Shifter

by Lora Leigh

  rves smoldered. Veins of heat shot through her. She was shivering, shaking, falling apart, and yet he held her, safe and close.

  Sensation surged and crested in a dark flood inside her.

  “Take it, lass,” he murmured. “Take what you need.”

  Emma panted. Resting her forehead against the smooth, hard bedpost, she let his hands drive her, let her body take her where he wanted her to go, into the sizzle and the warm dark.

  She burned in his arms like liquid gold, the scent of her rising to his head like wine or the mist on the rocks at night. Griff breathed her in, her response rolling over him like the ocean, primal, powerful.

  Satisfying.

  Her smooth cheeks were flushed, her soft lips slightly parted. She was warm and damp and delicate all over, her skin as pink and polished as the heart of a shell. He wanted her naked, wanted to suck her pretty breasts and nuzzle the richness of her sex, kiss every freckle, lap her like cream.

  Later.

  Right now he wanted inside.

  Her body still quaked with the tiny aftershocks of her release. He wanted to push inside her and savor her trembling, wanted to stroke her with his cock until she cried out and came again.

  Griff reached for his breech flap.

  And saw, beneath the dark fan of her lashes, the silver track of tears shining like the beach in moonlight.

  His chest froze. “Lass…Did I hurt you?”

  She drew a shuddering breath. “No.”

  Her pale fingers uncurled from the bedpost. Lowering her arm, she dragged the heel of her palm across her eyes.

  His heart sundered. Catching her wrist, he replaced her hand with his lips, soothing her tender skin with his kiss. Tasting salt.

  A choked sound escaped her throat. She turned to him, curled into him, in a trusting, nestling move that ripped him apart.

  He gathered her close, cursing himself, smoothing a shaking hand down the long, silken fall of her hair. “Was it so bad, then?”

  Her head moved against his chest. She lifted her face, her blue eyes lambent, glowing, setting his heart on fire with relief and…something else. Something he had no words for or experience of.

  “It was that good,” she said.

  “There’s more,” he promised hoarsely. “Better.”

  Beneath his hand, her small shoulders stiffened. Straightened. “Yes.”

  He’d never heard a braver assent.

  Or a more discouraging one.

  For all her passionate nature, he knew she had not enjoyed her previous experience of sex. Horrible, she called it. He should have taken her when he had the chance, before she had a chance to remember, before he looked in her face and saw her tears, before he gazed in her eyes and found them blue and shining with promise like the sea at dawn.

  “Lass—” Longing and frustration roiled inside him. He had claimed to know her. But at this moment, he barely recognized himself. “What do you want of me?”

  “Oh.” A rosy blush swept from the freckles on her collarbone to the roots of her hair. “You will think me foolish. Selfish.”

  He thought her adorable.

  “Inexperienced,” he said. “And ill-used. Tell me what you want.”

  “Would you—” Another blush, deeper than before. Anticipation licked along his veins and tightened his groin. Her eyes met his, defiant. Beseeching. “Would you hold me?”

  He almost groaned. Human females.

  “I am holding you,” he pointed out.

  “Yes.” Her gaze skittered over the rumpled bed, the smooth silks tangled with the sleek, dark fur of his pelt. “Never mind.”

  Comprehension forced its way into his lust-fogged brain. “In bed, you mean.”

  She swallowed; nodded. “I know it’s not fair. You must think—You must expect—”

  “I did not ask for anything but your honesty, lass.”

  And if her honesty resulted in a miserable night for him, he reflected wryly, he was well-served for his lies.

  She bit her lip. “You don’t mind? Won’t it be hard?”

  “Hard as a rock and stiff as a mast,” he assured her, grinning when her eyes rounded. He trailed his knuckle along the curve of her jaw, coaxing her head up, inviting her smile. “It’s not such a terrible fate, to sleep with you in my arms.”

  She smiled tremulously. He felt almost rewarded for his sacrifice.

  But he knew, in his heart and in his stones, he would get no sleep tonight.

  Emma dreamed.

  In her dreams, she walked the track that led to her father’s farm, while the sea pounded the cliffs below. If she did not watch her footing, she would fall. But her gaze kept drifting, drawn by the waves and the promise of something just beyond the horizon, a vision broader and brighter than the rutted track and her everyday existence of boots and butter and eggs.

  The water shimmered like a sheet of beaten silver. A sleek black shape broke the shining surface. She caught her breath in wonder. A seal. She turned her head to watch its sinuous glide. Distracted, she tripped, tumbled, toppled down and down from the cliffs into the cold, hard sea.

  The shock knocked the air from her lungs and jarred her to the bone. Panic seized her. She could not breathe. Water pulled at her skirts and sucked at her boots. Her petticoats clung, trapping her like a fish in a net.

  The seal reared up beside her, regarding her with dark, clear eyes. “It was your petticoats that nearly drowned you,” it said.

  She was drowning. The realization struck her like a knife. Emma struggled, weeping, fighting the constriction of her lungs, the tangle of fabric around her legs.

  And the seal bore her up, supporting her with its thickset, powerful body, speaking to her with Griff’s voice, Griff’s words. “Easy now, lass. Be easy. I’ve got you.”

  Gasping, she opened her eyes.

  The room was dark. The fire had died to sullen red embers. The bedcovers tangled around her legs.

  Griff lay beside her, behind her, his chest warm and solid against her back, his arm heavy about her waist. Her heart hammered.

  “It was only a dream,” he rumbled. “Easy, lass. I’ve got you.”

  Only a dream.

  Tension escaped her on a sigh. She subsided against her pillow.

  Not a pillow. Griff’s muscled arm supported her head. His rod, hard and ready, lodged against her backside. Emma sucked in another breath, a different kind of tension seizing her muscles. She shivered in longing and trepidation.

  He stroked back her hair with his free hand, tucking a strand behind her ear. “It’s all right. Sleep.”

  She relaxed, but she could not sleep. Visions of her dream lingered like the mist over the ocean, fogging her thoughts, but her body, primed by his touch, was alert. Aware. Her senses hummed. Her nerves tingled. Griff cocooned her in warmth, surrounding her with his undemanding strength. Only the nudge of his erection against her bottom issued its own demand, a silent declaration of intent. She curled into him, settling more firmly against that intriguing ridge, and felt his breathing change. His arm flexed beneath her cheek, but he did not move, did not reach or grab. Emboldened, she shifted, brushing against his hot satin length, feeling him just…there.

  “I will not do anything you don’t want me to.”

  His assurance freed her to discover, to feel, without expectation of pain or shame. She wiggled experimentally. Her toes explored the top of his foot, stroked his hairy leg to the knee.

  “Lass.” His voice shook with laughter and desperation. “You do not know what you are inviting.”

  Her heart pounded. She knew enough to experience a moment’s panic. But he did not roll to crush her, covering her body with his own, his weight pressing her legs, her stomach, until she could not breathe. He lay still on his side, his body heavy with sleep and smelling of musk. His big frame curled protectively around her own—naked, warm, animal, relaxed.

  Not so relaxed. His arm was dense with muscle. His member was hard and thick. She was seized with a terrible la
ssitude and an even more terrible longing. Curiosity and need rose and trickled within her. She felt suspended in time like an insect in amber, caught in the dark and honeyed now. There was no tomorrow. Only this man, this moment, this one opportunity to have and hold. Inside, she was loose and liquid, tight and aching. She pressed against him, shameless in the faceless dark, and the arm at her waist slid down, his fingers skimming over her quivering stomach, parting her thighs. With a moan, she turned her face into his hard biceps and opened for him, let him pet and stroke her as he had before, her body eager for more touches.

  The blunt head of his penis nudged the curves of her buttocks, rubbing, seeking entrance from behind as his fingers soothed and readied her from the front, dipping into her moisture, spreading it through her slick folds. Emma stiffened. He should not…She must not…But her body moved blindly of its own volition, wriggling against him, wanting, seeking…He bent her forward over his arm, tilting her hips for his penetration, and slipped into her a little way, his smooth, thick head filling her, stretching her, making her gasp and want.

  For, oh, she wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted more. Her need pulsed inside her. She tightened around him. With a grunt, he entered her in one smooth, hard thrust.

  Yesss. Her inner muscles contracted.

  No pain, she thought, dazed and relieved. Only this aching sense of completion. Of satisfaction. Of wonder that he could do this thing with such care and patience, and she could receive him with such pleasure.

  He began to move, and she stopped thinking at all, completely taken up, taken over by the sweet friction, the slow, deep thrust and slide of him pumping in and out of her body, moving within her. She was filled with him, wrapped in him, as his rhythm quickened. Her breathing shortened. He nuzzled the curve of her neck, and she reached back, desperate to hold him, her nails digging into his smooth, taut flanks. He bit her softly—her ear, the side of her neck—gripping her hips, imprinting himself on her flesh, holding her hard and tight. She quaked and contracted around him. Her release spilled from her in an overwhelming flood, catching him up like a wave, dragging him with her.

  He exhaled into her hair. She felt the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck and the hot gush deep in her body.

  Emma meant to rise and wash. She fell asleep instead, lulled by Griff’s weight warm behind her and his hand toying with her hair.

  When dawn came, he was gone. Dimly, she recalled the sudden coolness beside her in the bed. He had murmured something—“my lord” and “duties”—before he kissed her and left her.

  Now she stood at the window, concentrating fiercely on the fastening of her gown as if aligning each button in its appropriate hole could somehow restore her to her proper guise as mistress of mathematics at Miss Hallsey’s School for Girls.

  Useless.

  Absurd.

  She sat on the edge of the bed to roll on her stockings. She would not regret what Griff had done—what they had done together.

  She had been numb, closed in on herself like a hand curled to protect the wound at its palm. Now every inch of her felt open and aching and alive. Her collar chafed the faint abrasions on her neck. The linen shift teased her sensitive breasts. And every rasp of fabric against her skin, every shiver along her nerves, reminded her of Griff.

  Emma sighed.

  He had lavished her with patience and with wicked skill, healing and transforming her. She was grateful for his care. Everything had changed…and nothing had.

  Emma yanked on her other stocking. She was no longer so naive as to equate sex with marriage, or even tenderness with love.

  Griff had not said he loved her. She would not have believed him if he did. Why, they barely knew each other.

  The memory of his deep voice rolled through her. “I know you, lass. In one day I have seen the spirit and the spine and the heart of you…”

  Her heart shook. Her hands trembled. She folded them together in her lap.

  She had given him more than her body last night. But she could not, did not, expect any more from him. Men, Emma assumed, did not feel these things as women did.

  The daylight had returned, and with it, reason. She would not make the mistake of relying on someone else to care for her. She was responsible for her own choices. Her own feelings. Her own future.

  Dismally, she wondered when the next boat departed for Canada.

  FIVE

  “Canada?” Griff relieved Una of the tray and nodded for the girl to depart. “You do not want to go there.”

  Emma stared at him, broad and rough and male, and wished the sight of him balancing her breakfast tray in his big hands didn’t make her heart stumble. She did not want to go anywhere. But neither could she stay in his bedchamber, blushing every time a child came to the door.

  “I signed a contract,” she said. “A year’s service for passage on the ship.”

  His thick brows rose. “The ship sank.”

  He set the tray on the chest. More apples, Emma noted, and a thin gray porridge that shamed the silver bowl it came in. What kind of household couldn’t produce porridge?

  She dragged her mind back to their discussion. “Nevertheless, there are people expecting me.”

  “Not any longer.”

  He was probably right. By now, she would be considered lost at sea. And yet—

  “My parents should not have to read about my death in the newspaper.”

  “You are close to them.” It was not a question.

  She shook her head. “Before I left, my father informed me I was already dead to them.” Impossible to keep the bitterness from her voice.

  “I am sorry, lass.” His voice was deep and sincere.

  His sympathy eased the hurt at her heart.

  “It doesn’t matter.” But of course it did. “I planned to write to them when I reached Halifax.”

  “You cannot go.”

  Her heart leapt. Would he miss her? Did he want her to stay? Not that she could, under her present circumstances, but his apparent reluctance to see her leave was balm to her bruised heart.

  “Why not?”

  “This is not Liverpool. There are no steamships to take you clear to Canada.”

  Emma raised her chin. “You cannot tell me we are on an island with no boats.”

  Griff scratched his jaw with his thumb. “No, I cannot tell you that. But a ship large enough to bear you safely across the ocean…You could wait weeks for a vessel that size.”

  “Weeks,” Emma squeaked.

  “Aye. Months, maybe.”

  “But…what am I to do? How am I to live in the meantime?”

  Griff appeared genuinely puzzled by her question. “You will live here.”

  “I can’t.” A familiar panic beat in her throat. “I have no money. I have nothing.”

  “You do not need money. You are my lord’s guest.”

  “I cannot rely on the charity of a stranger.” She could not rely on anyone. Paul had taught her that. Her parents, Letitia…“There must be something I can do to earn my keep.” Inspiration struck as her gaze fell on the bowl of porridge. “Perhaps he would hire me as a cook.”

  “A cook,” Griff repeated without inflection.

  She nodded eagerly. “All the girls at Miss Hallsey’s learn domestic management, along with history, science, geography, and—”

  “Lass, you do not need to work to keep the roof over your head,” Griff said wryly. “But if you did, you have talents of more use to my lord than cooking.”

  Her gaze flew to his. She trusted him. She did, with her body and a share of her heart. He could not possibly be suggesting—

  “You could teach,” Griff said, shattering her assumptions. “The castle needs a teacher.”

  Emma caught her breath. The offer, following so closely on her half-formed suspicions, left her stunned. “Teach,” she said, in the same flat, disbelieving tone Griff had used for cook.

  “You said you wanted to.” He watched her, his dark gaze intent. “It would pass the t
ime. Until you go.”

  The possibility swelled her chest like a balloon. She felt buoyant, almost dizzy. To teach again…

  She bit her lip. “My reputation—”

  “Does not matter. That is past.”

  “Not that past,” she muttered. “I slept with you. Here. Last night.”

  Griff’s mouth quirked. “We do not regard these things as you do. No fault attaches to either of us because you graced my bed last night. Both of us are free to choose. Your choice honors me. Mine protects you.”

  Memory closed like a fist in her throat, blocking her air: Paul, his handsome face flushed and sulky, saying, “I am offering you my protection. You should have the good sense to accept it and be grateful.”

  “If I were to accept your offer…” Her cheeks heated. Her voice shook. “Where would I sleep?”

  “With me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” He sounded baffled. Frustrated. Angry? She could not tell.

  Emma clasped her hands together in her lap. She had given this man her body. She owed him her trust. Or at least an explanation. “Before I left England, a wealthy man—a governor of the school where I taught—offered to make me his mistress.”

  Griff’s eyes narrowed. “The man who had you. Hurt you.”

  She inhaled. “Yes.”

  “I will kill him for you.”

  Her breath exploded in an appalled laugh. “No! He—I—he said I led him on. I didn’t mean to. But I made assumptions, foolish assumptions about what he intended and what I wanted. It cost me my position at the school.”

  “He cost you your life,” Griff growled.

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes in relief, at once vindicated and reassured. Not her fault, then. Not entirely her fault. “In one day, one instant, I lost my home and my livelihood. And then Paul told me all I had to do was make my body available to him at his convenience, and I would be fed, sheltered, secure. And…I could not do it. I could not be what he wanted me to be.”

  Her eyes opened, pleaded with his for understanding. “I cannot be what you want me to be, either,” she said.

  “You can. You are.”

  He tempted her to believe him. But she would not spoil what they had shared in the honeyed dark by dragging it into the daylight world of transactions and obligations. “I cannot eat the food from your table in return for—for—”

  Griff scowled. “It is not the same thing at all.”

  “I know.” And she did. From somewhere, she summoned a smile for him. Her decision was much easier—in a practical sense—because Griff was nothing like Paul. He was not like any man she had ever known before. He had lavished her with passion and tenderness. He was offering her an opportunity to do the work she loved.

  Emma sighed. Of course, emotionally, his willingness to honor her wishes made her choice more difficult. “But I can’t set aside everything I believe, everything I’ve been taught, simply because your employer might be willing to overlook our—our relationship. I can’t risk making another mistake. I need time.”

  He shot her a sharp look, and she winced at what he would not say. She hadn’t needed time last night.

  “And if you are with child?” he asked.

  Her heart pounded against her ribs. She raised her chin. “Are you offering to marry me?”

  For the first time, Griff appeared disconcerted. “We do not marry. I would care for you. And the babe.”

  “Let me take care of you.” The memory whispered over her skin like a touch, raising goose bumps.

  Emma’s throat tightened. She was vulnerable to him in ways she could never have guessed at before last night. Everywhere he had touched her, every place he had been, tingled from his possession. He was imprinted on her flesh, pulsing in her blood. Inside, she was softer, warmer, melting. She wanted him.

  Still.

  But in the pale, thin light of morning, she saw herself and her options clearly. The arrangement he suggested would leave her always doubting and unsatisfied. How could she face her pupils with confidence, how could she teach them with authority, when she was living openly with the castle overseer as his mistress?

  She swallowed. “I will be your mistress, or I will be the children’s teacher. I cannot be both.”

  She would never have made such an offer to Paul. But then, Paul had never offered her a choice at all.