Children of the Sea 03 - Sea Lord

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.