Selkie's Rapture

by Lena Loneson

  It was growing late and he passed no one as he carried the woman to the old lift. This had been one of his favorite parts of the hotel to write about. Although much of the castle had been updated, as the chandeliers in the lobby had been, the lift creaked open as if it hadn’t been oiled in years. The cagelike door reminded him of something from a steampunk movie. Victorian chic.

  He’d collected tales of strange happenings in that lift—some guests and villagers, after a few pints, confessed to seeing ghosts, though Áiné and the other hotel staff were silent on the matter. On his last trip to Tullamore twenty years ago, a bartender in the village had said he’d met a girl who had passed out in the lift and woken up hours later thinking she’d been transported back to the nineteenth century. Her dream had been so vivid, the bartender had said, that he’d nearly believed it.

  He eased the woman inside. Wouldn’t want to bang her head on the doorway, now.

  He pressed the button for the second floor and the lift creaked to life. It rattled and Eamon could have sworn he could hear the wind outside, buffeting the lift.

  No, wait…he could hear it inside the hotel. Inside the very lift that held him, swirling around his legs. He listened more closely.

  The girl in his arms whispered his name. “Eamon.”

  How did she know his name?

  He shivered in wet clothes. “You awake, little one?” He brushed wet, dark hair from her face. Her eyes remained shut. Her mouth didn’t move. She barely breathed.

  He cocked his head, listening. The lift jerked heavily as it reached the next floor, making him jump. But other than the screech of metal on metal, he heard nothing. Must be water in the ears. He manipulated his jaw. His imagination was getting carried away.

  The lift doors opened. “Here we go, we’ll get you dry as soon as can be.” She was getting heavy in his arms. His hands shook. The hallway was endless. Swiping the key card to his room took three tries.

  Hot air and the pleasant smell of burning wood wafted out at him. It was absolutely heavenly. Eamon entered the room with the gratitude of a man back from the dead. And perhaps he was—birthed from the womb of the angry sea, glad to be free in the world again. The thick green carpet was soft and springy beneath his injured feet. A sigh of relief heaved from his lungs.

  The fireplace crackled, a small fire flickering beneath the mesh guard. Who had set the fire for him? Áiné? He’d have to remember to thank her later.

  “This’ll keep us warm, little one. Let me get you set and I’ll build the fire higher.”

  He laid the girl on the king-sized bed, pulling the thick duvet aside. He touched her neck and found a pulse, leaned in to hear her breathing. Both were strong, though she wheezed a bit with the cold. Small tremors still rocked her body. Her dress was soaked and tattered.

  What was worse? Leave the woman shivering in the wet cotton, or scare her when she woke up alone with a man and naked?

  Best to call Áiné. He would leave the girl in her capable hands, and she’d have a change of clothing, even if the tiny brunette would swim in the fabric. Eamon reached for the bedside phone, his finger poised to call the front desk.

  When he raised the receiver to his ear, there was no dial tone, only the sound of distant wind. He hung up and tried again, then jiggled the phone cord. Nothing but wind, and perhaps the distant crash of surf against the shore, if he wasn’t imagining it. The phone against his ear was useless as a conch shell, and his cell was still charging.

  Her body shivered harder. She wheezed again as she shook. He couldn’t leave her while he went looking for Áiné, so it was up to him. Eamon told himself he wouldn’t look as he stripped the dripping white cotton from her body. He mostly managed it, his eyes only catching flashes of white skin and freckles on thighs and stomach, where he didn’t expect them. He spoke to her quietly as with fumbling fingers he unbuttoned her dress. “Sorry about this, my dear—we have to get you warm.” Tracing the constellations of her freckles with his fingers would be a bad idea.

  As he pulled the sleeves of her dress down over her arms, he noted a strange webbing between her fingers. The pale skin stretched between them. He traced it with his own finger. The skin was soft and uncalloused. Matching webbing filled the spaces between her toes.

  He remembered the voice in the lift and the almost unnatural way he’d unerringly swum toward her in the storm. What was she?

  He left on her bra and knickers. It seemed like a decent compromise. Eamon decided not to notice the way the fabric of the cream-colored bra had turned translucent, showing the faint outline of dark areolae beneath.

  To counteract the all-too-personal place his mind was going to, he switched to his most businesslike journalist interview voice and spoke to her aloud.

  “All right, miss. We’ll get you good and warm immediately.”

  He wrapped the woman in a knitted afghan, pulling it tight around her, then positioned her body under the sheets and duvet on the bed. He arranged her hair carefully, spreading it out above her head onto an extra pillow to keep the wetness away from her face.

  Once that was done, he stared helplessly at her until her shaking began to quiet.

  He was freezing. The water and the wind had seeped into his very bones. If he felt like this, without having nearly drowned, he could only imagine the poor woman’s discomfort.

  He allowed himself a moment to strip off his wet clothes and pull on warm flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt. He briefly eyed the dress shirts and slacks that lay atop his suitcase. Maybe he should look a little nicer when she awoke. But his vanity was unnecessary. He was cold and it wasn’t as if he were planning to seduce the woman in his bed.

  Oh, that’s not good, Eamon.

  If he was going to stay dispassionate, he needed not to think of her naked body as being in his bed. Instead it was the bed. The hotel’s bed. Where plenty of folks had slept. Slept, woken, made love, their bodies intertwined on sweaty sheets as they shuddered to a climax.

  Yeah, that wasn’t helping.

  He should think of something to sing. He’d find that comforting, maybe, in her place—a lullaby.

  Was Carrickfergus a piece she loved, or the last lament she’d chosen before ending her own life?

  Just because Keelin had adored the song, that didn’t mean this woman would. They were so different. Keelin had been peaches and cream, full of life, her honey-yellow hair always shining, even in the darkest room. Her complexion had been rosy, her eyes twinkling. This woman’s skin had olive undertones, but now she looked deathly pale. Her hair, as black as the night sky, sucked the light from her flesh. She was beautiful and tiny, but beautiful like a china doll rather than a living, breathing person.

  The woman stirred on the bed, whimpering. Eamon leaned closer. “Are you awake, little one?”

  She lifted her lids. His heart somersaulted in his chest as he fell into the deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Ah, she was a beautiful lass. As she caught his gaze, the woman blinked and smiled a small smile at him—just the corners of her lips turning up, so slightly. She didn’t show her teeth the way Keelin would have. She didn’t laugh or bat her eyelashes coyly.

  But something in that smile… How wrong he’d been about the lack of life in her body. Her whole face changed and that smile filled the room with light. He wanted to lean in and claim her mouth with his and never let it go.

  Chapter Four

  There was a man in her bed.

  Nora woke and found him staring at her. She’d met a lot of red-haired men, but not this one. She’d have remembered those strange gray eyes, ghostly amidst his freckles. She scooted backward and smashed her shoulder on the headboard. Ouch.

  “Are you all right?” the man asked her. “I won’t hurt you.” He pulled back from where he’d been seated on the bed next to her. Why was he wearing pajamas? Had they slept together? With the way his muscles rippled under his T-shirt, she’d remember that. His hair was wet and the shirt clung to his chest as if the skin were still damp. He was
illuminated by the fireplace and a small, delicate stained-glass lamp on the bedside table. His shadow loomed on the wall by the bed.

  Was she all right? Nora sucked in a breath. It smelled of smoke and the comforts of home. Her lungs felt halfway frozen. It hurt to inhale. The air was too warm inside her. A bodhran pounded the beat of her heart into her brain. She shivered. She recalled the churning blackness of the sea and a strong body pulling her to shore. She was alive because of him.

  Alive and half-naked. She touched her bra beneath the quilted duvet. Good thing she was so damn cold. Kept her face from turning bright red with embarrassment.

  “Lass? Are you all right?” The Irish endearment sounded strange on his tongue—he might have been native, she wasn’t sure, but he hadn’t lived in Ireland in some years. America, perhaps? Right. Keep focused on who he might be. Then she wouldn’t freak out.

  Nora managed a small nod and a smile, thinking of her mother’s advice. Always best to smile when you don’t know what to say. At least folks’ll think you’re pleased to meet them. Her eyes darted about the room. Green carpet, spread out like a lawn around the bed. High, gothic-style windows with stars peeking through. Tullamore?

  “I’m getting there.” Her voice scratched in her throat. Ugh. She coughed to clear it. His frown deepened. “No, truly. I’ll be well. Thank you.”

  “It was no trouble.”

  The laugh that escaped her chest made her cough even more. She managed to gasp in between choking, “Surely it was a bit of trouble. Seein’ as you’re soaked to the bone and all.”

  He gave her back a rueful grin.

  A deep breath warmed her. She wasn’t scared anymore to see him on the bed with her. Hazy memories continued to surface. She’d been aware when he’d pulled her from the water. She’d heard the murmur of his strange half-Irish accent in her subconscious and felt the comparative warmth of his body pressed against hers. She was surprised by how intensely masculine his features were. His light baritone had led her to expect someone younger, closer to her own twenty years. Someone slight, growing into his manhood. No—this one was already there.

  His hair was a wet auburn, curling a few inches long against his forehead. The day’s stubble dotted his angular face. What really drew her attention was the contrast of fog-gray eyes, so strange on a redhead. They stared straight into hers, filled with concern, and the pupils had expanded in a way Nora realized was desire.

  She shouldn’t be blushing. She’d had many a man look at her that way before…at least until they saw her hands and feet.

  But this one had pulled her from the sea. It isn’t every day a man saves your life.

  Especially when you’d been dreaming about meeting a man in the sea for at least half of that life, since puberty. Was this the man who left her wet many a morning?

  Nora couldn’t stop shaking. Her body rattled like a wagon on the rough country roads west of Tullamore. She clutched her arms and curled her knees into her chest, trying to stop the shivers.

  “You’re still cold,” he said. “Let me put some more wood on the fire.”

  As he moved to the fireplace her breath came more easily. She’d been holding it in at his nearness. She was acutely aware of the gray T-shirt that clung to his damp skin. He must be cold too. The fire flickered before him, catching the sparks in his flame-colored hair.

  She tried to think of something intelligent to say.

  “You should get some socks on.” Well. Not particularly intelligent, but it would have to do. “The floors in this wing are bloody freezing.” It was true—even with the lush green rug she saw blooming like a field beneath his feet, Tullamore still had a bit of a chill to it. Although the hotel was luxurious, and this room was no exception, it was still a large castle.

  “You know where you are then, little one?”

  She nodded. “Castle Tullamore.” She knew it well. Nora played a regular gig in The Cave, Tullamore’s underground lounge and former dungeon. On a musician’s salary, she didn’t get to stay in the rooms often, but she and the band had pooled their money to celebrate in a suite after their first album release. The ladies of the folk band Grainne O’Mailleshad enjoyed a grand night of it. “You’re staying here?”

  “Yes.” As he struggled with the fireplace, she quieted to give him a chance to work. As he poked at the fire with a cast-iron rod, she watched the muscles tug at the cotton of his shirt. Would he climb into bed when he’d finished? She didn’t know his name. Perfect. That was how she liked it. And the exhaustion of her body meant she wouldn’t even need a pint to relax her enough to press her tongue between his lips.

  He was traveling through, wasn’t he? Getting involved with a local, even one brand-new to the area, wasn’t in the cards for her. “What are you doing at Tullamore?”

  “I’m a writer. My editor asked for a follow-up piece on the hotel, so here I am.”

  He must make a right decent wage to afford this room. It was one of the larger suites. She hadn’t seen it before but she knew the structure of the room and the height of the ceiling, pressing toward the sky, as if they were old friends. Plus there was Áiné’s decorating touch. Each room was a little different. This one was done in lush greens. The carpet and the duvet drew the eye to them just as the grassy hills of Ireland did. Modern photographs of the beachside cliffs hung starkly on the walls. The fire crackled. It was a nature-lover’s room but with the comfort of fine living.

  The description her mind pulled forth seemed familiar. Where had she heard it? No, seen it. Nora let her lashes fall, thinking back to a framed piece of paper, corners curling, displayed in the lobby of the castle in a place of pride above the main check-in desk.

  “What do you write?”

  The fire flared up. The man replaced the mesh guard and sat back on his haunches. He didn’t turn to face her. “Travel pieces.”

  He turned his face to her. He must be at least twice Nora’s age. Was this the man who had made Tullamore famous? “Anything in particular?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  Fine. He could be that way. She understood the appeal of anonymity. And Tullamore had many a tragedy in its history.

  Nora sighed and leaned back into the pillows. Ah, the bed was marvelous. She’d love to sleep there for a year and the bed was so big she could stretch out next to a man without touching him. Soft down molded to her. Her still-damp hair brushed over her neck and she shivered again. Blasted body just wouldn’t warm up.

  “You’re still cold.” He rose and sat beside her on the bed. It sank under his weight.

  She nodded. “Sorry. Just can’t seem to get my blood working.” He was sitting less than a foot from her. She could reach out, run a hand down his freckled arm. Smooth down the red hair that spiked toward the ceiling in a wet mess. Nora leaned toward him. She was close enough to count his eyelashes. Close enough to press her mouth to his.

  He moved back before she had the chance. “I should call you a doctor.” Damn it. The concern in his gray eyes should have melted the ice in her veins, if nothing else could. But if Dr. O’Reilly was called, Nora knew it would be approximately five seconds before her mother was pounding on the suite’s door. Word traveled too quickly in the village.

  No. She couldn’t take the fear and disappointment in her mother’s eyes. How would she explain the near-drowning? Slipping on a section of wet sand wouldn’t cut it. Mary Catherine would know—she’d know that Nora, whether consciously or unconsciously, had chosen to leave her, just as Nora’s father had.

  “No, please. I’ll be fine.” The fear rose in her voice. “Please, no doctors. I need to warm up. That’s all. I feel fine.” The shudder that ran through her body made a lie of her words.

  The frown on the man’s full lips turned thoughtful. “You’re freezing.”

  She shouldn’t admit it. He’d call the doctor. But his strong arms were damn inviting. Maybe she could provide another solution?

  “I’m not really wearing very much.” She knew he knew t
hat. He was the one who’d taken her dress off, after all. “There’s nothing to hold in my body heat. Unless you’d be willing to warm me up yourself.” She exaggerated her shivering for his benefit.

  Nora saw his eyes drift down to where her breasts trembled above her bra and the duvet that encased them. His chest moved as he inhaled. Ah, not so immune to her after all.

  “Sorry,” he said, averting his eyes. “All right. I’ll warm you up and I promise not to look.”

  Only to touch?

  That was fine with her.

  Nora pulled the duvet aside and he slipped under it. As he slid one arm around her back, she felt the dampness on his body that she’d noticed earlier. He hadn’t even taken time to properly dry himself. But it was a warm dampness, and most welcome. She flicked off the lamp on the bedside table, sending the room into shadows from the crackling fire, and crawled farther into his arms. He lifted her and shifted his body under hers as if she were nothing but a feather pillow he was adjusting.

  “Come here,” he whispered, pulling her down against him. She gave in to his strength. The flannel of his pants skimmed roughly over her bare legs. She let her chest rest against his. Her nipples had pebbled in the cold water and remained so sensitive that they ached as they brushed his chest. His hands moved over the bare skin of her back, stroking her, moving to her shoulders and down her arms in repetitive warming motions, calming her shivering.

  He was older than she by fifteen or twenty years. She could see it in the crags carved into the skin around his eyes. Laughter lines, but also lines of sadness, she suspected. This was a man who’d truly lived.

  He smelled of the sea. They both did.

  Ah, but her eyes were heavy. She let them close and drank in the brine of him. Her breathing slowed to match his. She worked on her pulse next, lowering her head to his chest, an ear by his heart. The waltz-beat of his heart was slow and steady. Strong. She could match it and be strong too.

  His hands played with her hair, running through tangles. A pleasurable murmur escaped her throat.