The way he was looking at her evoked within Leena a strange alchemy. It made her feel both afraid of what was to come and yetlongingfor it with fervent urgency.
“I can see every—” He swallowed again, his tone rough. It was as if he could not look away, and he did not.
Her own voice cracked. “I did not expect anyone to come upon me here.” Even though he was still near the shoreline, she felt touched by his gaze, her body kindling in spite of the cold.
The tails of his dark coat floated about him as he stood nearly thigh-deep in the violent waves. His boots were no doubt a better defense against the icy temperatures than her bare feet, and for a moment she envied his dry undershirt, the thick woolen protection of his coat. And most of all, she envied that he was more in command of his surroundings than she.
Leena could see it now, the way the land rose and fell under his mastery.
Their differences had never been so apparent, standing there as they were within the tumultuous ocean: the control he wielded, the noble blood that flowed through his veins, his strong and rugged form a battlefront against the wind—a sharp contrast to Leena, who was stripped to the elements and flooded with the remains of the dead.
“Why are you here?” Still, his voice was raspy.
Leena could not answer him, unable to explain the insanity that had forced her to plunge into the glacial ocean. At her unblinking silence, a troubled frown had begun to breach his expression.
“Come out. The tide is rising.” He reached a hand toward her, and, in that one movement, he looked like a conqueror on a savage shore. He had brought war with him, and that invasion would reverberate through her body until he had changed the map of her. She would not survive him.
Instinctively, she allowed the harsh waves to pull her backward, shouting to be heard over the crash of water. “I’ve learned something today.”
He did not step back, nor did he waver. Instead, he stalked toward her, the sleek, rigid lines of his body parting the angry waves, the civilized attire he wore a poor disguise for the hunter beneath. “What have you learned?”
“Something about you.”
“Leena—”
“Something about your birthright.”
St. Silas halted then, watching her alertly.
Slowly, he read the secret that had shrouded itself on Leena’s face, and he dropped his hand.
He knew.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her.
“Do not.” There was a harsh warning in his eyes:Do not nameme.
It was at this moment that the sky opened up, releasing a torrent of brutal rain, drenching them even further.
She plunged toward the shore, already wishing herself a thousand miles from the turbulent ocean and back on dry land where she had as firm a hold ashe.
But her bare foot caught on a rock wedged deep within the shifting sand just as she began to move forward, and she plummeted back into the ocean until she was fully submerged in salt water. The cold was so overwhelming that she felt caught in its icy teeth. Shefought to right herself, panicking when she could not tell where the ground and the sky were.
Strong hands pulled her out in one powerful motion.
“I have you; be calm.” Very rarely had Leena felt such instantaneous relief as when St. Silas took hold of her, lifting her so that he carried her cradled to his chest, one arm supporting her head, the other beneath her knees.
His long strides cut through the fierce tide, bringing them back to the sandy bank. He paused for a moment to retrieve her shoes, before continuing against the strong gale. Even though he carried her flush against him, Leena could no longer see him clearly in the tempest. Still, her obscured vision transformed the hard lines of his throat and arms into a lighthouse, anchoring her in this storm.
St. Silas led them away from the beach, toward the jagged cliffs and to a narrow opening that would have been impossible to see from the oceanside.
A smugglers’ cave.
Despite her better judgment, Leena allowed her head to burrow against the hard expanse of his chest, both in comfort and in a rare rush of vulnerability.
She felt St. Silas pause for a moment at her unexpected surrender, looking down at her. She refused to meet his gaze and, after a moment, he resumed his pace, but his fingers tightened on her.
Not wanting to ruminate on what he must be thinking, Leena concentrated on his scent instead: woodsmoke from the hunt, fresh washing powder still clinging to his shirt, and the sandalwood from his shaving soap. To be so near to him was an intoxication. Already she felt her senses begin to blur in an embittered defeat.
