Children of the Sea 03 - Sea Lord

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    crenellated towers of a castle.
    A white bird with sharply angled wings rose like a kite on a draft. Sunlight sparkled on the quiet water. A shadow broke the surface and subsided before she could identify it. A fish? A seal?
    Her lips tasted of salt. She quivered with cold. Fear.
    Excitement.
    The dinghy rolled as it caught the lip of the surf and scraped into shore. Conn shipped oars and jumped out, his bare feet and strong calves splashing in the foam.
    She looked at the line of his muscled back as he bent to the boat and felt another inconvenient quiver in the pit of her stomach.
    She averted her gaze. She knew better. She did.
    The last time she’d let down her guard, she’d wound up unconscious and kidnapped in the middle of the 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