The Sea Sprite

by Ruth Langan

  “She has so much extra work these days, while Riordan and I wait for our house to be finished.” Ambrosia snapped a sheet and watched it drift over the bed, before she bent to the task of tucking in the edges.

  Bethany took up the slack on the other side of the bed. “Not to mention the fact that Kane and Noah and I seem to spend as many nights here as we do at Penhollow Abbey.”

  “Poor Libby. And pity Mistress Coffey. And now I’ve brought more work home with Gryf and young Whit.”

  “They aren’t complaining. In fact, I think Mistress Coffey is secretly enjoying the fact that we’re all here. I know Grandpapa is.” Ambrosia stood back to admire the freshly made bed, before walking to the window, where she stood a moment, watching the workmen swarm over the Undaunted.

  Then she turned. “It does my heart good to see you looking so happy these days, Darcy. After the news of Gray’s accident, we feared we might never again see you smile.”

  “I am happy.” Darcy plumped the pillows, then turned to see both sisters watching her closely. “What is it?”

  “It’s just—” Bethany looked to Ambrosia for support, then plunged ahead “—now that Gryf’s wounds are healing, we think he more nearly resembles Gray than ever.”

  “Bethany, please…”

  Her sister cut off her protest. “Let me finish, Darcy. Shaving off his beard was a start. But we both think, if you should cut his hair, the transformation would be complete. Of course, we could be wrong. In which case, Edwina would win.”

  “Edwina would win what?” Darcy stared from one sister to the other. “What sort of wager have you made with that silly twit?”

  “Please, Darcy. We didn’t mean any harm….”

  Bethany turned to Ambrosia for support.

  “Aye. We simply mentioned the resemblance between Gryf and Gray. And when we mentioned Gryf’s hair, Edwina said it wouldn’t make any difference. And said she would wager that lovely mother-of-pearl comb you’ve always admired, against Bethany’s favorite blue sash, that she was right.”

  “You didn’t agree?” With her hands on her hips Darcy turned to Bethany.

  Her sister gave a mock sigh of distress. “It matters not. Kane promised to buy me a new sash the next time he goes to London.”

  Darcy was shaking her head. “How could you be so foolish as to fall into Edwina Cannon’s little trap?”

  Bethany touched a hand to her arm. “Don’t fret, Darcy. It was just a silly wager. We meant no harm by it.”

  Ambrosia reached into her pocket and withdrew a comb and a pair of scissors. “I’ll just leave these on your dresser, in case you decide you’d like to call Edwina’s bluff.”

  With Darcy glowering, the two sisters beat a hasty retreat.

  “Well?” Bethany whispered as they descended the stairs.

  Ambrosia merely smiled. “I’ve never known Darcy to be able to ignore a challenge. Especially if she thinks it comes from Edwina.”

  “Aye. That part was positively inspired, Ambrosia.”

  Her sister smiled. “Why, thank you.”

  The two women covered their mouths to stifle their giggles.

  “Is Whit asleep?” Darcy looked up as the bedroom door opened.

  Gryf nodded. “His eyes closed the minute his head hit the pillow. I’m sure all that fresh air had something to do with it.” He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Darcy’s waist, drawing her back against the length of him. “I’ll have to thank him in the morning. He’s just given us more time for each other.”

  He ran his hands down her arms, then held up her hand. “What’s this? Scissors? Were you thinking of cutting out my heart?”

  “Nay. Not your heart, my love. Your hair.”

  “You want to cut my hair?” The beginnings of a smile touched his lips at the thought of having her run her fingers through his hair. “Is this a family tradition?”

  “Something like that.” She turned. “You don’t mind?”

  He shrugged. “If you’d like to cut my hair, I’m more than willing to let you.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. For some strange reason, she’d expected an argument. “First you’d better remove your tunic.”

  While he did that, she studied the width of his shoulders, the muscles of his back. It was always such a surprise to her to see that taut, muscled body, and to feel that quick flash of heat.

  She spread several towels around the floor, then positioned a chair in the center of them, facing a tall looking glass. When he straddled the chair, she draped a towel around his shoulders.

  She picked up the comb and began moving it through his dark hair. It was the most purely sensual feeling she’d ever experienced, causing a tingling in the tips of her fingers that went all the way to her toes.

  As she worked she could feel him watching her in the mirror.

  “How much do you intend to cut?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll let you decide. Tell me when you think I’ve sheared enough.”

  “Aye.” He watched as dark hair drifted past his shoulders to land on the towels at his feet.

  At first her movements were awkward, hesitant. But after a few minutes she became more confident. The more she cut, the bolder she became, until her fingers were flexing and the scissors were flashing.

  He couldn’t help chuckling. “I believe you’re enjoying yourself, my love.”

  “I am. And you?”

  “Aye.” Gryf closed his eyes, loving the feel of her fingers against his scalp. Had any woman ever done this for him before? Wouldn’t a man remember such pleasure? Could the mind actually blot out such memories? How cruel that he couldn’t even recall a single touch, a kiss. The simplest of pleasures had been lost from his memory.

  Her movements stilled. The scissors suddenly dropped from her nerveless fingers. Struggling for calm, she remained standing as still as a statue.

  He heard the way her breath seemed to catch in her throat. At once his eyes snapped open.

  The first reflection he saw was his own. It was his face looking back, and yet not his face. He looked like a stranger. The removal of the beard had been shocking enough. But now, with his hair shorn, he hardly recognized himself.

  Then he caught sight of Darcy’s reflection. Her face had drained of all color. He stood, kicking aside the chair, grasping both her hands in his.

  “Who do you see when you look at me, Darcy?” His voice was tight and angry. His eyes hot and fierce.

  “I see…” Gray. His name played through her mind, mocking her. His image floated before her until she blinked furiously and tried to focus on the man who was facing her.

  She swallowed and tried again. “I see you, Gryf.”

  “Nay. I think not.” He hauled her closer to the looking glass, and caught her by the shoulders, so that he was standing directly behind her. Their reflections peered back at them, mocking them.

  “Look at me, Darcy.” His voice was entirely too calm. Too controlled. “Who do you see?”

  She swallowed and said nothing.

  “I understand. At least you’ve finally chosen honesty. Your silence speaks more than words.” He released her and crossed the room to pick up his tunic. As he pulled it on he said tiredly, “I’ve been so blinded by my love for you that I’ve refused to see the obvious.”

  “Please, Gryf…”

  “Nay.” He held up a hand, then began backing toward the door. “I love you, Darcy. Desperately. I don’t know if I’ve ever loved like this before. But I know what is in my heart. And it’s called love.”

  He studied her bowed head. His voice lowered. “And you claim to love me. But what you really want is to love me and the lad you lost. You want me to be both Gray and Gryf. And for a short time, I thought I could play the game, out of love for you. I allowed myself to bare my face, and my scars, knowing you were seeing, not me, but another. But now I see the folly of such playacting. It’s there in your eyes. When you see me, you see the one you lost. But I can’t be him, Darcy. Not even for
the woman I love.” He picked up his heavy coat and opened the door. Then he turned for one last look. Whatever pain he felt was masked by anger. His words were flung like daggers that landed with deadly accuracy in her heart. “Don’t wait for me. I won’t be back. I can’t be the man you wanted.”

  She couldn’t think of a single word to offer in her own defense. For the truth of it was, everything he’d said was true. She could offer nothing to refute his claim. And it hurt. Oh, how it hurt.

  All she could do was stare at him, eyes wide, jaw clamped, as he stormed out of the room.

  She heard the sound of his footsteps as he stomped down the stairs. Heard the front door open, then slam shut behind him. The sound seemed to reverberate through her mind until she pressed her hands to her ears to muffle it.

  And then there was only silence.

  It was the loneliest sound she’d ever heard.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Oh, Newt.” Bethany, out of breath, found the old sailor in a shed, carefully sorting through a pile of tools. “Thank heaven we’ve found you. Ambrosia and I have been searching for you everywhere. You must help us, Newt.”

  “Aye, lass.” He continued sifting through the pile, without looking up. “How can I help?”

  “You must go to the village and find out where Gryf is staying.”

  “Where he’s staying?” The old man lifted his head to study her. “Why wouldn’t he be staying here at MaryCastle?”

  “Because he left last night. He and Darcy had a terrible fight, and he told her he was leaving.”

  The old man returned his attention to the tools. “I heard the slamming of doors. The stomp of footsteps. A lovers’ spat. It happens. They’ll get together when they come to their senses.”

  “You don’t understand. Darcy said Gryf was deeply wounded because he thinks she wants him to be Gray. And all because she cut his hair. But it wasn’t her fault. It was mine.”

  “And mine,” Ambrosia cried as she came huffing up behind Bethany.

  At that the old man got to his feet and turned on them with an oath. “Ye couldn’t let it alone, could ye? Ye had to poke and prod, and bully the lass into doing things better left undone. Didn’t I tell ye not to meddle?”

  “Aye. You did.” Ambrosia’s eyes were red-rimmed, and it was obvious that she’d been weeping. “But we had no idea Gryf would become so enraged. Oh, Newt, Darcy said she’s never seen him so furious. She truly believes he’s gone for good. We’re not sure she’ll ever get over this. Her poor heart is broken beyond repair. She’s even sadder than when she heard about Gray’s accident.”

  The old man tossed aside the tools in his hand and turned on his heel. “I’ll go to the village. But I don’t see what I can do to help.”

  “Tell him that it wasn’t Darcy’s fault, Newt. Tell him it was our fault.” Bethany was openly sobbing now, as the enormity of the situation washed over her. “And tell him how sorry we are that we meddled.”

  Newton started away, then returned to gather the two young women close for an awkward hug. “Here now. Ye’re not to blame.”

  “We are,” Ambrosia sobbed. “We meddled, just like you said.”

  “Aye. Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve meddled a time or two myself.”

  The two young women sniffed and wiped at their eyes.

  “Just tell him, Newt.” Bethany’s voice was little more than a husky whisper over the tears that choked her. “And ask him to give Darcy another chance.”

  The old man started toward the village of Land’s End, wondering what in the world he could possibly say that would change the mind of a man who might be still simmering in the stew of his heated temper.

  He sighed. For all his lectures to the lasses, he was about to meddle again. He only hoped it didn’t make things worse than they already were.

  “Sign here.” The bewhiskered ship’s captain shoved a parchment toward Gryf, who scratched his name and handed back the quill.

  “We leave on the morrow. First light. Any man not aboard will be left behind without pay.”

  Gryf nodded and trailed a cluster of sailors who had also signed aboard the Jenny Mae, a cargo ship bound for India. As they filed into the tavern and ordered drinks, he climbed the stairs to the attic room he’d rented the night before.

  Inside he sank down on the edge of the cot and stared at the ships in the harbor. It had been the most miserable night of his life. He hadn’t thought anything could ever be worse than the night he’d awakened to find his flesh burned, his body scarred, and his mind blank. That had seemed like a nightmare. But this…this was real. A pain that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Perhaps this seemed worse because he could remember it so clearly. The shocked look on Darcy’s face as she’d studied his image in the mirror, and then the pained expression in her eyes when she realized that he was leaving for good.

  For good.

  Aye. It was for the best.

  Why, then, did it hurt so much?

  With a savage oath he got to his feet and headed down the stairs. There was no point in hiding in his room and making himself even more miserable. He may as well join his future shipmates in a round of drinks. It wouldn’t make anything right again. But it might help dull the pain a bit.

  Halfway down the stairs he saw the old man in the doorway. For a moment he was tempted to scurry back up the stairs and hide out in his room. Then he swore and continued down.

  A tavern wench sidled over just as Newt reached his side.

  “Whiskey.” Gryf pulled out a chair and settled himself at a battered wooden table.

  “The same.” The old man sat across from him.

  “Did she send you, Newt?”

  “Nay. The lass doesn’t know I’m here. ’Twas her sisters who sent me. It seems they feel they meddled in Darcy’s life, and prodded her into cutting ye’r hair.” He studied Gryf. “Ye do resemble him even more now, ye know.”

  Gryf pounded a fist on the table and swore. “I don’t give a damn who I look like. I can’t be someone I don’t even know. It’s hard enough just being me.”

  The old man fell silent.

  Ashamed of his outburst, Gryf’s voice lowered. “Don’t you see, Newt? I have nothing on which to draw this man I am now. No memory of my childhood. No image of my parents. My brothers and sisters. No notion of friends I may have had. Women I may have loved.” His voice trembled with emotion. “Children I may have fathered.”

  “I know it’s hard, lad.”

  “Hard?” Gryf’s eyes narrowed. He waited until the wench set the drinks in front of them and walked away.

  He picked up his drink and drained it in one long swallow, then slammed the tumbler onto the table.

  The wench returned to refill it. As she walked away he closed his hand around the glass, and stared at the man across from him.

  “I’ve been fooling myself, Newt. And Darcy, as well. I have no right to a woman like her. No right.” He picked up the glass and drained it. “I lay awake all night thinking about her. About us. I’m all wrong for her.” His voice rang with emotion. “She’s all that’s good and decent and fine.” He shook his head to add, “And I don’t know who or what I am. I could be a murderer. A thief. A womanizer.”

  Before the old man could interrupt he added quickly, “She has a family that loves her. Friends who’ll stand by her. Good friends like you and Winnie and Mistress Coffey. She’ll be fine. You’ll see.” He couldn’t stop the pain that crept into his voice as he added, “A year from now, she won’t even be able to remember my name.”

  He signaled for the serving wench, and she returned yet again to fill his glass.

  Newt continued watching him, without lifting his own glass to his lips.

  “And what about the lad?”

  “Whit?” Gryf experienced a wave of pain and clenched his teeth against it. “I’ve watched him with Darcy and her family. The boy’s blossoming under their care.”

  “And so ye intend to just turn ye
’r back on him? Abandon him?”

  “I’m not abandoning him.” Gryf’s voice was more passionate than he’d intended as he lifted the tumbler and drank. “I’ll send money for his care. And when I find a place to settle, I’ll send for him. If he still wants to join me, I’ll make a home for him.”

  “Do ye hear ye’rself, man?” Newton fixed him with a look. “Ye’re the most important person in that lad’s life. Ye’re the father he never had. His friend and protector. And now ye’re leaving him. Without a word.”

  “I can’t go back there, Newt. I can’t see him. Or Darcy.”

  “Why? Are ye afraid?”

  “Nay. I just don’t want to hurt them.”

  “They’re already hurt and, if I know the lad and lass, struggling not to let on just how much. But they’re hurting. And they’ll go on hurting, for as long as ye’re away from them. What ye’re really saying is, ye’re afraid to see the hurt in their eyes. For ye’re the one who put it there. Ye’re afraid to see what ye’ve done to them.”

  When Gryf said nothing in his own defense, Newton stared down at his drink for long silent minutes. Then he lifted his head and shoved the drink across the table toward the man seated there.

  “Ye drink it, Gryf. Maybe it’ll give ye the courage ye’re lacking. For I’ve just realized that ye’re afraid. Oh, ye put up a brave front. But inside, ye’re afraid. And ye’ve a right to be. It’s true, ye may never remember ye’r past. Ye’ll be denied the things we all take for granted. As ye said, ye’ll be a man with no childhood memories. No image of ye’r mother and father. No notion of the friends ye may have cared about. Or women ye’ve loved.” His voice lowered. “But at least ye have the most important things of all. The things we all yearn for in this world. Ye have a woman who loves ye, regardless of who or what ye may be. A grand woman, with the heart of a warrior. And a lad who adores ye. A lad who’d be proud to be ye’r son. And ye have a family that will stand by ye, Gryf.” He shoved back his chair and got to his feet, staring down at the man’s bowed head. “And whether or not ye care about such things, ye still have a friend, Gryf. A friend who’d be proud to sail with ye, and fight alongside ye.” He turned and walked away.