Shifter

by Lora Leigh

  She had been frightened. Her pulse had beat in her throat like a caged bird. But she had swallowed her fears enough to demand her clothes and ask after her companions. Griff admired courage, even in a human woman. “She was asking questions. I did not know how to answer her.”

  “Tell her the truth.”

  Griff snorted. “That we wrecked her ship and plucked her from the wreckage because the little savages downstairs require a keeper?”

  Conn shrugged. “Perhaps she would take pity on them.”

  “Aye, maybe,” Griff said. Her feelings were not his responsibility. Neither was her fate any longer. So he was even more surprised than the prince to hear himself say, “She is worried about the other passengers.”

  Conn raised his eyebrows. “I sent them a ship.”

  “Without adequate food or water.”

  “That is the captain’s problem. As soon as the passengers were plucked from the sea, their fate was in human hands. We do not interfere in mortal affairs.”

  “We interfered when I broke the propeller shaft.”

  Their gazes clashed, the prince’s cool as frost.

  Damn it, what was he doing? Griff wondered. He was the prince’s man. He did not argue.

  Neither would he beg.

  But the memory of the woman’s wide blue eyes slid into him like a knife, loosening his tongue. “It would be”—What? Just? Compassionate?—“expedient to restore the balance by seeing the other humans safely to their destination. With calm seas and favorable winds, they could reach land before their provisions run out.”

  Conn’s long fingers drummed the desk. “Very well. Calm seas and an easterly wind to the Azores. And in return, I will have my school.”

  Griff bowed. He had won his point. The prince had granted his request. So why did he feel so uneasy?

  “You cannot force her to teach,” he said.

  Conn smiled thinly. “Then you must persuade her.”

  Emma’s heart pounded. Her nipples pebbled in the cool sea draft that flowed over the stone windowsill. She shivered.

  She needed clothes.

  And answers.

  She could wait for the tall, half-naked Viking to bring them to her, or…

  Hands trembling, she threw back the carved lid of the chest at the foot of her bed.

  Or she could seek them herself.

  The other ship passengers had gone on, the man said. But there must be someone—a doctor, a magistrate, a shipping line agent—who could tell her where she was and how she was to get—

  Not home, she realized bleakly. But to Canada, at least.

  She dragged a length of warm red wool from the chest, measuring the garment against her body. A skirt? A long cloak, and under that a pile of thin, yellowed shifts. Hastily, Emma pulled an undergarment over her head before tackling the line of cloak buttons.

  Her stomach rumbled. She had not had a meal, a decent meal, in days. If she had been ill, her sickness had not affected her appetite.

  Just her mind.

  Emma bit her lip.

  She could not have been rescued by a seal. She must have imagined it, conjuring the beast out of homesickness and terror and her glimpse of the seal in the harbor.

  But she had not imagined the man by her bed.

  Who was he?

  His broad, furred chest and dark, impassive face made her heart skitter in pure feminine panic. Yet his voice, she remembered, had been deep and soothing, his eyes almost kind.

  In some ways, he seemed the opposite of Paul, whose smooth good looks and easy charm had masked a callous indifference to her dreams and ambitions. To her comfort. To her feelings.

  When Paul first sought her out, Emma had been flustered. Flattered by his attentions. Sir Paul Burrage was a gentleman, a governor of the school. She had believed he loved her. That he wanted to marry her. And instead—

  Instead, he had manipulated, hurt, and betrayed her.

  She would not let herself be misled so, used so, ever again.

  She reached for the door; hesitated. The Viking had not told her to stay in her room. She was safe here, he said. She smoothed her hand down the long line of cloak buttons to ensure they were all securely fastened. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and went in search of food and answers.

  Persuade her?

  Griff scowled as he descended the steps of the prince’s tower.

  He was a bull. He did not persuade. He enforced the prince’s will among the males and took what was freely offered from the females.

  The human woman stirred him, he admitted. Challenged him. He did not believe she was going to offer up…anything he wanted. Not without a lot of words and reasons.

  Neither of which he had.

  What was Conn thinking?

  A scuffle in the hall below jolted Griff from his thoughts. A yelp, a low laugh, a rush of swift, padding feet…

  Scattering whelps, Griff thought, running for food or from a fight. When the older bulls came in from the sea, they were not tolerant of young ones underfoot.

  The hair rose on the back of Griff’s neck. When the bulls came in from the sea…

  He ran down the remaining steps to the hall, taking in the situation with a single, experienced glance.

  The young selkies had cleared out. Only the boy with the golden eyes hung back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  Two selkie males had backed the human woman against the wall, crowding her like mating bulls on the beach. Their faces were flushed. Their eyes glittered. Their intent hung musky on the air, already ripe with the woman’s scent and the sharper tang of fear.

  Griff’s lips peeled from his teeth.

  The bigger bull—Murdoc—sniffed the woman’s cloudy red hair.

  She jerked her head, evading him, and her skull clunked against stone.

  “Easy,” Kelvan crooned. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

  Murdoc laughed. The woman’s face went white.

  Cold rage rose in Griff. He growled. “Enough.”

  “We saw her first,” Kelvan said without turning. “Find your own to play with.”

  Murdoc closed in, palming her buttocks through the rough fabric. She spun, jabbing his ribs with her elbow, and bolted.

  Bad move.

  He caught her easily, hauling her into his arms.

  And Griff slammed into Kelvan, hooking one arm around his neck and grabbing his balls in the other hand.

  “Drop it,” Griff barked. “Or your friend will never use these again.”

  Murdoc grinned. “You must be joking.”

  Kelvan clawed at the arm around his throat. His bare feet scrabbled against the floor. “He means it,” he said hoarsely. “Let her go.”

  “Why should I?” Murdoc asked. “They’re your stones.”

  “Yours next,” Griff promised grimly.

  He could not fight Murdoc as long as there was a risk to the woman. But as soon as the other bull let her go…

  Veins popped out on Kelvan’s forehead.

  The woman held as still as a doe surrounded by dogs. At least she had the sense not to struggle and aggravate the situation.

  Murdoc sighed, glancing down at the woman in his arms. “Pretty hair. I suppose she is Conn’s.”

  He should say yes, Griff thought. She would have Conn’s protection. And she did belong to the prince, after a fashion. Conn had brought her here.

  “No,” Griff said. “Mine.”

  THREE

  Emma’s heart beat like a frightened rabbit’s. She wrapped her arms around her waist, tucking her hands under her armpits to hide their trembling.

  She was a teacher in a girls’ school. She was not used to violence. Male violence. The men’s casual assault and her rescuer’s swift reprisal had shocked and shaken her.

  The bigger man—the one who had grabbed her—led his limping companion away. Emma fought a shiver of reaction. Revulsion. They were no worse, really, than the men in the boardinghouse she had learned to lock her door agains
t each night or the ones who called and whistled after her on the street. No worse than Paul.

  They had not raped her.

  Although they could have.

  Another shudder shook her. Thank God she had been rescued. He had rescued her. Again.

  He stood planted, unmoving, his eyes narrowed as the other two men staggered from the hall. Emma’s gaze slid over the hard slabs of his torso to the ridges of his abdomen and felt a clench in her stomach that might have been fear. He wasn’t even breathing hard. If not for the dark hair covering his powerful chest, the breeches clinging to his thighs, he might have been a statue.

  “You,” he barked.

  Emma jumped.

  But his attention was on the boy, the one with the odd-colored eyes. The only one who hadn’t run when those two men cornered her.

  “What in Llyr’s name were you doing?” the big man demanded.

  Emma moved instinctively closer to the boy. He was only a child. He—

  “She was all alone,” the boy said with dignity. “I thought—”

  “You did not think. Murdoc could swat you like a fly. Next time you see the prince’s peace disturbed, you call me or one of the other wardens, understand?”

  Wardens? Emma shied at the word like a horse from the bite of a lash. What was this place? A jail? An orphanage?

  Her chest hollowed. An asylum?

  The boy’s thin face flushed. “Yes, sir.”

  Emma’s protective instincts roused. Orphaned or crazy, the child meant well. “He was only trying to help.”

  Her rescuer turned his dark, brooding gaze on her, and she felt again that quick clutch in her belly. Tension rose off him like steam.

  Her mouth dried. She should not have come down. She was not safe here.

  She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed.

  “You wanted to help,” he said without expression.

  He was speaking to the boy. Emma gathered she was irrelevant.

  The child straightened his narrow shoulders. “I—yes.”

  “Right. Make yourself useful, then. Fetch a girl to attend the lady.”

  The boy nodded and darted away.

  “Wait!” Emma called after him.

  The child paused, almost quivering in his desire to be gone.

  “What is your name?”

  He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Iestyn.”

  “Thank you, Iestyn,” she said gently. “I am Miss March.”

  “Yes.” His smile flashed. “Thank you, miss.”

  He ran off.

  Her Viking was still watching Emma with an intent, cat-at-a-mousehole look that made her palms grow damp. She clasped them together very tightly in front of her.

  “Miss Emma March,” she repeated. “Formerly of Miss Hallsey’s School for Girls.”

  “Aye, I know.”

  Emma frowned. Had he read the ship’s roster list? “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

  His full mouth quirked slightly. “I know that, too.”

  Hot blood flooded her face. “I meant…” Indignation struggled with gratitude. Had he no manners at all? “What is your name?”

  “Griff.”

  “Just…Griff?”

  His thick, dark brows rose. “Griffith ap Powell ap Morgan ap Dafydd.”

  It sounded Welsh. And unpronounceable. “Thank you, Mr.—”

  “Griff will do. You left your room.”

  A mistake, she thought now. But she had been searching for answers.

  She had—she acknowledged to herself—gone looking for him. Intimidating as he was, she drew an unexpected comfort from his presence.

  Admitting that to him, however, would put her at an even greater disadvantage.

  “I was hungry,” she said and waited for his roar.

  He scowled. “I would have brought you food.”

  “I didn’t know that. You didn’t tell me anything. What is this place?”

  “Sanctuary.” He guided her toward the stairs without touching her, herding her back to her room. “I told you that.”

  Emma sniffed. “You said I would be safe here.”

  “So you will be. Now.”

  She stopped with one foot on the stairs. “Those men—”

  “Will not bother you again.” He shifted his weight, urging her upward. “They would not have troubled you at all if you had stayed in the room.”

  “I thought you wanted it,” Paul’s voice whispered in her head. “You were certainly asking for it.”

  Emma bit her lip hard. “If you are accusing me of inviting their attentions—”

  Now he stopped, looking down his big nose at her in apparent surprise. “I did not.”

  “No, but you said—that is, you implied—”

  “I do not blame you, lass,” his deep voice rumbled. “You cannot help the way you smell.”

  “What?”

  He sighed and placed one hand at her waist to guide her down the hall. “Never mind. Kelvan was ever a manwhore, and Murdoc is an ass. It is not your fault they forgot the hospitality due a guest.”

  She stared at him, her mouth open, surprised and moved almost to tears by his reassurance. All her life, she had been blamed for attracting unwanted masculine attention. As if she could help the size of her bosom or the color of her hair. The devil’s color, her father called it. Letitia Hallsey had cautioned her repeatedly about leading men into temptation.

  Emma had been more amused than offended by the head-mistress’s strictures. There were no men at Miss Hallsey’s school except for the porter and an occasional visiting father or governor. Who would take notice of one red-haired mathematics and drawing instructor?

  “Of course I noticed you, sly little thing,” Paul had said. “I couldn’t help it. You invite men’s attention.”

  And yet this man—Griff—had just said what had happened was not her fault.

  Their eyes held until his pupils widened, dilated, black on black, and her blood drummed in her ears.

  Emma caught her breath. He was still a man. She must be careful. “Is that what I am?” she asked pointedly. “A guest?”

  “My guest.” He nodded, holding her gaze. “Aye.”

  “Mine,” he had said.

  The word shivered between them.

  She tore her gaze away. “I don’t understand. You called yourself a warden. Is this a jail?”

  “It is not,” he said firmly.

  The pressure eased in her chest. “So I’m—” Heavens, how to ask without offending him? “—free to go?”

  He nudged open the door of her room and held it for her. “Where would you be going?”

  Not home. She frowned. She had no life, no work, no family to return to.

  “Canada,” she said. “I signed a contract. I owe the shipping line twelve months’ domestic service in return for my passage to Halifax.”

  Griff shrugged and followed her into the room. “Then you owe no one anything. You did not reach Halifax.”

  “No, I—” She faced him, hands on her hips. The room seemed much smaller with him in it. “You didn’t answer my question. Where am I?”

  “North and west, beyond the Hebrides. Conn ap Llyr is lord here. This is his house. His holding. I am the castle…overseer.”

  His blunt explanation did not satisfy her. But it mollified her a little.

  “What about the children?” she asked.

  She had been shocked to find them in the hall, eight or twelve of them altogether, thin and sleeping in rags. She was sadly familiar with the sight of beggar children on the streets of Liverpool. But beneath their rags and dirt, these children were obviously healthy. Beautiful, even. Their eyes shone. Their skin was without blemish. Their teeth were sharp and white as cats’. Emma did not know what to make of them.

  “They live here,” Griff answered.

  “All of them? With their parents?”

  “Their parents are…gone.”

  Again, that odd pause. Not like a lie. More as if he had to search his
vocabulary for the appropriate word. And yet he spoke excellent English.

  “Conn takes them in until they can fend for themselves,” he explained.

  So they were orphans. Emma’s heart contracted in quick sympathy.

  “That’s very good of him,” she said. “But children need more than a place to stay. They need structure. Discipline.”

  And care and kindness, she thought. But it was not her place to say so. At least Conn provided a roof over their heads. At least these children were not laboring in factories or underground in the mines.

  “They should be in school,” she said.

  Griff gave her a dark, unreadable look. “Aye. If we had a teacher.”

  Emma blinked. “Surely if you advertised—”

  “We are isolated here. Not many would give up life on the mainland to work on an island without doctor or priest. We have not…attracted the right person for the post yet.”

  A lump rose in Emma’s throat. Of course she wouldn’t want to—She could never—

  Even the most casual employer in the most remote corner of the world was bound to require references.

  And she had none.

  Griff waited, hoping she might take his bait.

  Her pretty lips parted, as if she would speak, and then she pressed them together.

  She was too canny for him. Or maybe, he thought with regret, too fearful.

  She had spine. She had stood up to Murdoc’s handling without falling apart.

  But she did not trust him.

  “Persuade her,” Conn had said.

  Griff let his gaze travel from those wide, wary blue eyes to the delicate line of her lips and further, to the pale constellation of freckles that starred her collarbone. He thought of all the ways he could bind her to him if he were willing to use his kind’s usual methods of persuasion.

  He could make her or any human woman respond to him.

  Dubh, Murdoc could have made her respond if he weren’t a ham-handed ass with no thought beyond his own satisfaction.

  But something in Griff rebelled at taking even that small choice from her.

  He must win her trust some other way.

  “I will leave you now,” he said.

  “Where are