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She’s as wicked as wicked can be.

With her siren’s voice, she gives men no choice

to fall for a maid as treacherous as she.

Their voices mixed in harmony, their smiles continuing as they sang the simple tune together. Trevik leaned back on his hands then, too, a soothing reverie wrapping up his life, his reality, as if he’d only ever existed with this woman seated beside him.

No one else had ever had such an effect on him. No one else had ever spoken to his soul like this woman seated beside him. He was just like the men in that song—helpless against this woman’s pull.

Their eyes connected on and off as they sang, neither of them able to hold the other’s gaze until finally, the song ended, their voices seeming to echo past them and out to the sea. The waves responded in hushed movements.

“Ye be a fine singer, Trevik,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Even if I do smell o’ pilchards?”

She laughed, looking up to the sky. “I told ye, I don’t think ye smell of pilchards.”

“Well, what else am I to assume if ye don’t tell me otherwise?”

She remained silent.

“Be it another fish? Mackerel? Trout?”

She shook her head, clearly amused. “No, ye don’t smell of fish at all.”

“Then what be it? Wood? pasties?” He winced. “Onions?”

She laughed again. She studied him in silence, then finally stated, “Lemons.”

“Pardon?”

She looked at him. “Lemons. Ye smell of lemons.”

“Lemons.” He mulled the information over in his mind. He supposed that made sense, seeing as how that was the item mixed in the common soap he purchased. But he’d been using it so often, he didn’t really think he smelled of it. “Be that better than pilchards?”

“Oh, yes.” Her eyes were upon him. “Far better.”

Suddenly, warmth pressed into his finger. A moment of confusion settled around him. Had he lost feeling in his hand? Had the water from the waves somehow splashed upon the rock and warmed without his realization?

Then the truth settled around him. Miss Hollow. It was her warmth, her finger touching his.

His heart stuttered, and their eyes met. Why could he not look away? And more importantly, why was she looking at him in such a way? With…admiration, was it? Appreciation?

Then Trevik realized something for the first time. It was not Miss Hollow who was trapped in his net. He was trapped in hers—her net of lovely words and singing, of shimmering eyes and shining hair. Of beauty, her physical nature, and her very soul.

Yes, he was trapped. But this was a net he didn’t want to escape. This was a net he wanted to stay in, comforted by her gaze, her kindness, her goodness.

He knew it was futile, imagining a life with a mermaid, imagining a life with Miss Hollow. She didn’t want the only thing he could offer—the life of a fisherman’s wife.

And yet he couldn’t keep himself from her any longer. His soul craved hers, like roots craved the rain. Like petals craved the sunshine.

Like Miss Hollow craved the sea.

He needed to be near her, to feel her closeness and her warmth for himself, if only for once in his life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Morvoren didn’t know what had possessed her to touch Trevik’s hand. It was as if they were tethered together by some invisible force, pulling them closer and closer.