Sins Against the Sea Page 11

  “Well, it sounds to me as if he’s suffering from delusions resulting from a head injury.”

  “Or the DTs,” MacInnes suggested. “I wouldn’t put it past you lot to put a drunk at the helm of a tanker. Or maybe he needed to drink himself senseless to muster the courage to drive a phantom tanker through illegal waters.”

  Corey shivered and crossed her arms. The wind off the loch was so bitingly cold, her nipples had turned to hailstones under her bathrobe. She wanted to be rid of MacInnes and get back to the warm bathtub and her hot merman, but needed to be careful not to arouse the reporter’s suspicions.

  “I can’t really comment on that,” she said. “But I find it hard to believe even Conch would put an alcoholic at the helm of a tanker.”

  “You give your employer more credit than I do.”

  “Yes, well…from the look of things, they won’t be my employer for much longer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of a bath when you knocked on my door…and I’d like to get back to it before the water goes cold.”

  He leered at her in a way she found both blatant and offensive. “A bath, you say? Would you care for some company?”

  She bristled at the suggestion and stepped back. He wasn’t unattractive, but was clearly predatory—a good trait in a journalist, but a lousy one for a romantic prospect. Besides which, Lachlan MacInnes ran a distance second to her sexy storm kelpie. “Not if you’re the company.”

  He affected a hurt expression. “You wound me, Miss Parker. But I suppose you’re one of those women who suffer from the Groucho Marks syndrome, eh?”

  Though she probably shouldn’t bite, she couldn’t help herself. “What is the Groucho Marks syndrome?”

  “You don’t want to be a member of any club that would have you for a member.”

  Irked by the insinuation, she said, “You’re wrong. I simply have no interest in joining a club run by an asshole.”

  He coughed, spraying her with spittle. “If you’re trying to give offense, you’ll have to do better than that, lass. I’ve been called worse than an arsehole by the nuns back at school.”

  She eyed him narrowly. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  He fixed her with a lustful look she didn’t care for in the least. “You’re very bonny, you know. Especially when you’re half naked and full of fire. I’ll bet you’re a real wildcat between the sheets.”

  Corey, seething over the inappropriateness of MacInnes’s compliment, grabbed the door, ready to slam it in his face. Was he actually making a pass at her? Her thoughts ran upstairs to Kew-in. She needed to get back to him.

  “I have a boyfriend,” she blurted. “Who happens to be upstairs right this minute…”

  Why not tell him about Kew-in? She’d simply leave out the part about him being a fish-tailed demi-god.

  “I see.” MacInnes licked his lips. “Well, he’s one lucky sod to have a spitfire like you—and don’t think I was making a play for you, because that wasn’t the case. I was merely giving you a compliment. You are bonny—a simple statement of fact. As well as smart and determined. Qualities I admire, which is saying a lot when you take into account the scum of the earth you work for.”

  She couldn’t quite bring herself to thank him. Excusing herself, she shut the door on him, engaged the deadbolt, and headed back upstairs. Kew-in was still in the bathtub, which appeared to be fuller. Figuring he’d added more hot water, she shed her robe, stepped over the edge, and re-inserted herself between his legs. She was right; the water was still nice and warm.

  “Who was it?” he asked, making room for her.

  “An obnoxious reporter from Skye.”

  “What’s a reporter?”

  “Someone who reports on the events of the day.” She’d forgotten he wouldn’t know about such things. “They write for newspapers and sometimes expose wrongdoing.”

  “Ah, and he’s here, I presume, to report on Ketos and the oil?”

  “Yes.” That he’d put the pieces together so quickly told her he had a quick mind. So did his rapid absorption of the English language. Should she tell him what MacInnes had said about the captain claiming storm kelpies were responsible for the spill? Maybe later, but right now, she needed the comfort of his strong arms and beachy scent. She snuggled against the manly wall of his chest. “Where were we?”

  “You were telling me about your parents.”

  Oh, right…and what was up with that? “Why are you so interested in my family?”

  “I’m interested because I believe your mother might have been a merrow.”

  The declaration caught her off guard, but not as much as what happened next. Without warning, he pushed her down, under the water, and held her there. Holding her breath, she struggled to free herself, flailing wildly and pummeling him with her fists.

  “Breathe,” he said. “Breathe, Cordelia. If you don’t, I will have to kill you.”

  His statement made no sense. He was killing her now. Why? She floundered and thrashed, but accomplished nothing. He was too strong and determined. The urge to inhale grew more and more demanding. Mortal fear flooded her system. Holy fuck. This was her worst nightmare come to life. Only she’d always imagined the sea would kill her, not a storm kelpie in a bathtub.

  Her thoughts grew foggy and began to swim. The need to breathe became more and more intense, overriding her will to survive. Drowning was supposed to be a peaceful death, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying.

  “Breathe, Cordelia. You can. You must.”

  Unable to fight the compulsion any longer, she opened her mouth. Water rushed in, burning her airways like liquid fire. The flesh tore near the glands on her neck. The accompanying pain was so unbearable, she nearly lost consciousness. She released a gurgled scream, expelling the water she’d inhaled. Then, her windpipe closed and the gashes in her neck began to pump like a bellows.

  The sensation was strange. Scary and abnormal, but also kind of cool. She could breathe underwater. Holy hell. He’d guessed right. She really must be part merrow.

  When he released his hold on her, she shot up like a fountain, pushed back her sodden hair, and wiped the water from her face. Her windpipe opened and her gills sealed shut, which was considerably less painful than the reverse. She drank in air in great gulps. When she was able to breathe normally again, she turned a blistering glare on him, drew back her hand, and slapped his face.

  “Fuck you for scaring the shit out of me,” she said with vehemence.

  His hand flew to the handprint on his cheek. “Why did you do that?”

  “Why do you think? You tried to drown me, you big jerk.”

  He looked dazed. “I was trying to save you, not drown you.”

  “By holding my head under water?”

  “By proving you were part merrow.”

  “What if you’d been wrong?”

  “But I wasn’t,” he said, blinking at her.

  “And if you were, I’d be…dead.” Then, she remembered what he’d said while she was underwater. “What did you mean about having to kill me?”

  “It is the law of my people. Any human who sees us with our tails must die. To protect us from being destroyed or imprisoned. You would not have drowned, because I was right. You are half merrow—and even half-bloods can breathe under water.”

  She couldn’t decide whether to be pissed at him or grateful. What he said made sense, in a crazy, upside-down reality sort of way, and the world had turned on its axis in the past twenty-four hours. The creatures from her mother’s stories weren’t just real, she was wildly attracted to one of them. Or had been, anyway, until he’d held her head under water. Okay, to be honest, she was still hot for him, but too traumatized by what he’d done to think about having sex with him anytime soon.

  “My God, Kew-in. What if I’d drowned?”

  “I would have deeply regretted being wrong,” he said with sadness in his eyes.

  “Well, that’s some comfort…but holy shit. Holding my head under wate
r was a pretty extreme way to prove your theory.”

  Gripping the sides of the tub, she pushed herself up and turned away from him, ready to flee the room. The cold air chilled her, raising goosebumps across her skin.

  “I’m not sure how I feel about being in a bathtub with a guy who planned to hold my head under the water—just to see if I was more than human. Drowning was my greatest fear, Kew-in. You scared the hell out of me, and it’s going to take me awhile to feel good about you again.”

  She struggled to her feet. He stood, too, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her against his chest. She stiffened in his embrace, but made no move to pull away. Though shaken by what he’d done, she still liked the smell of him and the feel of his arms around her.

  “You need not fear drowning any longer”—he stroked her dripping hair—“and now that I know what you are, I would never harm you. Because I love you, Cordelia…and have from the moment you came to my aid.”

  His declaration soothed her resentment some, but not completely. She cared for him, too, but what he’d done didn’t seem like the act of someone who cared about her. Rather, it seemed cold-hearted and calculating. Even if he was sure she was part merrow, he had frightened her, which wasn’t a very nice thing to do. Neither was killing her if he’d been wrong. She’d helped him and he’d tried to drown her for her trouble. The thought harpooned her heart, bringing tears to her eyes. She bit her lip and swallowed. When she tried to pull out of his arms, he held her fast.

  “You claim to love me”—she forced the words through her constricted throat—“and yet you still would have drowned me if I wasn’t half merrow. What kind of person does something like that?”

  “A warrior of Clan MacMuir”—he kissed the top of her head—“whose foremost obligation, irrespective of his feelings, is to protect the ocean and her children as well as his people.”

  Corey let out a shuddering sigh. So muddled and conflicted was she by all that had happened, she didn’t know what to think or feel at the moment. Not being of her world, he had different values; values which, though primitive, might make sense if she was thinking more clearly. Given the unconscionable way humans treated the oceans—and the whole damn planet, for that matter—she could understand why storm kelpies viewed her kind with animosity.

  Only humans weren’t “her kind” anymore, were they? Now, there was a mind-bending reality that would take more than ten minutes to absorb and accept. In time, she might teach him to be more compassionate toward humans…or, better yet, teach humans to be more respectful toward the ocean. Right now, however, she needed the time and space to get things straight in her head.

  “I need to think all this through.” This time, when she tried to pull out of his arms, he let her go. She grabbed a fresh towel off the pile and started toward the door. “I also need to be alone right now. You don’t have to leave, but you will have to find another bedroom to sleep in tonight.”

  Chapter Nine

  In the darkness of this strange room, Cuan felt like an empty skiff drifting on the current. He also felt deeply ashamed of himself. Had he known Cordelia feared drowning, he would never have done what he did.

  Would she forgive him? He believed she would after she’d had a good think. Aye, he’d held her head under water—which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t the brightest idea—but, by doing so, he’d helped her conquer her fear of drowning and revealed the truth about her bloodline.

  Though sorry for upsetting her, holding her head under water had accomplished his purpose. Well, one of his purposes, anyway. He still yearned to spawn with her, and to hold her afterward the way he used to hold Meredith. He’d never been as contented as he was at those times.

  Unlike now, when he felt more forlorn than ever before.

  Reaching to the bedside table, he switched on the lamp and blinked against the sudden brightness. He could see reasonably well in the dark, but not well enough to read. Before he’d put out the light, he’d been soaking up more of the English-Gaelic dictionary. While he’d absorbed many of the words the last time, there was still a goodly number he didn’t know.

  Like asshole, which he’d overheard her call the man who’d come to the door. He’d heard everything they’d said to each other. Some of it, he didn’t understand; what he did understand, filled him with anguish. Like that the red-bearded captain of Ketos was telling people storm kelpies had attacked the tanker. He needed to warn his clan, but, having no boat, couldn’t think how to go about it until his tail regenerated. Not that, even if he could get there, he would be able to explain how he’d come by the information without risking punishment.

  Picking up the dictionary, he looked for the word asshole, but found no entry. He flipped through the pages, drinking in many more words before returning the book to the table. How he wished he had his cleasaiche with him. Playing his harp always lifted him out of the doldrums. He could sing, he supposed, but doing so might disturb Cordelia, who was sleeping in the next room. Unless she, too, was lying awake, wishing they were together.

  The urge to talk to her, to go to her, to hold her in his arms, shot up from his depths like water from a blowhole. He battled within himself to stopper the spout with rational thinking. She wanted time and space to think things through. That was what she’d asked for and, if he wanted to earn her forgiveness and return to her good graces, he needed to respect her wishes.

  She would come around, and when she did, he could apologize to her and explain that what he’d done had relieved him of the duty to kill her—provided, of course, she promised not to breathe a word to anyone about what she knew. Would she make that promise? Would she keep it? He hoped to the gods she would. Elsewise, he was back where he’d started, lamenting the obligation to end her life to protect his people.

  While alone in the bathtub, he’d decided to follow in the footsteps of Gille-Gorm Logan and leave the sea so they could be together always. He would miss life under the waves, but he was willing to make the sacrifice for Cordelia. First, however, he needed to warn his clansmen about the captain of Ketos and get his hands on the magic weed that would give him legs year round. He knew not where to find the herb; only that it was the same one that transformed Glauckos from a mortal fisherman into a sea god.

  According to the story told by Seanchai the bard, Glauckos discovered the weed’s magical properties when the fish he’d dumped on an unusual patch of grass came back to life. He ate some of the herb to see what would happen, after which a fish’s tail covered his legs, forcing him to dwell forevermore in the sea.

  In the story of Gille-Gorm, the weed had the reverse effect, giving the Glauckodai legs for the rest of his days. Unfortunately, those days turned out to be few in number. Gille-Gorm and his men were murdered on a lonely ridge by their enemies, the Frasers, who then took his pregnant wife prisoner. When she gave birth to Gille-Gorm’s son, the Frasers broke the babe’s back so he could never replace his father as chieftain of Clan Logan. In those days, as in these, only physically perfect men could become the chieftain of a clan.

  Cuan shuddered at the reminder of the savage side of human nature. The husband of his mother, a Nic who’d foolishly married a mortal, had treated him no better when he was a pup—and killed his own wife in a jealous rage. If Cuan did find a way to leave the sea for Cordelia, he sincerely hoped they would fare better than had his mother and Gille-Gorm.

  * * * *

  Alone in bed the past few hours, Corey had grown more curious about her ancestry than angry with Kew-in for holding her head under water. The truth was, he’d been right. She was part merrow. The daughter of a mermaid, it would seem, and the more she thought about it, the more it explained. The recurring dream, for instance, and the feeling she could never shake that her mother was still alive, still out there somewhere.

  Watery memories of the past rose to the surface of her mind. Her mother’s stories, the call of the sea, her disastrous love life. Despite her dressing as unprovocatively as possible, men still came on to her
, just as MacInnes had done at the door last night. Had she been giving off some sort of mermaid sex attractant all this time unaware? She’d just thought they were all manipulative jerks who pretended to be crazy about her so they could get her into bed. Then, after she stupidly slept with them, they dumped her faster than she could say Moby Dick. Only Jared had stuck around long enough to get to know her better—and even he bailed on her after only a few months. Was it any wonder she’d all but given up on men?

  Once upon a time, she’d entertained fantasies about finding perfect love. The kind that struck like lightning and turned the world upside down. Back in college, she’d devoured every romance novel she could get her hands on—the racier, the better. She soon discovered, to her great disappointment, that real men weren’t diamonds-in-the-rough just waiting for the right woman to polish them to brilliance. Rather, they were cloudy shards of glass with dangerously sharp edges.

  Then, she met Jared, who swept her off her feet for a few glorious months before dropping her cold. Even though he’d hurt her, she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. She’d loved him in a pure, unpolluted way she’d never loved anyone before. She felt a similar connection with Kew-in. His soul spoke to her, called to her, just as the sea once had.

  Poor Kew-in. He’d only done what he thought he must, upsetting as it was. She looked toward the wall separating their bedrooms. Was he awake in there? Was he thinking about her? Did he feel bad about what he’d done? How badly she wanted to go to him and tell him everything was okay, but she also wanted to stay here and read.

  Having brought the book of island folklore to bed with her, she’d been reading the stories about the daughters of Finmen, who began life as creatures of incomparable beauty with shimmering silver-blue tails, flowing auburn tresses, and pearl-white skin. Only by marrying a mortal could these Finmaids keep their beauty, so they spent all their time trying to attract human husbands by any means possible, including luring them with their bewitching songs like the sirens of Greek mythology. If their efforts failed, they had to marry their own kind, after which their beauty would fade little by little until they became hideous hags known as Finwives.