Under an Enchantment: A Novella

by Anne Stuart

  “Don’t,” he said in a harsh voice.

  “You started it,” she said simply, looking up at him. “Ach, you make me crazy, selkie. Do you want me or no? I thought you’d come to the island to father a bairn. You’re not going about it very effectively.”

  God, he wanted to smile at her. “I thought you were already crazy, Ailie. To be kneeling in the moonlight with a man you think is half seal isn’t the wisest act.”

  She smiled then, and he was the one who was bewitched. “There’s a difference between wisdom and sanity. I believe what I wish to believe, I’m just as daft as I care to be. Until you came along. You upset me, selkie. Confuse me. I don’t know what I want from you.”

  “Don’t you?”

  She shook back her hair. “Yes, I do,” she said suddenly. “I want to run away with you. Live in the clouds, live in the sea, I don’t care where. I want to lie with you and give you bairns, I want to walk barefoot with you and sing songs and dance. I want a man who’s as mad as I am, who’ll never make me be what he expects but only what I am.”

  “And you think I’m that man?”

  She shook her head, and her expression was wry. “I think you’re here for cruel reasons, selkie. And I think I’m not wise enough to care. All I know is I want you to put your hands on me, and let the devil take the consequences.”He stared at her, telling himself he was a bastard in deed as well as name if he took her. Knowing that there was no longer any question of “if.”

  He rose to his feet then, with one fluid movement, and he took her with him. Without a word he pulled her, away from the stone circle, into the scrubby forest, back the way he’d come. She followed behind him, her hand secured in his, barefoot, silent, and graceful, along the woodland path that led to the north end of the island.

  His grandparents’ house was dark, deserted, as he pushed open the creaking door and drew her inside. He moved with unerring instinct, up the narrow, dusty stairs, and she followed after him, foolishly trusting him.

  The mist had lifted by the sea, and a full moon shone down, in the window of the little bedroom under the eaves, turning the narrow iron bed silver in the moonlight, creating a halo around Ailie Spens’s rich mane of hair. She looked up at him, guileless, believing in him, and he told himself he’d give her one more chance to save herself.

  He took her hand and placed it against his chest, against the thudding certainty of his heart. “I can’t promise you anything. Not true love, nor tenderness, nor even tomorrow. You think I’m a selkie, come from the sea to claim you.”

  She smiled at him, a tall woman, looking almost directly into his eyes, and the room was filled with the scent of the sea, the ancient wood, the pine and the heather and the crushed grass that clung to her white nightdress. “You’ve come from the sea to claim me,” she said in a hushed voice. “As to whether you’re a selkie or not, I don’t really give a damn. All I know is that I want you. Put your hands on me, Malcolm. Please.”

  There was no way he could resist her, looking at him with such beguiling sweetness, asking for what he needed to give her. The past, the future slid away, so that there was only the two of them, standing by the bed in the moonlight, she in her nightdress, he in breeches and an old shirt that would be all too easily discarded.

  “Run away, Ailie,” he forced himself to say. “This is your last chance.”

  Sudden confusion crossed her face, and she began to pull her hand away from him. “Don’t you want me?” she whispered.

  It finished him. “Lass, I’d have to be mad not to want you. And you’re supposed to be the daft one around here.” He pulled her up against him, her strong, slender body fitting against his, perfectly, and he groaned, a harsh sound of longing and regret in the back of his throat.

  Ailie told herself she ought to be frightened. Frightened of the tall, dark man in the bedroom with her, his hands at the neck of her nightgown, unfastening the buttons with an unnerving dexterity, his eyes intent. He’d done this before, she thought. Many many times. It would mean nothing to him, and it would mean the world to her.

  She wanted him to leave her with a bairn. Because leave he would, she knew it. He’d walk back into the sea and disappear, leaving her to grieve and mourn, and she wanted something of his to cherish.

  Crazy she might be, but she loved him. She knew that what lay between them had nothing to do with common sense or practicality, with sanity and wisdom. It was basic, elemental, and magic, and if it was one-sided, so be it. She would take what he was willing to give her, claim him as he claimed her.

  The night air was cool on her shoulders as he slipped the gown away from her, and it pooled at her feet, leaving her naked in the moonlight.

  She had no false modesty as he looked down at her, his sea-green eyes hooded, unreadable. She was as she was, and he could either accept her or not.

  “Get on the bed,” he said.

  “In a moment,” she replied in a deceptively tranquil voice, and reached up to unfasten his loose white shirt.

  She wanted him to think she was calm, used to this sort of thing, when in truth she’d never seen an undressed man in her life. Sir Duncan’s few attempts had been made under the cover of darkness, and while Fiona had given her detailed explanations of what went on between the two sexes, it was still all a matter of theory. She wanted to see what he looked like. She wanted to learn all of him. And she didn’t want him to know she was nervous.

  He tried so hard to be cool and wicked, but beneath that mocking exterior was the soul of a selkie, gentle and pure. If he knew she was untouched, if he knew she loved him, he would leave her be, and that would be the cruelest blow of all. Better he thought her experienced and bold. She could only hope that he didn’t notice her hands were trembling as she pulled the shirttails from his tight black breeches.

  But Malcolm was a man who noticed everything. He caught her hands in his, stilling them. “You’re cold,” he said.

  Cold from fear, but she wouldn’t tell him that. Not when she was blazingly hot as well. His hands slid up her wrists, to her elbows, and she swayed against him, looking up, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint shadow of worry that haunted her. If he’d simply kiss her again, she wouldn’t notice the cold. If he lay with her on the bed, his big strong body covering hers, she wouldn’t notice the cold.

  His mouth was hot and wet against hers, and she felt that familiar/unfamiliar coil of desire in the pit of her stomach. He released her hands, and she slid them around his waist, against his bare, taut skin that was burningly hot, and she wanted his warmth, wanted his heat.

  The bed was small and sagging beneath her, but she scarcely noticed as he followed her down, covering her, still half-clothed, his body pressed against her, between her legs, as he cupped her face in his hands and began to kiss her. His lips against her eyelids, her cheekbones, the corner of her mouth, were tempting, arousing, and she tried to turn her head, to catch his mouth with hers and kiss him back, but he was having none of it. His hands covered her breasts and she shivered with the wonder of it, arching against him.

  His hands were rough, callused, the hands of a man who wasn’t afraid of working for a living. The moonlight was like a benediction, blanketing their bodies, and she closed her eyes, giving in to the wonder of it, as his mouth moved down the line of her throat, to taste her hammering pulse, and then to capture her breast, like a wee babe suckling.

  But this was no maternal feeling pounding through her. This was no gentle faerie coupling such as she’d long imagined. This was desire, hot, heavy in her blood, something that was a far cry from her daydreams of lying down in the heather with a selkie.

  His hand moved between her legs, touching her there, and she knew a sudden fear. His fingers slid deep, into her heated dampness, and she moaned, a sound of entreaty and protest. He was a deft man, able to kiss her as his hand kept up its inexorable stroking, and she wanted to stop him, to change her mind. This was rapidly spiraling out of her control, and it frightened her, she who was frighte
ned of nothing. The pleasure was too sharp, too overwhelming, and she wanted nothing more than to run away and hide.

  She tried to pull away, but he was having none of it. His mouth left hers, to trail a path of damp, erotic kisses across her cheekbone to her ear. He caught the lobe between his teeth, biting gently, and she jerked against the wondrous encroachment of his hand, as new warmth suffused her body.

  “Easy, m’eudail,” he whispered in her ear. “I won’t hurt you. You’ve given yourself to me. Are you wanting to change your mind?”

  Her eyes met his in the moon-gilded darkness. He would leave her if she asked. If she told him the truth. And that was the worst fear, the worst devastation of all.

  She ran her hands up the smooth, heated length of his body. “No,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his. Wishing she’d paid just a wee bit more attention when Morag had told her of the things that went on between men and women. At the time she hadn’t been interested, faced only with the prospect of Torquil.

  Now she wished she had more solid knowledge to allay her fears. She could feel him through his tight black breeches, and he was very large indeed. She didn’t think it was going to work.

  She told him so, not wishing to discourage him. He kissed her then, silencing most of her doubts, and then he rose, shucking his breeches and tossing them over the side of the narrow bed.

  Lord, he was a bonnie man in the moonlight! It was no wonder that no sensible woman could ever resist a selkie. Ailie’s sense had been banished long ago, and she stared up at him, lean and strong, with gilded skin and long black hair.

  He knelt between her legs, and she could feel him, hard and hot against her. She closed her eyes, bracing for the first stroke, bracing for the pain, and she clamped her teeth down on her lip to stifle any errant cry.

  He didn’t move. “Open your eyes, Ailie,” he said in a soft voice that brooked no denial.

  She did so, unwillingly. She could see the rigid cord of the muscles in his arms as he braced himself over her, see the faint sheen of sweat that covered his beautiful body.

  “That’s right,” he murmured approvingly. “You look as if you’re expecting the worst. It’s not going to hurt, love.” He took her hands and placed them on his shoulders. “I know fine how to do this without making a botch of it. Trust me, Ailie.”

  Oh, but she did, in ways he couldn’t begin to know. She smiled up at him, a wary smile, but a smile nonetheless, hoping he wouldn’t see the fear in her eyes.

  He smiled back at her, and the pressure increased as he pushed his hips forward. “You should remember it only hurt the first time you did this.”

  She said nothing, closing her eyes again, the better to savor his relentless invasion. His breathing was harsh, labored, as he struggled to control himself, and she was afraid of that control. Afraid that he still might leave her.

  She slid her arms past his shoulders, around his neck, under the long black hair. She raised her hips to meet his steady advance, she put her mouth against his, and her tongue met his, mimicking what he’d taught her and what she’d learned to like so well.

  His groan was muffled by her kiss, and his control shattered as he sank into her, breaking past the unwelcome barrier of her virginity to claim her.

  He held very still in her arms, rigid, and she could feel the tension ripple through his body, and she knew he wanted to pull away, to leave her.

  Despite the discomfort she couldn’t let him. She clung to him, fiercely, reveling in the feel of his strong, sleek body, on top of her, around her, within her. It was painful, smothering, and quite glorious. She wanted it to last forever, she wanted something more that she didn’t comprehend.

  He said something low under his breath, a curse, a benediction, and then the words “too late.” He started to pull away from her, and she clung to him in panic, only to have him move back, sliding, smoothly, deeply, the discomfort fading as he rocked against her. His hands cupped her hips, pulling her legs around him, as he taught her the ancient rhythm of advance and retreat, and she felt herself begin to drift, awash in a sensual dance of wonder and delight, sweet and dreaming, content to move beneath him in the moonlit darkness, until it changed, the first harsh tendrils spiraling up from her belly, and suddenly, sharply, there was no peace but a clawing kind of wonder. She clutched at him, her heart pounding, her breath strangled in her throat, reaching for something lost and mysterious, and she felt the waters of the sea close around her as her selkie pulled her deeper, deeper into the inky darkness, and she struggled, fighting him, until suddenly it erupted into a shower of stars, drifting through the darkness.

  She felt him shudder in her arms, the warmth and wetness of him flooding her, claiming her, giving her a child. Not a lad, but a wee girl. And her name would be Catriona.

  It seemed forever before the madness left her, the madness that was unlike anything she’d ever feigned. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to loose her hold of him. He was wet and slippery with sweat, like a seal, and it would be far too easy for him to vanish.

  “Ailie.” His voice was harsh, labored, but she wouldn’t respond, afraid to give him an excuse to leave her. “Lass, why didn’t you tell me?”

  She hid her face against his shoulder, unwilling to talk. She wanted to stay wrapped in his arms forever, she wanted to fall asleep and wake in the ocean, swimming beside him. Failing that, she wanted to fall asleep beneath him and never wake again.

  But Malcolm was having none of it. He moved away from her, ignoring her clinging arms, to sit beside her on the bed. He caught her chin in his hand and shook her. “Answer me, Ailie,” he said sternly. “Why were you still a maid? And why didn’t you tell me when you knew I’d have you?”

  She opened her eyes then, cold and forlorn, the warm, loving glow of her body fading in the suddenly chill night air. “You wouldn’t have,” she said.

  “Wouldn’t have what?”

  “Wouldn’t have touched me. I know you, Malcolm MacLaren. You’re no demon spirit, for all you’d like to be. You wouldn’t take a lass and harm her if you’d a reason not to. As long as I was a widow, already pledged to another man, I was fair game. If you thought I was untouched, you wouldn’t have come near me.”

  He shook his head, and beneath his dark, austere face was wry self-reproach. “I wish I could be as sure as you that I possess some shred of honor,” he said.

  “You wanted to hurt my family. I know that well—I may be half-mazed, but there’s nothing wrong with my reasoning when I care to use it. It doesn’t take any special powers to know that you’ve been wronged. By my family, by my husband, by Torquil. And I’m the instrument of your revenge.” She said it quite calmly, wondering that it failed to hurt her.

  He looked shocked. “What makes you say such a daft thing?”

  “I thought we agreed, I am daft,” she replied, her voice as cool as her blood ran hot. “Morag told me. You’ll harm me for the sake of those you hate.”

  “Then why did you let me?”

  She lay on her back in the moonlight, the marks of his possession still full on her body. He looked beautiful in the moonlight, a magical creature, and she would have given anything to be able truly to believe he was a selkie.

  She reached up her hand to touch his face, wondering if he’d jerk away. He held still for her caress, his sea-green eyes distant as he watched her. “Because you’re my fate, selkie. My destiny. You’ve come from the sea to claim me, and claim me you have. When you leave tomorrow, I’ll be carrying your bairn to remember you.”

  “You’re a madwoman, Ailie Spens,” he said, taking her hand in his and moving it to his mouth. “And you make me mad as well.” He placed a kiss against her palm, his mouth open, using his tongue, and his eyes met hers. “Send me away from you, before I break your heart.”

  “It’s already too late to stop it. Lie down with me again, selkie,” she whispered. “No one ever died of a broken heart.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and she could alm
ost believe he came from some dark otherworld. A world where she belonged. And then he leaned over and blocked out the moonlight once more, and there was no more room for talk.

  He lay sleeping in the narrow bed. She’d marked him, Ailie thought, though not as thoroughly or as deeply as he’d marked her. She could see the scratches on his back, where’d she’d clung to him, sobbing. She could see where she’d bitten him on the shoulder, hard, when he’d carried her past any kind of sense or reason.

  She stood at the side of the bed, the white nightrail once more around her, an old shawl wrapped around her as well, and wished she could throw them off once more and climb back in the bed with him.

  It would be a mistake. As it was, she could barely walk. Her knees were weak, and parts of her body that she’d heretofore paid no attention to were sore and aching. She needed a hot bath, and hours of sleep. She wanted those hours with Malcolm, but the sun would rise soon enough, and the enchanted night would be over. She needed to be back in her own bed before they found her gone.

  She didn’t trust her family. Not Torquil or Angus or Fiona. As for the people of St. Columba, they loved her in their way, but if they were convinced the selkie had harmed her, it would go ill with him, and she couldn’t bear for even an unwanted drop of rain to fall on his silky black hair.

  She was mazed for sure. Foolishly in love, bewitched by the selkie who was most likely nothing but a man after all, but a man like none she’d ever known.

  He’d leave, and he wouldn’t take her with him. And she couldn’t bear to see him go.

  She’d make her way through the mist-shrouded dawn, back to the dower house, and from that moment on she’d be douce and mild, the meekest of young ladies, and in her belly she’d carry his bairn to love and cherish. Torquil would have nothing to do with a whore, and her brother and sister would wash their hands of her. It would be a quiet life, raising her daughter in the dower house, never leaving the island, but a happy life.