Sins Against the Sea

by Nina Mason

  Approaching him gingerly, she held out the salmon with an uncertain smile. He took the package from her hand and sniffed the wrapper before tearing into it. As he ate the raw vermillion filets, she studied his face, trying to imagine him as a prospective lover. Not for herself, of course; just in a general, scientific sense.

  Beneath the blue-green cast to his complexion, he was incredibly handsome. Greek-god handsome, which, given his heritage, was hardly surprising. His cheekbones were high, his jaw square, and his nose long and straight. His large, wide-set eyes, as fluid and changeable as the sea, were framed by sweeping black lashes.

  His tangled hair—long, thick, and black—was ornamented with bits of shell, natural pearls, and wire. A strong yearning to touch it welled inside her. Resisting the desire, she fingered the hairbrush, wondering how best to attack the job.

  As he licked the salmon flavor from his long, webbed fingers, his gaze flicked over her cheeks, eyes, and lips, before moving down her body in a way that made it hard to see him as anything but a man—and a handsome one at that, with broad, well-developed shoulders, pronounced pecs, rippled abs, and a trim waist. The scales of his tail encircled his narrow hips like low-slung jeans. Yes, okay. He had no legs, but according to Mrs. MacLeod, he would sprout a pair soon enough.

  “Ha oo boy-ach, Cordelia.”

  The softness of his voice and the admiring gleam in his eyes told her he’d paid her a compliment. When their gazes met, her face got hot. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but not knowing quite what. Still unsure how to go about brushing his hair, she moved around behind him and kneeled down on the hard, moist floor of the cave. She decided not to remove the adornments, worried she might hurt him or ruin them. With trembling fingers, she stroked his hair, which felt as soft as angora. She combed through the long strands with her fingers to remove as many tangles as she could. Then, she began to brush in long, careful strokes, gradually working her way from his scalp to the ends.

  He had nice hair. Pulse racing, she ran her other hand down its full silken length. Her pulse was racing, but not from fear. Why then? She went on brushing while resting her free hand on his well-developed shoulder. His flesh felt warm, smooth, and remarkably human. He smelled strongly of the ocean and dish-washing liquid. With each stroke of the brush, she fought to keep herself under control. How badly she wanted to touch his chest, his tail, and his face. She wanted to taste his lips, too, and entangle her fingers in his beautiful hair.

  Time passed—she couldn’t say how much. As she continued brushing, she began to feel a strange sense of euphoria. Was it a side-effect of exhaustion? Probably, given all she’d endured. She couldn’t believe it was only yesterday she’d spilled the coffee down the front of her blouse on the way to work. No wonder her emotions were so off kilter.

  Oddly, she felt more than disorientation; she also felt aroused, as if she was high on aphrodisiacs. What are you doing to me?

  He started to sit up, to move his face toward hers. In spite of her fears, she looked into his eyes, which smoldered with blue-green fire. The urge to kiss him washed through her, rinsing away her reason.

  As their lips brushed, sparks sizzled through her bloodstream. He tasted of the ocean. Salty and primordial. Sudden, piercing guilt made her pull away. This was wrong on so many levels. He wasn’t human, and she wasn’t on the island to hook up—especially with a merman.

  A loud bang outside the cave reminded her why she was on Ronay. It also chased away the animal lust the creature’s magnetism had called to the fore.

  Partially restored to her senses, she stood on rubbery legs and coughed nervously into her hand. “I have to go now”—she stumbled backward toward the exit—“but, I’ll be back. Soon. I promise.”

  He called after her. “Tapeh leev, Cordelia.”

  “You’re welcome, Kew-in.” She did not look back as she left the cave.

  Outside, she drew in a deep breath of ocean air to steady her nerves and cool her desire. What was that storm kelpie doing to her? It had to be chemical. That was the only logical explanation. It was close to their breeding season, so maybe he was giving off some kind of super-charged sexual attractant. Sea urchins did, so the possibility that mermen might, too, didn’t seem all that far-fetched.

  Either that, or the stress of her job was driving her around the bend. Speaking of which, she’d better get her head out of her ass and call Peter. Moving away from the cave, she withdrew her phone from the pocket of her jeans, and checked the signal. Two bars. Not great, but not terrible, either. She punched the speed-dial button for Peter, who, to her relief, answered before the third ring.

  After she’d briefed him about MacInnes and his questions, Peter said, “You’re to tell him nothing beyond the statement and the updates you receive from the on-site commander. Are we clear on that?”

  Corey stiffened. She didn’t like the order or his sharp tone, but could hardly refuse and expect to keep her job. Though it galled her to turn her back on her ethics and what she knew to be a better strategy, she swallowed her resistance like a bitter pill. “You’re the boss.”

  “I’m glad you’re clear on that,” he said, and then hung up.

  Suspicion and indignation roiled inside Corey. Was Peter just adhering to his usual “artful dodger” strategy? Or was he hiding something from her and the media?

  Chapter Six

  Humping toward the entrance of the cave, Cuan scanned the ruined beach for the woman called Cordelia. The heaviness in his heart confused him. She was his enemy, so why did he feel so conflicted about killing her?

  Perhaps she wasn’t completely human. Her being of the sea, even in part, would explain his powerful attraction to her. It also would provide the excuse he wanted to allow her to live.

  First, however, he must confirm her heritage beyond a shadow of a doubt. Stuck here with nothing to do except ruminate, he’d come up with a way to test his theory. Unfortunately, the herb he needed to reveal her true form only grew on St. Kilda.

  Hopes sinking, he looked down at his tail, which itched something awful and had grown dull and cloudy—sure signs he was in the process of molting. It was only a matter of hours until his legs emerged, making the long journey impossible.

  Abandoning the plan, he formulated another. If she were part nymph or merrow, she should be able to breathe underwater. The ability might be latent, but should still come to the fore when needed. So, once he had legs, he would take her for a walk along the beach, drag her into the surf, and hold her head under until she was forced to take a breath. If she lived, he’d know she was indeed a child of the sea, releasing him from the obligation of murdering her. If she should drown, he’d be sorry, but would have done his duty and kept his vows.

  Then what? He didn’t know. Much as he liked the idea of staying with Cordelia on land, he would become an outcast if he did not return to Tir fo Thuinn when the breeding season ended.

  Thoughts of Shan bobbed to the surface, bringing with them the tautness of guilt. Shan was fair of face, strong of body, and good of heart. So, why did the idea of becoming his blood brother so off-putting?

  Kiss me, Cuan. Spawn with me. Be my blood brother.

  When and if he returned home, he would have to go through with the ritual and pledge his lifelong devotion to Shan. He’d put off taking the plunge for too long already, and the other warriors were growing suspicious. If they focused too much on his movements, they might start to notice—and soon put a stop to—his secret escapes, which he could abide even less than pretending an attraction he did not feel.

  * * * *

  Still fuming over her conversation with Peter, Corey made her way down to the beach. In broad daylight, the shoreline looked even more ravaged than she’d dared to imagine. Pools of oil stretched as far as the eye could see. The surf was the color and consistency of mud, and the noxious fumes made her nostrils burn and her head hurt.

  At the far end of the beach, somebody had pitched a large white tent. Nearer, a group
of men in hardhats and gumboots were dragging rakes along what appeared to be clean sand. Pausing near them, she watched in astonished silence as auburn crude, looking disturbingly like blood, oozed to the surface. All around were piles of clear plastic bags filled with sandy oil. When one of the workers stopped to mop his brow, she asked if he knew where she might find the on-scene commander.

  The worker leaned on his rake, dark eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You a reporter?”

  “No,” she told him, folding her arms to look more authoritative. “I’m Cordelia Parker, the corporate mouthpiece for Conch.”

  “Good,” he said, “because we’ve been given strict orders not to talk to reporters.”

  Corey’s gaze darted up and down the beach. “Have there been many journalists around this morning?”

  He shrugged. “Only the one…and the helicopter from Channel Two.”

  The sound of somebody coming up behind her turned her around. It was Lachlan MacInnes, looking like he’d had a bad night. He was unshaven, red-eyed, and still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt from yesterday.

  “I see the crews have arrived,” he said. “A day late and a dollar short, I might point out. Have they managed to plug the leak yet?”

  “I’ll brief you just as soon as I’ve been briefed myself,” she told him, scanning the beach for someone who might be Mr. Trowbridge. The prime candidate—a tall man with a hardhat and clipboard—was down the beach near the tent, knee-deep in water and talking to the men who were laying down the booms.

  “If you think you can blow me off that easily, you’ve got another thing coming,” MacInnes blustered. “For your information, I made a few calls last night. Among other things, I’ve learned there’s no record of Ketos, which makes her presence here doubly suspicious.”

  His news struck Corey like a blow. Swallowed hard, she avoided eye contact while struggling to maintain an outward appearance of nonchalance. “Like I said, I can’t tell you anything until after I’ve been briefed.” She started walking toward the man with the clipboard. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find the on-scene commander.”

  MacInnes called after her. “While you’re at it, ask him why the coastguard’s got the bloody channel blocked off—an obvious ploy to keep the press and the outraged public from learning the truth. Just what is it you lot are trying to hide?”

  Spinning around to face him, she shouted back, “Have you considered the possibility that, instead of being an attempt to cover something up, it might just be a safety precaution?”

  “Of course I’ve considered it.” He held her gaze with a searing glower. “But I wasn’t born yesterday, either. I know stonewalling and smokescreens when I see them, lass.”

  So did she, and this was beginning to take on all the signs. What was Ketos doing afloat when she’d supposedly been unregistered? Why was the tanker in the Minch? Where had she been headed? What was Conch Oil trying to hide? It was to Lachlan MacInnes’s credit that he was suspicious. He’d have to be a total moron not to be…and so would she.

  Corey hurried down the beach, cringing with disgust as she picked her way through slimy globules and dead fish. She approached the man with the clipboard, waiting for him to wade out of the muddy surf before asking if he was Finlay Trowbridge.

  “Who wants to know?”

  He was a tall, middle-aged man with long arms and rat-like features: a sharp nose, prominent ears, beady eyes, and an obvious comb over, which, at the moment, stood in the wind like a sail.

  “I’m Corey Parker.” She extended her hand. “The designated media point person.”

  Frowning, he looked her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. “It’s about time you showed up. There’s been a reporter snooping around asking a lot of unreasonable questions.”

  “I know.” She returned his narrow-eyed scrutiny. “I’ll handle him. Along with any others who show up.”

  “There aren’t going to be any others,” he said more sharply than warranted. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  Corey regarded him narrowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve asked the coastguard not to let them through,” he explained, “and the Benbecula police are guarding the border. If the jackals want information, they’ll have to get it from the command center.”

  His high-handedness infuriated her. What right did he have to make policy where the press was concerned? “Who gave you the authority to erect such barricades?”

  “Peter Blackwell.” He shrugged one sloped shoulder. “You’re only here to deal with any that happen to get through our screens—like that nosy prick from Skye.”

  Corey cringed at being relegated to the role of sheepdog—or, more accurately, lapdog. Struggling to maintain a professional demeanor, she asked through clenched teeth, “What about the news choppers? How do you intend to keep them out?”

  “I have my ways,” he said with a sneer.

  She couldn’t guess what those ways might be—short of shooting them down—and wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “I’m still going to need a briefing on the clean-up operation.”

  He glared at her like she was a naughty child. “Did I fail to make myself clear? All reporters wanting information on any aspect of the incident are to go to the command center in Benbecula.”

  As Trowbridge turned and walked away, Corey stared after him in slack-jawed astonishment. This had all the earmarks of a full-scale cover-up and, evidently, she’d been made a pawn in this little game of subterfuge. Before she had time to work out what to do, MacInnes strode up to her with poison in his eyes.

  “When am I going to get some answers?”

  “It would seem there’s been a changing of the guard,” she told him, striving to keep the edge out of her voice.

  His eyes narrowed and hardened. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  She took a calming breath and licked her lips as she prepared her noncommittal answer. “Apparently, the command center is now fielding all press inquiries, so…if you want answers, you’ll have to go there.”

  He squinted at her. “What’s this about? What are you lot at Conch trying to hide? I demand that you tell me everything you know.”

  What she knew was that she’d just been thrown under a moving bus—not that she was about to disclose as much to this out-for-blood reporter.

  “I’ve already told you everything I know,” she said with adamance before stalking off toward the cottage.

  * * * *

  The crunch of footsteps drew Cuan’s attention toward the dunes. The sight of Cordelia coming toward him with a basket over one arm roused his spirits as well as his hunger. Over the other arm, she carried a folded tartan blanket. The sight of her and her gifts filled him with gratitude.

  He’d been watching the horizon, awed by the vivid ribbons of red-orange and fuchsia. He’d seen so few sunsets, the spectacle still awed him. It did not, however, dull the cold or the pulsing ache in his tail. The scaly silver-blue membrane was growing more brittle by the moment. Underneath, he could feel legs, feet, and toes taking shape.

  As Cordelia drew nearer, he shifted his focus to the basket she carried, hopeful it contained more salmon…or cockles and carrageen. Meredith used to make a jelly-like pudding with carrageen he found surprisingly flavorful and satisfying.

  Meredith’s memory made his heart hurt, so he returned his attention to Cordelia. Like Meredith, she had a fine figure, bonny face, and hair as red as the setting sun. As she pushed back a windblown strand, he saw her fingers had no webbing. Webbed fingers were a dominant trait occurring even in mixed-bloods of his race. She was not, then, part Glauckodai.

  What else might she be then? Ashray? Sprite? Selkie? Mermaid? Nereid? Oceanid? A half-blood Nereid was a good possibility, as they were human in appearance and mated with mortal men. Cuan made a note to himself to ask Cordelia about her parents, particularly her mother. Once they could more easily communicate, of course.

  Fortunately, he had a gift for picking up
languages—or so Meredith had told him. How he wished now he’d paid more attention during his English lessons.

  Cordelia stopped before him and spread the blanket over his tail. He met her gaze with a visceral spark. She was comely, to be sure, but was she beautiful enough to be part Nereid? Maybe…and maybe not. He only knew she was lovely enough to awaken desires in him he’d prefer remained asleep.

  Kneeling beside him, she set down the basket and opened the lid. As she leaned over him, he caught a whiff of her hair. The salty ocean smell wafting from her head further confirmed his suspicions. Still, even if she was part merrow, she’d have to swear to tell no one about him. Otherwise, he’d be forced to take her life regardless of her bloodline.

  Drawing a deep breath, he searched his mind for the English word for keeping a confidence. He was sure Meredith had shared it at some point, but could not for the life of him bring it forward. Giving up, he let out a sigh and spoke the Gaelic word.

  “Secret?” she asked, surprising him.

  He couldn’t help smiling. “Secret” was the very word he’d been reaching for. How did she know? “Do you have the Gaelic?” he asked, recalling at least that much from Meredith’s lessons.

  “Yes, but only a little. My mom, who was from Orkney, taught me a few phrases before she died.”

  He understood some of what she’d said, mainly that her mother came from Orkney and had crossed into the Underworld. Robharta also was from Orkney, so perhaps her mother had been a selkie. Or, gods forbid, one of the Finfolk of the Vanishing Isles. Being young and beautiful, she could easily be the offspring of a Finmaid and a human man.

  “Your mother,” he began with hope in his heart, “was of the sea?”