Shifter

by Angela Knight, Lora Leigh, Alyssa Day

  “So you will be. Now.”

  She stopped with one foot on the stairs. “Those men—”

  “Will not bother you again.” He shifted his weight, urging her upward. “They would not have troubled you at all if you had stayed in the room.”

  “I thought you wanted it,” Paul’s voice whispered in her head. “You were certainly asking for it.”

  Emma bit her lip hard. “If you are accusing me of inviting their attentions—”

  Now he stopped, looking down his big nose at her in apparent surprise. “I did not.”

  “No, but you said—that is, you implied—”

  “I do not blame you, lass,” his deep voice rumbled. “You cannot help the way you smell.”

  “What?”

  He sighed and placed one hand at her waist to guide her down the hall. “Never mind. Kelvan was ever a manwhore, and Murdoc is an ass. It is not your fault they forgot the hospitality due a guest.”

  She stared at him, her mouth open, surprised and moved almost to tears by his reassurance. All her life, she had been blamed for attracting unwanted masculine attention. As if she could help the size of her bosom or the color of her hair. The devil’s color, her father called it. Letitia Hallsey had cautioned her repeatedly about leading men into temptation.

  Emma had been more amused than offended by the head-mistress’s strictures. There were no men at Miss Hallsey’s school except for the porter and an occasional visiting father or governor. Who would take notice of one red-haired mathematics and drawing instructor?

  “Of course I noticed you, sly little thing,” Paul had said. “I couldn’t help it. You invite men’s attention.”

  And yet this man—Griff—had just said what had happened was not her fault.

  Their eyes held until his pupils widened, dilated, black on black, and her blood drummed in her ears.

  Emma caught her breath. He was still a man. She must be careful. “Is that what I am?” she asked pointedly. “A guest?”

  “My guest.” He nodded, holding her gaze. “Aye.”

  “Mine,” he had said.

  The word shivered between them.

  She tore her gaze away. “I don’t understand. You called yourself a warden. Is this a jail?”

  “It is not,” he said firmly.

  The pressure eased in her chest. “So I’m—” Heavens, how to ask without offending him? “—free to go?”

  He nudged open the door of her room and held it for her. “Where would you be going?”

  Not home. She frowned. She had no life, no work, no family to return to.

  “Canada,” she said. “I signed a contract. I owe the shipping line twelve months’ domestic service in return for my passage to Halifax.”

  Griff shrugged and followed her into the room. “Then you owe no one anything. You did not reach Halifax.”

  “No, I—” She faced him, hands on her hips. The room seemed much smaller with him in it. “You didn’t answer my question. Where am I?”

  “North and west, beyond the Hebrides. Conn ap Llyr is lord here. This is his house. His holding. I am the castle…overseer.”

  His blunt explanation did not satisfy her. But it mollified her a little.

  “What about the children?” she asked.

  She had been shocked to find them in the hall, eight or twelve of them altogether, thin and sleeping in rags. She was sadly familiar with the sight of beggar children on the streets of Liverpool. But beneath their rags and dirt, these children were obviously healthy. Beautiful, even. Their eyes shone. Their skin was without blemish. Their teeth were sharp and white as cats’. Emma did not know what to make of them.

  “They live here,” Griff answered.

  “All of them? With their parents?”

  “Their parents are…gone.”

  Again, that odd pause. Not like a lie. More as if he had to search his vocabulary for the appropriate word. And yet he spoke excellent English.

  “Conn takes them in until they can fend for themselves,” he explained.

  So they were orphans. Emma’s heart contracted in quick sympathy.

  “That’s very good of him,” she said. “But children need more than a place to stay. They need structure. Discipline.”

  And care and kindness, she thought. But it was not her place to say so. At least Conn provided a roof over their heads. At least these children were not laboring in factories or underground in the mines.

  “They should be in school,” she said.

  Griff gave her a dark, unreadable look. “Aye. If we had a teacher.”

  Emma blinked. “Surely if you advertised—”

  “We are isolated here. Not many would give up life on the mainland to work on an island without doctor or priest. We have not…attracted the right person for the post yet.”

  A lump rose in Emma’s throat. Of course she wouldn’t want to—She could never—

  Even the most casual employer in the most remote corner of the world was bound to require references.

  And she had none.

  Griff waited, hoping she might take his bait.

  Her pretty lips parted, as if she would speak, and then she pressed them together.

  She was too canny for him. Or maybe, he thought with regret, too fearful.

  She had spine. She had stood up to Murdoc’s handling without falling apart.

  But she did not trust him.

  “Persuade her,” Conn had said.

  Griff let his gaze travel from those wide, wary blue eyes to the delicate line of her lips and further, to the pale constellation of freckles that starred her collarbone. He thought of all the ways he could bind her to him if he were willing to use his kind’s usual methods of persuasion.

  He could make her or any human woman respond to him.

  Dubh, Murdoc could have made her respond if he weren’t a ham-handed ass with no thought beyond his own satisfaction.

  But something in Griff rebelled at taking even that small choice from her.

  He must win her trust some other way.

  “I will leave you now,” he said.

  “Where are you going?”

  He was not used to having his actions questioned. “To get you food.”

  “And clothes,” she said. “My own clothes, please.”

  Spine, he thought again, amused and appreciative. “What is wrong with the clothes you have on?”

  “Nothing. They are very nice, thank you. However, the, um, castle is rather cold.”

  Selkies, even in human form, did not feel the cold. But of course she was not selkie.

  “Iestyn will build you a fire.”

  “And there isn’t much to them,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

  Griff narrowed his eyes. The long red cloak draped her from her slender white neck to her pretty bare feet. “You look covered to me.”

  “Well, I’m not. Not underneath. I don’t mind giving up my corset, but I can’t run around without a petticoat and stockings. Oh!” She pressed her palms to suddenly rosy cheeks. “I cannot believe I am discussing undergarments with you.”

  Griff grinned. He did not understand her embarrassment. Hadn’t he seen her naked? But he took her frankness as a good sign, an indication she was slowly lowering her barriers with him.

  “It was your petticoats that nearly drowned you,” he said. “But you can have them if they make you comfortable.”

  Opening the trunk at the foot of the bed, he rummaged under layers of linen and wool until his hand closed on a hard, solid object at the bottom. He withdrew a knife in its sheath and offered both to her.

  “Maybe this will make you more comfortable, too.”

  Her eyes widened. She regarded the dagger in his hand as if it were a sea urchin or a spiny lobster or some other creature dangerous to touch. “You said I would not be bothered again.”

  Griff scratched his jaw with the hilt. Any bull could disarm her before she inflicted a scratch. But they would recognize the blade—and the woman—as
his. “If you say ‘no,’ they will hear ‘no,’” he promised. “But you may need to get their attention before you say it.”

  “With this.” She took the broad black hilt in hand as gingerly as a virgin with her first lover.

  Griff felt the pang in his belly. Shaking his head at them both, he adjusted her grip. He showed her how to draw smoothly and guided her hand through the thrust. “Like that.”

  She sheathed the knife and smiled at him, her blue eyes rueful. “I don’t feel very dangerous.”

  The look, the tone, cut him to the heart. So beautiful, she was. So achingly human.

  He sucked in his breath. “More dangerous than you know, lass.”

  Emma watched from her window as the sun stained the western sky, setting the ocean on fire.

  She breathed deep. After the vermin-infested boardinghouse in Liverpool, after her cramped and stinking quarters belowdecks, it was a relief to fill her lungs with crisp, clean air. To be standing in a castle by the sea as the sun went down in a welter of crimson and gold.

  It felt good to be alive.

  The boy Iestyn had kindled a fire and provided her with a bucket of warm water to wash in. The girl with him—Una, all glossy brown curls and dark, sidelong glances—brought her clothes and a comb. Emma had been surprised no trace of salt or moisture clung to her skirts. Or to her hair, she realized belatedly. As if it had been washed while she slept.

  The burning fire warmed the room, creating a flickering illusion of home. All the room wanted to be completely comfortable was a rug on the floor. Emma rubbed her arms. And perhaps glass in the windows, to keep out the rain and hold the sea at bay.

  The rich salt-brew sea smell poured through the casement, pushing back the heat from the fire. The boom and hiss of the waves rose from the rocks below. She could see seabirds, wheeling and dipping in the pink-streaked sky, and—she caught her breath in mingled pleasure and dismay—seals in the water. She watched them, wondering at their fluid grace as they plunged and played, their big bodies perfectly at home in their element. She groped her way through a swaying forest of half-remembered impressions, dark and tangled as kelp.

  What had she seen?

  And how much had she imagined?

  The door to her room bumped open. Emma whirled, her heart crowding her throat at the large, male silhouette filling her doorway.

  Griff.

  He waited, a smile in his eyes and a tray in his hands, and her heart jumped again for a different reason.

  Awareness filled the room—along with a strong aroma of grilled fish.

  Emma’s stomach rumbled.

  A corner of Griff’s mouth lifted. He set the tray on top of the chest. “Dinner.”

  She flushed. “It smells wonderful.”

  “It’s not much.” Four small, dark apples, an enormous fish cooked whole, and a handful of raw oysters gleaming in their shells. “Not what you are used to.”

  He sounded gruff. Defensive.

  “For the past four days, I’ve been on a diet of stale bread and foul water,” she replied frankly. “This is better than what I’m used to.”

  His smile warmed her from the inside out.

  “Will you join me?” she asked. And then realized, too late, there was no place to sit but the bed.

  “I have eaten,” he said politely in his deep voice. “But I will take a glass of wine.”

  He sounded so civilized.

  Emma clasped her hands together. She did not entertain strange men in her bedroom, she certainly did not drink wine with them, she was a teacher—

  Had been a teacher, she corrected crossly. She was ruined now. She could hardly be ruined twice.

  While she debated with herself, Griff folded his big body and lowered himself to the floor.

  Well.

  That took care of the seating problem.

  She perched on the edge of her mattress, watching him pour wine from a crusted bottle into deep-bowled glasses. Two glasses. Her eyes narrowed as he handed her one, shifting forward in the firelight so that the lovely warm glow slid over his smooth shoulders and hard, furred chest. Her mouth went dry.

  She gulped her wine.

  No gentleman of her acquaintance would sit down to dinner without his coat, much less his shirt. Yet Griff seemed perfectly at ease in her room. In his skin.

  His skin…

  She had barely been able to look at him before. Now she found it difficult to look away.

  “You do not touch your food,” he said softly.

  She grabbed her fork and stabbed at the fish. “It’s delicious. Oh.” She closed her eyes a moment in appreciation. “It really is. Thank the cook for me.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “You? But…” She hid her confusion in another sip of wine.

  “No doctor,” he had said. No priest. No cook, either?

  “We live simply here,” he said.

  Emma scowled into her glass. Simply, fine. But even the most modest households had one female who could cook.

  A horrible thought struck her.

  “You’re not—” Dear God. “You’re not smugglers, are you?”

  His low laugh reassured her. “Not smugglers or pirates.”

  Relief made her giddy. Or maybe it was the wine on her empty stomach. “Too bad,” she teased. “I always thought being kidnapped by pirates would be very romantic.”

  “Kidnapped,” Griff repeated without expression.

  She set her glass down. “I didn’t mean—I hope you’re not offended.”

  “No.”

  “Because you didn’t kidnap me. You rescued me.” Or the seal did. She was a little confused. The wine must have gone to her head.

  He handed her an apple. “Eat.”

  She bit obediently. The fruit was crisp and tart enough to pucker her mouth. She took another sip to wash it down. “So…You grow apples.”

  He did not look like any farmer she’d ever known. His skin was smooth and the same warm gold all over. Cream and honey.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “The apples grow,” he said. “We are sea folk. We take what we need from the sea.”

  “And that’s enough for you? You said yourself you were isolated here. Don’t you ever want to see the world?”

  “All of us may roam. But this is our home. Our way of life. I belong here.”

  Emma sighed. “That’s nice. I never belonged at home. Or at school either, really.” A red-haired charity student with an impulsive streak and dreams beyond her station had not always fit in at the solidly middle-class girls’ school. “But I love to teach.”

  Griff watched her, an elbow on his knee, his long body absorbing the heat of the fire. She shivered.

  “And that is all you want,” he said. “To teach?”

  Emma blinked. No one ever asked her what she wanted. “I wanted what every girl wants, I guess. Marriage. A family. A home of my own.”

  Paul’s voice jeered in her head. “Good God, I never intended to marry you.”

  “You wanted,” Griff repeated, picking up on her use of the past tense.

  She raised her chin. “No point in crying after what you can’t have.”

  His eyes darkened. “I am sorry for the…change in your circumstances.”

  “Don’t be. It’s my own fault.”

  His brows lowered. “How is it your fault?”

  “I’m ruined,” Emma explained, and maybe it was the wine talking, and maybe it was relief that she was alive and not headed to Canada, after all, to work twelve months on a farm, and maybe she was just tired of pretending she was in control and everything was all right.

  Griff said nothing.

  “I thought he loved me,” she bumbled on. “I thought—” Her throat closed with remembered pain and embarrassment. Tears pricked her eyes.

  “I wanted to,” she insisted. “He said I did. But he didn’t love me, after all, and it was horrible. Disappointing, he said.”

  Her voice broke on the word. Her vision blurred. Sh
e did not see Griff move. But somehow he was there beside her on the bed, his arms warm and strong around her, his chest hard and close. She turned her face into his smooth, warm throat and cried.

  His large hand cradled her head against his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, only held her as she gasped and wept, her hot tears smearing her face and his throat. She inhaled the musk of his skin and let everything else boil out, all her pain, her rage, and her grief. She cried for her lost dreams and her violated trust. She cried for her friend and mentor Letitia, who had turned her out, and her family, who had turned their backs on her. She cried until she was heavy and hollow and limp, lying against him.

  He never spoke a word. And his silence gave her courage to admit the secret she had not confessed even to herself, the betrayal more shameful than Paul’s.

  “I’m ruined,” she said bitterly. “And I didn’t even enjoy it.”

  Griff was silent.

  Humiliation seared her. Women were not supposed to enjoy it.

  It was only her own perverse nature that led her to imagine she might.

  “I wanted to feel close to him.” As if any explanation could excuse her. “And instead I felt used. Empty.”

  Griff got up, the mattress shifting from the sudden removal of his weight, and set the tray outside in the hall.

  Emma stared at him, her throat aching and her eyes puffy. Confused and bereft. “What are you doing?”

  He shut the door and smiled at her, and the warm intent in his eyes thumped her in the stomach. “Let me fill you, lass. I will not disappoint you.”

  FOUR

  “Let me fill you.”

  Emma gaped. Impossible to mistake his meaning. Irresistible to imagine, for one taut moment, how it might be, his body covering hers, his legs pressing and parting her thighs, his weight pinning her as he stretched her, filled her, hurt her—

  The memory clenched her body. No.

  “No!” She scrambled off the bed in panic.

  Griff didn’t move.

  Her heart pounded. She struggled for composure. He was in her room, where she had invited him. She was to blame, just as Paul had said.

  But Griff was not Paul. Emma was sure—almost sure—he would not take advantage of her momentary weakness, her lapse in judgment, to force her.