by Anne Stuart
He moved closer, so that the water only reached his strong calves, and beckoned to her again. Once more she shook her head, denying him, denying the yearning that surged in her heart. He would hurt her, Morag had warned her, and Morag was always right. If she stayed on the rock and didn’t touch the water, she’d be safe.
Finally he spoke, and his voice was low, musical. “Come away with me, lass.” And he moved to the rock where she stood, and held out his arms.
She could fight it no longer. She went to him, into his arms, and he scooped her up, holding her against the solid, silky warmth of his chest, as he started back into the sea.
She braced herself for the cold, but as the water lapped around her skirts it was warm, balmy, like a Sunday bath. He paused when the water reached his chest, covering most of her body, and looked at her.
“Are you ready, lass?” he whispered, his mouth hovering near hers.
She no longer hesitated. If he meant her harm, then she wanted that harm, more than she wanted the stifling safety of her life, where everyone tried to order her and everyone failed. This would be her final triumph.
“I’m ready,” she said. “But I cannot swim.”
“I’ll show you.” And he dived beneath the warm water, taking her with him.
She held her breath at first, closed her eyes, as he loosed her, holding her hand as he pulled her through the sea. When it seemed as if her lungs would burst, she took a breath, certain she would drown. But life filled her lungs, rich warm life, surging through her, and she opened her eyes in surprise, looking around her as she glided through the depths of the North Sea.
The selkie was beside her. Malcolm, his long black hair trailing behind him, his limbs strong and graceful as he moved through the water. Surrounding them were a dozen seals, of varying colors, dark and golden, honey-colored and white, but the two of them still held their human shape. He came up to her, drawing her against his body, and she flowed against him, graceful, inevitable, wrapping her arms around him, her hair a cloud in the warm water, floating around them.
He kissed her then, breathing into her mouth, and she felt as if she would burst with pleasure as she drifted through the shimmering sea, at one with her selkie lover. This was what she had dreamed about, this was what she had longed for. Nothing else mattered but his mouth, wet and open against hers, taking her, down and down and down, into the murky, velvet depths of the Scottish sea.
Rough hands reached out, trying to pull her back, away from him, but she fought, struggling to hold on to him. His skin was smooth, slippery beneath her fingers, and she felt herself tom away, hauled toward the surface, and suddenly she could no longer breathe, the weight of the water pressing down around her, and it was icy, numbing. She opened her mouth to call to him, a cry of longing and despair, but the sea filled her mouth and throat, choking her, and she was drawn to the blinding glare of the surface without being able to make a sound of protest.
“Mistress,” Margery said urgently, shaking her.
Ailie opened her eyes, reluctant, angry, and released the pent-up breath she’d been holding in her lungs. She was lying in her bed, warm, dry, and bereft. Her arms felt empty. “I was dreaming,” she said.
“It’s late morning, mistress. I’ve never known you to sleep so late. I was afeart you might be sickening.”
“No,” Ailie said. The dream was gone, there’d be no calling it back. The sunlight was bright outside the casement window, glistening through the changing color of the trees, and she knew she had to get up.
“Your family’s here,” Margery said. “You brother and sister-in-law, and Mr. Spens.”
Ailie flopped back down in the bed and pulled the covers around her. “Tell them to go away.”
Margery pulled the covers back. “Ye’d best come down, mistress. I ken they won’t be leaving at all.”
Sudden alarm filled Ailie. “What do you mean?”
“They came with baggage, and Lady Fiona’s maidservant, and the cook, and a case of French wine. They’ve come to stay, mistress.”
“I won’t have them here.”
“Didn’t I warn you? If you kept walking out with your clothes and hair all which way, people were bound to talk. That brother of yours has been looking for an excuse to put you under lock and key, and his wife hates you. They know they can’t take you back to their house without you screaming your head off, and the people of St. Columba wouldn’t let you be harmed. So they’re going to move in on you and watch over you here.”
“Tell them to leave,” Ailie said furiously.
“It won’t do any good. They’re here to stay. Best behave yourself and it’ll be easier for the both of us. To be truthful, I’d like a bit of company, and you’re a rare handful for me to watch over.”
“I don’t need watching over, Margery. I can take care of myself.”
“By going off to see the selkie at all hours of the night? They heard of it, mistress, and that decided them. This is all for the best. You’ll realize that, sooner or later.”
“You told them to come.” Ailie scrambled from the bed, her long white nightrail trailing behind her as she headed for the door.
“You can’t go downstairs like that!” Margery protested, scandalized.
“Watch me.”
Angus and Fiona were ensconced in the tiny parlor, having made themselves at home. Fiona was sitting by the fire that was unneeded on a warm day, her hands clasped over her pregnant belly, a petulant expression on her perfect face.
“I want you to leave,” Ailie said without preamble.
Her brother was already drinking wine, and he choked on his mouthful, spitting it on the floor as he glared at her. “Have you no sense of decency at all, missie?” he demanded.
“This is my house. I’m a widow, with an inheritance and a jointure. I don’t want you here.”
“Now, lass,” Angus said with a poor attempt at placating her. “You know you need the wise council of your family during your time of mourning. All this time alone hasn’t been good for you. Not when your mind is far from clear in the best of times. We’re here to watch over you, Fiona and I. You need rest and quiet.”
“I need my freedom!” she cried.
She could have saved her breath. “You haven’t been able to look after yourself, and while Margery does her best, she’s not up to the rigors of watching over you. We’ll do that for you, lass. Keep you safe here in the house where you won’t be bothered by strangers during your time of mourning. There’ll be no visitors, saving for family.”
She fought the panic that surged up inside her. “You’re my only family on the island,” she said carefully.
“And Torquil, of course. He’s your cousin by marriage, and hopes to be much more. But now isn’t the time to be discussing such things. Rest and quiet, Ailie. For the next few months.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“Why shouldn’t you, lass? A sweet, cloth-headed girl like yourself? We’re just doing what’s best for you. It would grieve my heart to have to send you away.”
“Send me away where?”
“There’s a hospital in Edinburgh where they keep people like you. With bars on the windows and locked doors,” Fiona piped up, and her voice had a cruel edge to it.
“Is that so much worse than being locked up here?”
“We’ll be more than happy to give you a chance to find out,” her brother said smoothly.
Don’t, Ailie told herself. Don’t scream, or fight, or say a word. It won’t save you. “Welcome to the dower house,” she murmured.
She plastered a bright, sunny smile on her face, made her eyes lose their focus, and picked up the trailing hem of her white nightrail. And then she wandered away, forcing her movements to be light and airy, as she hummed beneath her breath.
“She’s mad,” Fiona snapped at Angus.
“Perhaps,” Ailie heard her brother reply. “Perhaps.”
Chapter 4
“Dinna ye plan to go to the kirk?” Colli
s’s accusing voice broke through Malcolm’s reverie.
He roused himself to glance up at the old man. “Sunday, is it?” he replied lazily, knowing full well what day it was. Four days since he’d walked ashore on the island of St. Columba. Two days since he’d last caught sight of Ailie Wallace Spens.
“It would do ye no harm to observe the sabbath,” Collis said sourly.
Malcolm shook his head. “I can’t do that, old man.”
“And why not?”
He smiled with a sweetness that left the old man stonily unmoved. “Because the kirk is no place for faerie craitures,” he said. “Yon minister would doubtless cast me out if I tried to enter.”
“Yon minister might surprise you,” Collis said. “He’s a fine preacher, never bedeviling a man about too much whisky and minor sins such as that. The entire island goes to service every Sunday.”
There was no missing Collis’s message. “Everyone?”
“Even those half-mazed,” Collis said. “Torquil usually takes her.”
Malcolm rose from his perch by the rocky shore. He’d taken to staring at the dark water, so angry and different from the sea near the MacLaren lands in Glen Corrie. “Then it would probably behoove me to go as well,” he said. “I haven’t seen Lady Spens since Thursday. I would have thought she’d be around.” He made his voice sound careless, noncommittal, and he wondered whether he fooled Collis.
“I doubt she’s had any choice in the matter. It’s that family of hers. They moved in on her, and word has it they’re keeping her under lock and key.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To keep her away from you.”
Malcolm looked at him in surprise. “Why would they think I would mean her harm?” They didn’t strike him as clever enough to see beneath the surface.
“It’s not you they don’t trust, laddie. It’s the girl. She’s mazed, you know.”
“So they say.”
“And they’re afraid for her. Afraid she’ll come to harm. That someone might misunderstand her simple friendliness for something more sinful.”
“They’re afraid I’ll seduce her?”
“Aye.”
“A wicked thing to do, Collis. To seduce an innocent lass and then abandon her,” Malcolm said dryly. “Anyone who’s party to such an act should be punished. Don’t you agree?”
Collis stared at him strangely. “If ye say so. Is that what happened to Catriona? Did she find herself with an unwanted bairn and then walk into the sea to escape her shame?”
“No!” Malcolm snapped. He glared at the old man. “You knew her, back then. Was she the sort of lass who’d give in to a man’s lies? Who’d kill herself and her bairn rather than face the consequences? Was she a coward and a whore, Collis?” His voice was low, deceptively dangerous, as if he were waiting for an excuse to vent his fury.
But Collis shook his head slowly. “She was a sweet lass. One who might have made the mistake of giving herself in love to the wrong man.”
“She didn’t,” Malcolm said flatly.
“But she would never have killed herself.”
Malcolm felt some of the tension drain from him. In the far distance they could hear the tolling of the church bell, calling the people of St. Columba to worship. “Let’s go to the kirk, old man,” he said heavily. “I have sins to confess.”
They sat near the back, he and Collis, and he almost didn’t recognize her when she walked by. It was the sight of Torquil’s smug bulk that alerted him, and his first glance slid over the demure creature by his side, then returned for a second shocked look.
It was the faerie-mad Ailie. Her thick golden hair was plaited in tight braids, wrapped and pinned close to her head. Her clothes were the dull black of mourning, high-necked, long-sleeved, reaching to the floor. There were no bare toes today, just sensible black shoes. Her face was pale beneath the weight of her coiled hair, and her eyes were dull and lifeless.
For a moment he wanted to leap out of his seat and haul her away from Torquil. “What have you done with her?” he wanted to shout, but he held still, mesmerized, knowing Collis watched him, knowing others did as well. It was too small an island for the people not to know that Ailie had been drawn to the stranger who’d walked from the sea, and he was damned if he’d give them food for gossip.
He plastered a bland, solemn expression on his face as the service started, hoping he looked suitably reverent. In truth, he paid no attention to the dominie who presided over the kirk. He was too caught up in staring at the back of Ailie’s neck. How could a woman so tall, so strapping, suddenly look fragile?
Torquil’s meaty hand was clamped around her arm, drawing her up, pushing her down, keeping a possessive grip on her as they moved through the endless service. Under cover of the offering Malcolm leaned over and muttered underneath his breath, “Distract Torquil after kirk.”
“Easier said than done,” Collis replied with a snort.
“Do it.” If Collis failed him, there was no telling when he’d have a chance to get close to Ailie. She looked ill, cramped and laced and strangled by her proper clothes and her proper behavior. He wanted to see her running barefoot and free, her long hair flowing behind her. He wanted to see her running to him.
In the end, Collis proved surprisingly creative. Torquil paused long enough to greet the dominie, and Ailie stood beside him, head bowed, eyes downcast.
Look at me, Malcolm demanded silently from his place in the kirkyard. Lift your head, lass, and see me.
He didn’t know how she knew. But suddenly she’d turned, her blue eyes found his with a sureness that almost made him believe in faeries, and her pale face lit up with something that almost frightened him.
Torquil’s hand clamped down on her arm once more, pulling her along as they headed for his carriage, when Collis moved down on them. He’d managed to retrieve a basket of fish, heaven only knew where, and in the bright sunlight the smell could carry all the way to Malcolm.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Spens,” Collis said, knocking into him, keeping an unsteady hand on the basket. “But I’ve need of a word with you on a matter of important business.”
Torquil wasn’t so easily moved. “The Sabbath is no day for conducting business, Collis.” He waved him away. “Come see me tomorrow.”
“But, sir,” Collis protested, stumbling forward.
The basket, of course, upended. Silvery fish skittered over Torquil Spens’s fine Sunday clothes, and his shriek of fury was almost lost in the sound of laughter from the assembled churchgoers. He released his grip on Ailie and turned in fury to Collis, shouting his outrage at the top of his lungs.
She disappeared. If Malcolm hadn’t been watching her so closely, he would have thought it magic. Instead she chose the moment’s confusion to vanish into the woods in back of the kirk, and much as Malcolm would have liked to have seen the outcome between Torquil’s outraged sensibility and Collis’s impersonation of an addled old man, he had more important things to do. He backed away from the amused crowd, skirting behind the old stone church and following Ailie into the woods.
She was already gone, out of sight, moving light and free despite her regimented clothes. He headed after her, relying on instinct, an instinct that was rewarded when he came across a discarded pair of shiny black shoes.
Her black stockings were a few yards onward. His feet crunched on the hairpins scattered in the path, and he found himself hoping there’d be further pieces of clothing leading the way.
Deeper and deeper into the woods he went, following the path, and the trees grew tall and dark over him, and the scent of pine and gorse was strong in the air.
The path ended abruptly, and he halted at the edge of the forest, unmoving, caught by the sight that met his eyes.
She was standing in a clearing on top of a small knoll. Surrounding her was a stone circle, looming over her, making her look suddenly dainty. She’d freed her hair, and it hung down her back like a rich curtain of silk. She’d tucked her lo
ng black skirts up in her waistband, exposing her slim calves beneath a froth of petticoats, and the high neck of the plain dress had been unbuttoned down to her generous breasts. She seemed completely unaware of him as she drifted over the grassy mound, humming beneath her breath, her movements airy and graceful. The bright sun overhead surrounded her, almost giving her a nimbus, and he leaned against a tree, watching her, momentarily entranced.
“Go away, selkie,” she said suddenly in a stern voice, halting in her dancelike movements to meet his eye.
“I thought you liked enchanted creatures,” he said, moving into the stone circle, slowly, stalking, ready should she suddenly take flight.
She didn’t move, staring at him, and her blue eyes were wide and wary. “I’ve been warned,” she said.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d listen to your family. Anyone who’d lock you away and dress you in such drear clothes doesn’t have your best interests at heart.”
Her sudden smile was mocking. “And you do, selkie? Somehow I doubt that. But you’re right—I wouldn’t think of listening to my family, or to Torquil either.”
“Then who warned you? The faeries? The wind?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, suddenly dignified. “It was a witch.”
She was so tall, so graceful. He’d always thought he liked his women small and plump. Perhaps he did. Perhaps the feeling that drove him with Ailie Spens had nothing to do with his occasional affairs. It was stronger, deeper, and he was finding it had very little to do with revenge.
“And what did the witch tell you? Beware of strange men who walk from the sea?” he said, keeping his voice light and mocking, controlling his sudden overwhelming desire to reach out and catch her shoulders in his hands, to draw her strong, graceful body up against his.
“She said you mean me harm. For the sake of a blood vengeance.”
