Sea Lord (12 page)

ocean. She couldn’t imagine what Conn would do to her if she let him near her again. Her breath came

faster. She didn’t want to imagine. To remember.
His breath hot at her ear, his arm hard around her

waist, his solid body pulsing, rocking against her . . .

Her blood pounded.

Oh, God. She
was
a freak. She closed her eyes.

The dinghy wallowed in the shallows, grating against the bottom. Spray shot over the side. At the splash,

she flinched and opened her eyes.

Conn tugged the raft toward shore. Not very far. Her weight anchored it in the water.

He held the dinghy steady in the swirling foam. “Get out.”

The water boiled and reached for her.

Her heart pounded. Panic dried her mouth. She never went into the water. Never. Not since she was a

little girl. Not since . . . “I can’t.”

He didn’t question her. He didn’t argue. Letting go of the raft, he plucked her from the bench, grabbed at

the seal skin, and strode with them both out of the water.

She cried out in relief and alarm, clutching his neck. He was warm and solid.
Caught between the devil

and the deep blue sea . . .
“Wait!”

He looked down his nose at her. “You would prefer to get wet?”

“No, but . . .” She twisted in his arms, casting a desperate look over his shoulder as the dinghy bumped

away. “The raft!”

“We no longer need it.”

“We might!”

He set her feet on the cold, packed sand. Even in her worry, she noticed he kept his arms around her

while she found her balance. “Why?” he asked.

“To . . . get back to the boat,” she said.
To go home.

“Too late,” he said.

She stared at him, speechless.

“The northern crossing will be almost impossible in another few weeks,” he said stiffly. “Even if—”

But she wasn’t listening.

The dinghy drifted and slithered away, trailing its rope behind. Her stomach dropped.

“Oh!” she cried. “Get it. It’s floating away.”

“Let it go.”

But she couldn’t.

The water hissed and curled. The dinghy bumped and rattled in the shallows.

She grabbed at Conn’s arm. “Please. Hurry. It’s getting away.”

He stood like stone.

The raft caught a wave and slid out to sea, carrying with it her chance of escape. Her way home.

With a squawk of rage and fear, she plunged into the water after it.

Shock.

Cold. Grasping her feet. Gripping her bones. Twining up her legs and about her torso, big, fat ripples

wrapping around her, uncoiling inside her, squeezing her chest. Her gasp slid into her lungs like a knife.

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She staggered.

The raft bobbed farther out of reach.

She sobbed and set her teeth. She would not go down. She would not. She pushed everything down,

shoved it aside, and waded forward. Her slicker flapped and dragged around her. The water clutched

her knees. Her thighs. Her hips. The ripples stirred, like a fat snake waking.

There.
Just there. She flung out her arm, stretched out her hand, reaching, reaching . . . The rope slid just

beyond the reach of her fingers. Something crumbled inside her, hope or a wall, and whatever lurked on

the other side pounced on the opening and poured out.

The water sang. A wavelet surged. The rope moved, lifted, floated to her waiting hand.

Got it.

Her flare of triumph crowded out everything else.

She turned in water almost to her hips. She was cold. So cold. Her limbs shook. Her fingers and toes felt

numb.

Conn watched from the beach, looking oddly shaken.

Was he worried about her?

The possibility created a warm glow beneath her breastbone.

She unclenched her chattering teeth enough to call, “It’s okay. I’m okay. I, um, got it.” She waved the

end of the rope.

His cool-as-rain eyes lit from within. “So I see.”

She slogged toward him, the raft bumping at her back like a repentant pony.

“You are wet,” he observed.

Wet and shaking with cold and triumph.

“I’m freezing,” she admitted frankly.

The water sloshed around her ankles. Her feet were blocks of ice.

“Here.” Before she knew what he was about, he swung the sealskin up and around her shoulders.

She shuddered in rejection and relief. His pelt was so heavy. Heavy and warm. Her fingers curled into

the thick fur even as her insides rebelled. It wasn’t desire. Or not only desire. Adrenaline, nausea, hunger

. . .

She pressed her legs together to keep them from shaking, to keep herself upright.

He moved closer, tugging the pelt around her. She looked down at his wrists, strong and square. Her

breasts tingled.

She drew a sharp breath.

His gaze dipped to her mouth. His nostrils flared. Was he going to kiss her? She didn’t want him to.

Her heart banged against her ribs. Did she?

His words drummed in her head. “
It was hardly a rape, my dear. You are no defenseless virgin.
”

She took a short, very definite step back, nearly stumbling on the cold sand.

His hands dropped.

They stared at one another. Her breath rasped. The silence rushed between them, cold and insistent as

the waves.

She was the first to look away.

7

CONN WAS HOT AND HARD WHEN HE NEEDED to be cool and steady. Shaken. The little witch

had shaken him.

Not because of her gift. Though, by God, his senses still stung from the snap of power she’d released

when she called the rope to her hand.

He hefted the wet raft and hauled it up the beach, out of reach of the tide, away from the slim girl

shivering on the sand. If his body betrayed him, his face, at least, would give nothing away.

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He dropped the dinghy at the bottom of the cliff.

She had turned from him. Again.

He bared his teeth like the animal she had called him. Even with the magic still surging through her blood,

even with his pelt covering her, she had spurned him.

He had anticipated her rejection. Perhaps, by her lights, he had even earned it. But here on Sanctuary’s

soil, her unwillingness to accept him had an unexpected sting. A deeper significance. Beneath his injured

pride, a profound unease stirred. Sooner or later, she must surrender to her fate. His people needed her.

A thought whispered:
He
needed her.

He did not want to acknowledge the feeling. He did not want to have any feelings at all. But there it was.

“I . . .” Her voice scraped behind him. “Where are we? On the map, I mean?”

Conn stowed the paddles along the dinghy’s sides, giving himself time to assume his familiar mask. “West

of the
Innse Gall
. The Strangers’ Islands,” he translated.

He looped the tow rope around a rock. He hoped the damn thing floated away. But remembering her

courage in going after it, he could not dishonor her by leaving it untied.

“Ireland?” Her voice was thin.

He felt a moment’s pity, ruthlessly suppressed. He had already informed her he would not take her back.

What difference to either of them if she was half the world and an ocean away from home?

“Scotland.” He turned.

She had tipped back her head to stare up the cliff face, exposing the long, pure line of her throat. In some

lights—in this light—she was really quite remarkably pretty. “That would explain the castle.”

Even cold and frightened, she refused to be cowed. His lips twitched, his own fears lightening. Perhaps

her humor would help her make the best of her new circumstances.

But then his gaze dropped, and his smile faded to a frown of concern. Beneath the sopping cuffs, her feet

were the cold, blue color of watered milk. “We must get you inside.”

She eyed the cliff again doubtfully.

“There is a path to the tower,” he explained.

His private entrance when he walked with the dog in the evening. His escape.

She nodded.

The bushes at the base of the tower rustled. A long, lean shadow appeared, tall as a wolf and graceful as

a deer. Its narrow head lifted as it sighted them.

She froze. “What—”

A blue-gray blur streaked down the slope, cutting through the long grass.

“Madadh,” Conn warned.

At the last moment, the big hound flung itself on the ground at his feet, spine wriggling, four paws in the

air. No dignity at all. Surprise—and something else—tightened Conn’s throat. Slowly, he crouched to

scratch the beast’s wiry belly. Madadh gave him a look of pure adoration before scrambling upright and

bolting down the beach.

Lucy’s laughter brought a pang to his heart and his gut. The selkie laughed almost as seldom as they

cried. The hound coursed in swooping circles, pausing occasionally to dash back and assure itself of his

presence. “He’s certainly glad to see you.”

Yes. Conn clasped his hands behind his back, almost undone.

“I have never been away before,” he said stiffly. Never imagined that the dog would miss him. Never

realized that the animal’s obvious devotion would affect him so. “Madadh, down,” he ordered as the dog

galloped up with great sandy paws.

It collapsed on its haunches, narrow tail whipping back and forth in the sand.

Lucy’s smile lit her face from within. The dog shoved a wet, bearded muzzle into her palm. She rubbed

its head.

Conn fought an instant’s jealousy. Of her? Of the dog? Either was ridiculous.

“Is that his name?” she asked. “Mad Dog?”

“Ma-dug. It means ‘hound.’ ”

She turned that smile on him and took his breath away. “Very original.”

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“I used to name them,” he said abruptly.
All of them.
“They do not live very long. Nine or ten years. It

became easier after a while to call them by the same name.”

Her wide gray eyes considered his face, as if she saw a side of him that no one else looked for. That he

preferred not to examine himself.

Pride dictated that he not look away.

“How many dogs have you had?” she asked softly.

He shrugged. “Hundreds. After the fourteenth or fortieth, I learned not to become too . . . attached.”

She tilted her head, her gaze still fixed on his face. “Then why bother with a pet at all?”

It was a question he often asked himself. Every time he cradled a wasted old body in his arms or stroked

a white muzzle. Every time he carried a hound’s carcass into the hills to bury it alone and in silence.

“I have always had one. My father always had one. It is tradition,” he said. A way of keeping in touch

with the past, of staying connected with the father who had abandoned him.

“If you’ve had—hundreds?—you’ve had plenty of time to change the tradition,” she observed. “I think

they’re company for you.”

His hands tightened behind his back. He stared at her stonily, appalled. Found out. The selkie lived

alone, free of human encumbrances and human emotions. They did not require companionship. He did

not require it.

“You of course may think whatever you like,” he said politely and swung her up into his arms.

He felt the sharp intake of her breath. But she did not struggle.

Progress? Perhaps.

Her tangled fair hair was caught between them. He freed it gently, shifting her weight.

“I can walk, you know,” she offered.

“You cannot climb,” he said. “Not in bare feet.”

“I’m tougher than I look.” She smiled ruefully. “And heavier.”

Tall and graceful, with skin as pale as willow when the bark was peeled away.

He raised his eyebrows. “I believe I can bear the burden.”

As she must tolerate his touch.

He strode with her up the slope. Despite her pale face and cold hands, she felt warm in his arms, warm

and damp. Beneath the tangle of sealskin and slicker, he discerned the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His

hand was very close to her breast. Her hair tickled his throat. She smelled like woman and faintly of wet

dog.

She was not selkie.

But her humanity—messy, genuine, artless—had its own natural appeal.

The track was narrow, worn by his feet and by the dogs. The long grass whispered of home. A bird

soared over the battlements, crying in warning or welcome.

Lucy looked up at the bird and down at the path and at Madadh, ranging before and behind them. She

looked everywhere, in fact, but at him.

She was pressed against him, angles and curves, long, strong legs and small, firm breasts. Her breath was

warm on the side of his face. Her hands were cold.

His blood stirred. He shifted his hold. If he could get her to his room, if he could get her in his bed, he

could warm her, comfort her, persuade her, bind her . . .

He frowned.
Because that had worked so well the first time.

She slid him a sidelong glance. “Are you all right?”

His shaft was hard as stone. “Fine.”

“I told you I was heavy.”

Long and lean, rather, with a strength to meet his own. “It is not your weight that disturbs me.”

“Oh?” She met his hot gaze and flushed. “Oh.”

The tower door was ajar. He elbowed it open. The air of Sanctuary rushed to envelope them, cool with

mist and magic, smelling of time, stone, and the sea.

She cleared her throat. “You can put me down now.”