The Selkie Sorceress (Seal Island Trilogy, Book 3)

by Sophie Moss

  Tara nodded, limping over the sand with Dominic’s help. Owen took in the burn marks on Tara’s skin—so similar to Nuala’s. “It’s okay,” he whispered, gently stroking Nuala’s sleek black neck. “It’s okay. Tara’s going to fix you.”

  Waves slid over the sand, blowing froth at them as Tara knelt and ran her hands over Nuala’s burned pelt.

  “Dom,” she called over her shoulder, “bring me my med kit.”

  He nodded, unzipping the bag he’d grabbed from the cottage at the last minute and set it down beside her.

  “I have a salve that might work,” she murmured. “It won’t heal the burns instantly, but it will at least numb the pain for a while.” She pulled out a cloth, and handed it to Kelsey. “Could you dip this in the ocean? I want to wash some of the sand off first.”

  Kelsey took it and dashed to the water.

  Nuala’s heartbeat grew stronger as Tara cleaned and dressed her wounds. When she shifted slightly in Owen’s arms, he whispered, “It’s working. She’s waking up!”

  Nuala opened her eyes slowly—pale as the light of the moon—and Tara jerked back.

  Caitlin let out a strangled cry. “What is she doing here?”

  Nuala tested her flippers, tapping them against the sand. Owen wrapped his arms around her neck. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered. “I thought I would never see you again.”

  Caitlin staggered back, reaching for Liam’s hand.

  Tara watched Owen closely. “This isn’t the first time you’ve seen Nuala since we brought Liam back, is it?”

  Owen shook his head, still clinging to her. “I thought Moira killed her. She tried to kill both of you today.”

  Tara’s gaze dropped to the burn marks seared into Nuala’s pelt. “Moira did this?”

  Nuala nodded.

  “Why?”

  Owen laid his hand on Nuala’s whiskered cheek and her gaze slid to the sand by the rocks, then back up. He followed her eyes to where a small object was half-buried and hidden in the shadows. He could just make out the circle of black thorns with small white flowers.

  Nuala held his gaze, swimming with a secret message only for him. She didn’t want anyone else to know, he realized. She didn’t trust anyone but him.

  “Does Nuala know what Moira wants?” Tara asked Owen.

  “I think so,” Owen said. He shifted slightly, kicking sand over the object to cover it from sight, and Nuala relaxed in his arms. “But I don’t know what it is.”

  Tara looked up at Dominic. “Nuala should stay here tonight. One of us will watch over her until the morning and make sure she’s okay.”

  Dominic nodded, but Nuala shook her head, edging away from Owen. Owen reluctantly released his grip on her and she turned in the sand so she was facing the ocean.

  “Owen,” Tara said. “Help me convince her to stay.”

  “I can’t,” he said softly, rising to his feet. He walked beside Nuala as she shuffled to the water’s edge. Tara stood, following them. They waded into the warm waves together, until the sea pulsed up to their waists.

  Nuala leaned into Owen, rubbing her nose against his shoulder. Owen laid his hand on her sleek head and Nuala let out a soft song before diving and darted away into the depths.

  “Where is she going?” Tara asked.

  Owen shook his head as the sea swallowed her shape. “I don’t know.”

  SISTER EVELYN WALKED through the house, switching off the lights. When she came to the living room and spotted her friend still standing by the door, her heart sank. Brigid had been standing in the same spot since noon, looking out at the driveway. She held a bouquet of purple irises—flowers she’d grown in the greenhouse.

  The gardening books were all perfectly ordered now, displayed in a fan shape on the coffee table. No one dared move them from their proper place. She went to her friend, laying a hand on Brigid’s shoulder. “I don’t think she’s coming.”

  “She always comes,” Brigid whispered, refusing to take her eyes off the driveway. “At noon, on the last day of the month.”

  “It’s almost nine,” Sister Evelyn said gently.

  Brigid squeezed the flowers. “What if something happened to her?”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Sister Evelyn soothed. “She’ll probably come tomorrow.”

  Brigid shook her head. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Come on, Brigid.” She pulled her friend gently away from the door. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  Sam went for a walk. He wanted to give Glenna some space, and he needed some time to think. He turned onto a crowded cobblestone street in the Temple Bar district of Dublin. Tourists gathered around street musicians that cropped up on every corner. Voices spilled out of the smoky pubs and the scent of hops and malt vinegar clung to the air.

  He spotted an outdoor counter selling fish-and-chips and filed into line behind an elderly couple with thick Boston accents. He’d been wandering the city for over an hour and he still couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something in Glenna’s story didn’t add up. It made sense that she wouldn’t tell Dominic and Liam the truth about their mother when she first moved to the island. But after everything they’d been through together, why wouldn’t she tell them now?

  He put in his order and the battered fish wrapped in brown paper warmed his hands as he wound his way through back alleys and parks. The noise of the city eventually gave way to a quiet tree-lined street lined by tall brownstones with gas lanterns flickering outside the doors. He let himself into her building, climbing the stairs to her flat.

  It was odd, Sam thought, as he set the keys on the table inside her door, that she didn’t have a single picture or anything that might clue someone in to who actually lived here. It was a nice enough place, and an impressive collection of her artwork—mostly landscapes of the Irish countryside—hung from the walls. But it was more like an extension of one of her galleries than a home.

  He set the food down on the counter and settled onto the couch. He could hear water running in the back, so he picked up the untouched glass of wine and booted up his laptop. He typed in the name of the mental institution and clicked through the articles, scanning the accounts of the protest that shut it down. But he leaned forward when he saw the picture of a group of nuns shouting outside the gates of the facility.

  Sister Evelyn of St. Brigid of Kildare Parish—one of the nuns spearheading the protest—calls it a “disgrace.” She says she won’t stop until “the facility is shut down and every patient is transferred to a new home that will care for them properly.”

  “Glenna,” he called when the water switched off.

  “You’re back,” she said through a crack in her bedroom door.

  “Yeah,” he said distractedly. “Did you know it was nuns who started the protest to shut down the facility?”

  He could hear metal hangers clinking together as she rooted through in her closet. “I did.”

  Sam read the rest of the article and pulled up a new window, typing in the name of the town. “You said you checked every mental institution and Brigid wasn’t in any of them?”

  A sultry tune played from her speakers when she switched on the music in her bedroom. “Yes.”

  “Is it possible one of the nuns took her in?”

  “I thought the same thing, but I’ve checked every church in the area. She’s not there.”

  “There’s a town,” Sam pressed. “Only a half hour’s drive from here. It’s called Kildare. If any of these nuns are still there, they might be willing to talk to us. They might remember something about Brigid.”

  “I’ve been to Kildare a dozen times, Sam. She’s not there.”

  Sam sat back, poking around the town’s website. There was a cathedral devoted to one of Ireland’s patron saints—Saint Brigid. Now that was an interesting coincidence. Sam picked up his wine, took a long sip. He pulled up a new search on the church and skimmed through the articles. St. Brigid’s Cathedral was part of the original monastery founded by
Saint Brigid in the town of Kildare, on the same site where many believe the Celtic goddess Brigid built a sacred well thousands of years ago.

  Sam set the wine down. ‘She’s hidden,’ Glenna had said. ‘Somewhere Moira can’t see her.’ His investigative instincts hummed as he toggled back to the church’s website and saw they were advertising several special events for a Feast Day in honor of Saint Brigid on February 1st.

  February 1st? Wasn’t there another Irish holiday on February 1st? He typed in a new search and stared at the screen. Imbolc was a pagan holiday, usually celebrated on Feb 1st or 2nd, that honored the Celtic goddess of fire and fertility—Brigid.

  “Glenna,” Sam called through the doorway, not taking his eyes off the screen. “I think we should go to Kildare tonight.”

  “I told you, Sam, I’ve been there a dozen times. She’s not there.”

  “Maybe you missed something.” He checked his watch. “It’s not too late. We might be able to catch a few of the nuns at the late service.”

  He heard the gentle swish of her bedroom door opening. “I didn’t miss anything.”

  SAM GLANCED UP and his hands stilled on the keyboard. Glenna had tied a robe of sheer red silk over her body and he could see every inch, every glorious inch of her, through the material. Her hair was still damp from the shower and it tumbled over her shoulders in rich chocolate curls, teasing the tops of her full breasts.

  She walked toward him, her hips swaying in the lamplight. “We’ll go tomorrow,” she said softly. “If it’ll make you feel better. I want to go back to the island and check on Tara anyway, but the ferry doesn’t leave until morning. We’ve both had a really long day.”

  Sam stayed where he was, but his mouth went dry when she leaned down, sliding his computer off his lap and setting it on the table. His pulse thrummed in his ears as she lowered herself slowly to the couch, with both legs on either side of him. The aroma of sandalwood and vanilla clung to her hair, and his skin burned as she straddled him.

  “Sam.” She ran her fingers through his hair softly—so softly every nerve ending inside him tingled and sparked. “I want…” she touched her lips to his, a whisper of a kiss. “I want to forget.”

  A warning went off inside him. This wasn’t the first time Glenna had seduced him to get what she wanted. She had lured him back to her cottage the first day they’d met to distract him from finding Tara. His fingers dug into the couch cushions, but the front of her robe was falling open and her breasts were so close to his mouth. She was naked—completely naked—on top of him and he could feel the throbbing heat of her through his jeans.

  “Sam.” Her fingertips brushed over his cheek, teasing touches that had him yearning for more. “I promise we’ll stop by Kildare on the way to the island tomorrow. Tonight, I want to forget.”

  He knew what it was like to want to forget, to want to cut off the past and run from it. But he was finally starting to get a complete picture of this woman. He needed to back up, to slow down, to find that missing angle and shed light on the whole picture. There was still something missing from her story.

  But when she laid her lips on his again, he was lost. Every candle in the room lit, one by one. The lamps flickered off, submerging them in darkness and heat. Her eyes, only inches from his, were honey-colored pools of desire as she reached for the hem of his shirt.

  His stomach muscles clenched when her fingers met his bare skin. He ran his hands up her heated thighs until he found the ties binding the robe. He untied the flimsy sash and eased the sheer fabric off her shoulders. It dripped like a scarlet waterfall to the floor.

  She was pale alabaster in the candlelight. And even though they were miles from the ocean, he swore he could hear it—the pulsing beat of the sea, the notes of her song twisting into his soul. Seawater dripped from the ends of her hair. Shells threaded through her curls. A string of pearls encircled her throat, and his fingers toyed in the long strands that draped down the front of her, tugging her closer.

  Steam rose up between them and her lips, full and soft, brushed against his. “Sam,” she whispered, pressing her soft breasts into his chest. “Please. I want to forget.”

  In one swift motion he stood, hooking her long legs around his waist. The candles hissed as his mouth captured hers. If she wanted to forget, he would make her forget. But he would do it his way, and before dawn she would be begging to tell him the truth.

  GLENNA EXPECTED THE soft mattress, expected his hard body to cover hers as they tumbled to the bed. But when her back met the cold hard wall by the door, she felt a wave of panic. No. She needed to do this her way, before she had a chance to change her mind.

  She yanked Sam’s shirt over his head, exposing his long lean muscles. Her fingers kneaded into his shoulders, trying to push him into the bedroom. But his strong arms pinned her hips to the wall, and his mouth moved warm and insistent over hers. The contrast of his grip on her and the tenderness of his kiss had her mind reeling.

  She couldn’t do what she needed to do if she let him set the pace, if she let him regain control. But he nibbled and tugged on her bottom lip, changing the pressure from tempting and teasing to desperate and needy. And those traitorous spirals of fire reared until she melted against him.

  She ran her hands urgently over his body, imprinting the hard planes of muscles and bare flesh in her palms. His biceps flexed under her touch, his arms molding her body to his as he deepened the kiss. She felt the swell of emotions—those wings frantically beating inside her, desperate to break free of the cage around her heart.

  But she fought them back, running her hands down the front of him, branding every inch of him into her memory. After tonight, memories would be all she had left. Her fingers danced down the rippling muscles of his stomach and she unfastened his jeans, pushing them down his slim hips and long lean legs. His eyes, when they opened, burned into hers.

  “Sam—”

  He silenced her with his mouth, wrapping one hand around that long string of pearls as his other hand came up to cover her aching breast. She fought the urge to wrap her legs around him, to let him take her right here against the wall. She felt herself slipping, tumbling as he skimmed those warm lips down her throat and dipped his mouth to her breast. Desire pooled between her legs.

  What would happen if she gave into him, if she allowed herself this one night of passion? Her breathing grew shallow as his mouth moved south. He anchored her to the wall and knelt, the rough stubble along his jaw rubbing the inside of her thigh.

  She needed to stop this charade. She needed to stop it now before he got hurt. But then his tongue was on her and she felt herself spiraling—spiraling so far out of control.

  Sam.

  She had tried to warn him. But he refused to believe her. Couldn’t he see that inside, she was nothing but thorns? The sensation built, pulling her under. She sunk her fingers in his hair. She had known from the first moment she saw him that he would be her undoing. That he was nothing like the others who came before him.

  The tremors inside her turned to shuddering quakes and her body clenched. His name escaped in a ragged gasp from her lips as he rose, lifting her into his arms and carrying her into the bedroom. Every muscle in her body felt languid and loose. A smoky female voice played from the speakers where she’d switched on a blues station earlier. The candles were lit, the curtains drawn.

  He laid her down gently on a bed of burgundy feather pillows and cream sheets. Edging her back, he ran a hand lazily up the curve of her waist, teasing the underside of her breast. “Tonight, Glenna. You are mine.”

  She lifted a hand, tracing the rugged lines of his face, the hard angles and planes of his jaw and cheek. She brushed her lips back to his, but it was his eyes that had her heart skipping a beat.

  There was only one emotion in them. And it was not lust.

  LATER, MUCH LATER, when he finally filled her, burying himself inside her as wave after wave of pleasure rolled over them, he whispered the words she had read in his eyes
.

  And for the first time in her life, she wished she could say them back.

  Caitlin eased out of Owen’s bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind her. The air in the cottage was warm, but she felt cold—cold all over. Liam was in the living room, stacking their son’s fairy tale books into a box. Owen still wouldn’t tell his parents why he refused to read the stories anymore, only that he wanted them out of his sight.

  Liam glanced up when he heard her come into the room. “Is he asleep?”

  Caitlin nodded, wrapping her arms around her stomach. Normally, she would seek comfort in her fiancé’s arms. But after Nuala’s arrival on the island tonight, she felt like a wall was between them—a wall of bitter memories and foolish regrets. “How could we not have known Owen was seeing Nuala every night?”

  “We thought he was at Brennan’s,” Liam said, setting another book into the box. “And he was. We just didn’t know he was leaving early each night to see her on the way home.”

  “We should have been with him.”

  Liam looked up at her. “We can’t follow him everywhere.”

  “What if Moira had gotten to him? What if—”

  Liam stood, crossing the room to her and rubbing his hands up and down her arms. They could hear the echo of waves through the open windows. “Owen’s safe now. He’s in his bed. He’s okay.”

  Caitlin stepped back and Liam’s arms fell to his sides. “What is Nuala still doing here?” Caitlin asked. “What does she want with us?”

  “Maybe she wants to see Owen.”

  Caitlin looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  “He never talks about her,” Liam said, lowering his voice. “He’s never even mentioned her name. How could we have known that he wanted to maintain contact?”

  “We should have asked,” Caitlin said helplessly. “We should have offered. So he didn’t think he had to sneak around behind our backs.”