Burning Up

said.
    “Things?”
    He gestured at the sunlit hills and bright water. “Everything. Life.”
    She did not understand. “Is not existence meant to be enjoyed?”
    “Not for most people.”
    “Not for you,” she guessed.
    He did not speak.
    An unfamiliar tenderness unfurled inside her. She cupped his face in her hand, tracing the line beside his mouth with her thumb. “We must see what we can do to change that.”
    His chest rose sharply with his breath. He angled his head, brushing her mouth with his. He kissed her once, again, warmly, softly, sweetly enough to steal her soul through her lips. She trembled.
    Assuming she had a soul.
    He raised his head, a curve to his lips, a troubled expression in his earth brown eyes. “I did not escort you home to seduce you.”
    Her pulse pounded. As if he could, she thought with desperate pride.
    “Then I suppose I must seduce you.” She paused before adding wickedly, “Again.”
    Her heart lurched at his slow, wry smile. “I am at your service always.”
    She chuckled against his mouth.
    They rode down the hill together, his arm holding her secure against him, the horse swaying beneath them. They did not speak. Morwenna felt oddly breathless. She was used to lust, to the rush to rut. There was something new and delicious about this slow, sizzling delight, this gradual buildup to the act of sex. Her blood hummed in anticipation. Riding cocooned against his strength, she had time to savor her arousal.
    And his. When he helped her from his horse, she felt his desire for her hard against her stomach.
    Drawing back, she smiled into his eyes. “Will you come inside?”
    She cast a hasty glamour over the cottage as he pushed on the latch and opened the door, banishing sand and cobwebs, masking the disorder and neglect of years. Her body was sending her all sorts of urgent signals: Him. Hurry. Now. But the sweetness of his kiss stayed with her, warm and flowing through her veins like honey. Time itself slowed, trapped in this golden moment.
    She sat in the room’s only chair to remove her boots as he bent to light the fire. For some reason, her hands were shaking. The laces tangled.
    “Let me,” he said and knelt at her feet to deal with the knot.
    Sweetness filled her heart to overflowing.
    He picked at the laces and eased the boot from her foot. Angry red lines creased her toes and ankle where the leather had chafed her flesh. He cradled her foot in his hands.
    “What are you . . . oh .” She sighed with relief, closing her eyes in pleasure as his strong hands pressed and rubbed all the sore and tender places.
    “That feels . . .”
    His hands stilled.
    Her eyes opened.
    “Oh,” she said again and tried to pull away.
    He held her foot trapped in his big hands, staring down at the faint, iridescent webbing between her toes.

THREE
    J ack stared down at the pretty bare foot in his hands. Soft, pale skin. High, smooth arch.
    Webbed toes.
    They didn’t even look human. The connecting skin shimmered like fish scales, delicate as insect wings.
    His stomach cramped. He looked up into Morwenna’s eyes, bright and opaque as the eyes of an animal. A primitive chill chased up his spine and lifted the hair at the back of his neck.
    “What is this?” he asked quietly.
    She snatched back her foot, curling it under the legs of the chair. “What does it look like?” she asked defensively.
    He couldn’t say. He could hardly think. Stories from his schoolboy days—Poseidon and the Nereids, Ulysses and the Sirens—raced through his head, mixed up with memories of Morwenna singing at the water’s edge, her silver hair shining like seafoam in the sun.
    Ridiculous.
    He took a deep, steadying breath.
    “Not like anything I’ve seen before,” he said carefully. Or anything he believed in. “I was hoping you could explain.”
    She pursed her lips. “Must everything have an explanation?”
    “In my experience, yes.”
    She stood, shaking her skirts down over her ankles. “Then you explain it.”
    “Morwenna, your toes are . . .” A gentleman did not discuss a lady’s feet. But he had held hers in his hand, and her toes were . . .
    Webbed. Shining with rainbow color like a soap bubble.
    “Different,” she supplied.
    He seized on the word gratefully. “Different. Yes.”
    “And anything different must therefore be flawed.”
    He straightened warily. She was offended. Hurt? “I did not say flawed .”
    “Am I suddenly repugnant to you now?”
    “No.”
    Her chin