Shifter

by Lora Leigh

  “That’s quite enough,” Emma said in her schoolmistress tone. If her voice trembled slightly, no one appeared to notice. “No one is going to die.”

  She hoped.

  She mustered her charges, struggling for balance in the narrow, pitching cabin, bundling and buttoning them into cloaks and jackets and boots in case it became necessary to go—

  Dear God. Emma closed her eyes a moment, fighting panic. Where could they go? They were in the middle of the ocean.

  A new sound—a deep, rhythmic rattle—rumbled from the bowels of the ship, almost drowning the crash of the waves.

  Matron appeared, her face as gray as a sheet.

  Emma stood, her knuckles white on the bunk rail. “What is it?” she asked quietly. “What has happened?”

  “The shaft is broken. We’ve lost the propeller.”

  Without the propeller, the ship was unmanageable. Helpless in this sea. Emma felt her knees fold like string and fought another wild surge of panic.

  “But that sound—” She forced the words through numb, stiff lips. “The engines…”

  “The pumps,” Matron said. “Captain is pumping water from the hold.”

  Their eyes held a moment in silent communication. They were taking on water, then. Emma’s heart plummeted.

  “What can be done?” she asked.

  Matron shrugged. “Wait for another ship.”

  Emma’s throat constricted. Another ship? But that meant…That must mean…

  Dear God.

  They were sinking.

  Hours passed. The ship bounced and rolled like a log in a river. Emma staggered through the single women’s quarters, wiping faces, holding hands and buckets. As long as she kept busy, she did not have to think about the ship’s fate.

  Or her own.

  No one ate or slept. Emma coaxed the girls to take sips of fetid water. She could not even brew a cup of tea in the tiny galley without setting fire to the ship or herself. The incessant clanking of the pumps pounded in her head, penetrating the babble from the main steerage compartment. Children screamed. Men grumbled. Women moaned and prayed.

  Emma thought the noise would drive her mad.

  Until it was replaced by something worse.

  Silence.

  Emma hurried in search of Matron and met her own fears reflected in the other woman’s eyes.

  “The leak in the hold has put the fire out.” Matron’s broad, country voice was sharp and raw. “There is no steam to drive the pumps. We’re done.”

  The word tolled like a church bell at a funeral: Done, done, done…

  Emma’s mouth went dry. She wet her lips. “Has the captain—”

  “Captain gave orders to abandon ship.”

  Emma braced on the rolling bow, light-headed with terror, struggling to keep her huddled girls together and upright. The wind lashed her skirts and tore at her bonnet. Her wet boots sucked at her ankles. Waves buffeted the ship’s sides, washing over the stern. Spray shot halfway to the masts and fell like cold, hard rain.

  Abandon ship?

  Abandon hope, more like.

  The lifeboats tossed on the towering waves, insubstantial as the paper boats with their cargos of pebbles and sticks that schoolboys sailed from the riverbank. Fragile. Perilous.

  The heavy seas rendered the ship’s ladders useless. The boats could not come near without crashing into the ship’s sides. So the passengers had to be loaded in baskets, swung over the angry water and lowered by rope thirty feet to the rising, falling boats. Women first, in groups of three or four, and their children after them.

  Emma held her breath as Mary Jenkins stretched out her arms for her youngest son and pulled him into the rocking basket. Her husband’s pale face ran with spray or tears. His fists clenched at his sides.

  “Careful, Mary!” he shouted.

  The ship rolled, the stern wallowing in the water. The girls shivered and wept. Emma hugged fourteen-year-old Alice tight. Giving comfort. Taking courage.

  “We’re lost,” one of the waiting men groaned. “All is lost.”

  All. The word struck Emma’s heart. Keepsakes and clothing, the little package of books wrapped in oilskin to protect them for the journey, the few belongings she had salvaged from her former existence, everything she possessed to launch her new life, all gone, all lost forever.

  “Lord, Lord, I don’t want to die,” Alice sobbed.

  Emma got a grip on herself. “Well, of c-course not.” Her teeth chattered. “Everything will be all right. Our turn is coming.”

  “One more,” a sailor shouted from below.

  The officer on the bow, a boy not much older than Alice, beckoned to Emma. “You, miss.”

  Alice clutched her. “Don’t leave me.”

  Emma did not think. “No. No, I won’t.” She pried the girl’s fingers from her cloak. “Here, sweetheart, you go first.”

  “But—”

  Emma thrust her at the young officer. “Go!”

  Alice stumbled forward, toward the waiting ropes.

  Emma watched, her heart in her throat, as the basket bearing Alice was lowered jerkily by bowline along the side of the ship.

  Was she…? Emma strained over the rail to see the girl caught and pulled safely into the boat.

  Emma inhaled in relief and satisfaction, straightening her back. The ship lurched. Off balance, she teetered and clutched at the rail. Her wet boots skidded on the slippery deck. No. Oh, no.

  A cold wave rose and crashed over her, smashed over her, sluiced over her, ripping the rail from her grasp and sweeping her feet from under her.

  Voices shouted. Hands grabbed. Too late.

  She heard a rushing in her head, a roaring in her ears. The wave dragged her from the ship, and she toppled down, down into the cold, hard sea.

  The shock knocked the air from her lungs and jarred her to the bone. A raging chaos engulfed her. She was numb. Blind. Cold. Her mind froze. She could not breathe. Water pulled at her skirts, dragged at her boots, spun her this way, tugged her that. Her petticoats floated and clung, trapping her like a fish in a net.

  The boat. She needed to reach the boat. She was rolling, tumbling, sinking in the surge.

  She was drowning.

  The realization stabbed her like a knife. Like the lack of air.

  She struggled, kicking with her sodden boots, flailing with her feeble arms. Something smooth and heavy glided against her legs, a shadow moving under her in the clear, cold dark. Horror clawed her.

  Shark.

  It circled higher, brushed by her, pushed more insistently. Terrified, she struck out, as if she could push the monster away, and touched fur, slick and flowing against her hands. She tightened her grip reflexively, dug her fingers into soft, thick pelt. Muscle rolled, flexed, and surged. Her arms jerked. Her shoulders strained as it pulled her through the freezing dark, towing her with fluid power. Up and up, the heavy, sleek body moving under her own, lifting her, supporting her, carrying her toward…

  Light.

  Her head broke the surface of the water. Her hair plastered her face like seaweed. She gasped, choked, inhaled.

  The cold, briny air seared her throat and burned her lungs.

  She retched and would have gone under again.

  But her rescuer was there, big as a horse or a mattress, bumping and rubbing against her, bearing her weight. She clung instinctively to its bulk, felt its breath hot in her face, felt its…whiskers?

  She blinked salt from her eyes, struggling to focus. Roman nose, round, dark eyes, thickset, powerful body—

  A seal.

  Wonder bloomed in her chest. She had been saved by a giant seal. With a band of scars around its neck. Its breath flowed over her again, warm and salty sweet, drugging as wine. Her senses swam.

  No, she thought. She must swim. The boat. She had to reach—

  The world whirled away from her, flowed away from her in streams of green and gray. Her vision was shot with gold like the sea on a sunny day. The ocean rushed
in her ears, its melody rising in her blood, humming in her head, muffling the frantic beat of her heart.

  Her lips moved soundlessly. No, she tried to say. Really…

  Darkness.

  Quiet.

  Nothing.

  TWO

  Her bed was wide and soft. Emma drifted, floating with fatigue, buoyed by a dream. She didn’t want to wake up. She was warm and dry and—

  Naked.

  Her stretching foot paused. Gooseflesh tingled her arms. Emma had not slept naked since…She never slept naked. The school was too cold. Her musty mattress at the boardinghouse had been infested with vermin. Even on board ship, she had—

  The ship.

  Memory flooded back in a rush: the ship, the broken propeller shaft, the sea. She had fallen into the sea. Emma remembered the weight of her boots, her petticoats dragging her down…

  She inhaled sharply and opened her eyes.

  Dear God.

  She bolted upright in bed, grabbing for the covers.

  A man loomed by her bed, a big man with a broad, bare, hairy chest. No shirt. No shoes. Not even stockings. Emma’s heart pounded. She had never seen so much solid muscle, so much male skin in her life. Even Paul when they had—when he had—

  But thinking of Paul brought a fresh surge of panic.

  Her fists clenched on the covers. “Who are you? Where am I? Where are my clothes?”

  The half-naked man stood quiet and unmoving, regarding her with dark, fathomless eyes. Dry-mouthed with fear, Emma fought to shake off the remnants of her dream. Did he understand? Perhaps he didn’t speak English. He didn’t look English.

  She gulped. He barely looked civilized. His mane of thick, unruly hair was caught in a leather thong and tied in a stubby ponytail at his nape. His face was strong and raw, its lean planes broken by a brawler’s nose. Silver glinted in the hollow of his throat.

  A chain. He wore a chain. Like a dog, Emma thought.

  Or a Viking.

  She licked her lips nervously. She felt dazed. Almost drugged, as if she’d drunk too much wine or taken laudanum for a toothache. She didn’t know where to look. All that skin…Her gaze dropped to his feet, broad, bare, masculine feet with a sprinkling of dark hair.

  Her stomach clenched. Quivered.

  There was something strange and almost unbearably intimate about those naked feet standing so close to her bed, the long pale arches, the jutting anklebones, the firm, muscled calves. His toes.

  Emma frowned, convinced her mind was playing tricks on her. Something about his toes…

  “They were wet.” The deep, burred voice broke her distraction.

  She jumped, her gaze flying back to the harsh-planed face of the man beside her bed. “What?”

  “Your clothes,” he explained. In English, thank goodness. “They were wet. You were cold.”

  Her skin prickled. Her chest felt tight. “I—”

  “You could not wear them,” he said patiently.

  “No,” she agreed faintly.

  Oh, no. She fought another sudden wash of panic. She was not going to overreact to the notion of a man—this man—touching her, undressing her.

  Memory engulfed her like a wave.

  “Don’t overreact, darling,” Paul had said as he buttoned up his breeches. “I thought you wanted it. You were certainly asking for it.”

  Her throat froze. She could not move.

  The man frowned and leaned closer. “Are you all right?”

  Emma gasped and raised her hand to hold him off. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t…

  “Don’t,” she managed to squeeze past her throat.

  He stopped instantly, his dark eyes watchful. “It’s all right. You are safe now.”

  Safe. Saved.

  She trembled in relief and reaction. What on earth had happened? She was dreaming. Drowning. She had fallen into the sea. And then…And then…

  “What about the others?” she forced herself to ask. “Alice. Mrs. Jenkins.”

  “I do not know them.”

  Panic welled. “The other women on the ship. There was a girl, Alice Gardner, traveling with me in steerage. She was only fourteen.”

  Sudden understanding widened his eyes. “The girl who took your place in the lifeboat.”

  How did he know?

  “Have you seen her?” Emma asked eagerly. “Is she here?”

  “No. You are the only one.”

  Emma’s heart failed. “But…all those people in the lifeboats…”

  All drowned? All gone? Every one?

  “They were rescued by another ship,” the man said. “A cattle ship on the same route. The captain saw your distress signal and took the passengers on board.”

  Emma sagged with relief. Until a new worry stirred in her chest, like a worm at the heart of a rose.

  “Then…what am I doing here?”

  “You are safe here,” the man repeated.

  Safe, warm, dry…

  Naked.

  Emma tightened her hold on the covers. Rich covers, velvet and fur, smelling of lavender and the sea. The candlesticks on the mantel had the gleam of tarnished gold. But the grate below was empty. The flagstone floor was bare. Except for the extravagant bed and one heavily carved chest, the small stone chamber was as stark as a crofter’s cottage.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  Did she imagine it, or did he hesitate slightly? “We call it Sanctuary. You will be cared for here.”

  “Is this a hospital? Have I been ill?”

  Perhaps that explained her odd flashes of memory, her fevered dreams. Images swam in her brain, flickering through the swaying darkness like fish darting through strands of kelp. She was dreaming. Had been dreaming.

  Or delusional. She’d thought…Her heart stuttered. She had dreamed she was rescued by a seal.

  Her head pounded.

  “You are tired,” the man said. “I will leave you to rest.”

  No, she thought. Said?

  He looked at her, his eyes as deep and enveloping as the sea.

  Dry-mouthed, Emma resisted the pull of that cold, clear, dark gaze, fighting her sudden sleepiness, struggling to understand. “My clothes…”

  “Will be here when you wake,” the man said. “Sleep now.”

  Emma scowled. She didn’t want to sleep.

  She wasn’t going to sleep.

  She did anyway.

  Griffith watched the woman’s blue eyes slide closed, aware of a faint, unfamiliar regret. The command to sleep was such a little magic, a minor imposition of his will compared to what he had already done. What he was prepared to do.

  The future of his people was at stake, he told himself. The fate of one mortal woman hardly weighed in the balance.

  He did what was necessary. Whatever his prince commanded.

  And yet…

  Her face was smooth and freckled as an egg, her lips closed and composed. He wondered at the discipline she imposed on that soft mouth, even in sleep. Her red gold hair spread wantonly, luxuriously across the bed. All that brightness tangled with the sleek dark fur of her covers, the contrast of colors, the mingling of textures, tugged at his senses. His body tightened in unwelcome arousal.

  He had not brought her here for this.

  But the image of her body, soft and white and pink as he undressed her, burned in the back of his brain. Her scent—potent, hot, female—curled around him, heady and unmistakable. Every male within miles of Sanctuary would be drawn to her like sharks to the promise of fresh blood.

  Griff’s lips drew back from his teeth. Despite the fear in her eyes—perhaps because of it—he would protect her. As long as she slept covered by his pelt, she was safe.

  But she could not sleep forever. The sooner he turned her over to the prince, the better.

  He left her and descended the steps to the great hall.

  Children and dogs drowsed together in a pile before the fire-place, where a sullen blaze produced more smoke than heat. Most of the child
ren were very close to Change, ten or twelve years old in appearance. Born of human mothers, fostered in human households, they were only brought to the selkie island of Sanctuary as they neared puberty and could take their seal form, their proper form, in the sea.

  Unfortunately, the magic of the island that kept their elders from aging prevented the young selkies from reaching maturity for a very long time.

  And so they grew as lean and wild as the dogs, and fought as viciously for whatever scraps the adults threw their way.

  A shaggy-haired boy raised his head at Griff’s approach, his eyes the same calm gold as the prince’s hound’s. “Did you bring her?”

  Griff nodded.

  “To read to us?”

  “Aye.”

  “I would rather she fed us,” the boy said and laid his head back down.

  Griff sympathized. He remembered. But the prince had instructed him to fetch a teacher, not a cook.

  He padded up the circular stair of the prince’s tower, his bare feet silent on stone.

  Selkies shed their sealskins to walk on land, to play at politics or sex, and—rarely and reluctantly—to give birth. The water was their life and their home. Who would trade the bliss and oblivion of the ocean for the dreary duty of raising whelps on land? The sea king himself, old Llyr, had abandoned his human form and all responsibility to dwell in the land beneath the waves.

  So it was the king’s son, Conn, who ruled from this isolated tower, insulated by thick stone walls and a hundred-foot drop from the siren call of the sea below.

  The prince’s study was lined with books and piled with scrolls. Windows pierced the round room, north and south, east and west. The last red glare of the sun spilled from the sky, reddening the prince’s strong, pale face like a fever.

  The prince himself sat at a desk of carved walnut and iron plucked from a Spanish wreck off the coast of Cornwall. The entire castle was furnished with the salvage of centuries.

  As if, Griff thought, gold and wood and crumbling pulp could compensate the selkie ruler for the time he must spend on land.

  Griff entered the room silently, a big man on bare, webbed feet.

  Conn looked up from the book on his desk, his eyes as clear and cool as rain. “The woman?”

  “I put her to sleep.”

  The prince frowned. “It’s been over eight hours.”

  “She’s had a rough day,” Griff said dryly.

  “And she is only human.” Conn smoothed a page of his book. “I suppose I must be grateful she isn’t hysterical.”