the street. Mavis had invited her to dinner, but the conversation had been stilted. Why couldn’t she shake off her distraction?
As if she didn’t know. All she could think about was Ryan—his lips, his hands, his…
She bit her lip. Hard. If Ryan didn’t have time for distractions, then neither did she. The days were ticking by ever more quickly, and there was no doubt in her mind that she hadn’t begun to scratch the surface of her mother’s experience here in Destiny Bay…but she’d been hopelessly distracted since her passionate encounter with Ryan. In fact, it seemed as if the entire island was conspiring to keep him at the forefront of her mind.
The sand reminded her disturbingly of his topaz eyes. The sun was the warmth of his touch, and the smell of the ocean was the scent that clung to his skin. She’d even walked by a bookstore today and seen that bloody book He’s Just Not That Into You staring back at her.
But despite evidence to the contrary, Abby knew that he was that into her. She had felt something magical spring up between them.
Surely it was the inevitable fallout of the fire that kept him from calling. But what if it wasn’t? Abby steeled her resolve. As soon as she left the O’Donnells’, she’d call Ryan.
In the meantime, she was determined to glean more information about her mother than the tiny snippets Mavis had shared with her over dinner. She felt certain there was much more information than the old woman realized lying just below the surface of her conscious memory. She also planned to ask Mavis about the Marauder’s Return, which seemed to be growing louder with each passing minute.
Outside the window, she could see the festivities for the annual celebration beginning to take shape.
Abby sat back down at the table as Franklin and Mavis reentered the kitchen. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about tonight…the Marauder’s Return.”
“Oh,” Mavis said, shuddering, “you don’t want to talk about the Marauder’s Return.”
Franklin winked at Abby from behind Mavis’s back, making Abby grin.
“Of course I do! I know it’s a celebration, but I want to know the history.”
Mavis looked at her, askance. “Don’t tell me you’ve not heard it?”
“Oh, I’ve heard a few versions,” she said with an eloquent lift of her shoulder. “But I’ve lived on this island long enough to know that the only story worth betting on is yours.”
Mavis patted her bouffant demurely.
“Well, now, I’m not sure as I’m that much of an expert, but if it’s history you’re wantin’”—she scooped up their empty plates and set them on the counter—“that much I can surely provide.”
Abby settled into her chair, ready to witness the weaving of a proper Destiny Bay yarn. There was nothing she liked better than hearing well-worn stories pulled out, shaken, and spread for her delight—and (she was quite certain) nothing the islanders enjoyed more than telling her.
“Do tell then, Mavis,” said Franklin as his wife laid out teacups.
Mavis shot a marked scowl toward the window, from whence belly-deep rumblings of revelry had begun to drift. “Pure pagan is what it is!” she said, thumping the table for effect.
It worked. Abby lurched in her chair at the thud.
“When I was young, only the worst sort of a hooligan took part in The Return, but now, everyone from Doctor Thompson to the minister’s cat can be found down there, flagrant as you please, reclaiming the pirate blood that no doubt runs amok in their veins,” Mavis lamented, hand on her heart. “You’ll stay away if you know what’s good for you, Abby. It’s not for the likes of you, that’s for sure.”
Before Abby could protest, Mavis cleared her throat pointedly. “The Marauder’s Return is the anniversary of the night the ship Defiant ran aground, and the pirates aboard came ashore in search of a boat to commandeer and women to ravage. They found both, to the everlasting shame of Destiny Bay.” Mavis squeezed her eyes shut, as if pained at the very idea. “What’s become of a society that celebrates rapists and murderers?”
Abby shrank in her seat, feeling slightly abashed. “I had no idea.”
“Wicked night it is. I’ll be glad when it’s over.” Mavis sipped her tea.
“Let me wash those for you,” Abby said, rising, as Mavis gathered the remnants of their dinner and carried them to the counter.
“No, you don’t,” she said, shooing Abby away. “You’ll need to be getting home before the streets are closed. Now, I’ll be sure to call you if I remember anything else about your dear ma, God rest her.” Mavis’s face suddenly blanched. “Oh dear,” she said quietly.
Abby grasped her hand. “What is it?”
“As I was talking, I remembered something about your mother. It has to do with the celebration,” she said, waving her hand toward the window, where sounds of revelry were already drifting through. She paused, as if bringing the long-ago night back into focus. “Yes, it was definitely the Marauder’s Return. I was down to the pub with Franklin, having a nip before the festivities began. I saw Celeste and Douglas sitting at the bar. He was half in his cups, as usual, and Celeste was holding onto his arm, looking up at him as if he hung the moon. Poor misguided lass,” she said with a sorrowful shake of her head.
“Yes, yes,” Abby said, restraining herself from shaking the story out of Mavis’s memory.
Mavis was unfazed. “I remember her plain as day, rising on her toes and whispering in his ear. Such a pretty girl she was. Anyway, she whispered a bit more, and then he gave her money to catch a cab home and said he’d be along after another pint or two, and off she went.”
Mavis sat back in her seat. “I don’t need to tell you that McAllister’s ‘pint or two’ dragged on most of the night. He forgot all about your ma, who was waiting for him back at the cottage.
“I saw her at the grocery the next day. Your ma came in to buy aspirin—likely for that old sod she lived with—and that’s when I first saw it.”
“First saw what?” Abby asked shrilly.
“That’s when I first saw your mother as a ghost.”
Abby’s skin prickled. “Wh-what?”
Mavis looked at her husband. The two exchanged knowing glances. “That’s what we called her: ‘the ghost.’ It’s the best word we had for what she turned into. Anyway, that’s when it happened. That was when she changed; lost her spirit—the night of The Marauder’s Return!”
Abby felt as if a cold hand reached into her chest and clutched her heart.
An avalanche of memories deluged her—the sound of hushed whispers when she walked by, the cold stone that marked her mother’s place in Cresthaven Cemetery, the image of her grandmother’s night terrors at the attic door…this night was where it all began.
Mavis’s expression was pained.
Time seemed to hurtle backward. The abyss Abby had been outrunning her entire life yawned wide beneath her feet, hungering for her soul. It had never felt as close as it did right this minute.
Abby rose and rushed to the door. She needed air, fast. She grasped the door frame behind her and held on tight. “I-I have to go.”
Abby broke through the back door at a run and fled down the back stairs, two at a time. Mavis called out to her, but the words were lost to the cacophony raging through her head.
Tonight, tonight. It happened tonight!
In the street, the Jolly Roger waved at every lamppost. People were suddenly everywhere, glasses held aloft as they wove through the crowd. All around her, faces were transformed by the gilding of moonlight’s glow and the blush of drink. Recklessness glinted in the eyes of the young; remembrance shone from the eyes of the aged.
She leaned against the stone wall of a storefront, where she bent over at the waist and breathed slowly in and out.
What had come over her? She felt the pain and disbelief of learning about her mother’s suicide as if it had happened yesterday, not years ago. She had never been so gripped by the need to escape in her entire life. But it was more than that. It was as if the mention of this night had resurrected her mother’s age-old terror; as if it now coursed through Abby.
But terror over what?
She pressed her hand to her forehead, regaining an ounce of self-control. With shaking fingers, she withdrew her cell phone and dialed Ryan’s number.
“Ryan Brannigan here.”
“Ryan, it’s Abby.”
“Abby? Where are you? I can hardly hear you.”
“I’m downtown,” she said, stifling the quaver in her voice. “At the Marauder’s Return.”
“The Marauder’s Return? Don’t tell me you’re there alone.”
“I’m here alone, but I don’t want to be. Can you come meet me? Please?” she asked, hating the pleading in her voice; the vulnerability it suggested.
“Where are you?”
Abby looked at the dubious characters surrounding her and decided that this wasn’t anyplace she wanted to linger. “I can meet you on Brigantine Way, by the café.”
The line was silent but for the noise in the background. “That’s across town from Run Runner’s,” he said, almost to himself. “I’m behind the bar, but I can get to you in half an hour.”
“Half an hour?” she echoed, her stomach clenching.
“The streets are closed, Abby. I’ll be on foot. Don’t talk to anyone, stay in well-lit areas, and be careful.”
“I will.” She closed her phone, secured her purse at her shoulder and stepped into the crowd, forcing thoughts of her mother’s tragedy out of her mind. If she were to find her way across town in this crowd, she needed her wits about her.
The only route to Brigantine Way from where she was standing was by way of the waterfront.
The surge of the crowd seemed to be heading toward the docks, so Abby let it move her along. By the ceaseless momentum of hundreds of moving bodies, Abby found herself at the north end of Pirate’s Landing Beach. Now, she just had to get to the south end, and she’d be right on track.
She kicked off her shoes and stuffed them in her purse. The sand was cold beneath her feet and the wind on her face was as moist as a mermaid’s breath, cooling the feverish heat that streaked through her insides as she replayed Mavis’s words again and again.
All around her, the party was well advanced, and the belly-deep thumping of drums seemed to rattle her sinews. Beyond her, a towering bonfire spit sparks into the black cavern of night.
She inched her way toward the water, where the crowd seemed thin
ner. From there, she could see that people had gathered around a raised dais, where Dermot Malone, owner of the kite shop, recited the story of the marauders’ first landing on the island.
His audience leaned in raptly, murmuring in response to his story. She’d have to fight through the crowd, thick as it was, but she’d never felt so desperate to feel the strength of Ryan’s arms around her.
She began slogging her way through as Dermot’s words drifted out over the night sky.
“…when at last, the alarm rang through the town,” Dermot said ominously, “it was too late. A pirate stood upon the threshold of every door. The few able-bodied men who weren’t fishing were cut down. The screams of women pierced the night.”
Like a steadily rising tide, the crowd seemed to surge with barely suppressed offense. An answering ripple of unease swelled within her. She wanted to run, yet running would be impossible. She pressed on, determined to get through to Ryan, ignoring the angry grunts of those she was forced to shove.
“They plundered every home,” said Dermot, “sending a few to their maker along the way. And many of those who lived, lived to carry the seed of pirates in their bellies.”
She wanted to block out the words. Something terrible had happened to her mother on the night of the Marauder’s Return, just as it had happened to those women so long ago. It wasn’t just a story—it wasn’t just for fun…didn’t these people understand anything?
She leaned into a particularly thick gathering of people and pressed through, wishing she were anywhere but here.
Ghosts of the past seemed to force their ominous presence upon her, as frightening as Black Jack the pirate, and every bit as dangerous. Hair stood erect on the back of her neck. Something felt as if it were closing in on her.
Run! said the voice of her fear, but her feet churned hopelessly on the shifting granules of sand.
“Before long,” said the relentless storyteller, “our forefathers returned to the carnage left by Black Jack Rawlins and his crew of villains. The strongest men of the village set off to follow the fishing boat they had escaped in, and after a struggle on the high seas the men of Destiny Bay returned victorious!”