Under an Enchantment: A Novella (10 page)

His groan was muffled by her kiss, and his control shattered as he sank into her, breaking past the unwelcome barrier of her virginity to claim her.

He held very still in her arms, rigid, and she could feel the tension ripple through his body, and she knew he wanted to pull away, to leave her.

Despite the discomfort she couldn’t let him. She clung to him, fiercely, reveling in the feel of his strong, sleek body, on top of her, around her, within her. It was painful, smothering, and quite glorious. She wanted it to last forever, she wanted something more that she didn’t comprehend.

He said something low under his breath, a curse, a benediction, and then the words “too late.” He started to pull away from her, and she clung to him in panic, only to have him move back, sliding, smoothly, deeply, the discomfort fading as he rocked against her. His hands cupped her hips, pulling her legs around him, as he taught her the ancient rhythm of advance and retreat, and she felt herself begin to drift, awash in a sensual dance of wonder and delight, sweet and dreaming, content to move beneath him in the moonlit darkness, until it changed, the first harsh tendrils spiraling up from her belly, and suddenly, sharply, there was no peace but a clawing kind of wonder. She clutched at him, her heart pounding, her breath strangled in her throat, reaching for something lost and mysterious, and she felt the waters of the sea close around her as her selkie pulled her deeper, deeper into the inky darkness, and she struggled, fighting him, until suddenly it erupted into a shower of stars, drifting through the darkness.

She felt him shudder in her arms, the warmth and wetness of him flooding her, claiming her, giving her a child. Not a lad, but a wee girl. And her name would be Catriona.

It seemed forever before the madness left her, the madness that was unlike anything she’d ever feigned. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to loose her hold of him. He was wet and slippery with sweat, like a seal, and it would be far too easy for him to vanish.

“
Ailie.” His voice was harsh, labored, but she wouldn’t respond, afraid to give him an excuse to leave her. “Lass, why didn’t you tell me?”

She hid her face against his shoulder, unwilling to talk. She wanted to stay wrapped in his arms forever, she wanted to fall asleep and wake in the ocean, swimming beside him. Failing that, she wanted to fall asleep beneath him and never wake again.

But Malcolm was having none of it. He moved away from her, ignoring her clinging arms, to sit beside her on the bed. He caught her chin in his hand and shook her. “Answer me, Ailie,” he said sternly. “Why were you still a maid? And why didn’t you tell me when you knew I’d have you?”

She opened her eyes then, cold and forlorn, the warm, loving glow of her body fading in the suddenly chill night air. “You wouldn’t have,” she said.

“
Wouldn’t have what?”

“
Wouldn’t have touched me. I know you, Malcolm MacLaren. You’re no demon spirit, for all you’d like to be. You wouldn’t take a lass and harm her if you’d a reason not to. As long as I was a widow, already pledged to another man, I was fair game. If you thought I was untouched, you wouldn’t have come near me.”

He shook his head, and beneath his dark, austere face was wry self-reproach. “I wish I could be as sure as you that I possess some shred of honor,” he said.

“
You wanted to hurt my family. I know that well—I may be half-mazed, but there’s nothing wrong with my reasoning when I care to use it. It doesn’t take any special powers to know that you’ve been wronged. By my family, by my husband, by Torquil. And I’m the instrument of your revenge.” She said it quite calmly, wondering that it failed to hurt her.

He looked shocked. “What makes you say such a daft thing?”

“
I thought we agreed, I am daft,” she replied, her voice as cool as her blood ran hot. “Morag told me. You’ll harm me for the sake of those you hate.”

“
Then why did you let me?”

She lay on her back in the moonlight, the marks of his possession still full on her body. He looked beautiful in the moonlight, a magical creature, and she would have given anything to be able truly to believe he was a selkie.

She reached up her hand to touch his face, wondering if he’d jerk away. He held still for her caress, his sea-green eyes distant as he watched her. “Because you’re my fate, selkie. My destiny. You’ve come from the sea to claim me, and claim me you have. When you leave tomorrow, I’ll be carrying your bairn to remember you.”

“
You’re a madwoman, Ailie Spens,” he said, taking her hand in his and moving it to his mouth. “And you make me mad as well.” He placed a kiss against her palm, his mouth open, using his tongue, and his eyes met hers. “Send me away from you, before I break your heart.”

“
It’s already too late to stop it. Lie down with me again, selkie,” she whispered. “No one ever died of a broken heart.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and she could almost believe he came from some dark otherworld. A world where she belonged. And then he leaned over and blocked out the moonlight once more, and there was no more room for talk.

He lay sleeping in the narrow bed. She’d marked him, Ailie thought, though not as thoroughly or as deeply as he’d marked her. She could see the scratches on his back, where’d she’d clung to him, sobbing. She could see where she’d bitten him on the shoulder, hard, when he’d carried her past any kind of sense or reason.

She stood at the side of the bed, the white nightrail once more around her, an old shawl wrapped around her as well, and wished she could throw them off once more and climb back in the bed with him.

It would be a mistake. As it was, she could barely walk. Her knees were weak, and parts of her body that she’d heretofore paid no attention to were sore and aching. She needed a hot bath, and hours of sleep. She wanted those hours with Malcolm, but the sun would rise soon enough, and the enchanted night would be over. She needed to be back in her own bed before they found her gone.

She didn’t trust her family. Not Torquil or Angus or Fiona. As for the people of St. Columba, they loved her in their way, but if they were convinced the selkie had harmed her, it would go ill with him, and she couldn’t bear for even an unwanted drop of rain to fall on his silky black hair.

She was mazed for sure. Foolishly in love, bewitched by the selkie who was most likely nothing but a man after all, but a man like none she’d ever known.

He’d leave, and he wouldn’t take her with him. And she couldn’t bear to see him go.

She’d make her way through the mist-shrouded dawn, back to the dower house, and from that moment on she’d be
douce
and mild, the meekest of young ladies, and in her belly she’d carry his bairn to love and cherish. Torquil would have nothing to do with a whore, and her brother and sister would wash their hands of her. It would be a quiet life, raising her daughter in the dower house, never leaving the island, but a happy life.

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?