A Love by Any Measure (17 page)

Misnomer

Boston, MA,

September 1872

T
he girl’s eyes sparkled across the cobble-stoned street as she leaned over the side of the bench precariously. She sought permission from her watcher, who quickly nodded approval. She snatched up one golden-orange fallen leaf forcefully and stuffed it into pockets already overflowing with a collection of autumnal foliage. A gust of cool air shot through their clothing, making all out on the street in the evening shiver. The woman wondered how the child remained unaffected; only a loose ebony curl or two danced behind her before falling limply back against her shoulder.

“Gettin’ late, Maeve.”

“Aye.”

“She’ll be catching her death o’ cold if you don’t get her in.”

Tara’s accent was so much more pronounced, Maeve thought, than her own. While Maeve had attempted — though perhaps not as successfully as hoped — to craft her speech with less Irish flavor, Killarney still echoed in her words. Tara, however, was hopeless, not trying to sound either British or American, choosing instead to let her pride be paraded in every twill and tweet.

“She’s a hardy one,” Maeve argued. “Reminds me of my ma that way. She could stand naked and wet to the wind on Christmas morning and think herself overdressed for comfort. And if I told her a bit of anything contrary, she’d have me tongue-lashed from tip to tail.”

Tara finished stuffing some parsnips into her bag and taking a few onions back from Maeve’s in exchange. An old woman, she was Maeve’s neighbor and friend, but never hesitated in saying an iron word or two when she thought it proper.

“This is no place for you, and not for her either.” She motioned to the child, who had now taken to skipping pebbles across the walk before scurrying to fetch them back.

Maeve sighed fully. Attempting to come across as completely sincere, she somewhat failed at the words. “This is as close to home as she’s ever felt. She barely remembers the old house anymore. Every so often, I think she’s going to ask me something about it, but she quiets, like she’s trying to figure out if it was a dream. Then she goes about her business again.”

A silence fell for several minutes as they both focused intently on the way the child fingered the pebbles about in her hand.

Finally, Tara spoke. “She’d do well in school. A real keen eye, that one. And studious. Look at the way she flips those over and over so she doesn’t miss a single detail. Very determined little sprite, she is. She looks at the stones likes she could pound them into something useful.”

Maeve smiled warmly. “Much like her father that way.”

Tara leaned back a bit, a knowing smile on her face. “Certainly not like you. Not to begrudge, but she has a certain … spark of rebellion in her. Yes, a wee Fenian, that one.”

Maeve didn’t respond. Tara knew she didn’t like to speak about the past too much. She kept the warmth of it around her like a blanket and the cold of it slung over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

But in the moment, the similarity, the way the child played — simultaneously carefree and yet completely consumed by her work — was so very much a reflection of her parentage that she couldn’t deny a momentary recollection. “So much her father’s child, in both brand and banter, as my da would have said.”

Immediately, Maeve bit her tongue, fearing that revealing the secret carried in the child’s name was dangerous. Before Tara could even have a chance to question it, if she had noticed, Maeve thought it wise to take her leave.

“You’re right. Gettin’ late. We better be off. Night, Tara. Come along, sweet!”

The child turned and her blue eyes shone with the brilliance of a thousand stars. She skipped the distance between and threw her tiny frame against the firm-set Tara, gripping her midsection.

“Good night, Miss O’Terri!” Augusta chirped in her delicate childish way.

Tara leaned over and kissed the angel girl on the forehead as she ran a thumb over her cheek.

“Good night, dear heart. You take care of your ma now, and make sure she gets home safely. Will you do that, Miss Murphy?”

Augusta squealed at being addressed so formally. “Of course, Miss O’Terri. She’s safe with me!”

Forged

Killarney, Ireland

December 1866

I
f Owen noticed the red flush of her cheeks, or the way she fidgeted as they stood before the congregation three weeks from the intended date of their union, making the very hour known and public, he gave no outward sign of it.

It was a mere formality, one which the church required. She would have thought nothing of it had she not carried with her the guilt of having been bedded by another two nights before.

Maeve and August had awoken in each other’s arms, not certain what to say. One grace of the Almighty was that her da had not come home that night. In the heat of their union, August had declared that he loved her. Maeve suspected he told the truth, though while he had shown kindness and even compassion, August had never made any indication that his feelings for her ran so deeply.

And also, they had been drunk.

Wisely, Maeve had managed to bite her tongue and say nothing of her intentions or her own confused feelings. After the second time they had laid together, she melted into his embrace and allowed herself to enjoy the warmth of his body against hers, the feel of his chest rising and falling. It would not happen again; even in the moment she knew the encounter had been a mistake, an unalterable blemish that would forever stain her soul. Still, she couldn’t ignore the look of utter sincerity on his face as he had made his declaration.

I love you too much to let you go …

The next morning, Maeve rose early and spoke none to August. She made her way below to the bakery while he dressed. He must have left discretely, for no one mentioned seeing him and he was not present when she returned after the morning rush. Despite how perfectly he felt when he was near her, with her, in her, it didn’t change facts. No matter what they felt, they couldn’t let what had happened between them be known in public.

It was only further evidence that what she did feel for August was misguided. She could never be anything of significance to him. Never. The sooner she accepted that and moved on — with Owen — the better. Besides, Owen loved her, that was for certain. He was a good man with a good heart and a good name. He was perfect for her, a man of whom Rory approved, and whom Sine, if she had still been alive, would have wanted for her daughter.

As thoughts of August tugged at her heart, Maeve knew she must not allow herself to be led astray by her own wild fantasies. She must … must resign herself to her fate as Owen’s bride. Owen would be the father of her children. Someday, hopefully years away, Owen would lie beside her in a cold and earthen grave.

She had to find a way to undo what she had done, or at the very least, lay the foundation for her new life with Owen as quickly as possible, to affirm the path she would walk with him. She would do so, and do it by giving herself to him completely.

After mass, Maeve led Owen back to her flat. Rory had set out to Middle Lake for a visit to Billy Boyle’s and would be gone the night. Every step felt like twenty, however, as though she were walking to a fate worse than death and trying to stay the road between. That she should be so nervous about the decision she had made perplexed her. It wasn’t as though what she was about to attempt was something she hadn’t done before.

Anymore, anyhow.

As she closed the door behind them, Maeve turned to Owen and reached to take his coat. Easing it off his shoulders, she laid it over the back of a chair near the fireplace. As her eyes scanned the floor before the hearth, she quivered at the recollection of what had happened there just two nights prior.

“Glad to be done with it finally?”

“Eh?”

All the color left Maeve’s face as she turned back to Owen. She inwardly chastised herself for her reaction. There was no way Owen could know what she had done with August.

“Oh, the announcement of the date?” He nodded. “Yes, the sooner I am your wife, the better, in my opinion.”

His smile faltered as he moved around the confines of her modest flat, the cloak of shame overcoming his face. “I’m so sorry about your cottage. I had hoped there was something I could have done, but that scoundrel just moved too swiftly.”

Maeve feigned indifference, despite a perplexing instinct to defend August. “Oh, it’s all right. Perhaps I was too held up in so small a thing. After all, there are other cottages at Middle Lake. Perhaps, someday, we’ll find ourselves there still.”

“Ah, maybe. Especially with the Fenians … ” Maeve crooked her head to the side. “Well, things might just work out for us, is all.”

“Of course it will. I’m sure of it.”

His fingers ran through his hair as he took off his cap by the rim and scratched his scalp. When he looked up, he found Maeve dangerously closing in on him.

“What are you doing?”

She reached him and rolled up on her toes to try to meet his lips. “May not I kiss my husband-to-be?”

Not waiting for an answer, she made the attempt, and succeeded. The small peck was followed by another, deeper and longer. On the third visit, Owen brought his lips down to meet hers, his hands flowing over her shoulders to frame her properly. A churn of guilt seeded deep within, both because of what she was about to do and what she had done, but Maeve fought the desire to pull back. Every gesture buried her deeper in her conflict: not wanting to proceed, yet believing that her submission to Owen was the reaffirming, soul-saving action she must take. When a fourth kiss ended, she found herself pressed against him fully, his arms around her and holding her tightly.

Owen hesitated, wariness in his features.

“Not drunk this time, are you?” he joked, leaning in and kissing the tip of her nose. “Do you know what you’re trying to do here?”

A playful smile lit up her face. “Perfectly well. Our wedding is such a short time away. We don’t have to wait … if we don’t want.”

He turned his hand over and, with the backside, ran it over her cheek. Maeve’s insides lurched, the action so reminding her of August.

“Why do you tempt me? I can wait.”

She answered by pressing her lips to his, boldly sucking his bottom lip as she drew back, fighting a hankering to bite down and violently end the campaign.

Swallowing hard, she mustered up a lie. “But I cannot.”

He moved without delay. One moment she was standing pressed against him, the next Maeve found herself swept off her feet, being carried to her room. She had thought having her own little space with an actual bed quite a luxury when she had first moved into the flat. Now she cursed the damned thing’s existence.

Owen’s mouth didn’t stop moving as he carried her, either. With Maeve’s hands laced behind his neck, he caressed her lips with his. When Maeve felt her body meet the mattress, she flattened out. Immediately, she was pressed into the quilting by the mass that was Owen’s hard, muscled body, made firm by laborious work with hammer and iron. She gasped; having held his hand and even embraced him, she still had never realized how strapping his occupation had made him. He was almost as solid a weight over her as August.

August.

As Owen’s hands began to work at her clothing, she thought of how swiftly August had done the same two nights prior. But with him, it had been different. With August, she had felt aflame, as though she would be consumed in brimstone if her clothing hadn’t been removed at that very moment. Now, every small bit of flesh revealed felt as though it were scarred and desecrated, as though Owen found only ruin where August had discovered wealth.

His breath was raspy and hot as he kissed down her collar bone. “Wanted you for so long. Since the moment I saw you.”

She opened her mouth, but knew anything said in response would be a lie. She hadn’t wanted him that way. Ever. She appreciated his looks only in the way one admired any beautiful thing set by God on the green Earth.

“Maeve, did you hear me?”

“Aye.”

He gave a small chuckle as he pulled back the lapel of her blouse and undid her lacings. Damn that she had worn the one which laced in the front. A moment later, her back arched involuntarily as Owen’s mouth came down, causing the titillated peak to perk instantly.

She hadn’t realized she had moaned until Owen’s devilish gaze met hers. What surprised her more was not that she found the sensation enjoyable, but rather that she had found it familiar. As Owen’s efforts widened, revealing the twin mound on the other side and giving it equal due, Maeve closed her eyes and thought of …

August.

Invoking the memory of his touch, his mouth, his eyes, his smell, she imagined it was August moving over her, driven by lust and carnal hunger. She allowed the delusion to overcome her, and when Owen spoke again, she had convinced herself it was August’s voice she heard.

“I want you. Now. Let me take you.”

Her fingers ran through his hair. Blonde hair? But August’s hair is black, isn’t it? she thought

It didn’t matter. He was here. He was here, they were not drunk, and he wanted her. And Lord help her, she wanted him twice as much.

Maeve felt her head nod, granting permission. Oddly, he made no movement to remove her skirt, only reaching under instead, easing her knickers down and then off. The intruding garment was tossed away as her legs unfolded and fell to the side, inviting him to enter.

And he did. Perhaps his passion was simply too consuming that he hadn’t wanted to wait for her to be nude? It didn’t matter. August was in her, and she was in heaven.

His tempo wasn’t the measured, intoxicating pace as before, but a feverish pounding that made the oak frame of the bed tap out a marching cadence against the wall. She found it consuming: so rough, so driven, so animalistic, quickly bringing her to that wonderful apex he had driven her to thrice before.

“Like that,” Maeve commanded, and her words brought her reward. The endorsement enticed her lover, made him work into her harder.

It shouldn’t be possible to feel this good, she thought. Lord, she finally understood why this was meant to be kept within marriage. She knew the act could leave her with child, and oh, she would have quite a brood on her hands if she had been free to engage in this bliss at will.

“Maeve, it’s coming. I’m going to … I should pull–”

“No!” She weaved her hands behind and dug her fingers into his backside, bringing the push and pull of their bodies into dizzying proximity.

“But I’ll –”

“I want it!” Maeve yelled. “I want you. I love you. I love you … I … I … Oh … ”

She could feel both their bodies beginning to tremble, to shudder, to wash over the edge of that magnanimous sensation.

With a feral growl, she heard her name called aloud. She gave in to the pull, allowed herself to be swept away in unison, and called out his name in a licentious echo.

As his form slumped atop her, she thought it odd that his arms should be corded so tightly. She was limp, utterly spent and floating ten feet off the bed. He was eerily poised, as though ready to strike.

“What … did you say?”

The chill in his voice reminded her of the ache that had been in her dear da’s voice when he had been delivered the news that Sine had died. More than hopeless, it sounded bitter, as though God himself had just smote him.

“Your… name?” Maeve questioned, perplexed.

Owen backed away, locking her gaze into his. She had never seen him so crimson, so glistening, even when working at the anvil.

“My name?” Owen bit back. “My name!?”

“Yes, I said … Oh God!”

No, she had not said his name. She had not said Owen at all.

“I said … ”

“You said … ”

“August,” they both confirmed together.

Owen was across the room in the blink of an eye, his pants hanging loosely off his hips as he paced fiercely. Pulling his fingers through his hair, he danced on the edge of brutality, his nostrils flaring, his eyes bulged and red.

“I trusted you!” he finally screamed at her, collapsing on the floor next to the bed where Maeve sat trying to conceal her shame and her flesh with the pillow. “I heard rumors, but you assured me! You swore to me it was just talk. I believed you. I believed everything you told me. I said, ‘No, not my Maeve. She would never do something so heinous, so ugly. So traitorous.’ What have you done?”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “What I thought was necessary. The cottage. He was going to –”

“You laid with him, didn’t you?” Looking down at the purity retained by the quilt where they had just been, she knew she couldn’t deny it. “When? How many times?”

“Twice, two nights ago.”

“Two nights ago!?” he repeated, leaping back to his feet. “You lost your cottage more than two months ago. Why now? For the bakery? Was that the deal? Whore yourself to him and get a tidy income on the side? A way out of marrying me, maybe?”

“No! I swear. It was … a mistake. I still want to marry you. After the pub, we were both so drunk.”

“I was three times as bloody drunk as either of you, and I managed to make it home without mounting anyone!”

Maeve didn’t know if it was seconds, minutes, or hours that passed as she sat burning in her shame. Owen slid against a wall, white as snow and just as cold.

Finally, he muttered, “Why are you marrying me?”

“Because you are a good man,” she answered without hesitation.

“And you are a good woman.” He swallowed hard. “Or, you were.”

“Will you still marry me, Owen?”

She felt miserable, and even she knew she was asking for a mercy not due her. Owen took several deep breaths, thinking quietly. She knew whatever his answer, she was to suffer from it no matter.

“Aye, I’ll still marry you,” he declared. “With one condition.”

Seeing her chance at redemption, she leapt. “Anything.”

“Give him back his damned bakery.”

A look of confusion came over her, her eyes darting about the room.

“Move in with me. Tonight.”

“But … The town will talk. They’ll say–”

“You didn’t care what they would say when you opened your legs to him.”

The dagger burned as it plunged into her heart. He was right. Absolutely right and she had no cause to deny it.

He continued, “Seems as you don’t care what’s said of you and Grayson, you shouldn’t care what’s said of you and me. Surely you’d rather them click their tongues about you living with me than curse you knowing you gave your innocence away to an English mutt.”

She nodded; they both knew it was the truth.