Desire, raw and sudden, flamed through him. The girl must have felt it too, pressing closer, her arms sliding around his neck. Soaked linen garments were no barrier, her breasts soft against his chest, her waist fitting his hand. She seemed to meld into him, and he into her.
As she tilted her face to his, as he bent to look at her, the nudge of a cheek, of a nose, then lips touched tentatively, then caressed. Her lips were tender and willing. Thunder boomed, the sea slammed against the rocks, and the kiss, echoing fear and seeking safety, grew wild, deep, almost desperate. Needful kisses followed one upon another like rushing waves. Urgency blazed through him as he slanted his mouth over hers and wove his fingers through her damp hair.
The whisky was still in his blood, he thought dimly, making him woozy with desire and a vague sense that something was happening that perhaps he should stop. The darling fairy being tipped her face toward him, pushed into his arms, herlips fervent beneath his. Her willing passion and the warmth growing between their bodies seared like whisky brose, all cream and fire.
The storm faded from his awareness, replaced by this exquisite feeling of salvation and passion at the gates of hell. He pulled her tightly into his arms, her mouth inquisitive against his, her little gasps like fuel to fire. The curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, made his heart pound. In the dreamlike haze, he felt he should stop, think, draw back.
But she took his face in her hands and flattened her belly against the hard, urgent core of him, and her hands moved over him with genuine need, her body pleading against his. Rain pummeled the cave entrance as he drew her deeper into the narrow shelter, leaning his back against slick rock, drawing her plaid shawl in a damp curtain around them. She leaned against him, her kisses feverish and consuming.
Lightning crashed, rain sheeted, stones skittered. The very rock shuddered underfoot. This delicate, alluring creature, this lithesome fairy siren, offered refuge from fear and death. The tender sanctuary of her embrace reminded him that he was alive, hearty, giving him strength. She seemed to draw strength from it too, moving and arching against him, urging him onward when snatches of logic made him want to pull back.
“Please,” she whispered, “oh please, I came here for you—” she murmured.
Came here for him? What irresistible magic was this? He swept his hands down her back, snugged her hips against his, letting her know—how could she not?—that he burned for now. Desire and the storm had taken what was left of his reason. He cupped her breast, and the fey creature moaned, arched, allowed his fingers to slip beneath her damp garment to find the heat at her center as she surged, crying out, graceful as the sea.
Lightning flared, and she whimpered in his arms as he lifted her. She arched and opened for him, wild, luscious, the sweetest rescue he could imagine. As he sank into her almost without realizing it was done, she shuddered with him. His heart slammed, his breath was ragged, she held him, kissed him. He tasted the salt of the sea or the salt of tears.
An exquisite power filled him, two souls raw with fear, desperate for comfort and solace. Cradling her head, he kissed her brow, her lips. She felt fragile; he felt a wash of regret.
“I am sorry,” he whispered in English. He could not find the Gaelic. “I—should not—”
“Hush.” She set a finger to his lips. “I came here for this. For you. It is done. We are free.” She spoke in English.
I am dreaming,he thought,still caught in this strange realm.
They sank to the floor of the cave, huddling together to wait out the storm.
*
You know whatyou must do.
As Margaret MacNeill recalled her great-grandmother’s words, she leaned against the cave wall and watched as veils of fog obscured the sea and the long reef. A faint light hinted at approaching dawn, and greenish waves frothed over the rocks. She could barely see the Isle of Caransay, her home, about a mile east of this wicked cluster of rocks called Sgeir Caran.
She glanced at the man asleep beside her in the shallow cave, while her fingers worked the red thread she had plucked from the plaid that still covered him.
You know what you must do. With a little help from the hot potion of whisky and herbs that her great-grandmother hadprepared, Meg had come here to do what was asked of her. So be it.
She wove the red thread together with long golden hairs from her head, deep brown from his. She had dreaded staying one night alone on Sgeir Caran as island tradition demanded. Wary of a fearsome night, a frightful experience—fear thankfully dulled by a potent whisky concoction—she had never imagined the legend might spring to life like this. No wonder lasses agreed if and when the need arose for a visit to the great rock.
The legend snored, swathed in her plaid, his dark head and one broad shoulder just visible. Shivering with the sweet memory of secret touches and soul-stirring kisses, Meg smiled a little.
Deftly, she plaited the threads and the hairs into a love knot, then created two tiny braids that she knotted into two circlets. Sliding one on her finger, she leaned over the sleeping man, found his hand, and slid the second circlet on his ring finger.
There. She had done what Mother Elga had instructed. The magical marriage was fixed. Smoothing a hand over his soft, damp hair, she sat back.
If the kelpie appears to you while you wait on the great rock,her great-grandmother had said,you must offer to ease his loneliness and love him. Such is the ancient agreement. Every hundred years, the lord of the deep must claim a maiden from Caransay for his bride. In return, he will protect the island. If the maiden bears his child, he will bestow favor and fortune on the islanders.
We need his help now more than ever, sweet Meg. You know what you must do.
Educated in the island village and later in a fine school on the mainland—courtesy of her maternal grandfather, the wealthy Lord Strathlin—Meg felt part of the remote little island and the modern world that existed beyond it. She tended to dismiss theold beliefs, but Elga, her great-grandmother, and Thora, her grandmother on the island, accepted the old legends as absolute truth. The Kelpie of Sgeir Caran was treasured and revered on Caransay.
She had agreed to sit one night on the rock, fearful, warmed by sweet, bitter tea that took away doubts and fears. Certain that nothing much would happen beyond a drenching in the rain, she had agreed. She knew that the islanders faced broad eviction by a new landowner who preferred sheep and money to tenants. The threat to her kin and neighbors left her little choice. One night on Sgeir Caran would do no harm.
She never counted on a gale—or the kelpie. Bursting from the sea like a muscled arrow, the man-creature had appeared on the rock as if the raging storm had birthed him. He was beautiful and strong and seemed so real. Surprised rather than frightened, she felt compassion for him. He needed her help. And then she had melted in his arms, his kisses whirled her into whatever spell he concocted. That spell lingered still.
The luscious fog of the potion Elga had given her had fired her blood. She had behaved shockingly, with abandon and passion, swept up in a powerful need to be with this man.
Willingly, madly, she had craved him, followed her body, followed his urging to fulfill an ancient bargain she did not believe in daylight. His arms, his kisses, his body, his tenderness and strength were pure magic.
