Prologue
Scotland, the Inner Hebrides Summer, 1850
He washed outof a cold sea in darkness, finding a grip on a huge rock that thrust upward through crashing waves. As he lay motionless on the bulwark of rough stone, the water swept over him, withdrew, and surged high again.
Lungs burning, he crawled higher on the sloping rock and collapsed, shivering and half naked. Peering through darkness and lashing rain, he recognized the unique profile of his sanctuary: Sgeir Caran, the largest rock in the notorious Caran Reef just west of the Inner Hebridean Isles. The half-mile crescent of black basalt rocks, some entirely submerged, formed a wicked lure of eddies and whirlpools, trapping countless boats and ships over the centuries—including his own rowboat.
He had found safety in a dangerous place. For now, he was glad to lie on the solid breast of the rock; glad just to breathe. He was familiar with this reef, had studied and measured its jagged points in his capacity as a lighthouse engineer, had listed the ships wrecked upon these rocks and numbered the lives lost. Some of the names were known to him, among them his own kin.
Years ago, this reef had taken his parents, wrecking and sinking their ship as they sailed on a holiday journey, leaving their thirteen-year-old son and his sisters in the care of arelative. That devastating loss had changed the course of his life and altered him, heart and soul. Now he wondered if he was destined to join his parents here.
Perhaps he was already dead, but with his usual obstinacy had not realized it yet. He closed his eyes, clung to the rock, breathed. Pelting rain and cold shivers confirmed that he was indeed alive. The gale raged on, black clouds smothering the half-light of the Hebridean night. Sunset had been a warm glow when he’d sailed out.
Foolish to come out alone, sodden drunk, on a dare. But Dougal Robertson Stewart, heir to the estates of Kinnaird and Balmossie, never turned down a challenge or quailed at danger. He welcomed risk, but should reconsider that in future, he thought as he crawled up a slippery incline of black basalt.
Waves, high and fierce, crashed over him as he scuttled toward the upper plateau of rock. He glimpsed a tall stack rock, its upward thrust an eerie tower. Caves permeated the far end of Sgeir Caran, he knew, but he was too exhausted to look for them yet. He lay watching the writhing, turbulent sea just below the ledge, feeling the sting of rain on his back through a linen shirt.
Had he only dreamed the beautiful ones who had carried him here through the storm? Graceful, frightening, the creatures had appeared as he was drowning in the deep. They had taken him onto their backs and surged forward with the waves, their manes pale froth, their hooves whipping the sea to wildness.
Sea kelpies, the legendary water horses who raced through the foam. Though he had not believed such things were possible, tonight he had seen them, had twisted his fingers in their wet, white manes and placed his feet on their magnificent backs while they carried him forward like the steeds of Neptune.
He had been drunk indeed, he thought, and in a sorry state. Concussed too, for he had taken a blow to the head when his borrowed fishing boat had overturned in a high swell brought onby the sudden squall that became a heavy storm. Caught in the waves, he had clung to the boat’s under-planking, but when his wrapped plaid had dragged him under, he had stripped free of it. Still, the sinking boat began to suck him under. Then a legion of pale horses had appeared just then, sweeping him toward the rocks, where he found a grip.
Now, he rose to his feet, maintaining his balance until an arching wave slammed over him, taking his feet from under him as he knocked his head against the rock, and sank into a black void.
Opening his eyes—how long had he been out?—he saw a pair of perfect bare feet.
Pale and delicate, mere inches from his face, the small toes and slender ankles showed beneath the hem of a white gown. Rain splashed all around her, soaking her garment.
A sea fairy, he thought dimly. Kelpies and sea fairies. He was lost in the realm of legend, the wild Otherworld itself.
She sank to her knees, a sweet blur of a face above her simple gown. Wet hair spilled down in tendrils. A plaid shawl was draped over her shoulders, and she slipped it off to wrap it around him. Its thickness, even damp, felt divine. He tried to thank her, but his hoarse voice failed.
“Ach Dhia,you are come out of the sea,” she said. “I have been waiting for you.”
Gaelic.He understood some, spoke only a little. Why would she wait for him?
“You are cold, shivering. Not used to human form.” She tucked the shawl higher. “I came here to keep the ancient promise. Even if you are a king in your world, you need care in ours.”
Ancient promise? He stared at her. “I am out of the sea,” he said in awkward Gaelic, trying to explain. His mind felt muddled. Who was she, and where was he?
“Hush you.” She helped him to rise on shaky legs and tucked her shoulder under his so that he could lean on her as they moved forward. She looked elfin, but had solid strength. They walked across the rock, bent against the wind, the shared plaid whipping about both of them.
Was she shipwrecked too—or was she part of some legendary sea realm? She seemed magical, a fey creature made of gossamer and seafoam, leading him over this wicked rockface.
Hebridean islanders believed the ocean was inhabited by kelpies, selkies, mermaids, sea fairies, blue men, and more. He had encountered water horses himself that night—and here was a sea fairy. He might never reach home again. His head ached and nothing seemed real.
Wind and rain whipped at them, and he gathered her close under his arm, shielding her. She slipped an arm around his waist and walked beside him.
Either he was stranded half naked with a fairy creature, or he was dreaming. He hoped it was the latter and he would soon wake up after sleeping off Mrs. MacDonald’s whisky consumed during Mr. MacDonald’s wake.
Vaguely he recalled a night of drinking, mourning, music, and joyful stories of the deceased. He had tossed back too many drams during that fine wake for a good man. When friends dared him and another fellow to row around the reef in the gathering dark, braving sea kelpies, Dougal had taken the challenge. When the other man had paused to retch over the side of his boat, Dougal had rowed onward, straight into the mouth of the gale that suddenly opened like a dark maw.
Beside him, the fairy lass cried out against the whipping wind and rain. Dougal held her close and walked onward through a haze of rain. He was determined to survive this night and find his way out of this strange realm, and he would make sure this lovely creature survived too.
Spying the dark crevice of a cave entrance, he tugged her that way. When she stumbled, he swept her up into his arms to carry her into the rocky niche, a narrow space just large enough to shelter them. They huddled together, silent, watching the storm’s loud fury—stones breaking loose in the fierceness, skating into the wild sea, waves crashing over rocks, sliding away, arching forward. Water washed into the little cave to foam and swirl around their ankles.
Holding the girl close—she was a delicate thing, easily shoved by the wind—Dougal was increasingly aware of his half-naked state, a long, wet linen shirt and soggy stockings all he wore since he lost his plaid and shoes to the sea. She wore a thin wet gown and plaid shawl, her body curving against his, a little blessed heat generating between them. As she relaxed against him, responding to the safety he offered, their breaths fell into a rhythm, and she felt calm, lush, warm in the circle of his arms.
