Children of the Sea 03 - Sea Lord

combination of the firelight, the alcohol, and the man would go to her head. She perched cautiously on one of the thrones. “Water’s fine, thanks.”
    Conn’s lips curved as he handed her a glass. “The wine will compensate for the meal.”
    She sipped. The wine went down like liquid sunshine. “It’s good.”
    “I am glad you approve.” Conn transferred fish to a plate. The smell of grilled seafood teased her appetite. Her mouth watered. “The room is to your liking?”
    Her sense of unreality grew. She wasn’t used to making civilized conversation over a glass of wine in front of the fire. At home, she ate alone, with the television on for company. When she’d dated in college, her boyfriend usually spent the evenings with his video games before joining her in bed.
    She swallowed. Not that this was a date. Her gaze slid to the giant bed, the deep blue curtains falling from its carved canopy, the sealskin draped at its foot, and jerked away.
    “It’s very beautiful.”
    “You are warm enough?”
    She felt lapped by warmth—the food, the flames, the interest in his eyes.
    Steady, Lucy .
    “Sure. Well, the floor’s a little cold, but—”
    “I will bring you a rug.”
    What was he going to do? Hijack another yacht? “That’s not necessary. I—”
    “Lucy.” Her name, softly spoken in his deep voice, brought her gaze to his strong, pale face, his silvery eyes. Inside her thick socks, her toes curled. “This castle is full of treasures lost and found under the sea.
    Over the centuries, I have had plenty of time to indulge my tastes. My senses. Let me indulge yours.”
    Oh, boy. She was tempted by more than the rug. She broke eye contact, poking at her fish with a fork.
    “This is good,” she said after a few bites.
    Conn leaned back in his chair, watching her over his wineglass. “Griff will be relieved to hear it.”
    Lucy pictured the big, gruff castle warden. “He cooks?”
    Conn looked amused. “Among his other duties. He has not had anyone to cook for—or to cook for him—in some time.”
    Lucy ate oatmeal while she pieced together scraps of information. Who else ate the warden’s cooking?
    “Miss March,” she guessed.
    Conn’s brows rose. “You know of her.”
    “The boys told me.” The oatmeal was thick and saltier than she was used to. She washed it down with more wine. “She was their teacher.”
    “Yes.” He selected a small, dark apple from a bowl and began to peel it.
    “They said she died. Fifty years ago. But they are—”
    “Older than they appear,” Conn finished for her.
    “But . . .” Confused, she watched as the peel fell in a thin red ribbon.
    “I did tell you we do not age as humans do,” he reminded her gently.

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    Part of her mind had accepted the teens were selkie—like her mother, like Dylan, like Margred—without really recognizing what that meant. “But . . . they’re kids. Teenagers. Dylan grew up.”
    But not old, she realized. Her breath caught. Dylan looked younger than Caleb, even though he was older by three years.
    Conn quartered the apple and put a piece on her plate. “Dylan spent the first thirteen years of his life among humans. And much of the time since then on an island your mother bequeathed to him.”
    Dylan had an island? She took the apple. “What difference does that make?”
    “We do not age in the sea,” Conn explained. “Or here in Caer Subai. Only when we live as humans, away from Sanctuary and in human form.”
    She bit into the apple. Crisp, tart flavor exploded on her tongue. “So, how old are you?”
    He hesitated. “I was blood born to my father, Llyr, three thousand years ago.”
    Lucy inhaled. Choked.
    Conn handed her a napkin and waited politely while she coughed into it.
    “What . . .” She wheezed. “What about your mother?”
    “I do not know her.”
    She lowered the napkin to stare. “You don’t know who your mother was?”
    “I mean I barely met her. I do not remember her.” He handed her a glass of water. “If you are born in the sea, you live in the sea until your first Change, the first time you take human form at seven or eight years old. If you are born on land, you live on land—again, until you mature and Change at eleven or thirteen. I was born in the sea and weaned when I was two years old. By the time I came here, to Sanctuary, I had not seen my mother in years.”
    She gripped the glass