Selkie's Rapture

by Lena Loneson

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay, little swimmer?”

  She opened her eyes to meet his concerned gaze, angling her head to look up at his face. His head rested on a pillow and hers on his chest. What must this man think of her? How could she explain what had driven her into the sea?

  She couldn’t. “Yes. I’m warming now. Though I feel more than a touch ridiculous,” Nora said, ducking her head to hide her embarrassment behind a waterfall of hair. The locks that shielded her face smelled of sea salt. “I’m a strong swimmer most times. Growing up on the coast gives one a healthy respect for the tides. Can’t say what got into me.” She kept her face turned away.

  “The sea can come out of nowhere.”

  It was an odd thing to say. Though it was true, it wasn’t as though it had swept her from the beach. She’d walked right into it.

  The roughness of his voice hinted at something more behind his words. “You sound like a man with experience.”

  “Yes.”

  He wasn’t saying any more. That was fine with her. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have, though now they had begun speaking, it felt right strange to be curled up on top of a man yet not talk with him.

  “How did you know I needed saving?”

  “I heard the music. Then I heard it stop.”

  “My whistle!” She’d forgotten. She’d just dropped it there in the dirt before diving in the water. Another sign she’d clearly not been in her right mind. “I left it on the beach. Aw, fuck—it was my only D whistle.” She hated losing an instrument. They were family. Each pennywhistle had been sought out for the perfect craftsman using the perfect materials, whether tin, wood or shining silver. She repaired them when they needed fixing. Cared for, cleaned and packed them away at the end of each gig. If she’d been in her right mind, she’d never have discarded one like trash.

  “I saw it before I dived in after you. I’m sorry, I don’t have it with me. It was stuck in the sand, but when we came out of the water we were much farther down. We could go back and look for it tomorrow if you like.”

  Nora’s cheeks grew warm at the thought of the words we and tomorrow together. As if they might spend the whole night in this bed, pressed together for heat. “That would be nice.”

  “We’ll find it. The isle wouldn’t let us lose such beautiful music.”

  “Aye, that it wouldn’t.” She liked the way he thought. An appreciation for the old country. “Why did you move away from Ireland?”

  His body stiffened against her. His fingers stopped stroking her back. “Painful memories.”

  She nodded. It was a personal question. She’d press, but it wasn’t as if she’d be any more forthcoming about her own history. She burrowed in farther against his warm skin. “Thank you for calling my music beautiful.”

  “It brought me near to tears. Carrickfergus?”

  “Yes, I suppose it was.” She didn’t remember the last song she’d played before diving in, but it made sense. The water’s wide. I canna cross over. The English lyrics echoed in her head.

  “A beautiful song,” he said. He shifted under her and his voice grew quiet. She almost didn’t catch his next words. “It was my wife’s favorite.”

  “You’re married?” Nora sucked in a breath. The smoke from the fireplace tasted acrid now. She shouldn’t feel such dismay. As attractive as the man was, she’d only just met him. But he hadn’t been wearing a ring. It seemed unfair to toy with a lass’s heart that way.

  “Was. She died years ago.”

  She had to lean closer to hear him.

  “I’m so sorry.” She touched his hand. In the shadowy room, with only the fire giving light, she felt safe enough to touch his hand with hers. He wouldn’t see her fingers.

  “Keelin always did enjoy the sad songs. She wasn’t like that all the time though. She was like you—sparkling and full of life, and young.”

  Her smile was quizzical. Sparkling and full of life? He’d just pulled her from the water in what must have looked like an attempt at suicide. What an odd man, to say such nice things about her after that.

  Strange to feel envy for a dead woman, but there it was. With her free hand, Nora clutched at her stomach as it somersaulted. He knew what being lonely was, more than she did. At least she’d only met her lover in a dream. This man…well he had found his, married her, then lost her.

  The least she could do was cheer him up.

  “Carrickfergus isn’t always a sad one though,” she offered.

  “Really?” The liveliness came back into his voice—not happiness, no, but interest. He laced his fingers through hers. Very warm fingers.

  “Nay. Have you heard the original Irish lyrics?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, there’s some debate over whether Do bhí bean uasal was an early version of Carrickfergus or another ditty entirely. I’d get into the history of it all but I’d bore you terribly.”

  “You’d never bore me.”

  “Ah, right then.” Her face warmed. “Well, the Gaelic lyrics are about a man cuckolded by his noblewoman wife.” She quietly sang a little of the first verse. Her throat still ached from coughing up so much water but she managed a light alto that didn’t shame her.

  A smile pulled at his lips. “I wonder if Keelin knew that. I bet she did. It would have added to the appeal of the song.”

  “The band and I get a lot of requests to play it at weddings. Particularly from foreigners doing the destination thing. Seems pretty daft. Either you know the English lyrics, which are about lovers who can’t be together, or you know the Irish, which don’t bode well for the marriage either, do they?” Oh, bugger. “You didn’t play that at your wedding, did ye? Did I just totally muck up a lovely conversation?”

  His answering laugh told her she hadn’t. His smile went right to his eyes. Ah, even with minimal light they were gorgeous eyes, catching flames from the fire in their gray depths. Light clouds on a summer day that might turn to storm at a moment’s notice. She could very easily lose herself in them. She squeezed his hand more tightly.

  He pulled their entwined hands closer to his face. His expression turned thoughtful and he grasped her hand in both of his, turning it, examining the fingers.

  Bloody hell. Nora pulled her hand away roughly. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s nothing.” She clasped her hands together behind her back, hiding them.

  “You pulled away as if I were an electric fence.”

  “It’s not you.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Her face must be bright red, from the heat she could feel in her cheeks. Ridiculous. Sometimes she cursed her paleness. Ugh, if she were a witch rather than merely a freak, she could put out the fire with a spell and plunge the room into darkness. Alas, she wasn’t.

  She should just tell him, let him have his moment of revulsion and move on or not.

  She opened her mouth but couldn’t bring herself to say any words. She sat there gaping like a caught fish. Brilliant.

  “Is it your hands? The webbing?”

  Hell. Of course. He’d seen the bloody things already, when he’d pulled her from the water. When he’d undressed her, he’d had all the time in the world to take a closer look. She closed her mouth and nodded.

  “It doesn’t bother me.”

  She highly doubted that. Maybe he hadn’t had a good enough look yet.

  “Really.”

  It was probably time to say something. Something like, “Ah, don’t you worry, I’m used to it.” Or, “The villagers say me ma was porked by a seal-man.” She kept her mouth shut.

  “Can I see?”

  Reluctantly she gave him her left hand to hold. He spread her fingers, tracing the calluses on the tips of her fingers from the pennywhistle holes, then brushing the webbing between her fingers lightly with his own, eyeing it with a small smile on his generous mouth. She could lean in and lick those lips. Get a quick taste before he pulled away.


  Then he was drawing her hand to his mouth as if he’d heard her thoughts and knew how badly she craved more of him. She let her hand go limp with surprise. He leaned forward and kissed her fingers softly. His mouth touched her calluses, then her knuckles, then skimmed slowly over the webbing. He turned her hand and she let it move for him, let him flip her hand like a puppet’s. He pressed a kiss into the middle of her palm. He sucked lightly, gently, but it was enough to make her eyes roll up in her head and her toes curl, her feet moving over the soft mattress in response to his touch. He pulled her closer, running his tongue from her palm down to her wrist, and nibbled there.

  That was enough self-control for one night. Nora finally let herself moan. It erupted from her stomach with surprising force. She used the sound to propel herself forward. Her right hand slipped into his hair, burying itself in the damp red locks, and Nora pulled him up so she could see his face.

  She kissed him. She forgot all restraint and thoughts of lightly licking those lips first and plunged her tongue straight into his mouth.

  He gave a very satisfied moan and kissed her back, roughly. His unshaven chin painfully grazed her own. It didn’t bother her. He tasted of the sea. He must have swallowed bellyfuls while pulling her to shore. But his mouth was hot, like the sea of her dreams where she never felt cold. It was glorious.

  With a growl, he flipped her over, pressing her back into the bed and lowering himself to kiss her again. As she sucked his tongue into her mouth, his whole body pressed down against hers, his clothing rough against her mostly bare skin. He was heavy, tall and muscular, a solid force on top of her. She wouldn’t be able to escape him if she wanted to. Rather than alarm her, the thought only turned her on even more. He could hold her here, to the earth, to this bed, to life. He could hold her here, devour her and never let her go.

  He kissed his way from her mouth across her cheek to her left ear. His breathing was frantic. She wrapped one leg around him, skimming her foot up his pajama pants, laying it across his ass.

  He whispered in her ear, “I’m Eamon, by the way.”

  Nora froze.

  “What is it? Don’t like the name? Okay, I’m Colin for tonight.”

  “No.” She couldn’t tell him her name. If she did, if they had one fantastic, wild night of passion, would he want to know more? Would he ask about her at the hotel? In the village?

  Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. She’d bedded a roving musician a time or two, affairs that had lasted from a night to a whole week—her longest romance.

  But if she told him who she was, would word of her near-drowning get to her ma? She couldn’t do that to her. Mary Catherine couldn’t know how lost Nora was. It would kill her.

  Eamon pulled back. “Are you okay?”

  The concern in his eyes broke her. She blinked frantically, trying to ward off tears before he saw, trying not to think of the way he’d touched her hands without fear or disgust. Here was this man—strong, powerful but also kind. He wanted her, had kissed the part of her that others felt was wrong.

  She was more okay than she’d ever been, yet she wasn’t okay at all. “No, I’m not fine. I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  His light-red brows, nearly invisible, furrowed. “I didn’t mean to take advantage.”

  “You didn’t. I’m the one who kissed you—I mean, I’m fine but I have to go.” She squirmed out from underneath him. She tossed the duvet aside. The fire had grown smaller. She shivered in the night air.

  “What’s your name? At least tell me your name.”

  He would find out. If he wanted to, he would. The dark-haired whistle player with webbed hands and feet. Bit of a drowning habit. It wouldn’t exactly be tricky to piece together with a few questions around town. Unless she could make him lose all interest.

  “I don’t have a name. I’m just a ghost you dragged out of the sea.”

  “Come on now. I felt your desire for me.” He clasped her wrist. “Just tell me who you are.”

  No. She couldn’t let this man care enough to ask about her. Better he hate her, forget her. What would hurt him most? “I wish you’d left me there, with your wife. Sent us both to a watery grave.”

  It was an awful thing to say. Nora was in tears as she let the hotel room door slam behind her and ran down the hall dressed only in her knickers and bra.

  Chapter Five

  He was sorry to wake to an empty bed.

  Eamon stretched in the sunlight that streamed through the window of his suite, illuminating the wood furniture and green carpet. Every muscle in his body was sore. He felt as if he’d been pulled in four different directions, drawn and quartered by the sea. At least he was warm now. The night fire, the morning sun and the thick green duvet had done their work. He stretched leisurely, savoring the feeling.

  He had the whole king-sized bed to stretch in, since it was empty except for him.

  Eamon had been so shocked by her parting words that he’d let her go. And so the gorgeous woman with the Mona Lisa smile, quick laugh and broken eyes had disappeared out of his life as quickly as she’d come into it.

  But not for long.

  Áiné had been right. Eamon hadn’t dated seriously since Keelin’s death—flirtations were all he’d sought. But when he wanted something, he got it. A cute blonde at the ski slopes in Sweden? She’d wound up in his bed the first night and the seduction hadn’t even taxed his bag of tricks. A guide into the forbidden catacombs beneath Paris? He’d found one in three days with a combination of favors, bribery and good luck.

  Eamon could find one dark-haired musician. And seduce her, if that was what he wanted.

  He swung his feet off the bed and immediately regretted standing up. Ouch. Just how badly had he messed up his feet last night? A quick look at the bottom of one foot confirmed it—badly enough to hurt like hell, with some pebbles and sand stuck in the raw-looking cuts for good measure. He’d have to clean them well before his shower. And maybe find his loafers on the beach later.

  He stepped gingerly over to the drawers of the heavy wooden chest and opened them, rummaging through his clothing. The jeans were still damp, so he chose casual slacks and a short-sleeved dress shirt, laying them out on the bed. Shower first, to clean his feet and wash the last of the sand from his body and seawater salt from his hair.

  He licked his lips. They tasted like sea salt too. Just as the small Irish girl had.

  Under the streaming hot water, he mused over what she’d said. “I wish you’d left me there, with your wife.” He didn’t think she meant it. It had been intended to hurt him, and hurt him quickly. But why? He hadn’t even made a real move until she’d flung herself at his mouth. She’d seen his intentions and must have known he’d stop if she really didn’t want to be with him. He might have made her call a doctor rather than go home alone, but he’d have let her go home if that had been what she’d wanted. He had no desire to force sex on a woman. So what was the point of wounding him with words?

  By the time he’d dried himself with one of Tullamore’s giant, fluffy bath sheets, Eamon had the answer. Obviously to get him to let her alone long-term, not just when it came to sex. Did she think he wanted more? Surely she knew that, as a guest at Tullamore, he wouldn’t be there long.

  She was definitely attracted to him, so it wasn’t the age difference. A past hurt, maybe. The way she’d pulled away when he’d touched her hands made him think she’d had comments about her abnormalities. That could be it. All he had to do, then, was make her understand that he really meant it when he said the webbing didn’t matter to him. And it didn’t. She was beautiful, interesting, talented, haunted—he wanted to explore every part of her body for however many weeks it would be before the volcano ash cleared and he could fly home to Canada.

  That was all he wanted. A few weeks of company and sex.

  He ignored a voice in his head that said he was fooling himself.

  Eamon liked a challenge. And he couldn’t really pass it up—he had a dress to return, af
ter all. The white cotton shift she’d worn the night before still hung on a wicker chair by the fireplace. It had dried now and the fire was mere embers. The fabric of the dress was torn and wrinkled from her struggle in the ocean. It really wasn’t worth anything now, but it was an excuse to see her again.

  No, wait—he had an even better idea than the torn white dress.

  He packed a small bag with his notebook and voice recorder—he always traveled with both, never knowing when a good tale might come up for an article—and added the girl’s dress to it. He folded it carefully despite its disheveled appearance.

  On his way down to the beach, Eamon took the old lift again. It creaked and moaned but today seemed friendly in spirit, humming with anticipation. It was funny how the castle seemed to change from day to day, morphing from an enemy to a compatriot. Maybe it was his mood that was fluid. He drummed his fingers quickly on his thigh, accompanying the light jig in his mind.

  He took a slow, slightly limping walk to the beach, noting how everything felt different in the late morning. It was a rare sunny Irish day, light streaming through clouds. The path to the castle had dried in the sun and wasn’t slippery any longer. Beneath his well-padded feet, he couldn’t feel any pebbles. He felt a bit silly wearing jogging shoes with slacks, but what could he do? Maybe his loafers would be near the woman’s whistle.

  At least as he walked the pain in his feet numbed.

  The beach was dotted with people today. As with the lift, the shore’s personality had changed overnight. The ocean was calm and as smooth as an ice rink and Eamon could see swimmers and boats in the distance. The summer sun sparkled off the sand, where Tullamore guests sunbathed and wandered. The wind and surf were quiet enough that he caught snatches of conversation.

  It was strange to hear people laughing and chatting in the same place a woman had nearly drowned the night before. In the same place a woman had drowned twenty years before.

  But of course, these guests had no idea what this spot meant to him, so he smiled pleasantly as he passed.

  “Water’s beautiful today, why the long pants?” a brunette in a bikini asked him. She and a friend lay sprawled on towels, one reading a British tabloid and the other a sci-fi novel, judging from the scantily clad woman and man with a large gun on the cover.