The Selkie Sorceress (Seal Island Trilogy, Book 3) (14 page)

Sam twisted his hands in the material of her dress, sealing her to him. She could feel his heart hammering—a restless rhythm timed with her own. She ran her hands up his bare chest, over those broad shoulders. His muscles clenched, tightening under her touch.

“Sam,” she breathed as his lips trailed down her neck. Sparks danced from her fingertips. Whispers of smoke wafted into the room. A single flame rose up inside her, and the need for him whipped through her like the first rays of a winter sunrise, painting the ocean a glittering gold.

She shuddered as his teeth nipped the strap of her dress, edging it off one shoulder. Her nails dug into the hard muscles of his back as he carried her toward the bed. His foot caught the cord of the lamp. It toppled, the bulb shattering as it crashed to the floor. Fireflies of electricity snapped feverishly at the darkness that fell like a curtain of smoke.

Glenna reached blindly for the headboard, hooking her long legs around Sam’s waist as his knees bent and they tumbled together to the tangle of sheets that smelled faintly of mothballs and Sam’s sweat. He flipped her until she was on top of him, straddling him. She could feel the pulsing heat of him throbbing under her.

Those tawny eyes lifted, burning into hers as his hands grasped the thin neckline of her dress. The fabric tore, ripping through the silence. Buttons scattered into the folds of the sheets, like the threads of her past unraveling, her darkest secrets spilling into the room.

But he was not afraid of her. He was not afraid of them.

“Glenna,” he breathed, his voice hoarse with need. He molded his hands to her breasts and she reveled in the feel of his callused palms gliding over her heated flesh. She dipped her fingers into his thick blond hair—still tousled from sleep, and lowered her mouth back to his.

She had made love with men before, but she had never felt this throbbing ache in her chest—a painful tightening as if her heart would shatter if he pulled away. She deepened the kiss, her fingers twisting into his hair, tugging him closer. His teeth clamped down on her bottom lip greedily—nibbling, savoring, tasting. She wanted more,
needed
more of him.

Glenna’s breath caught when he dipped his mouth to the sensitive tip of her breast. Her insides melted, pooling desire between her legs as the heat of his mouth wrapped around her. She pressed herself against him as he peeled the rest of her dress away. It fell to the floor in a whisper of silk.

A low sound of yearning escaped her throat as his heated palms scorched a trail down her back, imprinting on her hips, pulling her closer. She could feel the hardness of him, every inch of him, sliding over her. She reached for the waistband of his black boxers—the only stitch of cloth between them now.

She tugged them down his narrow hips and rose over him. The thorns scraped at the windows, scratching at the paint. The song of the ocean, a whisper of waves in the windless night, floated over the fields. She heard his soft low groan, felt his fingers digging into her hips as she lowered herself over him, as their bodies joined—became one.

The song grew. The sea, quiet for so many days now, began to chant. She felt its power, its voice calling to her. The song built in a cresting surge over the island. And as they began to move, their bodies joined in ecstasy, the waves crashed, beating against the rocks like a drum.

She reveled in the feel of him inside her, in the burning heat that fanned out from her center until her whole body glowed, pulsing toward him like an ember feeding on his every touch. Sam buried himself inside her, setting a breathless, steady rhythm until they were one heartbeat, one flame.

Smoke poured through the window, threatening to swallow them whole. But the roses flashed through the darkness, their brilliant blooms illuminating the sheen of sweat clinging to Sam’s chiseled chest. Fire glinted in those whiskey eyes as he claimed her mouth in another scorching kiss.

She struggled to breathe, her hands sliding over his slick skin. She met him beat for beat, her body arching like a bow as the furnace flamed to life inside her. Petals unfurled, the vines clinging to the whitewash, scratching at the glass. She cried out his name as the wave of passion tore through her.

Her head fell onto his shoulder as his body clenched under hers. She shuddered as he pulled the last tremors from inside her. She pressed her hand to the warm glass of the window, streaked with steam. Black petals rained to the ground. He wrapped her in his arms, touching his forehead to hers. “I’m
not
leaving you, Glenna.”

W
hen Sam got to the dock the next morning, Glenna was already waiting for him. She stood at the edge of the pier, gazing out at the horizon. Her thick brown tresses were bound, clasped in a copper clip that caught the morning sunlight. A yellow purse was draped over one shoulder and dark jeans tucked into tall leather boots hugged her shapely legs.

The cry of a gull echoed over the harbor as he stepped onto the pier. Glenna turned at the sound of his boots hitting the planks. The sunlight bathed her pale skin in an ethereal glow. Her eyes were guarded, her full mouth—painted scarlet—gave nothing away.

Sam’s legs felt heavy as he walked to her. Glenna’s black knit top crossed over her breasts and cinched around her slender waist with a knot off to one side. His fingers itched to set her curls free so they tumbled over her bare shoulders. He thought back to the day they’d first met. It was in the bar at
O’Sullivan’s
pub during the Midsummer’s Eve festival, when he’d come to the island in search of Tara.

He’d asked Glenna if she was a selkie, a woman of the sea who could bewitch a grown man. She’d laughed, but he was only half-joking. Because even then, in the crowded barroom, he’d felt the pull of her, the unmistakable threads of enchantment spinning around him until he was caught in her spell.

He knew the truth now—that the blood of the selkies did run in her veins. And he was bound to her now as a captain was bound to his ship. If one went down, so did the other. He was not afraid of the roses growing outside his cottage. What happened to Glenna’s lovers before was not happening to him. They had broken two curses on this island together.

They would find a way to break this one. And he was certain—
certain—
Brigid was the key to unlocking all the clues.

He was close enough now to spy the pale blue crystals that hung from Glenna’s ears. The hand that rested lightly on the strap of her purse was adorned in a variety of glittering gemstones. She had her armor back on, Sam mused. She opened her mouth to say something, and he gave into the instinct to lean down and plant his lips on hers.

He felt her stiffen, and grabbed her arms before she stepped back off the edge of the pier. She let out a muffled protest, hooking a hand in the front of his T-shirt to keep from falling. He pulled her to him, deepening the kiss. When he finally let her go, she was out of breath.

“Good morning,” he murmured huskily, easing her away from the edge of the pier.

Glenna jerked the strap of her purse back up her shoulder. “Don’t do that again,” she warned, brushing past him. Her heeled boots clicked over the metal platform leading up to the ferry. Sam turned, watching the sway of her hips. He unhooked his sunglasses from the neck of his shirt and slid them onto his face.

Searching Dublin hospitals for a Jane Doe wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured his first date with Glenna. And he had a feeling she wasn’t going to make this task any easier. In fact, he was fairly certain the only reason she was tagging along was to try and stop him. He nodded to Finn as he boarded the ferry, and the skipper raised an eyebrow at the spectacle on the pier. Sam smiled. Good thing he knew how to shift her focus.

TARA STOOD AT
the window of her cliff cottage, watching the ferry motor toward the mainland. A bouquet of dried lavender hung from a silver ribbon tied to a nail at the top of the window, and she breathed in the sweet floral scent. But it did little to calm her. She could feel the shift in the ocean; the change in the winds.

Dominic had gone down to Sam’s to have a look at the roses. The door to the cottage creaked when he opened it. He walked inside, shutting the door behind him.

Tara didn’t bother to turn. “Did you see them?”

“Aye.” Dominic crossed the room to her. “I saw them.”

Outside the window, Tara’s seashell chimes clinked in the wind. “How many?”

“At least a dozen.”

Tara closed her eyes. “They grew back.”

Dominic came up behind her, settling his hands on her shoulders. He pulled her back gently against his hard chest. She could feel his heartbeat through his sweat-soaked shirt. The odor of earth and roses clung to his skin. “You’re sure there was only the one rose yesterday?”

Tara nodded.

He wrapped his arms around her waist. “There’s nothing underneath the plant.”

“How far did you dig?”

“Far enough. And there’s no use trying to cut roots. They’re as tough as iron.”

“Did you see Sam?”

Dominic shook his head. “He and Glenna are on the ferry, headed to Dublin.”

Tara looked back at the ferry. Glenna and Sam would be in Dublin by mid-afternoon. The sea surged against the rocks far below, like a slow steady build days before a storm. The waters had finally risen, quenching the parched beaches. But the dried-out kelp and driftwood that had piled on the beaches for days floated off shore—a serpent-like tangle of debris.

“Glenna knows something,” Tara said quietly. “I’m sure of it.” She turned in Dominic’s arms so she was facing him. “Why else would she go with him to Dublin?”

“Sam has a knack for digging out truths. If she’s hiding something, he’ll find it.”

“I’m sick of her leaving us in the dark.” Tara stepped out of his arms. She untied the apron around her waist and dropped it over the chair. She turned off the oven, where a pan of sugared rosemary was baking for a new tincture.

Dominic turned, watching her walk to the door. “Where are you going?”

“To Glenna’s,” Tara said, glancing over her shoulder. “To have a look around.”

SAM WHISTLED IN
appreciation at the black two-seater Mercedes with buttery leather interior. “
This
is your car?”

Glenna smiled, hitting the unlock button on her remote key pad. The small fishing village of Sheridan was bustling with tourists who’d traveled to the coast at the last minute to take advantage of the sunny weather. Doors to the colorful shops were propped open, beckoning visitors to browse Celtic charms and hand-knit wool sweaters. Lobstermen were pulling up their cages and traps, their frustrated curses echoing over the bay when they found them empty again.