Shifter

by Angela Knight, Lora Leigh, Alyssa Day

  “No. You are the only one.”

  Emma’s heart failed. “But…all those people in the lifeboats…”

  All drowned? All gone? Every one?

  “They were rescued by another ship,” the man said. “A cattle ship on the same route. The captain saw your distress signal and took the passengers on board.”

  Emma sagged with relief. Until a new worry stirred in her chest, like a worm at the heart of a rose.

  “Then…what am I doing here?”

  “You are safe here,” the man repeated.

  Safe, warm, dry…

  Naked.

  Emma tightened her hold on the covers. Rich covers, velvet and fur, smelling of lavender and the sea. The candlesticks on the mantel had the gleam of tarnished gold. But the grate below was empty. The flagstone floor was bare. Except for the extravagant bed and one heavily carved chest, the small stone chamber was as stark as a crofter’s cottage.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  Did she imagine it, or did he hesitate slightly? “We call it Sanctuary. You will be cared for here.”

  “Is this a hospital? Have I been ill?”

  Perhaps that explained her odd flashes of memory, her fevered dreams. Images swam in her brain, flickering through the swaying darkness like fish darting through strands of kelp. She was dreaming. Had been dreaming.

  Or delusional. She’d thought…Her heart stuttered. She had dreamed she was rescued by a seal.

  Her head pounded.

  “You are tired,” the man said. “I will leave you to rest.”

  No, she thought. Said?

  He looked at her, his eyes as deep and enveloping as the sea.

  Dry-mouthed, Emma resisted the pull of that cold, clear, dark gaze, fighting her sudden sleepiness, struggling to understand. “My clothes…”

  “Will be here when you wake,” the man said. “Sleep now.”

  Emma scowled. She didn’t want to sleep.

  She wasn’t going to sleep.

  She did anyway.

  Griffith watched the woman’s blue eyes slide closed, aware of a faint, unfamiliar regret. The command to sleep was such a little magic, a minor imposition of his will compared to what he had already done. What he was prepared to do.

  The future of his people was at stake, he told himself. The fate of one mortal woman hardly weighed in the balance.

  He did what was necessary. Whatever his prince commanded.

  And yet…

  Her face was smooth and freckled as an egg, her lips closed and composed. He wondered at the discipline she imposed on that soft mouth, even in sleep. Her red gold hair spread wantonly, luxuriously across the bed. All that brightness tangled with the sleek dark fur of her covers, the contrast of colors, the mingling of textures, tugged at his senses. His body tightened in unwelcome arousal.

  He had not brought her here for this.

  But the image of her body, soft and white and pink as he undressed her, burned in the back of his brain. Her scent—potent, hot, female—curled around him, heady and unmistakable. Every male within miles of Sanctuary would be drawn to her like sharks to the promise of fresh blood.

  Griff’s lips drew back from his teeth. Despite the fear in her eyes—perhaps because of it—he would protect her. As long as she slept covered by his pelt, she was safe.

  But she could not sleep forever. The sooner he turned her over to the prince, the better.

  He left her and descended the steps to the great hall.

  Children and dogs drowsed together in a pile before the fire-place, where a sullen blaze produced more smoke than heat. Most of the children were very close to Change, ten or twelve years old in appearance. Born of human mothers, fostered in human households, they were only brought to the selkie island of Sanctuary as they neared puberty and could take their seal form, their proper form, in the sea.

  Unfortunately, the magic of the island that kept their elders from aging prevented the young selkies from reaching maturity for a very long time.

  And so they grew as lean and wild as the dogs, and fought as viciously for whatever scraps the adults threw their way.

  A shaggy-haired boy raised his head at Griff’s approach, his eyes the same calm gold as the prince’s hound’s. “Did you bring her?”

  Griff nodded.

  “To read to us?”

  “Aye.”

  “I would rather she fed us,” the boy said and laid his head back down.

  Griff sympathized. He remembered. But the prince had instructed him to fetch a teacher, not a cook.

  He padded up the circular stair of the prince’s tower, his bare feet silent on stone.

  Selkies shed their sealskins to walk on land, to play at politics or sex, and—rarely and reluctantly—to give birth. The water was their life and their home. Who would trade the bliss and oblivion of the ocean for the dreary duty of raising whelps on land? The sea king himself, old Llyr, had abandoned his human form and all responsibility to dwell in the land beneath the waves.

  So it was the king’s son, Conn, who ruled from this isolated tower, insulated by thick stone walls and a hundred-foot drop from the siren call of the sea below.

  The prince’s study was lined with books and piled with scrolls. Windows pierced the round room, north and south, east and west. The last red glare of the sun spilled from the sky, reddening the prince’s strong, pale face like a fever.

  The prince himself sat at a desk of carved walnut and iron plucked from a Spanish wreck off the coast of Cornwall. The entire castle was furnished with the salvage of centuries.

  As if, Griff thought, gold and wood and crumbling pulp could compensate the selkie ruler for the time he must spend on land.

  Griff entered the room silently, a big man on bare, webbed feet.

  Conn looked up from the book on his desk, his eyes as clear and cool as rain. “The woman?”

  “I put her to sleep.”

  The prince frowned. “It’s been over eight hours.”

  “She’s had a rough day,” Griff said dryly.

  “And she is only human.” Conn smoothed a page of his book. “I suppose I must be grateful she isn’t hysterical.”

  She had been frightened. Her pulse had beat in her throat like a caged bird. But she had swallowed her fears enough to demand her clothes and ask after her companions. Griff admired courage, even in a human woman. “She was asking questions. I did not know how to answer her.”

  “Tell her the truth.”

  Griff snorted. “That we wrecked her ship and plucked her from the wreckage because the little savages downstairs require a keeper?”

  Conn shrugged. “Perhaps she would take pity on them.”

  “Aye, maybe,” Griff said. Her feelings were not his responsibility. Neither was her fate any longer. So he was even more surprised than the prince to hear himself say, “She is worried about the other passengers.”

  Conn raised his eyebrows. “I sent them a ship.”

  “Without adequate food or water.”

  “That is the captain’s problem. As soon as the passengers were plucked from the sea, their fate was in human hands. We do not interfere in mortal affairs.”

  “We interfered when I broke the propeller shaft.”

  Their gazes clashed, the prince’s cool as frost.

  Damn it, what was he doing? Griff wondered. He was the prince’s man. He did not argue.

  Neither would he beg.

  But the memory of the woman’s wide blue eyes slid into him like a knife, loosening his tongue. “It would be”—What? Just? Compassionate?—“expedient to restore the balance by seeing the other humans safely to their destination. With calm seas and favorable winds, they could reach land before their provisions run out.”

  Conn’s long fingers drummed the desk. “Very well. Calm seas and an easterly wind to the Azores. And in return, I will have my school.”

  Griff bowed. He had won his point. The prince had granted his request. So why did he feel so uneasy?

&n
bsp; “You cannot force her to teach,” he said.

  Conn smiled thinly. “Then you must persuade her.”

  Emma’s heart pounded. Her nipples pebbled in the cool sea draft that flowed over the stone windowsill. She shivered.

  She needed clothes.

  And answers.

  She could wait for the tall, half-naked Viking to bring them to her, or…

  Hands trembling, she threw back the carved lid of the chest at the foot of her bed.

  Or she could seek them herself.

  The other ship passengers had gone on, the man said. But there must be someone—a doctor, a magistrate, a shipping line agent—who could tell her where she was and how she was to get—

  Not home, she realized bleakly. But to Canada, at least.

  She dragged a length of warm red wool from the chest, measuring the garment against her body. A skirt? A long cloak, and under that a pile of thin, yellowed shifts. Hastily, Emma pulled an undergarment over her head before tackling the line of cloak buttons.

  Her stomach rumbled. She had not had a meal, a decent meal, in days. If she had been ill, her sickness had not affected her appetite.

  Just her mind.

  Emma bit her lip.

  She could not have been rescued by a seal. She must have imagined it, conjuring the beast out of homesickness and terror and her glimpse of the seal in the harbor.

  But she had not imagined the man by her bed.

  Who was he?

  His broad, furred chest and dark, impassive face made her heart skitter in pure feminine panic. Yet his voice, she remembered, had been deep and soothing, his eyes almost kind.

  In some ways, he seemed the opposite of Paul, whose smooth good looks and easy charm had masked a callous indifference to her dreams and ambitions. To her comfort. To her feelings.

  When Paul first sought her out, Emma had been flustered. Flattered by his attentions. Sir Paul Burrage was a gentleman, a governor of the school. She had believed he loved her. That he wanted to marry her. And instead—

  Instead, he had manipulated, hurt, and betrayed her.

  She would not let herself be misled so, used so, ever again.

  She reached for the door; hesitated. The Viking had not told her to stay in her room. She was safe here, he said. She smoothed her hand down the long line of cloak buttons to ensure they were all securely fastened. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and went in search of food and answers.

  Persuade her?

  Griff scowled as he descended the steps of the prince’s tower.

  He was a bull. He did not persuade. He enforced the prince’s will among the males and took what was freely offered from the females.

  The human woman stirred him, he admitted. Challenged him. He did not believe she was going to offer up…anything he wanted. Not without a lot of words and reasons.

  Neither of which he had.

  What was Conn thinking?

  A scuffle in the hall below jolted Griff from his thoughts. A yelp, a low laugh, a rush of swift, padding feet…

  Scattering whelps, Griff thought, running for food or from a fight. When the older bulls came in from the sea, they were not tolerant of young ones underfoot.

  The hair rose on the back of Griff’s neck. When the bulls came in from the sea…

  He ran down the remaining steps to the hall, taking in the situation with a single, experienced glance.

  The young selkies had cleared out. Only the boy with the golden eyes hung back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  Two selkie males had backed the human woman against the wall, crowding her like mating bulls on the beach. Their faces were flushed. Their eyes glittered. Their intent hung musky on the air, already ripe with the woman’s scent and the sharper tang of fear.

  Griff’s lips peeled from his teeth.

  The bigger bull—Murdoc—sniffed the woman’s cloudy red hair.

  She jerked her head, evading him, and her skull clunked against stone.

  “Easy,” Kelvan crooned. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

  Murdoc laughed. The woman’s face went white.

  Cold rage rose in Griff. He growled. “Enough.”

  “We saw her first,” Kelvan said without turning. “Find your own to play with.”

  Murdoc closed in, palming her buttocks through the rough fabric. She spun, jabbing his ribs with her elbow, and bolted.

  Bad move.

  He caught her easily, hauling her into his arms.

  And Griff slammed into Kelvan, hooking one arm around his neck and grabbing his balls in the other hand.

  “Drop it,” Griff barked. “Or your friend will never use these again.”

  Murdoc grinned. “You must be joking.”

  Kelvan clawed at the arm around his throat. His bare feet scrabbled against the floor. “He means it,” he said hoarsely. “Let her go.”

  “Why should I?” Murdoc asked. “They’re your stones.”

  “Yours next,” Griff promised grimly.

  He could not fight Murdoc as long as there was a risk to the woman. But as soon as the other bull let her go…

  Veins popped out on Kelvan’s forehead.

  The woman held as still as a doe surrounded by dogs. At least she had the sense not to struggle and aggravate the situation.

  Murdoc sighed, glancing down at the woman in his arms. “Pretty hair. I suppose she is Conn’s.”

  He should say yes, Griff thought. She would have Conn’s protection. And she did belong to the prince, after a fashion. Conn had brought her here.

  “No,” Griff said. “Mine.”

  THREE

  Emma’s heart beat like a frightened rabbit’s. She wrapped her arms around her waist, tucking her hands under her armpits to hide their trembling.

  She was a teacher in a girls’ school. She was not used to violence. Male violence. The men’s casual assault and her rescuer’s swift reprisal had shocked and shaken her.

  The bigger man—the one who had grabbed her—led his limping companion away. Emma fought a shiver of reaction. Revulsion. They were no worse, really, than the men in the boardinghouse she had learned to lock her door against each night or the ones who called and whistled after her on the street. No worse than Paul.

  They had not raped her.

  Although they could have.

  Another shudder shook her. Thank God she had been rescued. He had rescued her. Again.

  He stood planted, unmoving, his eyes narrowed as the other two men staggered from the hall. Emma’s gaze slid over the hard slabs of his torso to the ridges of his abdomen and felt a clench in her stomach that might have been fear. He wasn’t even breathing hard. If not for the dark hair covering his powerful chest, the breeches clinging to his thighs, he might have been a statue.

  “You,” he barked.

  Emma jumped.

  But his attention was on the boy, the one with the odd-colored eyes. The only one who hadn’t run when those two men cornered her.

  “What in Llyr’s name were you doing?” the big man demanded.

  Emma moved instinctively closer to the boy. He was only a child. He—

  “She was all alone,” the boy said with dignity. “I thought—”

  “You did not think. Murdoc could swat you like a fly. Next time you see the prince’s peace disturbed, you call me or one of the other wardens, understand?”

  Wardens? Emma shied at the word like a horse from the bite of a lash. What was this place? A jail? An orphanage?

  Her chest hollowed. An asylum?

  The boy’s thin face flushed. “Yes, sir.”

  Emma’s protective instincts roused. Orphaned or crazy, the child meant well. “He was only trying to help.”

  Her rescuer turned his dark, brooding gaze on her, and she felt again that quick clutch in her belly. Tension rose off him like steam.

  Her mouth dried. She should not have come down. She was not safe here.

  She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed.

&nb
sp; “You wanted to help,” he said without expression.

  He was speaking to the boy. Emma gathered she was irrelevant.

  The child straightened his narrow shoulders. “I—yes.”

  “Right. Make yourself useful, then. Fetch a girl to attend the lady.”

  The boy nodded and darted away.

  “Wait!” Emma called after him.

  The child paused, almost quivering in his desire to be gone.

  “What is your name?”

  He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Iestyn.”

  “Thank you, Iestyn,” she said gently. “I am Miss March.”

  “Yes.” His smile flashed. “Thank you, miss.”

  He ran off.

  Her Viking was still watching Emma with an intent, cat-at-a-mousehole look that made her palms grow damp. She clasped them together very tightly in front of her.

  “Miss Emma March,” she repeated. “Formerly of Miss Hallsey’s School for Girls.”

  “Aye, I know.”

  Emma frowned. Had he read the ship’s roster list? “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

  His full mouth quirked slightly. “I know that, too.”

  Hot blood flooded her face. “I meant…” Indignation struggled with gratitude. Had he no manners at all? “What is your name?”

  “Griff.”

  “Just…Griff?”

  His thick, dark brows rose. “Griffith ap Powell ap Morgan ap Dafydd.”

  It sounded Welsh. And unpronounceable. “Thank you, Mr.—”

  “Griff will do. You left your room.”

  A mistake, she thought now. But she had been searching for answers.

  She had—she acknowledged to herself—gone looking for him. Intimidating as he was, she drew an unexpected comfort from his presence.

  Admitting that to him, however, would put her at an even greater disadvantage.

  “I was hungry,” she said and waited for his roar.

  He scowled. “I would have brought you food.”

  “I didn’t know that. You didn’t tell me anything. What is this place?”

  “Sanctuary.” He guided her toward the stairs without touching her, herding her back to her room. “I told you that.”

  Emma sniffed. “You said I would be safe here.”