The Highlander and the Sea Siren
Marguerite Kaye
When Lachlan Sinclair finds a naked young woman named Morven stranded on the shore of his Scottish isle, he is instantly drawn the beautiful being…and is surprised to discover that she feels the same burning desire that he does! Though Morven doesn’t remember her home or family, she is sure of one thing: that she has come to be with Lachlan.
But despite their unbridled passion, both Morven and Lachlan fear for their future. For once Morven remembers who—and what—she is, she must decide if she wants to return home or make a new life with Lachlan…and their child.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Port of Ness is a little fishing village nestled at the far western corner of the Hebridean Isle of Lewis. It’s a remote and beautiful place, with the cottages and crofts hugging the cliff top, and the moorland stretching, brown and gold and umber into the distance. A steep path winds its way from the centre of the village, meandering through the white-washed thatched cottages to the harbour. The silver sands of the beach stretch in an inviting crescent, following the contours of the starkly rising, forbidding cliffs.
The sea is the life-blood of the people of Ness, called Niseachs in their own Gaelic language, but her plunder is often hard won, for she is a temperamental mistress, calm and inviting one minute, seething and roiling the next. Even in the height of summer, the tranquillity of the glittering turquoise depths can turn gunmetal grey, the gentle white-crested surf becoming a vicious swell, high enough to envelop the tiny fishing boats, powerful enough to consume the strongest swimmer.
As you would expect, the sea forms a central role in the customs and lore of the Niseachs, too. No wife will do her laundry on the day her man goes out in his boat, for fear of him being washed away. A minister, a red-haired woman, even a man with a squint, are bad luck to meet on the way to a boat. Equally bad luck, it is, to say the words Kirk, hare or pig. All can rouse the sea from her slumber, though she can be appeased by the touching of cold iron, or the presence of a child’s caul.
Lullabies and stories while away the long winter’s nights on Ness. Huddled together for warmth in front of the peat fire, the Niseachs tell of sirens and mermaids and shipwrecks and lost souls.
This is one such tale.
Chapter 1
Port of Ness, Late Nineteenth Century
The storm had been raging all night. Waves pounded relentlessly onto the shore, huge breakers like vicious maws, churning the sand, casting seaweed and shells high over the usual tide line, as far as the cliffs on top of which Lachlan Sinclair’s house perched, at the furthermost point of the village.
It was Midsummer’s Eve, a strange night for such a tempest. Unable to sleep, Lachlan rolled out of bed and padded naked over to the window. Pushing back the shutter and lifting the sash, he was assaulted by a cold blast of air, which whipped his shoulder-length black hair straight back from his face. Above him, the thatch rustled and lifted with the force of the gale. The shutter was wrenched out of his hand, banging against the stone of the cottage wall.
Below him, the sea was a cauldron of movement. The sky, which had been velvet black and cloudless, scattered with stars when he went to bed, was now a strange colour of silvery grey streaked with dusky pink.
An ominous sky, he thought, stretching out of the window to look up beyond the overhang of the thatch. There was something in the air, no doubt about it. The hairs on the back of his arm stood on end, though the storm was not an electrical one.
A gust of wind whirled through the room, scattering ash from the embers of the fire. Lachlan hastily closed the window. Sleep had deserted him. With practiced ease, he relit the fire and hooked the heavy kettle over it. Soon, the room was filled with the familiar smell of smoking peat, and the less usual–for these parts–aroma of delicate China tea. Lachlan measured the leaves carefully from the enamelled tea chest that had belonged to his grandmother, smiling as usual at the delicately painted and comical figure of the sampan man, who was hiding in the reeds and sneaking a sly look at the bathing geisha girl.
Sipping on the pale brew from the cup and saucer with the dragons, which had also been his grandmother’s, Lachlan allowed his thoughts to drift back in time. He’d spent every holiday he could down at the big old house just outside Fairlie on the south west coast of Scotland, where his grandparents had lived. His grandfather had been a merchant, but his real love was the sea. His tea clippers were the sleekest and fastest in the world, but he used to race yachts, too, and had a small boatyard in the town that built luxury craft. Here, Lachlan spent most of his time sweeping up wood shavings, fetching and carrying, varnishing and caulking, until over the years he learned every part of the trade. In the afternoons there was Lapsang Souchong in his grandmother’s drawing room, where afternoon tea, with her own home-made drop scones and Dundee cake, was as much an unmissable ritual as the laying out of the skeleton of a new boat, or the launch of a finished one. Soothed by the memories, Lachlan fell into a doze by the fire.
He awoke as dawn broke. Pulling on his shirt and belting his rough work trousers, he decided to see for himself what havoc the night had wreaked. The sky was new-washed, the palest of blue tinged with the blushing pink of the early morning. Barefoot, Lachlan made his way out of the cottage, along the cliff top, to the narrow path that zigzagged down the cliffs to the beach.
The sea was aquamarine and almost flat calm now, the gently lapping waves like contented sighs on the silver sand. A thick line of weed marked the zenith of its rage. Lachlan made his way along the beach, a tall figure glowing with health, his long legs striding with ease on the hard sand, his hair ruffled by the breeze that flattened his shirt against his torso, outlining the broad shoulders and muscled chest of a man used to physical labour.
At the far end of the beach, where the harbour wall curved out to sea, was a clump of rocks. Here were deep pools filled with vibrant anemones, scuttling crabs, flounders and tiddlers, a favourite spot with the bairns. From a distance, he took it for a large clump of weed, huddled against the rocks. The pale shimmer showing through, he took for sand. Then it moved. Too large for a beached porpoise, his first thought. And too pale. Lachlan approached cautiously. Not weed, but hair. Not sand, but skin. Even as he looked in amazement, the shape unfurled and revealed itself to be a young woman of astonishing beauty, with the most speaking pair of deep brown eyes he had ever seen.
She gazed at him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. Her skin had a lustre like silver, as if polished by the sand. Her hair, long and silken, was the same deep brown of her eyes, curling down over her shoulders to the small of her back, curtaining the roundness of her breasts. It was only then that Lachlan realised she was completely naked.
To his embarrassment, he was instantly aroused. Realising he had been staring at her enticing curves, he managed to drag his eyes up to her face. “Are you hurt?”
The girl shook her head.
“What happened to you? Did you fall overboard in the storm?”
Another shake of her head. “I don’t know.”
Her voice was husky, a low tone that seemed to vibrate somewhere in the pit of his stomach. She was sitting up now, stretching out her arms above her head, showing the full curve of her breasts, a hint of rosy nipple, the dip of her rib cage, the sweeping indent of her waist, apparently quite unconcerned by–or perhaps unaware of–her naked state.
Dear God, but she was beautiful. Lachlan�
�s erection pressed insistently up towards his belly. “Do you have a name, lass,” he asked, trying desperately to ignore his inappropriate state.
The girl looked up at him. Her eyes were like rock pools, deep and dark, glinting light in their depths. She had a fey look about her, as if she could see things in him he’d rather keep hidden. He was being daft, but still–he struggled not to look away. “Morven,” she said, and smiled at him, showing perfect white teeth. “My name is Morven.”
“I’m Lachlan Sinclair. I live in the house on top of the cliff up yonder. You’ve had a shock, I don’t doubt. Perhaps you’d like to rest there a while, and maybe then you’ll remember what happened to you.”
Morven got to her feet in one easy, fluid movement, shading her eyes from the rising sun to fix her gaze on the cottage. “You live alone? Or do you have a mate?”
“A mate! I’m not married, if that’s what you mean.” She was a slight thing, coming up only to his shoulder. Shapely legs. Surprisingly long narrow feet. Her hair fell past her waist, caressing the slope of her bottom. He was staring again. Hastily, Lachlan pulled his shirt over his head and handed it to her. “Here, you’d best put this on.”
Morven looked down at her body in surprise. She ran her hand over the curve of her breast to her stomach, her thigh, closing her eyes as if savouring the touch. Lachlan, too, closed his eyes. The caress was incredibly sensuous. He could not help but imagine his own hand tracing the same path.
“So soft,” Morven said, her hands trailing back up to cup her breast as she pulled the shirt over her head. It smelled of man. This man. Lachlan Sinclair. She liked it. Her nipple hardened in her palm, giving her a delightful shiver. Lachlan Sinclair. He was tall, much taller than she, and broad. Well-muscled shoulders and arms. She reached out her hand to touch him. Hard chest where hers was soft. Skin smooth, but different. Tanned. She traced the shape of his ribs. A more pronounced dip to his stomach than hers, which was very slightly rounded. More muscles. She saw them shimmer and flex as he breathed in under her touch. “Different,” she said, finding the slight fuzz of hair on his abdomen, just where his belt was buckled.
Lachlan captured her wrist. Her hand lay still in his grip, spread over his stomach. She could feel his breathing, faster than her own. “What are you playing at,” he demanded.
He had eyes the colour of the sky at dusk. Midnight blue. Hair as black as sea coal. With her free hand, Morven reached up to touch his face. A rasp of stubble on his jaw. A strong nose. She touched her own. Smaller. More snubbed. Lachlan was still looking at her with a strange expression. As if he didn’t want her to touch him. As if he did. “Did I do something wrong?”
“It’s not customary to be so intimate with complete strangers,” he said. He was beginning to wonder if he was dreaming.
She liked the way his mouth moved when he spoke. It was a beautiful mouth. Soft, but firm. She wanted to taste him. But perhaps that was not the custom here, either. “You mean I shouldn’t touch you? But–how then do you get to know someone?”
Lachlan released her wrist and forced himself to take a step away from the beguiling creature in front of him. “We talk.”
“Talk?” Morven looked confused. “What about touch? Smell? Taste?”
Was she teasing him? The thought of touching, tasting, drinking in the scent of her, was almost too much for his self-control. She had a mouth that begged to be kissed. Parts of him, parts that had lain dormant for months now, were begging him to do just that. To kiss her. His erection had become painful. Without meaning to, Lachlan took a step toward her again. He closed his eyes. Salt and sunshine and something else. Heat. Vanilla. What Morven smelled of was desire. He opened his eyes and thought he saw his own wanting reflected in hers. Eyes like dark pools to drown in.
She put her hands onto his chest, feeling the beat of his heart through the wall of muscle and bone. Slower than hers. Reliable. Solid. Trustworthy. She ran her hand fleetingly down the front of his trousers, feeling the hard length of him. And virile, she thought with satisfaction.
Choose carefully, Morven. Remember, they are not like us. You must not trust too easily. Her eldest sister’s words, so clear it was as if she had spoken them. But though Lachlan Sinclair was the first, somehow she was sure she would not meet a better one. She decided to ignore the advice of all of her sisters, as she so often did.
Instead, she nuzzled her face into Lachlan’s neck, drinking in the scent of him. Musky. Warm. Overwhelmingly other. Distinctively, decidedly male. Her instincts were right, Lachlan Sinclair was the one. She wanted him. Already she knew she would not want another.
So astounded was Lachlan by Morven’s blatant assault on his body that his normally certain mind was frozen into immobility. She was showing not a trace of embarrassment, as if what she were doing was not wanton but right. He tried to conjure up outrage, even mild shock, but could feel only need. Light-headed with desire, he was deeply aroused. His saner self told him to put a stop to things, but on another, baser level, he did not want it to end–or only to conclude. His conscience must be satisfied with compliance, rather than encouragement. It was the most he could do.
Even this he struggled with, as Morven burrowed her face into his chest. Her hands traced the outline of his torso. Lachlan inhaled sharply as she rubbed her cheek against his abdomen, breathing him in. “Morven.” He did not know what he meant by it, save the need to say her name, as if doing so would make her real. He was pretty sure now that she was not.
“Lachlan.” His name on her lips was like poetry. No one had ever said it in quite that way. “Lachlan,” Morven said again, as if to imprint his name on her mind. It was a perfect name. The very name she would have chosen, if she had known it.
She stood on her tiptoes, pressing herself against him, enjoying the delightful way her soft curves shaped themselves into the form of his unyielding body. So strange. So unexpectedly perfect. She twined her arms behind his neck, enjoying the springy silkiness of his hair, so vibrant with life. Her fingers caressed his nape, down to the breadth of his shoulders. Her breasts brushed his chest through the thin barrier of the shirt she wore. His shirt.
Lachlan could feel the heat of her skin. The faint fluttering of her heart. Fast. Very fast. The scent of her, stronger now, went to his head. He shouldn’t be doing this. She was obviously deranged from whatever accident had cast her up onto the shore. But she didn’t look deranged, she looked irresistible, and he had never felt like this before, without the will to do anything but her bidding. He bent his head. “Taste,” he said, as his lips met hers.
She kissed him tentatively, as if she really were tasting him, delicately nibbling on his bottom lip. He had never been kissed like this before. It was tantalising, like a glimpse of dawn on the promise of a beautiful day, or the first star, flickering in the night sky.
Touch. He put his arms around her. Stroking the line of her back, the indent of her waist, the silken fall of her hair.
Smell. He drank in the scent of her, feeling it like a rush of sensation to his head. Desire, mingling with an urge to protect, to keep her safe.
More taste. He cupped his hand on the back of her head, angling her mouth more securely against his. Her lips were soft. She tasted of heat, of the sea, of something else, heady and luscious. Nectar, sweet and potent. The flicker of her tongue on his lips now, darting into his mouth. The brush of it on his own, stirred his blood.
Morven sighed and moved closer. She opened her mouth, inviting him to take possession. He was all she had hoped and so much more. The first, but she was absolutely certain that he was to be the best. There could not be another such as this. She felt heavy, weighted down with a drugging desire. Her hands roamed over his back, the taut perfection of his flesh. He tasted of power, and strength, and man. She wanted to taste him all. She had not known it would be quite like this. Deliciously exciting. Like swimming against the tide.
Warmth spread through her as his tongue touched hers. The tone of his kiss changed. Suddenly
Lachlan was dictating, his mouth commanding. She liked it. She wanted to surrender to it, and she realised that this, the surrender, must be the point. His shaft pressed against her thighs. She began to wrestle with his belt, but he stopped her. “Not here.”
Looking around at the deserted beach, Morven could not think of anywhere more perfect, but she reminded herself she did not know the ways here. “Where then?”
Lachlan shook his head, as if to clear it. “Are you real?”
Morven smiled. Her mouth was enticing. “As real as you are.”
“Why are you here? Who are you?” He raked his hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.
Why was she here? She knew only one thing. “I’m here for you.” She took his hand. “Where shall we go?”
Lachlan hesitated, but only for a fraction. His mind was filled with her. His body ached for her. If he was under her spell, he cared not. If this was a dream, he did not want to wake up. “Up there.”
He indicated his cottage on the headland. Wispy smoke curled up from the chimney into the lightening sky. Morven tugged on his hand. Lachlan followed her across the sand, so intent on her lithe form swaying seductively in front of him that he did not notice the black-clad figure of Ishbel Macfarlane watching them from the harbour wall.
Chapter 2
Lachlan pushed open the door of the cottage and stood back to allow Morven to precede him. She stepped through the threshold into the main room, and looked around. It felt peaceful and welcoming. She walked over to the partition, which separated the living room from the sleeping quarters, pushing aside the heavy folds of the drape that covered the doorway. She was conscious all the time of Lachlan’s eyes upon her, of his holding himself in check until she was ready for him. Her instincts had been right. He was an honourable man.
The Highlander and the Sea Siren Page 1
