by Nina Mason
Kew-in pulled the boat as close to the shore as he could without hitting the rocks, shut off the engine, and dropped anchor. As she watched the handsome kelpie climb down the ladder, she wondered how much it would cost to have a dock constructed so they didn’t have to get soaked every time they took the water route to and from the cottage.
Now standing waist-deep in the tide, he smiled up at her. “Come down, Cordelia, and I will carry you to shore.”
She liked the sound of that. She did not relish the idea of speaking to the MacLeods while dripping all over their carpets, even though she planned to have hardwood floors installed as soon as the cottage was hers. It would be, too, one way or the other, because her dream had shown her as much. She and Kew-in would have children together and be the happy family she’d only thought she’d been a part of for the first seven years of her life.
Buoyant with hope, she climbed down, stopping when her feet reached the water level. Kew-in lifted her off like she weighed no more than a sand dollar and carried her through the swirling tide and over the rocks lining the shore. Remarkably, even close up, there was no trace of any oil.
He set her down a few yards from the cottage. Heart in throat, she climbed the steps to the porch with Kew-in hard on her heels. As she reached for the doorknob, doubt paralyzed her. What if they refused her request? Much as she hoped otherwise, her dream might have been no more than a manifestation of her heartfelt desire to live happily ever after with her amazing merman.
Drawing a deep breath to steel her nerves, Corey pushed open the cottage’s front door and stepped inside. The interior still smelled of damp and smokers long since gone—smells she would deal with when the cottage was hers. If the cottage was available, which she prayed might be the case.
Sounds of activity drew her toward the kitchen. There, she found Mrs. MacLeod unloading a box of provisions. Restocking the pantry in preparation for her departure, Corey presumed with a pang. Looking up from her task, the apple-cheeked spae-woman gave her the warmest of smiles—a promising sign.
“I’m glad to see you,” the older woman said cheerfully. “I thought you’d left us without saying good-bye.”
“No,” Corey said. “I just had some business to attend to elsewhere.”
“The crews are gone, as you’ve no doubt seen for yourself…and Mr. Blackwell rang looking for you. He said to have you meet him at the command center on Benbecula, if you should happen to reappear.”
The thought of seeing Peter made her legs weak, so Corey set her hand on the doorjamb to steady herself. “When did he call?”
Mrs. MacLeod had resumed unpacking the supplies and now had her head in the refrigerator. “About twenty minutes ago, give or take. He mentioned something about a press conference and wanting you there to read a statement and field questions.”
Corey’s jaw dropped. After all that had happened, how could Peter think she was still on board with his plan? Could he really be that oblivious to his effect on others? Well, either that, or he was setting her up, which she wouldn’t put past him for a minute. Unless he didn’t know what Trowbridge had done to her. Was it possible the Finman had abducted her without Peter’s knowledge?
Well, shit. Whatever he did or didn’t know, she was not about to run his sham of a press conference for him. She’d played the pawn long enough, thanks very much. If she went to Benbecula—a big fucking if—it would only be to resign from his employ—and not by politely handing in her notice, either. If she was going to burn her bridges, she would torch the whole fucking village while she had the match lit.
Or, maybe, she thought wickedly, she should agree to run the press conference—only, instead of reading his bullshit statement, use the platform to blow the whistle on Conch’s invisible drilling platform. Assuming the reporters wouldn’t think she’d lost her marbles, which they undoubtedly would unless she could prove her allegations. If only there was a way to break the spell before the press conference. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see one.
The front door shut behind her, telling her Kew-in had come in. Turning, she noted that his jeans were still wet, but not so saturated as to be dripping. She gave him a smile before turning back to Mrs. MacLeod.
“Before I go up to change my clothes, I want you to know everything you saw in my tea leaves has come true,” she told the spae-woman. “Betrayal, adventure, and romance. In the past three days, I’ve experienced all three.”
Mrs. MacLeod looked over the top of the refrigerator door just as Kew-in came up behind Corey. “I’m glad about the romance part. Would this be the man?”
When he set his web-fingered hand upon her shoulder, Corey placed hers atop his. “Yes, this is Kew-in, my boyfriend.” Flicking a backward glance in his direction, she added, “And this is Mrs. MacLeod, the spae-woman who owns the cottage.”
“We’ve met,” Kew-in said near her ear.
Corey, stunned, turned to look at him. “Have you? When?”
“We have indeed.” Mrs. MacLeod’s blue eyes twinkled as her gaze shifted from Kew-in to Corey and back again. “He asked me how Gille-Gorm managed to stay on dry land with Kerling.”
Kew-in squeezed Corey’s shoulders. “She said she’d ask another witch and let me know what she learned in a few more days.”
Mrs. MacLeod shut the refrigerator and drew closer. Obviously, she’d already figured out what Kew-in was. “I called my friend after we spoke,” she told them.
“Did she know what kind of magic Kerling used to keep Gille-Gorm with her?”
“Aye,” said the spae-woman. “She used the most powerful magic of all.” Her smile broadened. “And looking at the two of you, I’d say the spell has already been cast.”
* * * *
The closer Corey got to Benbecula, the more her courage ebbed away. As inspiring as it was to imagine telling Peter off, when push came to shove, she wasn’t sure she’d have the guts to do it. While she wasn’t the sort of person people generally wiped their feet on, neither did she tolerate conflict well.
She was what her therapist called a “peacekeeper.”
Being sensitive—i.e. “thin skinned”—she found it painful, uncomfortable, and downright petrifying to deal with criticism or ongoing conflict. “The problem with peacekeepers,” the therapist explained, “is that they get peace temporarily, but at the cost of festering resentments, loss of self-respect, and no hope of having their deeper needs met in their relationships.”
All true, of course. Working for Peter had taken its toll on her self-esteem, and it was time to walk away. Now, if she could only muster the nerve…
Mrs. MacLeod, bless her good heart, had offered to drive Corey to the command center. They’d left Kew-in behind at the cottage fifteen minutes ago. As much as Corey wanted to bring him along, he had nothing to wear apart from his damp jeans and salt-crusted T-shirt. Not even a pair of shoes, as he’d left the pair she’d found at the cottage on MacInnes’s boat.
The thought of MacInnes provoked a sharp pang of regret. He might have been a flaming asshole, but he’d also been a dogged reporter, which, though irritating in the extreme, was also admirable. If there were more reporters like MacInnes in the world, maybe companies like Conch wouldn’t get away with so much damn-the-environment profiteering.
Was the journalist dead? Though she suspected he might be, she prayed she was wrong. On their way back from Orkney, they’d stopped at Lochmaddy to check on him, but his boat wasn’t there. As much as she hoped he’d driven away under his own volition, she wasn’t holding her breath. More likely, the coastguard found his body and towed the boat to an impound.
Corey looked out the car window at the passing scenery. The undulating green hills, scrubby patches of heather, and rugged rock formations were appealing in their starkness. She was a solitary person by nature and the island’s remoteness suited her. She could be happy here with her merman. First, however, she needed to secure them a place to live.
Turning to the person who held the key to her dreams—qui
te literally—she said, “Mrs. MacLeod, is there any chance you’d be willing to sell the cottage to me?”
“As it happens, I’ve been thinking of selling the place,” the spae-woman returned with a quick sideways glance. “Since the incident with the tanker, all our bookings have been cancelled. It’s been hard enough all these years to sell the idea of a remote island holiday to people who can’t imagine staying anywhere without a pool and a workout room, without throwing an environmental catastrophe into the mix.”
After they agreed to discuss the particulars later with Mr. MacLeod, Corey returned her gaze to the passing landscape. As the car climbed into the sloping, treeless hills, the terrain grew more scrubby, rocky, and barren. Curious mists and vapors crept across the ground in curling ribbons of transparent white. The window was down and the dropping temperature told her sunset was approaching. So did the position of the sun and the lengthening shadows. Up above, dark clouds hung in the sky.
She’d heard it said every cloud had a silver lining, and now it seemed the old adage had more merit than her rational side had ever allowed her to believe. Not in a million years would she have dreamed that hidden within the black thunderhead of an oil spill she’d find the golden fleece of true love.
Chapter Fifteen
Cuan came back to awareness with a start. For a moment he lay still, unsure where he was or what had brought him so suddenly awake. Still bleary, he listened to the familiar sounds of shrieking seabirds and sighing water nearby. An orange glow shone through the room’s two windows, telling him the sun was setting outside.
As the cobwebs of sleep cleared from his brain, he remembered how he came to be where he was. After Corey and the spae-woman left for Benbecula, he’d laid down with a book. Some silly romance novel with no substance.
The loud banging coming from below must have awakened him. Someone was knocking on the door downstairs. Was Cordelia back already? But, wait. Why would she knock, especially when the door was unlocked? Whoever was at the door knocked again, more aggressively this time, just before a familiar voice said inside his head, Cuan, if you’re in there, answer the damn door.
The voice belonged to Shan, who’d no doubt come back to find out why he’d broken his promise to leave Ronay as soon as he was able. This was not a confrontation Cuan looked forward to. He dragged a hand down his face as another knock broke the silence. Perhaps if he stayed where he was, Shan would give up and go away.
Aye, he was being a coward, but if he let his friend in, he’d have to explain more than why he was still on the island. He’d have to explain everything. His feelings for Cordelia, his decision to leave the clan, and, most difficult of all, his rejection of Shan’s offer of lifelong brotherhood.
“I know you’re in there, Cuan, and that you never went to Eriskay. I’m not angry, if that’s what’s keeping you from opening the door. I do, however, need to talk to you. Urgently. On a matter of clan business.”
Clan business? Surprise stung Cuan like a man o’ war. He’d not expected Shan to bring up the clan. Sitting up, he said into his friend’s mind in Gaelic, The door is unlocked. You will find me upstairs in the second room on the left.
The front door creaked open before closing again. Feet trod upon the stairs, and, a few moments later, Shan appeared in the doorway. He looked remarkably human in drab-green cargo pants, a cream-colored cableknit sweater, and rubber-soled canvas shoes. As his friend glanced from side to side, Cuan saw his long black hair was pulled back in a queue.
“You are alone here?”
“For now, but I expect Cordelia to return very soon.”
Shan’s heavy dark eyebrows drew together. “Cordelia would be the half-blood we spoke of last time I was here?”
“Aye.” Cuan was wary of revealing too much before he knew the real reason his friend had come looking for him.
Eyes narrowing, Shan said, “Do you still deny you have spawned with her?”
Though alarm pulsed in his chest, Cuan made up his mind to say his piece and brave the consequences. “I spoke the truth at the time, but, aye, I have spawned with her since. I’m sorry if that hurts you, Shan, but I refuse to go on living a lie. While I love you as a friend and a brother, that is the extent of my feelings for you. Friendship and brotherhood. Not blood-brotherhood. I am no longer willing to pretend to be something I’m not. I want to be happy, and never will be unless I am true to myself…and also truthful with you. So, here it is. I am attracted to women, I’m in love with Cordelia, and I will not be returning to Tír fo Thuinn.”
Shan came into the room, sat on the bed, and with a sad smile, looked directly into Cuan’s eyes. “Do you honestly think I did not know the reason you have put off committing to me for so long?”
“If you knew, why did you never say anything?”
“Because I hoped it was a phase you would someday outgrow.” Shan shook his head. “Clearly, however, that is not the case, and as much as I want you for my consort, I want your happiness more.”
“Wait a minute. Did you just say consort?” Consort was the title given to the chieftain’s blood brother.
“Aye.” Shan looked downcast. “That is what I came here to tell you. My father is dead, Cuan. He was shot by a Finman we caught working his evil in our territory. He has paid with his life for what he did to my father, but the blame for his sins against the sea we must lay at another’s door. After Arbach the druid cleared away his vanishing magic, we discovered what Conch Oil has been up to all this time in the Minch. Hard as it is to believe, they have built one of their terrible drilling islands in these waters under the cover of Finfolk magic—right under our noses!”
“I know,” Cuan told him. “I planned to boat over to Eige later today to tell you all about it, but…”
He stopped talking when he realized, with a stab of alarm, that Cordelia might be in danger.
“What is it, Cuan?”
“Cordelia went to Benbecula to confront the president of Conch.”
Shan’s brow furrowed. “Why would she do that?”
“Because she works for him.”
“Wait a minute,” Shan said, eyes darkening. “Did I hear you right? The woman you love, the woman you’re leaving your home and your clan to be with, works for our enemies?”
“Aye, but not for long. She went there to quit her job.” He started to rise. “I must go to her, in case her employer makes trouble for her.”
Cuan jogged into the bathroom, where he’d hung his jeans to dry over the shower-curtain rail. Pulling them down, he was pleased to find the denim was mostly dry. With adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream, he shoved one leg in, then the other, hopping as he pulled them to his waist. As he buttoned his fly, Shan posted himself in the doorway.
Bitterness permeated his voice as he said, “I cannot believe you chose a lowly half-blood female—who works for Conch Oil, no less—over me.”
“She’s a good person,” Cuan said in Cordelia’s defense, “and she makes me happy, which you said you wanted. Are you telling me now they were only pretty words?”
“No, Cuan. While I meant what I said, that doesn’t mean your choice has not wounded my heart.” Shan looked at the floor as he added, “Or my ego.”
Going to him, Cuan tipped up his chin and looked deeply into eyes the same shade of blue-green as his own. There was sorrow in them, but also deep affection, which he returned. “It was never my intent to hurt you, Shan.”
“I know that, and will move on in time. For now, however, we’d better get ourselves to Benbecula and protect your mate from her employer.”
Surprise widened Cuan’s eyes. “You mean to go with me?”
“We are still friends, as far as I am concerned, and friends help each other, do they not?”
“Aye, they do.” Cuan grinned at Shan before lowering his gaze. “Though I was rather hoping I might borrow your shoes.” As an afterthought, he added, “Oh, and now that you are the clan chieftain, you might consider relaxing our policy towards humans w
ho sin against the sea. Perhaps, instead of killing them, we could look for ways to help them reconnect with the sacred in nature.”
Shan smiled at him—not the reaction he expected at all. “You sound just like a Nic I mated with a few springtides back.”
“Was her name Meredith, by any chance?”
“Aye. That was it, exactly, and the things she said made a lot of sense—a surprise considering they came from a female.”
* * * *
By the time Corey exited the car outside the Dark Island Inn, her mouth was a desert, her palms were a swamp, and her stomach felt like she’d swallowed a gallon of gasoline. She followed the signs to the press conference and took a moment to pluck up her courage before stepping through the door.
The scene that greeted her gave her heart a jolt. There must have been two hundred journalists packed into the room, all teeming around and talking over one another. Television cameras, their lights as bright as the sun, lined the back wall.
As she stood there, paralyzed by anxiety, Peter took the podium and blew into the microphones sprouting from the lectern. “It seems my press representative has abandoned me,” he said with a nervous chuckle, “so I hope you won’t mind hearing the good news straight from the horse’s mouth.” He cleared his throat. “The first thing I want to share is that we’ve completed the clean-up operation in record time. Ronay is now free of oil—insofar as is humanly possible. The second thing I want you to know is that the spill caused no significant long-term population-level impact to species either on the island or in the Minch. The underwater coral populations were equally unaffected…”
Corey strode to the lone microphone at the head of the aisle. Obviously, Peter expected the journalists to put their questions to him in an orderly fashion. Good luck with that, especially when she got through with him.
