Sins Against the Sea

by Nina Mason

  The journalist’s eyes narrowed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Unless I quit, I’ll have to play along.”

  “Do, to avert suspicion,” he said. “You can set the record straight when we have the means to expose them.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” she said, relieved. “Do you want to come along?”

  “Are you kidding?” He laughed. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  “Good. We can share a cab. Why don’t you call one and meet me at the cottage in half an hour?”

  After he agreed to the plan, she returned to the cottage and filled Kew-in in on the change of plans. She felt like she was caught in a riptide, being pulled in two directions at once. Lying to the press went against everything she stood for, but what else could she do? If Peter still trusted her, he might tell her things. Yes, it was a long-shot, but crappy odds sometimes paid off.

  She showered quickly, blow-dried her hair, and put on her corporate uniform—a gray suit with a pencil skirt, a cream-colored silk blouse, and low-heeled black pumps.

  While she applied her make-up, someone knocked on the front door. “That will be MacInnes,” she called out to Kew-in.

  Her merman appeared in the bathroom doorway wearing a displeased expression. “You’re going with him?”

  “Yes. We’re sharing a cab.”

  Christ, he was jealous, which should not have made her as happy as it did. Leaving her cosmetics on the pedestal sink, she stepped up to Kew-in and lifted her face to his. “You have nothing to worry about where MacInnes is concerned.”

  “I may have nothing to worry about where you are concerned,” he returned, looking grim, “but I know what beasts men can be, Cordelia—especially when enchanted by a Finmaid.”

  She kissed him lightly on the mouth. “I appreciate your concern…and the warning…but I’m sure he’ll behave himself.”

  Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her against his body. “If he does not, he will have me to answer to, which you may tell him.”

  God, it felt good to be in his arms. Too good to leave, but MacInnes and Peter were waiting. Hard as it was to do, she broke out of his grasp, gave him another quick peck on the lips, and pushed passed him. Pausing at the top of the stairs, she called over her shoulder, “When I come back—which should be in a couple of hours, at the most—I’ll come find you in the cave.”

  By the time she opened the door, MacInnes looked livid. “It’s about bloody time.”

  She rolled her eyes and strode past him toward the cab. For a good ten minutes, they rode in uncomfortable silence while she stared blankly out the window, her thoughts on everything but the scenery.

  The feel of something crawling up her leg snapped her back to the taxi. It was MacInnes’s hand, inching its way up her thigh.

  “Kindly keep your paws to yourself,” she said with a searing glare as she flung the hand away.

  “Oh, I see,” he said, grinning. “It’s going to be like that, is it?”

  “Yes,” she said tightly. “It’s going to be just like that.”

  “There’s a spark between us,” he said, sliding closer. “Don’t pretend you’re not feeling it, too.”

  “I feel nothing of the kind,” she told him tersely, scooting towards the door.

  To her distress, he kept coming. When he had her pinned against the door, he grabbed her hand and shoved it between his legs. That he was aroused was evident. She tried to jerk her hand away, but he held it there, grinding his erection against her hapless fingers. He leaned in for a kiss, smelling rankly of whisky and sweat. Holy shit. Had he been drinking all night? Shuddering with contempt, she snapped her face toward the window.

  “Ah, come on, lass,” he rasped so near her ear she could feel the moist heat of his putrid breath. “Where’s the harm in a wee kiss?”

  “Get off of me.” She butted him in the chest with her shoulder to reinforce her demand.

  He grunted, sputtered, and instantly sobered. “I’m sorry. I thought you were just playing hard to get.”

  “I told you last night I had a boyfriend…but even if I didn’t, I’m not interested.”

  “Have I offended you?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “Why on earth would a man putting my hand on his penis offend me?”

  His face colored. “I’m sorry. Truly. It’s just that…well, I thought you wanted me, too.”

  “What in the name of God made you think that?” she asked acridly.

  “I dunno, really.” He shrugged. “Just a vibe I got.”

  “Well, your radar sucks.” She gave him a cutting glance. “Especially for a reporter, and if you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll—” She stopped herself when she realized how childish—and pathetically unfeministic—it would sound to threaten to have her boyfriend beat him up.

  “You’ll what?” he pressed.

  “Just don’t try it, all right?”

  “Jesus, lass. I said I was sorry. What do you want—my bollocks on a plate?”

  “Forget it.” She returned her gaze to the passing scenery. Three feet of mist covered the landscape and the sky was multiple shades of charcoal.

  They rode in silence the rest of the way to the hotel. When the cab pulled up out front, Corey begrudgingly reminded him of the deal he’d made to take them to Lochmaddy in his boat.

  “I’m still in,” he said, “if you are.”

  “I am, provided you swear not to put any more moves on me—and pay for the cab fare.”

  “Agreed.”

  Satisfied, though still annoyed, she climbed out and made a beeline for the lobby, which was bustling with people and activity. She spotted Peter near the door to the ballroom they were using as a command center. He was pacing, red-faced.

  Gut in knots, she made her way through the crowd.

  “Finally,” he growled when she reached him. “What the bloody hell took you so long?”

  “Sorry,” she offered sheepishly. “I got here as fast as I could.”

  Pulling her into an empty corner, he lowered his voice as he said, “Please tell me you prepared a statement?”

  The knots in her gut tightened. “How was I supposed to do that when I don’t know anything? Besides, I got roped into sharing a ride with that obnoxious reporter from Skye. So, it wasn’t like I could work in the cab.”

  “Fine,” Peter snipped. “But you’re going to need to come up with something quick. The press conference is at six p.m.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “That’s half an hour from now.”

  “Will you at least tell me what’s going on? What’s the captain been saying?

  “He says—now get this—that the tanker was attacked by mermen. Blue mermen, no less. Apparently, they raised a storm to run him aground before drowning everyone aboard. Except for the captain, unfortunately.”

  Unfortunately? It seemed an odd—and rather cruel—thing to say, but she let it slide. “Has he said anything yet about what he was doing at the helm of a phantom Aframax?”

  “No, but obviously the man is delusional. Do everything in your power to distance us from him and this whole fiasco.”

  Corey narrowed her eyes. “How do you suggest I do that?”

  “Tell them he’s gone rogue. Deny that we had any knowledge of the whole thing. Tell them he’d been suspended because he’d been caught drinking on duty and that we have a witness from one of the pubs—someone who saw him drinking the morning of the incident.”

  “Is any of that true?”

  He glared at her hotly. “Are you questioning my integrity?”

  What integrity? The accusation burned on her tongue, but she wasn’t reckless enough to ask it. Until she had the goods on him, she needed to maintain the appearance of loyalty.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good,” he replied with a wink. “Because I’m banking on my trust in you, Cordelia…and I hate to think what I’ll be forced to do if you disappoint me.”

  Corey sw
allowed hard. Good God. Peter had just threatened her.

  Chapter Twelve

  The front door opened, startling Cuan witless. He was in the kitchen, rummaging through the icebox for something to eat. He was hungry and did not think Cordelia would want him to starve while he waited upon her return in the cave.

  “It’s just me,” a female voice called from the next room. “Mrs. MacLeod. The auld spae-woman. Would you be about the place by any chance, Miss Parker?”

  Though she sounded cheerful enough, he cringed at the greeting. He must hide himself in case she came in…but where? He cast around, pulse racing. If she found him, he’d have to explain who he was and why he was here, and his panicked brain was offering no ideas.

  There was a door off the kitchen leading outside. Should he go—or stay and ask about the herb? The woman had said she was a spae-wife, so this was his chance. He was still thinking when she came into the kitchen, carrying two brown paper bags full of groceries. Her eyes opened wider when she saw him standing there. Luckily, he’d put his clothes on before coming down.

  “Well, hello there,” she said. “Who might you be?”

  “I’m Cuan. From Orkney. Come to help with the clean-up operation.”

  She looked him up and down. “Where is Miss Parker?”

  “Gone to Benbecula. For a press conference.”

  A smile warmed her features as she set her groceries on the counter. “I see. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Cuan. I am Niamh MacLeod, the owner of this cottage. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.” He hated tea, which tasted as bitter as bladder wrack, but would be only too happy to partake of the shellfish whose enticing aroma called to him from those bags she’d brought in.

  She put the kettle on, grabbed a dishtowel, and dried her hands before holding one out to him. Suddenly conscious of his webbed fingers, he hesitated, but then took the offered hand, not wanting to seem standoffish.

  Her hand felt soft and warm in his and the appealing scent of herbs wafted from her graying hair. The smell reminded him of the bath salts Cordelia had put in the tub, which, in turn, reminded him of her mouth on his bod. Blinking the affecting memory away, he stuffed both his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Did I hear you say—when you came in just now—that you were a spae-woman?”

  “Aye.” A blush rose in her cheeks. “Though it isna something I generally go about announcing to strangers.”

  He hesitated, still unsure how to phrase his request. “Perhaps you could help me, then…with some information.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she again looked him up and down. “What would you like to know?”

  “It is somewhat difficult to explain.”

  Her blue eyes hardened. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need.”

  “Do you know the story of Glauckos, the fisherman who became a sea god by eating a magic herb?”

  She eyed him cagily. “I do.”

  “Do you know what sort of herb it was he ate? Or where I might come by some of it myself?”

  She gave him a knowing look he didn’t like in the least. “So you can stay on dry land year-round?”

  “Aye,” he said, not bothering to deny it. She obviously knew what he was and what he wanted. “The way Gille-Gorm stayed with Kerling.”

  “Kerling was a powerful witch,” she said. “A follower of Danu, the mother goddess.”

  That she knew the story raised his hopes. “Do you know the spell she used? Or where I can obtain the herb?”

  She stepped closer, still inspecting him. “I do not, but I know someone who might.”

  “Another spae-woman?”

  “Aye. She belongs to a group I’ll be seeing in a few days. At Callanish, the stone circle on Lewis. I’ll ask if she can help and let you know what I learn when I return.”

  “When will that be?”

  “In a few days.”

  Turning back to the sink, she hummed a sweet tune as she busied herself making tea. Looking around the kitchen, he spotted a half-empty whisky bottle on a shelf. Taking it down, he unscrewed the cap and took a long pull. The peaty liquor burned his gullet, but it was a good kind of burn. Like the bonfires that lit up the beaches at Hallowtide, when the islanders left ale on the beach for his kind in exchange for seaweed to fertilize their crops.

  While Mrs. MacLeod drank her tea and unloaded the groceries, he took the bottle with him and headed toward the cave, feeling a bit like the farmer who’d locked the barn door after the horse was stolen.

  * * * *

  Breathing deep to summon her courage, Corey stepped up to the lectern and began to speak into the bouquet of microphones, loathing herself more with every word that came out of her mouth: “We have reason to believe…that Captain Armstrong…had been drinking prior to the accident. A witness has come forward—someone who saw him in a pub earlier that morning.”

  From somewhere in the middle of the gaggle of reporters making up her audience, MacInnes sprang to his feet, shouting: “Just what was a tanker of that size doing here in the first place? It’s illegal, you know, for an Aframax to be cutting through the Minch.”

  “Only if the hull is full”—blinding flashes went off here and there—“and Ketos’s was all but empty.”

  Another journalist stood. A dark-haired woman in a camel-colored turtleneck and tweed jacket. “Can you tell us exactly how much oil the tanker was carrying?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Corey replied after clearing her throat. “But I can tell you this: it was well under the legal limit.”

  More reporters jumped up and shouted questions. Somehow, she managed to field them all, though she felt strangely disconnected from herself as she did. Just when she thought things were winding down, the rear doors burst open and in stormed a group of protesters carrying bright yellow placards bearing the usual messages over the all-too-familiar Ocean Watch logo:

  Oil Kills

  End Deep Sea Drilling

  Protect the Minch

  Stop the Greed

  Defend Our Oceans

  Ocean Watch was the thorn in the side of big oil companies everywhere—especially those, like Conch, with offshore oil fields around Scotland, Norway, and Iceland. They’d gone to court to keep their protestors off their North Sea and Arctic rigs so many times she’d lost count. This much, however, she did know: Peter Blackwell wouldn’t rest until he shut them down. He’d spent hundreds of thousands of dollars fighting to enjoin their right to protest. All while spouting off about American values. Never mind that he wasn’t even an American. Not by birth, anyway.

  One of the protesters—a young man with hair as red as the fire in his eyes—charged up the center aisle. Stopping halfway, he spun around and began to shout: “We told them this would happen. Decades ago. But did they listen? Of course not. The Minches are home to a rich and unique diversity of marine life. Continuing to allow tankers of any size to pass through these waters is not only unconscionable, it’s bloody outrageous.

  He paused briefly for a breath before continuing his impassioned tirade. “We oppose it. Greenpeace opposes it. The Western Isles and Highland Councils oppose it. The local communities, many of which depend on fishing and tourism to survive—industries that would be severely compromised by an oil spill of any size—oppose it. So why do Parliament, the EU, and the International Maritime Organization go on ignoring our petitions to make the Minches a no-go area for tankers? I’ll tell you why. Because they’re all in the pockets of greedy oil companies like Conch.

  “Now look what’s happened! But then, who gives a rat’s arse about protecting the environment when there’s money to be made? Not Parliament. Not the EU Assembly, not the International Maritime Association, and certainly not the greedy oil companies…”

  Corey just stood there, flabbergasted, as he ranted on.

  “They claim the deep-water route around St. Kilda takes them farther from rescue facilities—if an accident should occur. The straits are safer, th
ey like to insist. Yet, the waters of the Minch are notoriously treacherous and sudden, violent storms are common occurrences. Given that the vast majority of accidents involving the release of oil occur when tankers run aground or hit the rocks, I hardly see the logic in keeping them closer to the shore. Do you?”

  When he stopped talking, there was a momentary silence before bedlam erupted all around her. Questions flew at her like machine-gun fire. Miraculously, she managed to answer them all—mostly by being vague and evasive, despising herself all the while.

  Had she been in a position to speak the truth, she would have told them she agreed with everything the young man from Ocean Watch had said. Oil companies like Conch would never show respect for the planet unless forced to do so. To hell with the environment, global warming, the ozone layer, and endangered species, they cared only about the bottom line.

  When it was over, she felt so dizzy, nauseated, and shaken, she was sure she was going to throw up or pass out. Ducking into the lobby restroom, she locked herself inside one of the beige metal stalls, sat down hard on the toilet seat, and began to hyperventilate. She’d had enough. Working for Conch was slowly murdering her soul, which she now understood belonged to the sea. As soon as she could expose their malfeasance to the media, she was going to tell Peter Blackwell what he could do with her job in no uncertain terms.

  * * * *

  Three hours later, Corey was on the deck of MacInnes’s boat, savoring the feel of the brisk but refreshing wind in her hair. Above her, the early-morning sky was silver-blue and empty, apart from the gulls circling the boat, screeching and scavenging for scraps. Below her, the boat named Cearban—the Gaelic word for shark—rocked gently on the current.

  After searching high and low for Peter at the command center, she’d returned to Ronay and, as promised, collected Kew-in from the cave. After meeting MacInnes on his boat at the appointed time, they’d motored to Lochmaddy. The trip had been short and uneventful, apart from the sighting of the spaniel-shaped rock formation that lent the bay its name. They’d dropped anchor more than an hour ago, after which Kew-in swam ashore after removing his shoes.