by Anne Stuart
She couldn’t bear to watch him any longer. To watch him was to long to touch him, and if she touched him, he’d awaken once more, and make love to her, and then she probably wouldn’t be able to stand up, much less make it across the small island to her house.
But she gave in to temptation, leaning over to brush a feather-light kiss against his mouth. Her hair drifted against him, and his hand closed around a strand of it, reflexively, caressing it in his sleep.
With a tug she pulled free. And then she ran from the house, silent, swift, before she could weaken in her resolve.
She could scarcely see in the heavy mist that shrouded the village. It filled her eyes, poured down her face, blinding her, and she paused on the edge of the woods, using the back of her hand to brush away the moisture. It tasted of seawater. No, it didn’t, she realized. It tasted of salt tears. She was crying, something she hadn’t done since she was a wee lass of fourteen summers. She was crying over the selkie and lost love.
The moment she realized it, the dam broke. She sank to the wet ground, leaning against a tree, and began to cry full force, weeping with unabashed noisiness, bewailing what she could not have. There was a sour kind of pleasure in it, to curse fate and her own twisted nobility, to howl her misery to the morning star, and the noise of it filled the forest around her, so that she couldn’t hear the approaching footsteps, couldn’t know that danger lurked close at hand.
He loomed up out of the mist, huge and horrifying. Domnhall the seal hunter, and there was a body slung over his shoulder, gutted, bloody, a dead seal. The sight of him was so shocking her tears strangled into silence, and she stared at the corpse as he dumped it at her feet.
It was a plain brown seal, staring at her out of lifeless black eyes. Malcolm’s eyes were the green of the sea, and his pelt would be black and shiny. He was safe.
“Ye’re a noisy one this morrow, Lady Spens,” Domnhall said, and his semblance of a smile showed dark and broken teeth. “Greeting for your seal lover?”
Panic overtook wisdom. “You’re not to touch him!” Domnhall reached down and caught her arm, hauling her to her feet. The bloody imprint of his hand stained the sleeve of the white nightgown, and Ailie shut her eyes in sudden horror. “I’ll skin him, lass. I doubt I’ll wait till he changes back to a seal. Have you ever seen a man skinned? It would take a steady hand to do the job, but I don’t doubt I have the knack. You can watch, lass.”
“You’ll leave him alone. Torquil—”
“Torquil will thank me for punishing him. You as well. He won’t like it that you’ve betrayed him, lifting your skirts for that trash. You’ve been with him, I can tell fine that you have. You’ve the look and the smell of it. It’ll make Torquil mad with rage, it will. I’ve done the dirty work for him and his family, and yours as well, before. I can do it again. I’ll kill the selkie, whatever he may be. And forebye I’ll have a taste of what he’s going to die for.”
She tried to back away from the ravening look in Domnhall’s dark, evil eyes, but his grip was unbreakable. “I’ll have you know what a real man is,” he continued. “Before you end up with yon Torquil. Not that he’ll marry you now. But he’s too daft about you to let you alone. He’ll keep you locked away, and you’ll never wander free again, barefoot through the grass like a madwoman. Your own kind of prison, mistress.”
“I’d rather die,” she said in a hoarse voice.
“Aye, you would. But you won’t have that choice,” Domnhall said. He started down the pathway, hauling her after him, leaving the gutted corpse of the seal in the middle of the forest.
She tried to call out, to scream for help, but Domnhall’s bloody hand clamped down over her mouth. He was a huge man, endlessly strong, and her struggles availed her nothing. She tried to bite him, but he simply skelped her across the face, knocking her backward against a tree. Through the gathering mist she stared up at him, and she thought she saw Morag nearby, watching. But no one ever saw Morag but Ailie, and she would be no help.
There was no help for her at all. He hit her again, harder this time, and she sank to the damp earth as the blackness closed around her. And her last thought was of Malcolm. Pray God he walked into the sea once more, before Domnhall could hurt him.
Chapter 6
Malcolm let her go. He felt her hair brush his face, and he couldn’t keep himself from catching hold of it, clinging to it for a moment, before letting it slip through his fingers. It was for the best. He’d taken her maidenhead, something the man who sired him had obviously never managed to do, and he’d taken more than that. He’d taken her love and trust, and what did he have to offer her in return?
He wasn’t sure. The anger still burned deep inside him, but the longing for her burned brighter still, and even a night of passion couldn’t dull it. He was hard for her again, and if she hadn’t moved away, the taste of her lips lingering against his, he would have pulled her down once more, and to the devil with vows and the like.
She knew far too much. She was a spaewife, a seer, and indeed, she knew far too much of things she should have no inkling about. Unless Collis had chosen to talk, and a more dour, closemouthed creature Malcolm had yet to meet.
She would get back to her house safely enough, he had no doubt of that. Everyone had made it more than clear that the entire population of the island looked out for her—no one would dare harm her, not even her friends the faerie folk. The only danger to her on this island was himself, and he’d already done his worst.
He rolled over in the bed, staring out the open window.
The moon had set long ago, the dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky, and the mist had increased, swirling around the house. She would make it back safely enough, with no one the wiser as to her traveling during the night. Indeed, it was like one of her damned stories—the princess who slipped out at night to dance with the faeries. It had been a dance he’d led her on last night, one he wasn’t ready to end.
He had no choice but to tell her. She was right, he was leaving this day. Going back to Glen Corrie, back to his father and sisters, back to the prosperous farm and the good, decent life he’d learned to love. Back without vengeance.
But would he go back with a bride?
How daft was she? Her dreaming, feckless ways, her mad Jacobite songs, her bare feet and unbound hair belonged to a creature unused to civilized ways. His mother would have sorted her out soon enough, with stem affection and common sense and love. He doubted anyone had ever shown her those things, and her response had been to slip deeper and deeper into a twilight world. Could she step out of it, into the light, if she wanted to? Would she for him?
He could only ask. When the sun rose, he would rise as well, dress, and make his way to the dower house. If they refused to let him see her, he’d find a way to get to her. He’d tell her the truth. He was no bewitched creature, come to claim her to a faerie world. He was nemesis, and she’d gotten in his way.
It was his duty, he told himself. His responsibility, to take her back with him, to wed her, in case, as she insisted, there was a bairn from this night’s work. But despite what he told himself, it felt like no duty he’d ever performed in his life. It felt like his heart’s desire.
He closed his eyes, drifting into sleep, when he heard the voice. It was a true spaewife, keening, eerie, soft on the morning dampness, insinuating itself into his sleeping mind. “Mind yon lassie,” the voice moaned. “The seal hunter has her.”
A nightmare, he told himself, opening one eye to glance around the deserted bedroom. There was no one there, but the voice came at him from the comers of the room. “Domnhall’s ta’en her,” the voice said. “And only you can save her.”
He sat up, throwing back the covers as panic speared through him. “Who’s there?”
No answer from the empty house. Just the keening of the rising wind, the rush of the surf against the shore, and the sense of dread that seeped into his bones. He knew. This was no nightmare. Ailie was in danger from the seal hunter.
>
He threw on his clothes as he ran, still fastening his shirt on the stairs as he barreled into Collis. The dawn had scarcely risen, and the house was dark with shadows, yet there was no missing the expression on the old man’s face.
“Something’s wrong,” Collis said abruptly. “I was pulled from a good night’s sleep and sent to ye, and I dinna like it one bit. Where’s the mistress? Did ye harm her?”
A brief vision flashed through Malcolm’s mind—Ailie in his arms, crying out in pleasure and sorrow. “No,” he said, wondering if he lied. “I think the seal hunter’s taken her.”
“Are ye daft yourself, man? Why in God’s name would Domnhall dare touch her? Torquil would have his heart for it.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t know. I heard a voice as I was sleeping. I think I saw a face. An old woman, with streaky white-and-black hair and eyes like coals, and she told me only I could rescue Ailie.”
“Christ!” Collis looked properly shocked. “You’ve seen Morag then. She never shows herself to most folk. Mayhap you’re a selkie after all.”
“Don’t waste my time, old man. Where would Domnhall have taken her?”
Collis shook his head. “He knows this island better than almost anyone. Except for Ailie. He has a croft not far from mine, though I doubt he’d take her there. There’s a storehouse by the water where he keeps his sealskins. No one goes there—the smell is dreadful, and people say it’s cursed. He might have taken her there.”
“I’ll check the storehouse—you go to the croft.”
“He’s a dangerous man, selkie. Bigger than you, forebye, with a dirty way of fighting. Mind you don’t find yourself gutted and skinned.”
“A fine end for a selkie. I have to save Ailie first.” Malcolm moved past him, heading for the door, when Collis’s voice followed him.
“And what was the mistress doing out at this hour of the day, that Domnhall could have ta’en her?”
Malcolm paused by the door, turning to look up at the dour old man. “Giving herself to the selkie, old man. And I’m not about to lose her now.”
His grandparents’ cottage was at the far end of the island, away from the tiny harbor town. He started through the woods, going by instinct alone, half-blind in the shadows and mist, until he sprawled across something that had once been living flesh.
It wasn’t Ailie’s lifeless body. That knowledge made him shake, with relief and fury, as he stared at the corpse of the gentle seal. The man who had done this had taken his love, putting his filthy, murderous hands on her, and every moment she was with him would be torment for her airy, gentle soul.
He ran through the mist and the gradually lightening day, past sleeping houses and silent fields, the smell of the sea in the air. He knew where to find her, not with his mind but with his heart and soul. With the help of the spaewife echoing in his ears.
The storehouse was at the far end of the village, set off from the other buildings, sagging into the ground, a dark, dour place. Not even grass grew nearby, and Malcolm could see why the people of St. Columba would consider it haunted. The thought of his gentle lass trapped inside there at the bloody hands of a murderer sent his own murderous rage sweeping over him.
The voice came to him again, on the mist, on the wind, a keening, warning voice. “Mind the front door, MacLaren. He’s waiting for you.”
He didn’t stop to question that voice, or the warning; he simply heeded it, moving to skirt the edge of the building. There were no windows, and the stench of death and sea was strong and gagging in his nostrils. The smell of dead seals. MacLaren, the voice had called him. The voice knew who he was, better than he knew himself. He was a MacLaren, if not by blood, by heart and soul. By all that mattered.
He put his ear against the damp, rotting wood of the old shack, listening, but only silence issued forth. If Domnhall had touched her, he’d kill him, but he’d cut his balls off first and feed them to the gentle seals while the seal hunter watched.
And then he heard her voice, calm, steady, and he knew she was still safe. “He won’t come, Domnhall. He’s a selkie, he knows when he’s in danger. He’s not going to walk into your trap.”
“You misjudge your charms, mistress. If he’s a selkie, then he came to St. Columba for you, and he willna leave you in my hands without a fight.”
“If he’s not a selkie, why would you want to harm him?” She sounded a far cry from his deliberately daft lady, Malcolm thought. He could almost smile at the practical note in her voice, if he weren’t so terrified of the danger she ran.
“Because he’s had you, mistress. And yon Torquil won’t like that one wee bit. He’ll be best pleased if I rid him of the competition, and give him a taste of revenge in the bargain. Torquil’s a shy man when it comes to blood and violence, but he’s more than happy to have me take care of things for him.”
“He won’t be happy to hear you’ve touched me.”
“Torquil can’t have everything. I hate this island, and the people here. They think you’re their sweet, daft lass. They all love you. How will they feel when they find you’re a whore? That you rutted with the selkie, and then gave yourself to me hours later.”
“I’d never give myself to you,” she said flatly.
“Nay, mistress. But they’ll not believe you, will they? Your family will lock you away, Torquil and Angus will split your inheritance, and I’ll be well paid. And you, poor lady, will spend your days locked away, mourning your dead selkie.”
“I’d rather die myself.” Malcolm could hear the first trembling traces of emotion in her voice.
“Mayhap I’ll oblige you. After I finish with the selkie.” There was an ominous silence. “In the meantime, lay back and lift yer skirts, yer Ladyship. I’d like to see if you’re equipped any differently than the trulls in Inverness.”
There was a backdoor to the shanty, half in the cold gray water of the sea. Malcolm slammed through it, using his shoulder, rolling to the ground as he went. He had no knife, no weapon at all, and he could wait no longer.
He had the element of surprise, and that was all, and he used it, coming in low and knocking the huge form of the seal hunter onto the ground as well. The stench of the place, of the man, was awful. The sealskins were piled high all around in the murky darkness, and he could sense Ailie in the corner, shocked, immobile, but still unharmed.
He slammed his fist against the man’s face, again and again, feeling the skin of his knuckles split as Domnhall groaned. And then Domnhall surged up, taking Malcolm with him, knocking him against the wall, and Malcolm could feel the cold steel of the knife at the base of his belly.
He went very still, waiting for his chance.
“Shall I spill your guts for yon lass?” Domnhall said in a thick, panting voice. “Do you have the heart of a seal, or a man? I’d like well to know.” The knife pressed hard against him, and it wouldn’t take much for the seal hunter to split him, stem to stern.
Oddly enough Malcolm felt no fear. Merely an odd, disembodied regret, that Ailie should have to see it. It would turn her truly mad.
“Selkie.” Her voice was cool and eerie, halting Domnhall’s stroke. “You need your pelt. Domnhall must have taken it, or you would have been back in the sea already. Which is his pelt, Domnhall? Ye must give it back to him, or his soul will haunt you.”
“Get away from me,” Domnhall snarled. “I’m not afraid of ghosts. He’s a man, no more no less...”
“It’s black, you told me,” Ailie said in that dreamy voice, and Malcolm heard her move closer. “Like your hair, black and silky and very soft. I like your hair, did I tell you that, selkie? I don’t want him to kill you.”
“Get away from me,” Domnhall snarled, momentarily distracted as he turned to kick her away.
It was all the advantage Malcolm needed. In a flash he came up under Domnhall’s burly arm, taking it and twisting it back, so that the knife fell with a thud on the dirt-packed floor, and the two of them were locked together in a deathly embrace,
rolling onto the ground, over onto the pile of soft skins, rolling back to thud against the side of the small building, until the rotting wood splintered and they crashed out into the gathering daylight.
Domnhall had him pinned on the ground, and he grinned at him in evil triumph. “I don’t believe in selkies, or ghosts. I’ll kill you while the lassie watches, and that’ll be the end to it.”
Malcolm stared up at him, panting, filled with an icy calm. “Will it? Look at my face, seal hunter. Have you seen it before?”
Domnhall’s thick, cruel countenance grew still as his eyes narrowed. “You’re a stranger,” he said, but he sounded suddenly uneasy.
“Am I? Or do I look like another lass you killed, years ago, and threw into the sea? She didn’t die, Domnhall. She joined the seals, and sent me here to claim her vengeance.” Domnhall released him, staggering to his feet as superstitious horror swept over his face. “Catriona,” he gasped. “You’ve the look of her.”
“She sent me after you, Domnhall,” Malcolm said, coming to his feet, moving after him. “I’m just one of many. We’ll all come for you, we’ll haunt your days and nights, until you give yourself to us. We’ll eat your flesh, seal hunter, as you ate ours, and your soul will rot in hell.”
He’d pushed him too far. Domnhall let out a low, keening sound, more mazed than Ailie could ever fabricate, and he turned and scooped up the knife that had fallen. “You have her eyes,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll cut them out!” He lurched back toward him, murder in his face, as Ailie screamed in terror.
The pile of sealskins, still bloody, couldn’t have moved, Malcolm told himself afterward. Domnhall was too blinded with murderous rage, and as he lunged for Malcolm, knife held at the ready, he stumbled, sprawling across the pile of skins, and lay still, as blood pooled underneath him.
“Ailie!” It wasn’t his voice calling to her, it was Torquil Spens’s rich, panicked tones as he rounded the corner, winded, his moon face crimson from exertion. Collis was close behind him, and Malcolm flashed him a bitter, reproachful look.