Shifter

by Angela Knight, Lora Leigh, Alyssa Day

  He exhaled into her hair. She felt the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck and the hot gush deep in her body.

  Emma meant to rise and wash. She fell asleep instead, lulled by Griff’s weight warm behind her and his hand toying with her hair.

  When dawn came, he was gone. Dimly, she recalled the sudden coolness beside her in the bed. He had murmured something—“my lord” and “duties”—before he kissed her and left her.

  Now she stood at the window, concentrating fiercely on the fastening of her gown as if aligning each button in its appropriate hole could somehow restore her to her proper guise as mistress of mathematics at Miss Hallsey’s School for Girls.

  Useless.

  Absurd.

  She sat on the edge of the bed to roll on her stockings. She would not regret what Griff had done—what they had done together.

  She had been numb, closed in on herself like a hand curled to protect the wound at its palm. Now every inch of her felt open and aching and alive. Her collar chafed the faint abrasions on her neck. The linen shift teased her sensitive breasts. And every rasp of fabric against her skin, every shiver along her nerves, reminded her of Griff.

  Emma sighed.

  He had lavished her with patience and with wicked skill, healing and transforming her. She was grateful for his care. Everything had changed…and nothing had.

  Emma yanked on her other stocking. She was no longer so naive as to equate sex with marriage, or even tenderness with love.

  Griff had not said he loved her. She would not have believed him if he did. Why, they barely knew each other.

  The memory of his deep voice rolled through her. “I know you, lass. In one day I have seen the spirit and the spine and the heart of you…”

  Her heart shook. Her hands trembled. She folded them together in her lap.

  She had given him more than her body last night. But she could not, did not, expect any more from him. Men, Emma assumed, did not feel these things as women did.

  The daylight had returned, and with it, reason. She would not make the mistake of relying on someone else to care for her. She was responsible for her own choices. Her own feelings. Her own future.

  Dismally, she wondered when the next boat departed for Canada.

  FIVE

  “Canada?” Griff relieved Una of the tray and nodded for the girl to depart. “You do not want to go there.”

  Emma stared at him, broad and rough and male, and wished the sight of him balancing her breakfast tray in his big hands didn’t make her heart stumble. She did not want to go anywhere. But neither could she stay in his bedchamber, blushing every time a child came to the door.

  “I signed a contract,” she said. “A year’s service for passage on the ship.”

  His thick brows rose. “The ship sank.”

  He set the tray on the chest. More apples, Emma noted, and a thin gray porridge that shamed the silver bowl it came in. What kind of household couldn’t produce porridge?

  She dragged her mind back to their discussion. “Nevertheless, there are people expecting me.”

  “Not any longer.”

  He was probably right. By now, she would be considered lost at sea. And yet—

  “My parents should not have to read about my death in the newspaper.”

  “You are close to them.” It was not a question.

  She shook her head. “Before I left, my father informed me I was already dead to them.” Impossible to keep the bitterness from her voice.

  “I am sorry, lass.” His voice was deep and sincere.

  His sympathy eased the hurt at her heart.

  “It doesn’t matter.” But of course it did. “I planned to write to them when I reached Halifax.”

  “You cannot go.”

  Her heart leapt. Would he miss her? Did he want her to stay? Not that she could, under her present circumstances, but his apparent reluctance to see her leave was balm to her bruised heart.

  “Why not?”

  “This is not Liverpool. There are no steamships to take you clear to Canada.”

  Emma raised her chin. “You cannot tell me we are on an island with no boats.”

  Griff scratched his jaw with his thumb. “No, I cannot tell you that. But a ship large enough to bear you safely across the ocean…You could wait weeks for a vessel that size.”

  “Weeks,” Emma squeaked.

  “Aye. Months, maybe.”

  “But…what am I to do? How am I to live in the meantime?”

  Griff appeared genuinely puzzled by her question. “You will live here.”

  “I can’t.” A familiar panic beat in her throat. “I have no money. I have nothing.”

  “You do not need money. You are my lord’s guest.”

  “I cannot rely on the charity of a stranger.” She could not rely on anyone. Paul had taught her that. Her parents, Letitia…“There must be something I can do to earn my keep.” Inspiration struck as her gaze fell on the bowl of porridge. “Perhaps he would hire me as a cook.”

  “A cook,” Griff repeated without inflection.

  She nodded eagerly. “All the girls at Miss Hallsey’s learn domestic management, along with history, science, geography, and—”

  “Lass, you do not need to work to keep the roof over your head,” Griff said wryly. “But if you did, you have talents of more use to my lord than cooking.”

  Her gaze flew to his. She trusted him. She did, with her body and a share of her heart. He could not possibly be suggesting—

  “You could teach,” Griff said, shattering her assumptions. “The castle needs a teacher.”

  Emma caught her breath. The offer, following so closely on her half-formed suspicions, left her stunned. “Teach,” she said, in the same flat, disbelieving tone Griff had used for cook.

  “You said you wanted to.” He watched her, his dark gaze intent. “It would pass the time. Until you go.”

  The possibility swelled her chest like a balloon. She felt buoyant, almost dizzy. To teach again…

  She bit her lip. “My reputation—”

  “Does not matter. That is past.”

  “Not that past,” she muttered. “I slept with you. Here. Last night.”

  Griff’s mouth quirked. “We do not regard these things as you do. No fault attaches to either of us because you graced my bed last night. Both of us are free to choose. Your choice honors me. Mine protects you.”

  Memory closed like a fist in her throat, blocking her air: Paul, his handsome face flushed and sulky, saying, “I am offering you my protection. You should have the good sense to accept it and be grateful.”

  “If I were to accept your offer…” Her cheeks heated. Her voice shook. “Where would I sleep?”

  “With me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” He sounded baffled. Frustrated. Angry? She could not tell.

  Emma clasped her hands together in her lap. She had given this man her body. She owed him her trust. Or at least an explanation. “Before I left England, a wealthy man—a governor of the school where I taught—offered to make me his mistress.”

  Griff’s eyes narrowed. “The man who had you. Hurt you.”

  She inhaled. “Yes.”

  “I will kill him for you.”

  Her breath exploded in an appalled laugh. “No! He—I—he said I led him on. I didn’t mean to. But I made assumptions, foolish assumptions about what he intended and what I wanted. It cost me my position at the school.”

  “He cost you your life,” Griff growled.

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes in relief, at once vindicated and reassured. Not her fault, then. Not entirely her fault. “In one day, one instant, I lost my home and my livelihood. And then Paul told me all I had to do was make my body available to him at his convenience, and I would be fed, sheltered, secure. And…I could not do it. I could not be what he wanted me to be.”

  Her eyes opened, pleaded with his for understanding. “I cannot be what you want me to be, either,” she
said.

  “You can. You are.”

  He tempted her to believe him. But she would not spoil what they had shared in the honeyed dark by dragging it into the daylight world of transactions and obligations. “I cannot eat the food from your table in return for—for—”

  Griff scowled. “It is not the same thing at all.”

  “I know.” And she did. From somewhere, she summoned a smile for him. Her decision was much easier—in a practical sense—because Griff was nothing like Paul. He was not like any man she had ever known before. He had lavished her with passion and tenderness. He was offering her an opportunity to do the work she loved.

  Emma sighed. Of course, emotionally, his willingness to honor her wishes made her choice more difficult. “But I can’t set aside everything I believe, everything I’ve been taught, simply because your employer might be willing to overlook our—our relationship. I can’t risk making another mistake. I need time.”

  He shot her a sharp look, and she winced at what he would not say. She hadn’t needed time last night.

  “And if you are with child?” he asked.

  Her heart pounded against her ribs. She raised her chin. “Are you offering to marry me?”

  For the first time, Griff appeared disconcerted. “We do not marry. I would care for you. And the babe.”

  “Let me take care of you.” The memory whispered over her skin like a touch, raising goose bumps.

  Emma’s throat tightened. She was vulnerable to him in ways she could never have guessed at before last night. Everywhere he had touched her, every place he had been, tingled from his possession. He was imprinted on her flesh, pulsing in her blood. Inside, she was softer, warmer, melting. She wanted him.

  Still.

  But in the pale, thin light of morning, she saw herself and her options clearly. The arrangement he suggested would leave her always doubting and unsatisfied. How could she face her pupils with confidence, how could she teach them with authority, when she was living openly with the castle overseer as his mistress?

  She swallowed. “I will be your mistress, or I will be the children’s teacher. I cannot be both.”

  She would never have made such an offer to Paul. But then, Paul had never offered her a choice at all.

  Griff held her gaze, his dark eyes smoldering.

  Her breathing quickened. If he touched her…If he kissed her…

  But he did neither.

  “Teach, then,” he growled. “I will leave your bed. Until you ask me back to it.”

  He closed the door quietly behind him, leaving her alone with her cold porridge and her cooling thoughts.

  Griff lurked in the great hall, listening for the sound of Emma’s voice, cursing his duty and her stubbornness.

  Conn had designated the antechamber as her schoolroom, furnishing it with mismatched tables and chairs, a globe, and a few—a very few—books. Emma had spoken with longing of a package lost in the wreck, Paradise Lost and Jane Eyre and Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management. But Iestyn had contributed a Bible, a parting gift from his human father, and today the class took turns reading, copying verses onto slates.

  “‘There went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, the male and the female, as God had commanded Noah.’” Emma’s clear, expressive voice rippled over Griff like the wind on water. He eased from the shadow of the doorway to watch her.

  She stood beside the smoking fire, her sunrise hair confined at the back of her neck, her pretty breasts buttoned behind the ugly gray dress she favored. The selkies’ enchantments did not affect her. But a week on Sanctuary had worked its magic anyway. Her face was faintly golden from science lessons disguised as long walks on the beach. The challenge of keeping a dozen restive adolescents interested and engaged had given new energy to her movements and a lilt to her voice.

  Young Iestyn in particular looked at her like a milk-fed pup presented with a side of beef. Poor whelp. Griff wondered if his own face bore a similar expression.

  “Iestyn, will you try the next verse?” Emma invited.

  The boy bent over the tattered volume. “‘And it came to pass after seven days that the waters of the flood were upon the earth,’” he read slowly.

  Emma smiled. “Very good. Roth?”

  Reluctantly, the stocky boy beside Iestyn took the book. “‘And in the six hu—hun—’”

  “Hundredth,” prompted Emma.

  “‘Hundredth year of…of…’” Roth flushed and snapped the book closed. “This is stupid.”

  “You are stupid,” Iestyn said.

  “Sod off. I don’t care about your dumb story anyway.”

  “Noah and the ark is a beautiful story,” Emma said coolly. “And I appreciate Iestyn sharing his book with the class to read. Now—”

  Griff marveled at her patience. His own was wearing thin, with her students, with her, and with himself.

  “I will leave your bed,” he had told her seven days and six long nights ago. “Until you ask me to come back to it.”

  Cocksure idiot.

  She had not asked.

  And he was aching for her.

  Roth’s chair scraped back, recalling Griff’s attention. “I don’t need to learn to read.”

  His defiance dropped into the classroom like a stone. Heads turned or lifted. Insubordination rippled outward.

  “Sit down, please,” Emma said, low and firm.

  “You cannot make me.”

  Griff had heard enough. “I can.”

  He strolled forward, keeping his eyes hard on the boy until the whelp dropped his gaze.

  “I don’t see why I have to learn this stuff,” Roth muttered. “After I Change—”

  “You learn because my lord says you will,” Griff said. “Because if you don’t, I will crack your ignorant head. The same goes for the lot of you. Sit.”

  Roth sat.

  Griff nodded to Emma to continue. She did so, without losing her composure or her place in the book, and he thought that was the end on it.

  But when the story and the lesson were done and her charges were dismissed for the day, Emma looked at him, waiting at the back of the room as had become his custom, and raised her chin.

  “In the future, I would appreciate it if you would let me handle discipline in my classroom.”

  If she was in the mood for a fight, Griff was ready to oblige her. Seven days.

  He crossed his arms against his chest. “Handle it, how?”

  “I would have spoken with Roth after class. He struggles with reading. He only needs a little extra attention.”

  “And if you could not find him after class? Or he would not listen?”

  Her soft lips pressed together. “Then I would have addressed the matter with Lord Conn.”

  “Who would have told me to deal with it.” Griff shrugged. “My way just saved you a couple of steps.”

  “And possibly cost me the trust of my students.”

  She did not back down. Stubborn. He tried not to like that about her.

  “They trust you,” he said. He figured she needed to hear it, and it was true.

  “They like me because I feed them regular meals, which is not the same thing at all.”

  He grinned. “There is that.”

  “Thank you for the fish this morning,” she added.

  He moved closer so he could smell her hair. “You are welcome.”

  He thought her breathing hitched, but she did not move away. “About the students—” she said.

  “Young bulls fight to establish their place. You outrank them. But they need to know if they step out of line, they deal with me.”

  Her lips curved before she shook her head. “They are children, not animals.”

  They were children who would grow up to be animals, who would learn to take their proper place and form in the sea. But he did not think she was ready for that explanation. Not yet.

  He was silent.

  “It’s important that they respect my authority,” she continued ear
nestly.

  “Aye.” His tone was dry. “So you said.”

  “I will be your mistress, or I will be the children’s teacher,” she had told him when she barred him from her bed. “I cannot be both.”

  He saw her remember, watched the wild color bloom in her face.

  Standing this close, he could see the freckles on her nose, feel the faint warmth of her body, smell chalk and soap and the feminine perfume of her skin and hair. A strand had escaped its bounds to curl against her neck. He caught the curl between his fingers, watching the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the gray fabric of her dress. She did not protest, did not slap his hand away. So, brushing the strand aside, he pressed a kiss to the side of her throat.

  Her pulse leaped wildly under his lips. Her hands reached up and clutched his shoulders. She tasted of salt and desire. He raised his head to look at her—wary, brave, determined Emma—and then kissed her as humans kissed, face-to-face, mouth-to-mouth, sharing his breath, stealing hers.

  Her lips were moist and soft. His tongue stroked them, probed them, seeking entrance. With a little moan, she opened to him, tender, yielding. He fed on her response, her human heart, her human soul, there on her lips.

  He raised his head with a groan.

  “Emma.” He gave her her name. He did not know what else to give her. He was not at all sure what she would accept.

  He was a warden, a warrior. For centuries, he had battled the encroachments of demons with confidence and skill. Now, with her, he was as awkward and uncertain as a pup on ice.

  Her wide blue gaze focused on his face, her pupils dilated. She looked as dazed as he felt.

  “Are you—” What? “—happy?” he asked.

  She blinked. “With our…arrangement, do you mean?”

  With that, gods, yes. He wanted her to reconsider, to take him to her bed. He wanted to put himself into her so deep and so often he became a part of her, flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone.