He paid no attention as the mud from his storm sucked at his boots, and the restless breeze ruffled his hair. Instead, thoughts of Alanna consumed him.
No, the London house would be no substitute for her home—just as he would be no substitute for the husband she ought to have had. A husband who had the capacity to love her as she deserved.
The trouble was, he couldn’t let her go now. She was the only light in his long, dark future, and somehow he would find a way to make her happy.
Blinking, he found himself standing at the edge of the cliffs. Before him ranged the path leading down to the beach. Beyond that, the ocean stretched to infinity. And once again he heard his mother’s musical voice calling, “Ian. My son.”
“No!” He tried to wrench himself away. He couldn’t succumb to some magical enchantment. He had a wife to fetch, two lives to repair.
“Ian.” He heard his name again, but this time the voice wasn’t musical. It wasn’t even feminine, and he glanced down.
There, on the shore, stood Mr. Lewis, waving his arms like a windmill. “Ian! Ye’ve arrived just in time. Come down. Come down at once!”
Ian didn’t want to. He wanted to stay far away from that wretched, churning sea.
But if Alanna wasn’t with Mr. Lewis, then he didn’t know where to find her, and he might as well go down and ask advice. All his instincts nagged at him; he had to find Alanna.
The scent of fish and brine clogged the air more and more as Ian descended. Salt chapped his lips, and the roar of the waves throbbed in his head like a long-forgotten melody. Instinctively he knew the tide was starting to rise, just as he knew the storm he’d conjured had agitated creatures of the deep best left undisturbed and modified shoals long settled. Those intuitions were the part of himself he hated, almost as much as he hated the selfishness he’d received from his father.
No matter that he’d thrown his ring away; the senses of a selkie could never be denied. No matter that he’d disavowed his father; the coldness of a Fairchild could never be cured. He clung to Alanna as a drowning man clung to a raft, hoping her humanity somehow would save him.
“Ian.” Mr. Lewis grabbed Ian’s shirtfront as he took the last steps onto the beach. The minister’s hat was creased as if he’d been wringing it, and blood spotted his parched lips. “Ian, ye have to help her.”
The hair on Ian’s neck lifted. He grabbed the old man back. “What do you mean, I have to help her?” But already his gaze scanned the horizon, looking for Alanna. Looking for his wife. “She swam out, didn’t she? After I told her no, she swam out.”
“She did it to save Fionnaway.”
“How? Is she going to find a previously unnoticed part of the pact that says she can marry a bastard?”
“Something like that. Ah, Ian—”
Ian didn’t want to hear Mr. Lewis making excuses for his wife. Bitterness rose in him as inexorably as the tide. “So she’s risking her life so she can have Fionnaway back.”
“Aye, and for ye.” Mr. Lewis quickly defended her. “She wants it for ye.”
“Of course. She is sacrificing herself for me.” He sneered. “For her bloody inheritance, more likely. Damn her. Damn her for a witch and liar!” He scanned the boiling surf. Nothing bobbed among the swells. “She’s like every other woman in the world. Out for what she can own, what she can have.”
“Well.” Mr. Lewis folded his thin lips as if he were offended. “What does she have with ye?”
Ian had no answer to that, and savagely he asked, “How long has she been gone?”
“Too long. I saw her dive down to get in, but the tide is rising, and she hasn’t come back out.” Mr. Lewis pointed. “There. The cave is behind that rock face.” He grabbed Ian’s arm. “Something has happened. Ian, ye’ve got to go after her.”
“And damn you.” Ian transferred his gaze to Mr. Lewis’s withered face. “How could you let her go?”
Mr. Lewis smiled faintly. “I sent her, lad. Dunna ye know yet who I am?”
Seeing the silver sparks in his eyes, Ian did know. He pulled the knowledge from the depths of his soul, along with a reverence for this creature who had given over his life for the good of all. “You’re the guardian selkie, the one who makes sure the humans keep the pact.”
“Aye, and right now yer father and his accomplice are up there plotting to destroy this place. Our home. So get ye into the water and bring Lady Alanna back alive.”
Ian didn’t wait to hear more. He struggled out of his boots, ripped off his shirt, and plunged in.
Coldness bludgeoned him. The deep, bone-chilling cold of an ocean so ancient and so indifferent it cared nothing for the creatures who dared to challenge it. The ruthless whitecaps struck him down like the slap of a careless hand, and as he plunged deep, propelled by ferocious currents, the darkness closed over him. It was more than the darkness of depth. It was a darkness of the spirit, a rising of the old fear to choke him.
Dear God. He was suffocating. He wasn’t a selkie, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t swim. He wasn’t a three-year-old boy anymore who thought the sea was his playground. He was only a man. He had arms and legs, and his mother had said they were ill suited to swimming. He kicked wildly, desperate to find the surface. He broke free, rising high like a breaching whale, sucking in air in great gulps. Then he submerged again, and another wave pushed him down.
The panic returned, but again he struggled to the surface. He set up a frantic rhythm, tumbling under with the whitecaps, then rising to the air. He was nothing but a bit of flotsam, tossed here and there, unable to take control…and whether or not Alanna knew it, she needed him.
Bursting out of the water, he roared with frustration. He was a man, damn it, and he would not allow this endless stretch of merciless sea to direct his destiny—and take the life of his wife.
With revived tenacity, he struck out toward the cave. The swells still tossed him aside, but he thought, Alanna. Alanna, and doggedly he would return to his course. As he neared the cliff that housed the cave, he strained to hear a cry, but the cacophony of the waves breaking against it covered any sound.
But she was here. She had to be. Remembering her description of the cave—the overhang of rock beneath which she had to maneuver, the dry, sandy land inside—he thought she must be trapped inside by the rising tide. He hoped she was just trapped inside. He prayed she had not tried to swim out now, into a sea that allowed no mistakes.
He prayed. He, who didn’t believe in help for one such as himself, would plead for the life of Alanna. She was human. Surely God would listen.
He would join her in the cave. Denounce her there as a grasping jade. And he would thank God she was alive.
Please, God, make her be alive.
As he approached, the ocean chewed at the rock like a hungry monster. He grappled with the breakers as he scanned the area, searching for the sight of a small, red-capped head. Searching for the opening of the cave where avarice had led her.
There! The churning surf dipped enough for him to see a place where the cliff had been undercut by currents. There. Taking a huge breath, he ducked under the oncoming wave and let it carry him down and toward the cliff. Light disappeared as he rode beneath the rocky overhang, turning the water to the black ink he dreaded. Sand swirled around him, ripped from the bottom by the frantic water. He felt the rush of current as rocks tumbled off to the side.
Startled, he opened his eyes; salt stung so badly he could see nothing. All he could do was swim with huge strokes, hoping to avoid further rock-falls, seeking the entrance, somewhere ahead and above.
Then his hand tangled in something. Seaweed.
No. Wait. He reached again.
Hair. Long, flowing hair. Hands grabbed at him. Alanna. She was coming up, rising to the surface.
Not here.
With that uncanny sense of his, he realized they couldn’t reach the air. The changes beneath the ocean must have disoriented her, and if they surfaced now, they’d be directly under the c
liff. They’d be trapped, dashed against the rocks.
Frantically he plunged deeper, pushing her down.
Frantically she fought him. She was out of oxygen.
Please, love. Please, trust me this last time.
She twisted against his hold for one more moment. Then, as if she’d heard his plea, she went limp. He nudged her down farther, seeking the lower current, the one that flowed away from the cliffs. She stirred again, shuddering, and he knew she was losing the battle for life. If he didn’t get her out of here and back to the atmosphere soon, he might as well swallow seawater and join her on the bottom.
Then something shoved him hard. He clung to Alanna as some creature pushed him from behind. Down. Out. Up.
Ian and Alanna broke the surface into the slanting sunlight. As he greedily sucked in air, he saw a head pop up nearby. A sleek, seal black head with eyes he recognized. A face he knew.
Yearning struck him such a blow he almost went under again. Salt burned his eyes; not the salt of the sea, but of old tears long suppressed. He cried out, he didn’t know what.
Then in his hands, Alanna struggled. She coughed, half drowned but still fighting. A great wave rose over them; he lifted her, keeping her above water as it broke over his head.
When the swell had subsided, he looked around them again. That other creature had disappeared.
Wrapping his arm around Alanna’s chest, he dragged her after him. The shore appeared and disappeared as the sea rose and fell. He cursed the anger that had brought the storm, then imagined how he would scold Alanna. Damn her for causing this great, tearing emotion inside him.
The incoming tide carried them along almost without effort, and he was grateful. He couldn’t have done it on his own. The swim out, the panic, and the cold had depleted his resources.
Then he remembered the push he’d received below the surface.
He hadn’t done it on his own. Something had helped him.
Someone.
His feet struck sand. He stumbled erect, holding Alanna; then a wave pushed him over. She was choking when they came up again, closer to shore, and this time he let the breakers carry them as far as they could. When he struck bottom, he crawled on his hands and knees, dragging Alanna.
Above the line of wet sand, to the place where the waves couldn’t touch them.
Like flotsam on the beach, they lay on their stomachs, panting, coughing up seawater. Bits of shell dug into his cheek as he stared at Alanna, covered with goose bumps, shuddering with cold, hair stringy with sand and strands of seaweed.
She looked good. She looked alive.
Turning her head, the greedy girl caught his gaze and her blue lips parted in a loving smile. Did she think he believed in that love now?
“Why did you do it?” The question burst from him. “You betrayed me.”
Her smile faded. She sat up on her elbows, then dipped her head guiltily. “I know you told me not to swim out there.” Sitting up, she untied the sash wrapped around her waist and carefully freed the oilskin packet. “But when I tell you what I retrieved—”
“I know about your beloved document! Mr. Lewis told me.”
She halted, her hand outstretched as he eyed the oilskin disdainfully. “Then I don’t understand. Aren’t you thrilled?”
“Thrilled?” He rose to his hands and knees and glared at her with as much rancor as Damon at his most feral. “Thrilled? That my wife would risk her life—and mine—for a piece of paper and a bit of land? But I suppose I can’t blame you for that. After all, I did everything in my power to get Fionnaway, too. But you lied to me.”
She had the nerve to look confused. “What lie did I tell?”
“You said you loved me.”
Her hand fell back to her side. “I do love you.”
“Only if you can have Fionnaway, too.”
Cocking her head, she studied him. Studied him when he thought she would be stammering explanations and excuses. Her calm manner almost made him uncomfortable, as he had been years ago when his mother confronted him about his unreasonable temper.
He turned his back to Alanna and sat down, staring out at the sun as the rim just touched the horizon.
And heard her scooting up beside him. “Ian.” She wrapped her arm around his shoulder, or at least the part of his shoulder her arm could cover. “When we left Fionnaway, I knew—or at least, I was quite sure—your father lied.”
He twitched, but her arm remained in place. “Which time?”
“The last time. The time he said you were a bastard.”
Ian’s breath caught in his throat. “Bastard?” he croaked. “I am a bastard.”
“Nay,” she said softly. “You’re not.”
Turning his head, he stared at her. Nothing stirred in his breast. Not hope, not pleasure, nothing but the weary knowledge she was wrong. She had to be wrong. He’d been a bastard all his life.
“Mr. Lewis didn’t tell you that?” Opening the oilskin, she unwrapped a series of packages until she could spread the stiff sheepskin flat. She offered it to him. “Your parents’ marriage license.”
He refused to scrutinize it. If she lied to him about this—oh, God, about this—he would die. He would shrivel and die.
“Ian.” She stroked his cheek. “Look.”
Sluggishly he moved his eyes. Just his eyes. Marriage, he saw on the top. He looked back at Alanna.
“It’s real. Touch it.”
Coaxed by her gentle tone, he took it between two fingers and, taking a deep breath, stared at it.
Marriage at the top. A date: 5 June, 1765. Signatures at the bottom. Leslie Ernest Edward Hyatt Fairchild. Muirne of the Selkies. And The Reverend Mr. Ranger Lewis.
Ian’s hand began to shake. “All my prayers…” He could scarcely speak. “All my prayers, all these years, unanswered. And now…now…”
Alanna’s voice was rich with satisfaction. “So God does listen to creatures such as you.”
Her face swam before his eyes, and she caught the fluttering license. “Let’s not lose it, shall we?”
“No.” He let her have it and dashed the tears from his face. “Let’s not.”
The wind still blew, but it seemed less harsh as she rewrapped the license and half buried it in the sand.
“How did you know?” he asked hoarsely.
“Leslie told me.” She butted Ian until he put his arm around her, then she snuggled close. “Not in so many words, of course, but it’s obvious to those who are raised here. He couldn’t walk away from your mother. The marriage between humans and selkies is made in the eyes of God. Just like ours.”
A timely reminder.
“They marry for all time. As long as they’re alive, they should be together, but because of the children, that’s not always possible. So your mother stayed on land to raise you, then took you to your father. When you had grown to be a man, he was supposed to come back and join your mother in the water.”
His head swiveled to face her. “How?”
“’Tis selkie magic.”
“He would have drowned.”
“Why? Selkies breath air, like we do. They just swim better.” She looked out over the thrashing sea. “A lot better.”
It didn’t take intuition to know what went wrong between his mother and father. “My father was afraid.”
“He should have thought of that before he married your mother, then abandoned her and you.” She condemned Leslie without compassion. “But your father’s not the only coward who’s ever lived, so we know about the sickness that develops when a human breaks that sacred vow. Have you noticed how your father’s complexion looks shiny and bloated, as if he were a body washed up on the beach? Have you heard how he breathes, as if his lungs are full of water?”
Ian remembered a vision he’d had once, of Leslie cast up on the beach.
“He’s drowning,” she confirmed. “Drowning in pure air.”
Of course. Leslie was dying because of the selkie curse. “That’s why he was so desp
erate to destroy Fionnaway’s shoreline. He thought that would break the spell.”
“That’s why I never asked if you were legitimate.” She rubbed her head against his chest. “I recognized the signs of your father’s illness and thought it proof. I won’t lie to you, Ian. Fionnaway is important to me. Not just because I have sworn before God to protect it from all danger, but because it’s mine. My place in the world, and I love it. But I think you understand that, just as I understood why you would marry a silly girl for her inheritance.”
She had understood. She’d never reproached him, or cried that she wanted to be loved for herself and not her lands. Now that he thought about it, she was probably glad he coveted Fionnaway as he did, for his desire formed a bond between them, an assurance he would care for it as she did. “Not such a silly girl,” he said.
“When Mr. Fairchild denied he had wed your mother, and you agreed it was true, I felt as if you had betrayed me.” She brought up her knees and tucked her hands between them. “But I realized you didn’t know that was the condition which would make us lose Fionnaway. And then…then you said we could get an annulment.”
He grunted.
“Oh, Ian.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his ear. “You were willing to give up Fionnaway so I could have it.”
This was making him uneasy. She was acting as if he’d behaved nobly. He never behaved nobly. “I’d already lost it. I wasn’t giving anything up.”
“I flatter myself it would have been a wrench to give me up.” She sounded as if she were smiling.
He glanced sideways. She was smiling.
“I would have let you keep me as your lover,” he said grudgingly.
She burst into laughter. “Thank you very much.” Uncovering the oilskin pouch, she tucked it into his shirt. “There’s the proof of your legitimacy, if you want it.”
Groping, his hand found the bulkiness of the parcel. Of course he wanted it. He’d wanted to be legitimate his whole life, and now he discovered he was. Yet he hadn’t greeted the news with unrestrained joy. Instead he’d been distrustful, and acted the bastard everyone had called him.
A Well Favored Gentleman Page 28
