Sea Lord (23 page)

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“Take what you need.”

He watched her slim throat move as she swallowed. His neck was corded with strain. The room grew

dark. She braced her hands on his shoulders and slowly, slowly, sank onto him, taking him into the heat

and the wet. His teeth clenched. His breath hissed. He stretched out his legs as she wiggled to take him

deeper, feeling her muscles flex and relax, feeling her body clench and release, a fierce internal milking of

his shaft. Her eyes were bright and blind as she moved in awkward rhythm, her fingers digging into his

shoulders, her body tight around his.

Lightning shattered the shadows as she gathered the storm, owned it, rode it. Rode him. Power pulsed

inside and out. She shuddered. He groaned. He felt the crackle and surge as she closed around him,

rising and falling like the sea.

His heart contracted. “
I am yours,
” he had told her.

But he had not believed it until now.

When the wave came, the swell took them both.

13

PALE YELLOW LIGHT FLOODED THE WESTERN wall of the inner bailey. The short turf dissolved

in a tumble of rock and weed like a green wave breaking on shore.

Lucy lifted her face to the sun’s caress, incandescent with happiness. Every moment of the past three

days that Conn had not been with the wardens, he had spent with her—most of them in bed. There was

nothing he wouldn’t do and little they hadn’t tried. She felt exquisitely sensitive, achingly alive, her skin

burnished by his constant attentions. She glowed, inside and out.

“Stones, it’s hot,” said Roth from the bench.

Lucy started, her attention jerked back to their lesson. The temperature in the courtyard eased a degree

or ten.

Griff rubbed his jaw with one large hand. “Aye. Too hot to concentrate anymore today. Go enjoy

yourselves.”

Three males looked at Lucy, their eyes dark with animal awareness. They knew, she realized. Even the

boys.

She felt plunged in boiling water, scalded pink. “It does seem warm for October,” she offered.

Roth choked.

Iestyn dropped his gaze.

“It’s the current,” Griff said kindly. “Coming from the south. The island never gets so very cold.”

“Or so warm,” Roth said. “Usually.”

Iestyn kicked his ankle.

Lucy cleared her throat. “Good growing climate.”

“Good for oats and apples,” Griff said.

“Wild onion, too,” said Iestyn. “Under the orchard trees. And mint.”

Lucy’s gaze wandered back to the strip beneath the sun-drenched wall. Not that it was any of her

business, but . . . “Wouldn’t it be more convenient to grow inside the walls? The herbs anyway.”

“Aye. Emma planted some bits of things by the kitchen, years ago.” Griff smiled ruefully. “They are not

doing so well now.”

“By the kitchen?” Lucy frowned, picturing the outer bailey. “Not much sun there.”

“You could move them,” Griff suggested. “In the spring.”

Lucy jolted. Spring was months away. When she’d asked Conn for time, she hadn’t thought so far

ahead.

“Or now is good,” she said. Now was very good. Why screw things up? “Fall is the best time to

transplant.”

“Is it?” Griff’s dark eyes assessed her. “You might have a look, then.”

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“I will.”

Why not? Conn had told her he would be meeting with the remaining wardens through midday. One thing

she’d learned growing up was that you couldn’t sit around waiting for somebody to pay attention to you.

Conn cared for her, her comfort, her pleasure. It was just that he had other responsibilities to occupy him

and she had . . .

The back of her neck prickled.
Very little.

Time to do something about that.

“Well.” She stood. “Thank you.”

“Iestyn here will bring you your lunch,” Griff said.

“I can get it. I’m usually very competent.”

Griff and the boys regarded her with blank, male, uncomprehending stares.

Lucy sighed. “I’m going by the kitchen anyway.”

And by the great hall, she thought. Conn was in the hall. Not that she would actually get to see him, but

even the chance proximity was enough to make her heart skip. Like she was ten years old again, pedaling

her bike past Matthew Miller’s house, sweaty and breathless with anticipation.

But when she approached the arch to the outer bailey, her footsteps faltered. She hadn’t actually walked

this way since her encounter with the demon lord. The memory thrust into her mind, invasive, painful. She

blocked it the same way that she had blocked Gau.

“
He sensed that you were human and therefore vulnerable,
” Conn had said during one of their

time-outs to talk. Last night? The night before? He rose to put more driftwood on the fire, the firelight

sliding over his strong features. Lucy had pulled the covers over her breasts. She was cold without his

warmth beside her—and even the memory of Gau made her shiver. Conn’s voice was deep, with an

edge like an axe. “
Now he knows you are under my protection. He will not violate the sovereignty

of Sanctuary again.
”

Lucy was pretty sure she had protected herself last time, but she liked the way Conn’s concern made her

feel. Safe. Cared for. Also, Conn was naked. The whole time he was talking, she was focused on the

hard slope of his shoulders and the curve of his haunches as he stooped to the fire.

She crossed the cobblestones.

The long, low building opposite the keep was the kitchen, with the well beside it. Lucy didn’t see any

raised beds or weeded plots, but creeping among the stones was a tiny-leaved plant she recognized as

thyme and a taller shrub that might be sage, straggling in the shade. Near the kitchen door sprouted a

clump of gray-green foliage with dried-up spikes. Lavender? She rubbed a velvety leaf between her

fingers and sniffed. Marjoram. Good on chicken and fish. She would have to talk Griff into allowing her

to take over some of the cooking.

Planning a garden, planning meals . . . She was remaking her old life here, with Conn as the new center.

Something about that thought struck her as not quite right. She pushed the feeling away and opened the

door to the kitchen.

The interior was dim, cluttered, and cool, more storeroom than kitchen. The air smelled of apples and

onions, fish and peat. Shuttered windows admitted bars of light, revealing stone stained with smoke,

shelves thick with dust, casks, bags, and barrels piled against the walls.

Well.
Lucy turned slowly. If she wanted something to do, she had come to the right place. As her eyes

adjusted, she saw a long, wide table covered with what looked like treasures from a flea market, silver,

crystal, and china. A wide open hearth and a cold iron stove anchored one end of the room. A deep

trough with a pipe dominated the other. The walls were lined with open shelves.

Lucy stepped closer and blinked in surprise at rows of cans. All sizes and shapes of tins and cans,

labeled in all languages, with faded pictures of tomatoes, peaches, beans.

“
We accept the gifts of the tide,
” Conn had said.

If she could get them open, she could prepare a feast.
A feast for one?

A frown formed between her eyebrows. If she wanted to eat alone out of cans, she could go back to

Maine.

Not that she could actually go back. Not that she wanted to now. Conn wasn’t in Maine.

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She smoothed her brow and straightened her shoulders, and began to search among the bone-handled

knives and silver tongs for a can opener.

A male voice drifted through the slatted windows. “. . . more pressing concerns occupying his attention.”

A woman laughed without amusement. “Occupying his bed, you mean.”

Lucy froze, gripping a spatula.

“I take it you do not approve of the prince’s liaison,” the man said coolly.

Oh, God. They were crossing the courtyard, a man and a woman walking together. Wardens?

“I forfeited my right to approve or disapprove when I left the prince’s bed,” the woman said. “And you,

Lord Morgan?”

Lucy held her breath. Concealed by the shutters, she edged closer to the window to see them better. To

spy, she admitted to herself with a lurch of shame and discomfort. A tall man dressed in black,

silver-haired and smooth-faced. That must be Morgan. And the woman with him, with the red hair and

the large pink pearls, had shared Conn’s bed.

She was very beautiful, Lucy observed.

She tried not to mind. What had she expected? Conn must have learned all that technique somewhere.

She knew going in he wasn’t the three-thousand-year-old virgin.

“The ice shelves are shattering in the northern deeps,” Morgan said. “The seals lose ground day by day.

Under the circumstances, I find it difficult to sustain interest in Conn’s new broodmare.”

Ouch.

Lucy’s throat closed. They didn’t know her. How could they judge her?

“You have my sympathies. If not, it seems, Conn’s help?” The woman’s tone made the statement a

question.

“He does what he can,” Morgan said grimly. “Which is not enough to counter the humans’ depredations.

Perhaps when the oceans rise and drown them, we will have some relief.”

Lucy swallowed. Apparently she wasn’t the only human these two selkies disliked. They were being

mean. Hateful.

Conn’s broodmare.

She cringed.

“You agree with Gau, then?” the woman murmured.

Morgan’s long strides checked. They were very close to the window. Lucy huddled in the shadows, her

heart beating against her ribcage like a trapped bird. “You heard the prince,” he said without expression.

“The children of the sea are neutral in Hell’s war on humankind.”

“Not so neutral while that human
galla
shares his bed.” The scornful tone made translation unnecessary.

“Her mother was selkie,” Morgan said.

“Her mother was a bitch.”

“But a fertile one,” Morgan pointed out. “Conn wants a child.”

The red-haired woman bared her teeth. “You presume to tell me what Conn wants?”

“I presume nothing,” Morgan said harshly. “Were it otherwise, Hell might have had a different answer.”

They walked away. If the woman said anything in reply, Lucy didn’t hear. Her blood drummed in her

ears. Her stomach churned.

She needed to see Conn. Obviously the council meeting had broken up. He would come looking for her

soon. She needed the reassurance of his strong arms and encouraging words.
He
didn’t hate her because

she was human. He thought she was beautiful. He had agreed to give her time.

As long as she continued to have sex with him.

“
Conn wants a child.
”

She closed her eyes against the pain. Yeah, he did. “
Your blood and my seed to save my people,
” he

had said.

He hadn’t lied to her. Maybe it would have been easier if he had. Because now she couldn’t even take

refuge in anger. She couldn’t blame him for deceiving her.

She had deceived herself.

She set the spatula back on the table, her hand shaking. She needed time to think before she faced him

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again.

“Where are you going?” Iestyn’s young voice caught Lucy at the postern gate.

Lucy swept a longing glance beyond the castle walls, where the green slope wandered down to lose itself

in the orchard before swooping to peaks and crests. Rocks heaved from the turf like whales from the

ocean. The ridges glimmered in the afternoon sun. She wanted to be out there. She wanted to be gone,

away from the towers and expectations that pressed down on her and made it hard to breathe.

She turned and gave Iestyn a tight, teacher-to-pupil smile. “For a walk.”

His brow furrowed. “I thought you were getting lunch.”

She swallowed past her aching throat. “I’m not hungry.” That much, at least, was true.

The boy’s gaze passed over her and lingered on Madadh, tongue lolling, at her side. “I will come with

you.”

“No,” she said sharply. Too sharply. A wildness reared inside her. She was desperate for escape from

this place. From her pain. “I’ll be fine. I have Madadh with me.”