The Highlander and the Sea Siren

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The Highlander and the Sea Siren Marguerite Kaye

When Lachlan Sinclair finds a naked young woman named Morven stranded on the shore of his Scottish isle, he is instantly drawn the beautiful being…and is surprised to discover that she feels the same burning desire that he does! Though Morven doesn’t remember her home or family, she is sure of one thing: that she has come to be with Lachlan. But despite their unbridled passion, both Morven and Lachlan fear for their future. For once Morven remembers who—and what—she is, she must decide if she wants to return home or make a new life with Lachlan…and their child.

Contents Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Epilogue

Prologue Port of Ness is a little fishing village nestled at the far western corner of the Hebridean Isle of Lewis. It’s a remote and beautiful place, with the cottages and crofts hugging the cliff top, and the moorland stretching, brown and gold and umber into the distance. A steep path winds its way from the centre of the village, meandering through the whitewashed thatched cottages to the harbour. The silver sands of the beach stretch in an inviting crescent, following the contours of the starkly rising, forbidding cliffs. The sea is the life-blood of the people of Ness, called Niseachs in their own Gaelic language, but her plunder is often hard won, for she is a temperamental mistress, calm and inviting one minute, seething and roiling the next. Even in the height of summer, the tranquillity of the glittering turquoise depths can turn gunmetal grey, the gentle whitecrested surf becoming a vicious swell, high enough to envelop the tiny fishing boats, powerful enough to consume the strongest swimmer. As you would expect, the sea forms a central role in the customs and lore of the Niseachs, too. No wife will do her laundry on the day her man goes out in his boat, for fear of him being washed away. A minister, a red-haired woman, even a man with a squint, are bad luck to meet on the way to a boat. Equally bad luck, it is, to say the words Kirk, hare or pig. All can rouse the sea from her slumber, though she can be appeased by the touching of cold iron, or the presence of a child’s caul. Lullabies and stories while away the long winter’s nights on Ness. Huddled together for warmth in front of the peat fire, the Niseachs tell of sirens and mermaids and shipwrecks and lost souls. This is one such tale.

Chapter 1 Port of Ness, Late Nineteenth Century The storm had been raging all night. Waves pounded relentlessly onto the shore, huge breakers like vicious maws, churning the sand, casting seaweed and shells high over the usual tide line, as far as the cliffs on top of which Lachlan Sinclair’s house perched, at the furthermost point of the village. It was Midsummer’s Eve, a strange night for such a tempest. Unable to sleep, Lachlan rolled out of bed and padded naked over to the window. Pushing back the shutter and lifting the sash, he was assaulted by a cold blast of air, which whipped his shoulderlength black hair straight back from his face. Above him, the thatch rustled and lifted with the force of the gale. The shutter was wrenched out of his hand, banging against the stone of the cottage wall.

Below him, the sea was a cauldron of movement. The sky, which had been velvet black and cloudless, scattered with stars when he went to bed, was now a strange colour of silvery grey streaked with dusky pink. An ominous sky, he thought, stretching out of the window to look up beyond the overhang of the thatch. There was something in the air, no doubt about it. The hairs on the back of his arm stood on end, though the storm was not an electrical one. A gust of wind whirled through the room, scattering ash from the embers of the fire. Lachlan hastily closed the window. Sleep had deserted him. With practiced ease, he relit the fire and hooked the heavy kettle over it. Soon, the room was filled with the familiar smell of smoking peat, and the less usual–for these parts–aroma of delicate China tea. Lachlan measured the leaves carefully from the enamelled tea chest that had belonged to his grandmother, smiling as usual at the delicately painted and comical figure of the sampan man, who was hiding in the reeds and sneaking a sly look at the bathing geisha girl. Sipping on the pale brew from the cup and saucer with the dragons, which had also been his grandmother’s, Lachlan allowed his thoughts to drift back in time. He’d spent every holiday he could down at the big old house just outside Fairlie on the south west coast of Scotland, where his grandparents had lived. His grandfather had been a merchant, but his real love was the sea. His tea clippers were the sleekest and fastest in the world, but he used to race yachts, too, and had a small boatyard in the town that built luxury craft. Here, Lachlan spent most of his time sweeping up wood shavings, fetching and carrying, varnishing and caulking, until over the years he learned every part of the trade. In the afternoons there was Lapsang Souchong in his grandmother’s drawing room, where afternoon tea, with her own home-made drop scones and Dundee cake, was as much an unmissable ritual as the laying out of the skeleton of a new boat, or the launch of a finished one. Soothed by the memories, Lachlan fell into a doze by the fire. He awoke as dawn broke. Pulling on his shirt and belting his rough work trousers, he decided to see for himself what havoc the night had wreaked. The sky was new-washed, the palest of blue tinged with the blushing pink of the early morning. Barefoot, Lachlan made his way out of the cottage, along the cliff top, to the narrow path that zigzagged down the cliffs to the beach. The sea was aquamarine and almost flat calm now, the gently lapping waves like contented sighs on the silver sand. A thick line of weed marked the zenith of its rage. Lachlan made his way along the beach, a tall figure glowing with health, his long legs striding with ease on the hard sand, his hair ruffled by the breeze that flattened his shirt against his torso, outlining the broad shoulders and muscled chest of a man used to physical labour. At the far end of the beach, where the harbour wall curved out to sea, was a clump of rocks. Here were deep pools filled with vibrant anemones, scuttling crabs, flounders and tiddlers, a favourite spot with the bairns. From a distance, he took it for a large clump of

weed, huddled against the rocks. The pale shimmer showing through, he took for sand. Then it moved. Too large for a beached porpoise, his first thought. And too pale. Lachlan approached cautiously. Not weed, but hair. Not sand, but skin. Even as he looked in amazement, the shape unfurled and revealed itself to be a young woman of astonishing beauty, with the most speaking pair of deep brown eyes he had ever seen. She gazed at him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. Her skin had a lustre like silver, as if polished by the sand. Her hair, long and silken, was the same deep brown of her eyes, curling down over her shoulders to the small of her back, curtaining the roundness of her breasts. It was only then that Lachlan realised she was completely naked. To his embarrassment, he was instantly aroused. Realising he had been staring at her enticing curves, he managed to drag his eyes up to her face. “Are you hurt?” The girl shook her head. “What happened to you? Did you fall overboard in the storm?” Another shake of her head. “I don’t know.” Her voice was husky, a low tone that seemed to vibrate somewhere in the pit of his stomach. She was sitting up now, stretching out her arms above her head, showing the full curve of her breasts, a hint of rosy nipple, the dip of her rib cage, the sweeping indent of her waist, apparently quite unconcerned by–or perhaps unaware of–her naked state. Dear God, but she was beautiful. Lachlan’s erection pressed insistently up towards his belly. “Do you have a name, lass,” he asked, trying desperately to ignore his inappropriate state. The girl looked up at him. Her eyes were like rock pools, deep and dark, glinting light in their depths. She had a fey look about her, as if she could see things in him he’d rather keep hidden. He was being daft, but still–he struggled not to look away. “Morven,” she said, and smiled at him, showing perfect white teeth. “My name is Morven.” “I’m Lachlan Sinclair. I live in the house on top of the cliff up yonder. You’ve had a shock, I don’t doubt. Perhaps you’d like to rest there a while, and maybe then you’ll remember what happened to you.” Morven got to her feet in one easy, fluid movement, shading her eyes from the rising sun to fix her gaze on the cottage. “You live alone? Or do you have a mate?” “A mate! I’m not married, if that’s what you mean.” She was a slight thing, coming up only to his shoulder. Shapely legs. Surprisingly long narrow feet. Her hair fell past her waist, caressing the slope of her bottom. He was staring again. Hastily, Lachlan pulled his shirt over his head and handed it to her. “Here, you’d best put this on.”

Morven looked down at her body in surprise. She ran her hand over the curve of her breast to her stomach, her thigh, closing her eyes as if savouring the touch. Lachlan, too, closed his eyes. The caress was incredibly sensuous. He could not help but imagine his own hand tracing the same path. “So soft,” Morven said, her hands trailing back up to cup her breast as she pulled the shirt over her head. It smelled of man. This man. Lachlan Sinclair. She liked it. Her nipple hardened in her palm, giving her a delightful shiver. Lachlan Sinclair. He was tall, much taller than she, and broad. Well-muscled shoulders and arms. She reached out her hand to touch him. Hard chest where hers was soft. Skin smooth, but different. Tanned. She traced the shape of his ribs. A more pronounced dip to his stomach than hers, which was very slightly rounded. More muscles. She saw them shimmer and flex as he breathed in under her touch. “Different,” she said, finding the slight fuzz of hair on his abdomen, just where his belt was buckled. Lachlan captured her wrist. Her hand lay still in his grip, spread over his stomach. She could feel his breathing, faster than her own. “What are you playing at,” he demanded. He had eyes the colour of the sky at dusk. Midnight blue. Hair as black as sea coal. With her free hand, Morven reached up to touch his face. A rasp of stubble on his jaw. A strong nose. She touched her own. Smaller. More snubbed. Lachlan was still looking at her with a strange expression. As if he didn’t want her to touch him. As if he did. “Did I do something wrong?” “It’s not customary to be so intimate with complete strangers,” he said. He was beginning to wonder if he was dreaming. She liked the way his mouth moved when he spoke. It was a beautiful mouth. Soft, but firm. She wanted to taste him. But perhaps that was not the custom here, either. “You mean I shouldn’t touch you? But–how then do you get to know someone?” Lachlan released her wrist and forced himself to take a step away from the beguiling creature in front of him. “We talk.” “Talk?” Morven looked confused. “What about touch? Smell? Taste?” Was she teasing him? The thought of touching, tasting, drinking in the scent of her, was almost too much for his self-control. She had a mouth that begged to be kissed. Parts of him, parts that had lain dormant for months now, were begging him to do just that. To kiss her. His erection had become painful. Without meaning to, Lachlan took a step toward her again. He closed his eyes. Salt and sunshine and something else. Heat. Vanilla. What Morven smelled of was desire. He opened his eyes and thought he saw his own wanting reflected in hers. Eyes like dark pools to drown in. She put her hands onto his chest, feeling the beat of his heart through the wall of muscle and bone. Slower than hers. Reliable. Solid. Trustworthy. She ran her hand fleetingly

down the front of his trousers, feeling the hard length of him. And virile, she thought with satisfaction. Choose carefully, Morven. Remember, they are not like us. You must not trust too easily. Her eldest sister’s words, so clear it was as if she had spoken them. But though Lachlan Sinclair was the first, somehow she was sure she would not meet a better one. She decided to ignore the advice of all of her sisters, as she so often did. Instead, she nuzzled her face into Lachlan’s neck, drinking in the scent of him. Musky. Warm. Overwhelmingly other. Distinctively, decidedly male. Her instincts were right, Lachlan Sinclair was the one. She wanted him. Already she knew she would not want another. So astounded was Lachlan by Morven’s blatant assault on his body that his normally certain mind was frozen into immobility. She was showing not a trace of embarrassment, as if what she were doing was not wanton but right. He tried to conjure up outrage, even mild shock, but could feel only need. Light-headed with desire, he was deeply aroused. His saner self told him to put a stop to things, but on another, baser level, he did not want it to end–or only to conclude. His conscience must be satisfied with compliance, rather than encouragement. It was the most he could do. Even this he struggled with, as Morven burrowed her face into his chest. Her hands traced the outline of his torso. Lachlan inhaled sharply as she rubbed her cheek against his abdomen, breathing him in. “Morven.” He did not know what he meant by it, save the need to say her name, as if doing so would make her real. He was pretty sure now that she was not. “Lachlan.” His name on her lips was like poetry. No one had ever said it in quite that way. “Lachlan,” Morven said again, as if to imprint his name on her mind. It was a perfect name. The very name she would have chosen, if she had known it. She stood on her tiptoes, pressing herself against him, enjoying the delightful way her soft curves shaped themselves into the form of his unyielding body. So strange. So unexpectedly perfect. She twined her arms behind his neck, enjoying the springy silkiness of his hair, so vibrant with life. Her fingers caressed his nape, down to the breadth of his shoulders. Her breasts brushed his chest through the thin barrier of the shirt she wore. His shirt. Lachlan could feel the heat of her skin. The faint fluttering of her heart. Fast. Very fast. The scent of her, stronger now, went to his head. He shouldn’t be doing this. She was obviously deranged from whatever accident had cast her up onto the shore. But she didn’t look deranged, she looked irresistible, and he had never felt like this before, without the will to do anything but her bidding. He bent his head. “Taste,” he said, as his lips met hers.

She kissed him tentatively, as if she really were tasting him, delicately nibbling on his bottom lip. He had never been kissed like this before. It was tantalising, like a glimpse of dawn on the promise of a beautiful day, or the first star, flickering in the night sky. Touch. He put his arms around her. Stroking the line of her back, the indent of her waist, the silken fall of her hair. Smell. He drank in the scent of her, feeling it like a rush of sensation to his head. Desire, mingling with an urge to protect, to keep her safe. More taste. He cupped his hand on the back of her head, angling her mouth more securely against his. Her lips were soft. She tasted of heat, of the sea, of something else, heady and luscious. Nectar, sweet and potent. The flicker of her tongue on his lips now, darting into his mouth. The brush of it on his own, stirred his blood. Morven sighed and moved closer. She opened her mouth, inviting him to take possession. He was all she had hoped and so much more. The first, but she was absolutely certain that he was to be the best. There could not be another such as this. She felt heavy, weighted down with a drugging desire. Her hands roamed over his back, the taut perfection of his flesh. He tasted of power, and strength, and man. She wanted to taste him all. She had not known it would be quite like this. Deliciously exciting. Like swimming against the tide. Warmth spread through her as his tongue touched hers. The tone of his kiss changed. Suddenly Lachlan was dictating, his mouth commanding. She liked it. She wanted to surrender to it, and she realised that this, the surrender, must be the point. His shaft pressed against her thighs. She began to wrestle with his belt, but he stopped her. “Not here.” Looking around at the deserted beach, Morven could not think of anywhere more perfect, but she reminded herself she did not know the ways here. “Where then?” Lachlan shook his head, as if to clear it. “Are you real?” Morven smiled. Her mouth was enticing. “As real as you are.” “Why are you here? Who are you?” He raked his hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. Why was she here? She knew only one thing. “I’m here for you.” She took his hand. “Where shall we go?” Lachlan hesitated, but only for a fraction. His mind was filled with her. His body ached for her. If he was under her spell, he cared not. If this was a dream, he did not want to wake up. “Up there.”

He indicated his cottage on the headland. Wispy smoke curled up from the chimney into the lightening sky. Morven tugged on his hand. Lachlan followed her across the sand, so intent on her lithe form swaying seductively in front of him that he did not notice the black-clad figure of Ishbel Macfarlane watching them from the harbour wall.

Chapter 2 Lachlan pushed open the door of the cottage and stood back to allow Morven to precede him. She stepped through the threshold into the main room, and looked around. It felt peaceful and welcoming. She walked over to the partition, which separated the living room from the sleeping quarters, pushing aside the heavy folds of the drape that covered the doorway. She was conscious all the time of Lachlan’s eyes upon her, of his holding himself in check until she was ready for him. Her instincts had been right. He was an honourable man. The room contained only a bed, a chest of drawers, a washstand and a small bookcase. Lachlan stood in the doorway. Morven pulled his shirt over her head, shaking out her hair so that it rippled over her shoulders, allowing him to feast his eyes on her womanly form. The sharp intake of his breath told her he liked what he saw. She held out her hand. He stood before her, tall and reassuringly broad, a fierce look in his eyes that made her breathless. She took his hand and placed it onto her breast, feeling her nipple harden under his palm. The flush of desire on his cheekbones heated her. His hand enveloped her curves. The rough of his palm roused her skin. She felt as if she were melting. Drawing his face down to hers, she kissed him with passion, showing him how much she wanted him, allowing the heat that bubbled inside her to fill her mouth. For a second, he was still. Then he groaned, pulling her tight to him. Hard and hot his mouth was this time, all traces of restraint gone as he touched her feverishly and kissed her passionately. He kissed her mouth, then her neck and throat, then her breasts, his hands cupping as his tongue tugged on her nipple, sucking and licking, pulling and dragging a response from deep within her. She was on her back on the bed now, with Lachlan beside her. As he took possession of her body, she did the same to him. His mouth, his chest, his shoulders, his mouth again. The taste of him was tangy with sweat and desire and man. So much sensation. Such beauty in him, and in the things he was doing to her. The hardness of his manhood pushed into her thighs through his clothing. Her fingers struggled with the unfamiliar buckle of his belt. Lachlan undid it for her, standing up to undress, his eyes never leaving her body, spread before him on the bed. She feasted on the sight of him, proud and naked before her. The breadth of his torso. The narrowing of his waist. The dip down to muscular thighs and the thrusting length of his shaft. Morven shivered in anticipation, and a little in trepidation. He was so big. She sat up to run her fingertips along the length of him. Hard, sheathed in soft. His eyes closed in

pleasure at her touch. Morven licked her fingertips, delicately tasting the faint trace of him. His eyes widened as he watched her, then he pushed her back down on the bed, falling on top of her. She wound her fingers through his hair, wrapped her legs around his thighs, urging him closer, the press of his erection between her legs making her tighten with pleasure. Lachlan smiled at her, a certain, smouldering smile that made her tremble with anticipation. She throbbed, an ache of emptiness inside her wanting to be filled. He positioned her beneath him, tilting her hips, placing himself between her legs, and then at last the slow push of him inside her. More and more and more until he filled her, his manhood pressing hard and high. A rush of heat and a clenching of her muscles around him made her shiver and ripple. He covered her body with his, leaning over to kiss her. She could feel the fall of his hair soft on her cheek, taste the warmth of his tongue in her mouth, smell the scent of heat like smouldering desire on his skin. And inside her was the thick, hard, solid certainty of him. It was overwhelming. Ripples of sensation sucked and surged, like the catching of the sea in a pool at the change of tide. She wanted it to stop but at the same time she wanted more. She clutched at his shoulders, saying his name like a plea. Lachlan withdrew and then entered her again. Withdrew and then thrust harder, then again but faster, his grip on her thighs tighter, his breath coming harsh and ragged. His shaft seemed to expand and fill her more with every thrust, higher and harder, pounding onto and into her, like a wave on a rock crashing over her, stretching her and filling her more, until she cried out with the painful ecstasy of it, and the throbbing whirl of her climax ripped through her, as unstoppable as a seventh wave. In the distance, she heard Lachlan cry out, too, as his seed spilled inside her, so high inside her she knew it was right. She was right. He was what she was here for. His grip on her relaxed as their tempest passed. Gently, he withdrew, pulling her into the shelter of his arms. Morven burrowed her face in his chest, trying to catch her breath, feeling from the lift and fall of his ribs that he was struggling to do the same. She felt strange. Wonderful, but strange. Heavy but floating. At peace. She closed her eyes. They slept.

Lachlan felt as if he were climbing back up from an abyss. He didn’t want to wake up. Through his lids, he was aware of brightness in the room. Full daylight. Groaning, he opened his eyes and found Morven curled up beside him, exactly like his dream. He closed his eyes and opened them again. She was still there. Morven stretched languorously and kissed him, full on the mouth. “You’re real.” Lachlan looked at her in wonder. “It really happened?”

She smiled. “Of course I’m real.” Her eyes were already darkening with desire as she rubbed her face on the pronounced stubble of his jaw, then slid her body on top of his, trapping him beneath her with her knees on either side of his thighs. Instantly, his manhood sprang to life, unfurling and thickening in response to the gentle rubbing of her heat on his abdomen. “It really happened,” Morven said, kissing his chest, tasting the saltiness of his sweat, enjoying the way his muscles rippled under her touch, the way his erection was hardening against her bottom. “It really happened, and now it’s going to happen again.” She lifted herself up and captured him, sheathing him in one long fluid movement, which wrenched a moan from each of them, and Lachlan put his hands on her waist, holding her still, as he arched up underneath her, forging his way deeper into the hot, delightful depths of her. Already, the singing soaring was starting, her body was so attuned to his. “Very, very soon,” Morven said breathily, taking one of Lachlan’s hands, and placing it on her breast as she started to move.

Later, he prepared food for them. Dressed once again in his shirt, Morven was impressed by Lachlan’s competence with the complicated arrangement of hooks in the chimney from which a pot and a griddle were suspended. There was a black iron oven, too, by the side of the stone mantel, but he did not use it. “Is it usual for a man to cook?” she asked. Lachlan grinned. “If he has not a wife or a servant, aye it is. I had to learn the hard way, when I came here. For quite a while, it was either burnt or raw, I couldn’t get the hang of the fire, and even now the oven often defeats me. I buy my bread from the baker in the village.” “When you came here? You’re not from–what is this place called?” “Port of Ness, on the Isle of Lewis.” Lachlan set a plate of salt herring and potatoes in front of her. “No, I’m not from here. I came about a year ago. Never mind me though, what I want to know is what happened to you. Have you any memory at all of how you got here?” She did not want to remember. Why not? Something else she did not know. Morven clung instead to the one thing she did. “I came here for you, that is all that matters.” He looked at her, daintily picking at her food. The flush of their love-making still coloured her cheeks. She had behaved like a wanton, yet she looked untouched. The way she had responded to him had been both elemental and somehow innocent, yet that could not be. He could see the shape of her breasts through the cotton of his shirt, and felt himself stirring at the sight of her, but he felt also the urge to protect her. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, the most desirable, too, and she seemed to want

him every bit as much as he wanted her. Yet he knew nothing at all about her. The whole situation was shocking, but he could not rid himself of the notion that it was somehow meant to be. “What do you mean when you say that you came here for me?” “To be with you.” A sudden doubt shook her. “Don’t you want me?” Lachlan stared at her in consternation. “You’re asking me to believe that you’ve come here to seek me out?” “Yes. My sisters sent me.” “You have sisters.” “Three,” she said automatically. “Where are they?” She could see them, but it was as if they were far away. “Home.” “Where’s home?” Morven tried to think. Home, she should know where home was. She knew she had one. She closed her eyes, but it was as if a haar had blown in from the sea, clouding her memories. “I don’t know.” She began to panic. “I don’t know! I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know where I came from. I don’t know anything, except that when I saw you on the beach I knew you were the one. Please, don’t ask me any more because my head hurts when I try to remember.” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry.” Lachlan knelt down beside her, gently prising her hands away to take them in his own, large and capable pair. He was relieved to see she was not crying. “Perhaps if you stop trying to make it happen, your memory will come back of its own accord.” Morven brightened at that, and her smile was grateful. “Yes.” “You’d best stay here a while then, though what they’ll make of it in the village, I don’t know. I’ll ask the fishermen to put word out that you’re here, so you’ll be easy enough to find when you’re missed.” He meant it to reassure her, but an unpleasant thought struck him. She wore no ring, but that meant nothing. It had not even occurred to him to ask. “Have you a husband?” he asked tersely. “No!” How could she be sure? But she was. “No, no of course not. I’ve never–not before today.” She was blushing. “You are my first.” He wanted to believe her. He realised, with a shock, just how much he wanted to believe her, though he could not quite reconcile his wishes with the experience of her. She did

not belong to another. He believed that. With so many questions unanswered, for now, that would be enough. “So I can stay?” Morven asked. She could not bear him to change his mind. She did not want to think about what that would mean. Lachlan hesitated. The truth was, he did not want to let her go. He knew his judgement was impaired, clouded by the passion they had shared, but he did not care. He wanted more, and if she was prepared to give, he would take. If Morven was content to let the future take care of itself, then so, too, was he. “You can stay. I’d like that.” “Thank you.” Morven’s arms were around his neck. Morven’s lips were brushing against his, her breasts against his torso. Already, he was aroused. Already, she sensed it, wrapping herself around him sinuously in a way that left him in no doubt of her own wishes. He pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Then he scooped her up into his arms and took her back to his bed.

Chapter 3 “I’ll take the boat round to Stornaway,” Lachlan announced as he spooned porridge into their breakfast bowls the next morning. “It’s the main town on the island. I’ll be able to get you some clothes there, you can’t wander around in my shirt, and I need some supplies. I’ll be gone most of the day, will you be all right by yourself?” “You’ll be back?” “Of course I will. Don’t go into the village yet, not until I’m with you,” Lachlan mumbled from the depths of the thick fisherman’s jumper he was pulling on over his shirt. He kissed her and was gone, taking the path along the cliff top to the harbour where his boat, the Sheila, was moored. It was a bonny day, with white clouds scudding across the blue of the sky, the sea a gentle green with only a slight swell. In his dark blue jumper with its traditional cabled pattern, his black trousers and heavy boots, Lachlan was dressed as all the other men hereabouts, but despite this, no one ever mistook him for a Niseach. His height, his proud carriage and air of casual authority made even the local minister, John Macpherson, defer to him. And the Reverend Macpherson was a man who deferred to no one. Some said not even God. As he made his way through the village, Lachlan’s dark good looks contrasted starkly with the fairer colouring of a people by and large descended from the blond Norsemen. When he first arrived here, the villagers had seemed to him dour, reserved to the point of rudeness. It had taken him a while to become accepted, even longer to be invited into their homes as a friend. Now, he nodded and smiled at Agnes McLeod and her sister

Jane, waiting at the harbour for their husbands to land the night’s catch, which they would fillet. As ever, the two women were knitting, needles clacking efficiently, trailing wool from the wide pockets of their black skirts as they chatted without once having to look down at the complex pattern. As he readied his boat to sail, Lachlan sniffed at the air and scanned the horizon with the weathered eye of a skilled seaman. “Set fair for a few days yet,” Hamish Dodds called to him from the harbour wall, where he was mending his nets. Lachlan nodded his agreement as he pulled away from the mooring, concentrating on steering the Sheila through the harbour’s narrow mouth out to the open sea, where the wind quickly caught at her sail. Already, he was anxious to be back. Already he was missing Morven. Guiltily, he hoped her loss of memory would last just a little longer.

Back at the cottage, Morven set about exploring Lachlan’s domain. Though she could not know it, it was a larger and better appointed cottage than the rest of those in the village, some of which had not even a chimney, but a fire set in the middle of the room, with only a hole in the thatch above it to release the smoke. Lachlan’s was one of the very few cottages with glazed windows. In the black houses across the moor, crofters shared their homes with their stock. It was common practice for the room that Lachlan used for his bedchamber to be byre to the crofter’s cow, sty to his pigs, coop to his hens. Morven wandered aimlessly through the rooms, picking up and putting down objects at random. Lachlan’s plates were fine china. His cutlery silver. His glasses crystal. In a drawer, she found a heavy, polished box lined with velvet. Inside was an instrument she recognised as a telescope. It was brightly polished brass, intricately crafted, obviously a valued possession. The chest of drawers revealed a surprising amount of clothes. Shirts of finest linen with pearl buttons. A long coat with tails. Tailored trousers, finely stitched. Shoes brightly polished and of the softest leather. She buried her nose in them, but the smell of Lachlan was faint. He had not worn them for some time. Deciding to extend her exploration to the outside of the cottage, Morven remembered just in time that she required clothes, and pulled on Lachlan’s shirt and a pair of his work trousers. They were enormous on her, but she belted them at her waist and rolled them up to her ankles. The front door opened out on to the cliff top. A wooden bench was propped up against the wall of the cottage, commanding a majestic view of the village and the harbour to the left, the path over the moorland on the right, and in front the sands, the glittering sea, and the distant horizon.

The gentle shushing of the waves on the beach was reassuring. The tide was out. She could see the line of rocks where Lachlan had discovered her yesterday, reaching out past the end of the harbour wall. A group of children were filling a large bucket with clams or mussels. About a hundred yards out, a large flat rock peeked out from the water. On top of it perched a seal, basking in the sunlight. At the sight of the creature, Morven felt something shift inside her. A stopping of her heart for an instant, a crack of light revealed, then the slamming shut of a door. Shaken and nauseous, she bent her head down toward her knees. The sick feeling passed. When she looked up the seal was gone. She made her way round to the back of the cottage. A small garden was planted out with neat rows of vegetables. A few hens clucked, scraping contentedly in the ground. A barn sat at right angles to the cottage. Built of wood, it had one big window, and a large set of double doors on the side that faced directly out to the moors. The powerful scent of wood and resin and varnish rushed toward her as she lifted the latch. Pushing back both doors to allow the light to flood in, Morven saw a boat, or what would be a boat, sitting up on wooden crutches, its ribs only partially covered. Lachlan was a boat builder. Running her palms over the smoothly planed planks that had been fixed to the hull, trailing her fingers over the immaculately clean and glistening tools lined up on the long workbench on the back wall, she imagined Lachlan at work here. She recalled now the calluses on his palms, the long shapely fingers, sensitive, competent and creative. The untreated new wood of the boat was sensual to touch. She could see it would be a beautiful craft. Carefully closing the doors behind her, Morven made her way down the cliff path to the beach. Deep in thought, she waded into the shallows, relishing the cool feel of the water on her toes, the soothing lapping around her ankles. The urge to swim was strong, but something told her she should not. She clenched her fists as the mist in her mind swirled and resettled. “Good morning.” Startled, Morven whirled round, finding herself face-to-face with an old woman dressed entirely in black, with the strangest eyes she had ever encountered, colourless as the sky before sunrise, with irises an unsettling grey. She waded back onto the dry sand. “Good morning,” she said shyly. “I’m Ishbel Macfarlane,” the woman introduced herself, her voice strangely melodic for one so aged in years. “I live up in the village. I’m what they call the fey wife, in these parts.” “A witch.” The woman laughed unaffectedly. “I prefer herbalist.” “I’m Morven.”

“You’re new here.” It was a statement, not a question. “Yes. I’ve just arrived.” “I know, I saw you yesterday morn on the beach with Lachlan Sinclair.” “He found me there.” “Did he now? And where had you come from?” “I don’t know. I can’t remember. Lachlan said I should wait, and it would come back to me.” The woman drew her a piercing look. “You’re staying with him?” Morven blushed. “Yes.” She looked out to sea in order to avoid Ishbel Macfarlane’s tooknowing gaze. The seal was back on the rock. This time she was certain it was looking at her. She realised the fey wife was staring at the seal, too, and forced herself to look away. “He is a good man isn’t he, Lachlan?” “Oh, aye, he’s a fine man. You can trust him.” “Yes.” “There’s many a lass in the village would like to be in your position, you know, but he hasn’t looked at a woman since he came here.” Ishbel eyed Morven speculatively. “There’s many a lad here would like the look of you, too. We don’t often get new faces here at Port of Ness, you must have a care how you go.” When she realised what the woman was hinting, Morven was shocked. “I would not! I would never–I am here for Lachlan.” Ishbel smiled grimly. “That’s not necessarily how the men will see it. You remind me of someone, someone from long ago. Have you family here?” “No, I don’t think so,” Morven replied, though as she looked around, she found the place did have a familiar feel to it. “It’s your eyes, there’s something about your eyes.” Ishbel shook her head. “It will come to me.” They had been standing on dry sand as they talked, but now a wave lapped up around Morven’s feet. The tide was on the turn. The rock where the seal had been basking was submerged, and the seal was in the water. She could see its head bobbing. Another wave crept up the sand. Morven danced back from it, afraid to ruin Lachlan’s trousers, and saw that Ishbel was staring at her feet. She followed her gaze, flexing and shaking out her

toes, where sand had caught in the tiny webs of skin that held them together. “What are you looking at?” Ishbel made as if to speak, then changed her mind. “What is it?” Morven said sharply. Ishbel shook her head. “It’s nothing. I must be on my way, I have people to see. Mhairi Ross is expecting her first child any day now, and it is likely to be a difficult labour. Lachlan has gone to Stornaway, hasn’t he? He’ll be back soon, I expect.” The fey wife picked up her wicker basket and began to make her way along the beach towards the harbour. “Mrs Macfarlane,” Morven called after her, not wanting to let her go, suddenly afraid to be alone with her thoughts. “My house is that one, the one at the opposite end of the village from Lachlan’s. You’ll know it by the garden. And the cats, of course, all witches have cats,” Ishbel called, her voice tinged with irony. “You’ll find me there when you need me. When you know the questions to ask, then I’ll give you the answers, but not before.” Pulling her shawl more tightly around her thin body, Ishbel scurried off along the sand. Morven watched her go. At the back of her eyes was a strange burning sensation, as if feelings would spill from them. This morning she had been happy. Now she was afraid, though she had no idea what it was that frightened her.

When Lachlan returned, he found Morven in the bedroom, perched on a milking stool in front of the three-quarter-length mirror that hung on the wall next to the washstand. She was naked. She seemed to have an aversion to clothing. He watched her from the doorway. She did not notice him, twisting and turning precariously in her efforts to see each part of her body in the glass. Her expression was one of curiosity and wonder, as if she had not seen her own reflection before. She stroked her skin, running her fingers through the long luxuriant tresses of her hair, stretching, flexing, bending this way and that, completely absorbed, yet somehow completely lacking in vanity. As if she were looking at a portrait, rather than her own body. She was beautiful. Every curve, every new line formed as she moved was perfect. Essence of woman. As her hand smoothed itself over the roundness of her belly down toward the soft curls between her legs, Lachlan could bear it no longer. Pulling his jumper over his head, kicking off his boots, stripping his shirt and trousers impatiently from him, he caught her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist, his lips seeking out the tender nape of her neck under her thick fall of hair.

“Lachlan,” Morven exclaimed delightedly, snuggling her rear into the heat of his front, “I missed you.” With the aid of the stool, she was his equal in height. The mirror reflected back their bodies. His tanned skin dark against her pale. His shoulders and chest broad enough to enclose her. His hair, ruffled with the wind from his sail, so black it made her own look lighter. His eyes like the sky at midnight, heavy-lidded as he, too, looked at their joint reflection in the mirror. Morven put her hands over his. “So different,” she whispered huskily as his arousal pressed into the softness of her bottom. “So beautiful,” Lachlan said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. She could tell from the slight glaze, the way his pupils were enlarged, that he wanted her. It made her want him all the more. She watched, mesmerised, as he slipped his hand between her legs, flattening the palm of his other one on her stomach, encouraging her to push back against his heat. His solidness. His length. Excitement fizzed inside her as she watched what he did to her, feeling the effect of it on him, in his hardness, in the quality of his breathing, watching the colour of his eyes change, his pupils dilate. Anticipation and uncertainty lent it all an edge. This was new. New territory. New feelings. She had not thought there could be more, but it seemed there could be. She wanted him to show her. His fingers dipped between her legs. She could see them sliding into her, feel how easily they slipped in, how welcoming her flesh was for his touch. Her muscles clenched around him. He pressed farther inside her, and she closed her eyes with relish. Lachlan nipped on the lobe of her ear. “Watch,” he whispered, his voice low with passion. As he dipped his fingers into her, the look of ecstasy on her face was enough to send the blood surging to his groin. He felt himself, hard and tight, contracting and lengthening against her. He dipped again and stroked, too, relishing her wetness, astonished at the ferocity of the engorging rush of response it engendered in him. Morven shivered in his arms, but kept her eyes on their reflection. Such amazing eyes. He could drown in her eyes. He slipped his other hand up to her breast. Milky white. Her nipples rosy and hard. He grazed each of them with his palm. He pushed his finger higher into her, and stroked her swollen bud with his thumb, stroking and dipping, velvet soft, honey wet, until he felt her jolt, and watched, fascinated, the flush of her climax reflected in her face, felt the sudden cold on the rest of her body as the blood surged to feed it. She trembled, clenching around him, her eyes closing as she came, saying his name over and over. He could stand it no more. As she pulsed and shuddered he bent her over, nudging her down from the stool, holding her firmly by the waist, and thrust into her, anxious to ride the waves of her climax, moaning himself now as he entered her, felt her sheath him, grip him, arch against him. Morven gasped as Lachlan’s shaft plunged into her and filled her in one hard thrust. So much of him, but she took him high, higher than before, as her muscles rippled and made

way for him. She braced herself with her hands on the nightstand, pushing against him, clenching and closing her eyes as he thrust. Opening her eyes for his withdrawal, she caught a glimpse of their reflection in the mirror, her own form bent over, the muscles on Lachlan’s shoulders and arms rigidly defined with the effort of holding her. Sweat glittered on his chest, taut buttocks and thighs rippled as he thrust. She watched his shaft, glistening with the evidence of her own excitement, thick and long, pushing into her, pulling out of her. It was unbelievably arousing. She felt the renewal of her climax, surging at the sight of him thrusting, enhanced by the sound of him, his moans soft and harsh every time he pushed, her own answering, urging whimper, begging him to ride her harder. For a fleeting second their eyes met in the mirror. Something inside Morven took flight. Lachlan’s grip on her tightened, the urgency of his thrust was almost brutal in its force. Then his eyes closed as he came, pouring everything of himself into her and she welcomed it, closing her eyes, too, the more to feel the pulsing of him, her own pulsing encouraging his essence to strive for higher, safer, warmer places inside her. And then Morven’s mind flew free from darkness, soaring and dipping like a seabird in the breeze. Behind her, his hand possessively on her thigh, Lachlan struggled to understand what had become of him. Beguiled was the only word that made sense. He decided he liked it.

Chapter 4 Weeks passed. He could not keep his hands off her. The most beautiful creature he had ever met. And the most desirable. Lachlan’s thoughts came back to him like the words in a fairy tale. Indeed, there were times when he felt Morven really had cast a spell over him. She only had to look at him and he wanted her. He felt as if he were in a permanent state of arousal, yet every time it was sated, still he wanted her again. Just the sight of her, brushing her hair, bending over to tend to the fire, her little pink tongue flicking over the bone of her porridge spoon, and he was hard. Only the answering raw need in Morven, the ever-increasing height of her own passion, kept him from questioning his state of mind. If he was entranced, then so, too, was she. They had taken no precautions against the consequences of their love-making. It had not appeared to occur to Morven, and by the time he himself had thought of it, it seemed to him already far too late. He found the thought of his seed taking root inside her deeply erotic. The notion of a child, not one he had given much thought to before, Lachlan now found compellingly attractive. The babe flourished in his mind, the cherished product of their union. Such a babe would bind her to him. He was disturbingly aware of the need for something to do so. Though he could not have said why, though Morven had given him no cause to doubt or to question, still somehow he knew their situation was precarious. That Morven had remembered nothing of her past worried him. He kept his worries to himself. He did not think she was deliberately holding anything back, but increasingly he feared that her not wanting to remember was significant–that perhaps behind the loss lay

a dark truth. Wrestling with his conscience and his desires, Lachlan concluded only that he wanted Morven to stay. Thus, he did not allow her to see his own cares, hoping that security and stability would bring about their rewards. She was in many ways like a wild creature, to be looked after without her knowing, and this is what Lachlan did, smoothing her path with the women in the village, ensuring too that no other man made unwelcome approaches. She was his woman, no one in Port of Ness was in any doubt of that. Only Morven remained oblivious of the efforts he made on her behalf. He tried to go about his business, but the boat he was building for Hamish Dodds was already behind schedule. He made love to Morven in the shed several times, amongst the wood shavings, on the ribs of the boat, against the pile of planks stacked up in the corner. Sometimes their coming together was urgent, so desperate were they to unite their bodies that they dispensed with foreplay. At other times they were gentle together, stroking and teasing each other into a frenzy of anticipation, as they had just a few minutes before, in the shelter of a cave on the beach where they lay now, the bucket intended for clams lying abandoned at their feet. Lachlan roused himself reluctantly, rubbing sand from his skin, shaking it out of his discarded clothing. Morven lay pliant, her hair spread out behind her, her body glowing with the heat of their passion. “Come on, get dressed before someone finds us here,” Lachlan said, grinning, his voice still drowsy with satisfaction. Morven stretched luxuriously, arching her back to make her breasts stand out in a way she had learned he found difficult to resist, the soft pink of her nipples summoning him like a siren. She stretched out her hand enticingly. “Come back here.” “Later. If we don’t get the clams, there will be nothing for dinner.” Once again, Lachlan was astounded at the ferocity of her need for him, a need only equalled by his for her. He dragged his eyes away from her body, reaching down to pull her upright. Morven sat up, flexing her feet into the sand. He noticed for the first time that her toes were joined by a thin web of skin. “What is it?” Morven asked him, brushing the sand from her body. “Your toes. Have they always been like that?” Morven followed the direction of his gaze. “Yes. Are not yours?” Lachlan stretched his own toes apart so that she could see. “No.” All of a sudden Morven recalled the way that Ishbel Macfarlane had stared at her feet, and curled them into the sand. Lachlan knelt down beside her, cupping one of her feet in his hand, kissing each toe. “It’s nothing. You’re beautiful. Don’t hide them.”

She was only partly reassured, pulling away and scrabbling for her clothes. The door in her mind eased open for a fraction. She remembered swimming underwater. The sense of freedom. The strong flex of her legs and feet propelling her effortlessly through the deep. Then it was gone. “Morven, what’s wrong? You’ve gone quite pale.” She shook her head, pulling her skirt on over her underclothes, unwilling to meet his gaze. “It’s nothing.” Fully dressed now, she picked up the bucket. “Clams. Why don’t I get them. You go and do some work on that boat, or Hamish Dodds will be after you.” “Are you sure?” He was looking at her oddly. Morven gave him a quick kiss. “I won’t be long.” It seemed to work. He made his way back up the cliff path, turning to wave once. She watched him forlornly, clutching the bucket, until he turned around the corner of the cottage, making for the boat shed. Then, checking the beach, she quickly stripped her clothes back off again and ran toward the water, plunging into the surf before anyone could spy her. Morven swam straight out to sea, far beyond the surf, gliding easily through the water exactly as she had in her imagination. Or was it her memory? She turned on her back, floating, looking up at the sky, allowing her mind to drift. She could hear her sisters’ voices whispering and giggling, though when she tried to picture them, she could not. They are not like us. The warning was clear, but who spoke it, to what it referred, she did not know. You must keep it safe. Without it you cannot go back. Morven turned onto her stomach to discover she had drifted far out. A seal bobbed remarkably close. For an instant she could have sworn it was the creature who had spoken. A sense of impending doom threatened to envelop her. She turned to head for the shore, swimming as fast as she could in an effort to escape it. Running for the shelter of the cave and her clothing, she found the fey wife sitting in the sand. “I went for a swim,” Morven said, shrugging herself hastily into her undergarments. “I was watching. You’re a strong swimmer,” Ishbel replied. “I take it that you have remembered nothing as yet?” Morven’s skin prickled. “You know something. Something you’re not telling me. What is it?” “When you know the right questions to ask, I’ll give you the answers. I told you that.” It was kindly said, but the sense of impending doom returned to Morven on hearing the old woman’s words. “Is it bad? Will he leave me?” “Do you love him?”

“Love? I don’t know. He–he is my mate.” Ishbel nodded sadly. “For now.” “What do you mean?” Morven asked urgently, but Ishbel only pursed her lips. “Tell me, please.” “I can’t. You must find out for yourself. Then you will follow the path that has been set. It is the way of your people.” “My people! What do you mean, my people? Am I not the same as you?” But Ishbel would be drawn no more. Morven made her way back to the cottage, her mind in a seething turmoil. Every day, at first, Lachlan had asked her if she remembered, and every day she had truthfully answered that she had not. Now knowledge fluttered like a bird on the window of her mind, tapping insistently, and she dreaded allowing it in. Lachlan seemed content to accept her, to allow her to stay, but she was no longer under any illusion. Whatever he thought, whatever she wanted, it was not a permanent state of affairs. She was horribly aware of the sands flowing relentlessly through the hourglass of their time together. She knew that once the mystery of her origins was solved, all would be at an end.

She was walking through the village one morning, six weeks after her arrival in Port of Ness, when the faintness first overtook her. It was an unsettled day for summer, bright and breezy one minute, dark and lowering the next. Clouds scudded overhead, their shadows turning the sea from blue to grey. Down in the harbour, gulls flew high over the single mast of an incoming fishing boat. Morven was on her way to pick up a parcel that had been delivered from Stornaway on the mail boat when the ground shifted, surging up to meet her. There was a rushing noise in her head. She broke out into a cold sweat. The fey wife’s cottage was but a step away from the harbour path. As Morven pushed open the gate, a beautiful smokey grey cat brushed around her ankles. “Mrs Macfarlane,” she called. Ishbel, in her habitual black, caught her as she swayed, helping her into the house just in time. Morven fell into the armchair in a faint. She came to a few minutes later. “What happened?” she asked. Panic threading her voice. “Am I ill?” Ishbel knelt down before her and chafed her hands. They were ice cold. “Has this happened before?”

“No.” “Have you been sick?” Morven looked surprised. “Yes. The last few mornings–not always sick, but I have felt like I might be. What’s wrong with me?” “You’re with child.” A deep contentment filled her slowly, like the sun rising. “With child,” she said in wonderment, placing her hands over her stomach. “Will it be soon?” “Don’t you know?” Ishbel looked a little disconcerted. “Don’t try to get up, I’ll brew you some raspberry leaf tea, it will help settle your stomach, then we can talk.” Ishbel’s home was at the opposite extreme of the village to Lachlan’s. Her cottage was smaller, the windows unglazed, the furniture roughly hewn. The room that Lachlan used as a bedchamber, Ishbel used for her herbs. The cottage was filled with the scents of them, lavender and verbena, angelica and saxifrage, with lemon balm, comfrey, chervil and camomile wafting in from the garden. The grey cat settled himself in front of the open fire. Ishbel handed Morven the fragrant brew, then sat down opposite, and informed her what to expect and when. “You’re pleased then?” she asked, when Morven eventually ran out of eager questions. “Oh, yes.” “What about Lachlan?” Morven’s smile faded. The quiet happiness that had begun to glow inside her made a hasty retreat. The truth was, she did not know at all what Lachlan felt about her. Though he gave no sign of tiring of her, he never discussed the future, nor asked her anymore where she had come from, making it easy for Morven to stop asking herself the same question. A child would raise all these issues once more, and once more she was afraid. “Do I have to tell him?” she asked Ishbel rather desperately, wanting only to buy some time. Ishbel looked displeased. “Not yet awhile, it will be weeks before you show, but– Lachlan’s a perceptive man. He’ll find out, and it’s best you tell him before he does. Unless you’re not going to tell him at all.” “What do you mean?” “’Tis the way with your people, I’ve heard.” “My people. That’s the second time you’ve said that. Who are my people? What is it you won’t tell me?”

Ishbel was silent, absent-mindedly stroking the grey cat, which now perched on her lap. The animal’s deep purr filled the room. “Will you take her home?” she asked eventually. “Her?” “The bairn. I have the second sight, as they say around here. It’s a girl. Will you take her home?” Morven looked bewildered. “How can I take her home when I don’t know what–oh!” Cold clamminess broke out on her brow again. Lights seemed to spark inside her head. A glimpse of herself with a babe, swimming. Her sisters’ voices. That is when you must return. We will come for you. “No!” Morven pushed back her chair. “No,” she said frantically, clutching at the table as the faintness threatened to overcome her. “I don’t want to. I don’t have to, do I? Please, Mrs Macfarlane, you have to tell me. Do I have a choice?” Ishbel tipped the cat to the floor and got to her feet. She handed Morven a packet of raspberry leaf tea. “Take some of this every morning before you eat.” “Ishbel! You have to tell me.” “I can’t.” “So I don’t have a choice?” Ishbel looked immensely sad. “I have never heard of any other way.” Morven clutched at the old woman’s gnarled hands. “Will you at least keep the child a secret for now?” “I will, if it is what you truly wish, but you would be wise to remember what I said. Lachlan Sinclair is a very perceptive man. One who cares much more for you than you see.” Morven managed a weak smile. “Thank you. And for the tea, thank you for that, too.” She had a blinding headache and could think of nothing beyond lying down in the dark and cool of their bedchamber. Lachlan’s bedchamber. If only she could forget what she had almost seen. All she wanted was to hug to herself the secret bliss of her child. For now, at least “Take care of yourself,” Ishbel shouted after her as she made her way quickly down the path, but Morven did not hear her. The burden of knowledge weighed heavily upon Ishbel. She liked Morven, and she held Lachlan in high esteem. They were as wellmatched a couple as she had seen, and deserved happiness. But as sure as the sun would rise, only sorrow lay ahead. And a lonely path for each to tread.

Morven made her way back to the cottage she wished she could call home. The future, which her daughter–for she had complete faith in Ishbel’s prediction–had made so bright, now loomed over her like the swell of the ocean in the depths of winter. A trough of darkness in the dip, a hint of light at the crest. Dip and swell, dip and swell, went both her emotions and her reason until she wanted to scream, just to shut it all out. Lachlan was putting the finishing touches to Hamish Dodds’s boat, which was due to be launched the next day. She could hear his contented humming coming from the shed, and fought the urge to run to him, to have him hold her. He made her feel safe. Right now, she desperately needed that, but she also desperately needed some time to think, and so crept into the cottage, wearily divested herself of her clothes and crawled into bed.

Lachlan found her an hour later, soundly asleep, her hands resting on her stomach. Something had upset her. There were no traces of tears, but he could see from the frown that puckered her brow that she was distressed. She sensed his presence and stirred. “Something’s worrying you,” he said gently, sitting down on the bed beside her. Morven shook her head. Time was what she needed. As much of it as she could have. Until she was forced to do otherwise, she would live for the moment. She intended to make every moment with Lachlan count. She smiled at him and stretched her hand out, pushing the sheet away so that he could look at her. She loved to have him look at her, as she loved to look at him. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, pulling him down on top of her. “I missed you, that’s all.” He was already forgetting everything save his desire for her, hers for him. He captured her breast in his hand, feeling her nipple burgeon in his palm, leaning over to put his lips to the other one. He knew she was not telling him the truth. It saddened him, but instinctively he knew he could do nothing about it, save mask sadness with passion. So that is what he did.

She sought him out more and more, spending hours watching him in the boatyard. The care and consummate skill of his workmanship enthralled her. She loved to listen to him talking, the deep timbre of his voice resonating inside her, filling her with light and something she learned to call happiness. Often, she would find him watching her going about some mundane household task. On occasion he appeared upon the verge of asking her something, but whatever it was, he never formed the question. At night Morven dreamed. Always she was searching for something. Every time she was about to uncover it–in a chest, buried in the garden, under the floorboards, once in

Hamish Dodds’s new boat–she woke up. The sense of loss and pending doom swamped her. At those times, she crept out of bed to swim secretly, compulsively, until dawn. Sometimes, when Lachlan awoke in the morning, her hair was still damp, her skin salty, but he said nothing. Perhaps he did not notice. It took her time to find a name for her feelings. The desire always to be with him. The breathless feeling of anticipation whenever she saw him afresh after a parting, no matter how slight. The feeling of not being complete without him. The wanting to tell him every little thing that happened to her, the guilt at being unable to share her deepest fears. The need to know everything about him. She yearned to ask him about his past, his family, how he came to Port of Ness, but feared that such interest would be reciprocated. Of her own past, she was afraid. It burst in on her about three months into her pregnancy that all of this added up to love. Though she was already with child, her hunger for him did not diminish. Rather, as time passed and her daughter grew inside her, she desired him more. Unable to declare her love for him, she showed him. Kissing until their lips were frayed, making love to him with increasing urgency, and afterward, increasingly, too, the burning sensation at the back of her eyes where her feelings pooled but could not spill. For each time brought her closer to the last.

In October Lachlan began work on a new boat. He called Morven into the boatyard and showed her the plans. She often spent time with him there, fascinated by the way that his skilled hands seemed almost to tease and coax the wood into place. As with everything he did, he did it with consummate care and attention. He had been quiet for some days now, almost distant, so she was pleased to answer his summons, poring eagerly over the detailed drawing pinned to his board, nestling close against the reassuring bulk of his body. A strand of hair was stuck to his cheek. She brushed it away, planting a kiss in its place. Lachlan began to lay the ribs out. “I learned to build boats at my grandfather’s yard. I used to go there every holiday I could, having no interest in accompanying my parents and my brother to Deauville in France, where they went for three weeks every summer. The same hotel. The same people. It bored me stiff, as did the family business–my father is a merchant.” “Where did you live?” “Glasgow, though I went to boarding school and later university, in Edinburgh.” He saw her blank look. “South of here, in the city, where it is full of people and noise and smoke. I realised from a very early age that I didn’t want to follow my father into trade, and Neil, my younger brother, was only too happy to take my place, for which I’m very grateful, since it left me free to do what I really wanted. To build boats.”

“Like this one?” Lachlan smiled. “No. Much, much bigger. I took over my grandfather’s yard. We built luxury yachts. The Prince of Wales bought one–he is a famous yachtsman–and suddenly everyone wanted one like it. Soon, I was spending less time designing and building the boats, and more looking after the business while other men did the real work. But most of the people who bought our yachts didn’t really care about them. They sailed them, maybe three months of the year–and actually, they didn’t really sail them, they employed other people to do that for them. I wasn’t happy, though I was very rich. So rich that I had no shortage of women, which was a distraction for a while, though they were as much interested in my money as they were in me.” Morven wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. “There is no finer man than you, I knew that the moment I met you, and it has nothing to do with money.” Lachlan laughed. “It’s one of the lovely things about you, that you don’t care at all for the trappings of wealth. But most women–most women I met in my old life, at any rate–are not at all like that. They want grand houses and fine clothes and jewels, and whatever else they can see their friends have, only bigger and better,” he said a little bitterly. “You knew someone like that.” “Yes, I did. Her name was Elizabeth Ingles, and we were engaged to be married.” “Oh.” Jealousy reared up in Morven like a sea serpent. “You were in love with her?” “I thought I was. I thought she was with me, too, but when I told her my plans, she gave me back my ring and told me she had mistaken her feelings. She married my brother Neil. They are very happy.” “And you, were you very unhappy?” Lachlan shook his head. “No. I was angry, but contrary to what the poets tell us, I did not feel as if the world would stop turning. Had we married, my intentions were to settle in a small house near where my grandparents used to live, and to build fishing boats. Without the need to consider Elizabeth, I decided to escape even further from the world, and I came here.” “And you don’t regret it.” “Not for a second,” Lachlan said adamantly.” I love it here. I can’t imagine ever leaving. Though if there was a reason…” “Such as?” “Well, if I took a wife and she was not happy here.”

“Why would she not be? It’s perfect.” “You would stay here?” Morven did not meet his gaze. “If I could.” She pointed to the plan for the new boat in an effort to turn the conversation away from herself. “Who is this for?” she asked. “Us.” She looked up in surprise. “But you already have the Sheila.” “Aye, but she’s an open skiff, I want something with a bit of shelter. See, this one is going to have a little cabin here. That way it won’t matter if the seas are a bit high, or if it’s raining.” “What do you mean?” He looked at her, such a strange expression in his eyes as she had never seen before. Sorrow. And hope. And yearning. “For you and the bairn. We’re going to need to go to Stornaway more often for supplies. And be in reach of a doctor, too. I’m perfectly able to support a wife and family in comfort. In riches, if it’s what you want. When were you going to tell me?” Morven’s legs began to shake. She pulled out a wooden chair from under the workbench and sat down. “How long have you known?” “Long enough.” “You said nothing.” Lachlan did not reply. “You wanted me to tell you myself?” “Why didn’t you?” She had not seen him angry before, but she recognised he had the right to be so now. She was terrified of saying the wrong thing, terrified of not knowing what the right one was. The idea of telling him the truth flitted through her head, but she dismissed it instantly. She did not yet know what the full truth was. “Well,” Lachlan said impatiently, “I want to know. Why did you keep the baby a secret?” “I didn’t want this to end.” “To end! You think I’d send you away!” “No, but I thought–I can’t explain,” Morven said, panic making her voice shaky. She put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. Ishbel warned me that you would know, but I did not heed her.”

“So you told Ishbel Macfarlane, and not me.” “She guessed. It was she who told me what was wrong with me. Lachlan, don’t be angry. I’m sorry. I was wrong. Are you–are you pleased–about the child, I mean?” His temper left him as suddenly at it had arrived. Such a look of tenderness there was in his gaze that she felt faint. “Of course I’m pleased. It’s wonderful news. When will it be?” “Not for a while yet. Next spring.” He had said nothing about his feelings for her. Morven tried to tell herself that his wanting the child was enough, but it was not. She bit down on the urge to ask him, knowing she had not the right. “Next spring. Plenty time to build the boat, and add to the cottage, too. We should have at least one other room.” Lachlan gazed at his plan, but he was not really focused on it. “Morven, have you remembered nothing?” he asked her abruptly. She blushed under the directness of his gaze. How to explain the hazy pictures in her mind? She did not even understand them herself. “No.” Lachlan’s expression gentled. “You can trust me. You should know that by now. If there is something…” “No. Just–dreams. Bad dreams, where I am looking for something. They mean nothing. I don’t understand them.” “That is why you swim.” “You knew.” “Of course I knew. I watch out for you. I am always there, on the beach, just a few steps behind you. I wish you’d let me come with you. I’m a good swimmer.” “I thought the people here did not swim.” “Only the fishermen. And I’m not from here.” “Nor am I.” “May I come with you next time?” “Yes.” Morven kissed him tentatively on the cheek. “I’d like that.” “You must trust me,” Lachlan repeated, taking her hands between his own, workroughened and capable. “There is nothing I would not do for you, Morven. I thought you

would have realised that by now. I hoped you had come to care for me as I do you. I hoped you would trust me by now.” “I do. I do. I love you.” The words were wrenched from her, the only truth she knew to be incontrovertible. “I love you. You must believe me. I love you, Lachlan. Let me show you.” She kissed him, his brow, his lids, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth. He wanted to believe her, but something made him hold back. He had no doubt of his own feelings, but that same something made him keep them to himself. It had grown on him slowly, his love, a little every day, until it filled his heart. He wanted nothing more than to take her to wife. The thought of their child growing inside her made him want to weep with joy. But he was afraid. It was too much to lose. And he felt it, even now, as she pressed herself against him, that fatal certainty, that he would lose her. “Lachlan, I love you. If you don’t believe me, let me show you,” Morven said, tearing at the buttons on his shirt, kissing him feverishly. “No, wait,” He laid her down on the ground beside the ribs of the boat that was to be theirs. “Let me show you.”

Chapter 5 He undressed her carefully, as if he were unwrapping a gift, looking upon her as if seeing her for the first time, kissing every part of her skin as it was revealed to him in the dappled light of the barn. Tender kisses that soothed, becoming knowing kisses that roused. “Touch, smell, taste,” he whispered. “I remember what you said. I remember everything. I won’t ever forget. Not ever.” The words made her shiver. When she would have touched him he put her hands gently away. “I want to show you. Let me show you.” He did not take his own clothes off. There was something rousing in the contrast of his fully clad body ministering to her increasing nakedness. He kissed her mouth, coaxing a response from her so gently she hardly knew that was what he was doing, until it was lit inside her. His hands traced patterns over her skin, stoking the fires of her desire–but slowly. He kissed his way down her throat to her breasts. Taking each nipple in turn, gently tugging, then sucking harder. He kissed down, along the line of her ribs, across the soft flesh of her stomach, lingering there, reverent, careful, stroking and kissing every part of the almost undetectable mound that was their child. Her thighs now, his hands cupping her bottom, stroking and kneading, his tongue working its way slowly, painfully slowly, to the centre of her. Her climax built inexorably. She wrested with the urge to give in to it and the contrasting urge to prolong it. She burned under his touch, longing for more, longing for it to end, relishing the feel of him, the touch of him, and the sight of him. The perfection of his profile. The certainty

of his hands. The fall of his hair. So familiar, and yet she could never tire of him, could never prevent the kick of excitement every time she saw him, as if it were the first. He pushed her legs apart. She moaned as his tongue eased its way into her. A judder of feeling. She clenched onto it. He stopped, held her still for agonising seconds before he licked into her again. She was unbearably sensitive. He seemed to know this, lapping around the edges, licking, then waiting, then licking again. Closer, farther away, closer. Morven clutched at his shoulders, arching up as he licked, anxious now for his concluding touch. She needed him. She was desperate for him. Her hoarse little cries urged him on. Glancing up at the vision spread out before him, Lachlan was gripped by a surge of pure emotion. Possession. And love. She was his, his and only his. His name on her lips was a plea he could not resist. He held her hips steady and enveloped her with his mouth, his tongue flicking over the swollen, swelling centre of her, his lips supping and tugging around it, and he felt her buck beneath him, felt her about to come, felt his erection pulse and thicken in response. An inexorable current, a swelling, like the deep of the sea, then the feeling of swimming desperately against the tide, a swooping, irresistible desire to succumb, as she imagined drowning would be. There was tightness everywhere, her breasts, her stomach, a throbbing between her legs, then a jolt like the biggest wave, casting her up into the air and tossing her onto the shore, and she lay gasping, clutching, struggling for breath, heart pounding and pounding. Lachlan’s mouth was still on her heat, holding, coaxing out more, and then more, until she had nothing left. Then he kissed her thighs and her stomach, pulling her up against him to nestle into his chest. His hand stroked her hair, he crooned endearments into her ear, soothing her. She had no doubt now that he had shown her what he felt. She glowed with it. Wanting to show him, too, she kissed him. “You don’t have to,” Lachlan murmured. “But I want to,” Morven replied. “I want to show you what I feel.” She pushed him onto the ground and settled herself over him, relishing the hardness of him pushing into her through his trousers. “I want to,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt, unwrapping him and kissing him as he had her. “I want to,” she said again as she unbuckled his trousers, removed his boots, kissing her way down his thighs as she pulled off the remainder of his clothing. “I want to,” she said yet again, her voice husky with desire as she licked her way up his shaft. As she put her lips around him and drew him gently into her mouth, she heard him groan.

Months passed. Their love blossomed and bloomed with their child. Though she was inordinately nervous at first, Morven submitted to Lachlan’s demands to swim with her. To her astonishment, it was liberating, a deeply sensual, deeply satisfying experience. No

disaster ensued, and her bad dreams stopped. She was happy. Though he never put his feelings for her into words, she felt loved. When he asked her, as he did, at regular intervals, if she had remembered anything, she could reply in all honesty that she had not. Not anything more. Lachlan finished the boat he was building for her. He named it Morna, meaning beloved. Beloved. Morven. The most beautiful creature he had ever met. And the most desirable. Like a fairy tale. Too much like a fairy tale. When Lachlan finally remembered how the story from his childhood ended, the fey wife confirmed his fears and entrusted the evidence into his care. Afterward, though it nigh on broke his heart, he kept his own council. He had no other means to protect her.

Winter came. Then, on New Year’s Eve, it happened. It came to her in a dream that was more like a vision. She knew now what it was she had been searching for. Knew, too, finally, the questions she must ask, though she already knew the answers. “Yes,” Ishbel confirmed. “We call them Selkies. Fallen angels, whose immortal spirit takes the form of a seal.” Morven gazed tragically at the fey wife. “Have you met one of us before?” “As a lass. A long time ago. It was your eyes that reminded me. That, and the look of you. You’re a beautiful creature, so, too, was she, though she was less fortunate in her choice of man. He was fierce jealous, and she made the mistake of telling him the truth. He did not want her to go back, so he hid her fur, knowing she could not leave without it. ’Twas a cruel thing to do. She was frantic. And of course, in the end, she found it. She left, with the child.” “Do they–do we always go back?” Ishbel nodded. “If you did not, you would become mortal. You must prepare yourself for the inevitable, child. When the time comes, you will find it is what you want.” “What I want is to stay with Lachlan. I can’t leave him. I can’t imagine leaving him. I love him.” Ishbel’s hand, which had been stroking her favourite grey cat, stilled. “You don’t know what it means. Selkies can’t love as humans do. Just as they can’t cry.” “But I do love him,” Morven repeated miserably. “I do.” “I’m sorry for you, but it will pass.”

“Please, don’t tell him. Let me have what time is left to me. Please.” Ishbel bowed her head, remembering the anguish on Lachlan’s face when he visited her weeks ago. “It is near your time. You will have an easy birth,” she said, the only comfort she could think to offer. But as she made her lonely way back along the cliff top to the house that was Lachlan’s, Morven was beyond comfort. Hearing his voice call her from the garden, she felt the now familiar burning at the back of her eyes. She stifled a sob. A few more weeks at most, and immortality awaited both her and her daughter. She felt as if she would rather die.

She tried to hide her sorrow from him, but could not. Though Lachlan asked her many times to tell him what ailed her, she would not, blaming it on the child. She retired into herself, biting back the words of love that ached to pour from her, unable to bear the thought of the hurt she must inflict upon him. She told herself that he would get over her loss more easily this way, but the pain was killing her. Her hair was dull. Her skin lacked lustre. She could not sleep. The burning at the back of her eyes was an almost constant pain.

Sorcha, meaning radiant, was born in early March, the month of omens and changelings, when the spring tides were at their highest. As Ishbel had promised, it was an easy birth. She was a beautiful child, with Lachlan’s dark good looks and, unusually for a new born, Morven’s dark brown eyes. Only a day after the birth, they came for her. Her sisters. Perched on the rocks at low tide, bobbing in the sea when the rocks were covered, every time she looked out of the cottage window she saw them. At night, she heard their calling. Morven would not go down to the beach. She would not leave the cottage. She grew thin and pale, staring tragically at Lachlan for hours on end, unable to find the words to express what she was feeling, unable to bear hearing what he was thinking. She forced herself to repulse his tender caresses, but she could not force herself to deny him the child, whom he adored. A week later, when the highest tide of all came and the storm clouds gathered, she knew it was time. Her heart felt as if it were shattering within her breast as she rose from their bed, kissing Lachlan for the last time, a kiss so gentle it would not have woken a child. But it awoke Lachlan. Or he had not slept. “So it is time,” he said, and his tone made her heart stop. If ever she had questioned the depth of his feelings for her, now there could be no doubt. The rawness of his love was writ plainly on the hard-etched lines of his face. His eyes were dark with the pain of it.

“You knew.” “For some time. For longer than you. A childhood tale told to me by an old sea captain. Or I thought it was a tale.” “You didn’t say anything.” “What was there to say, Morven? I love you. I wanted every moment to be precious. Why spoil it with something that could not be changed?” He went to the chest where the clothes from his old life were kept, and took out what looked like a large piece of cloth. “This is yours. Ishbel found it on the beach the morning you arrived. Without it, you cannot go back.” It was a fur. Dark brown, the same colour as her hair. Soft. Large enough to cloak her entire body. She knew it was hers. She knew it was this she had been searching for. “You could have kept it from me,” she cried, her voice shrill with anguish. “Why did you not keep it from me. I would stay then, I would have to stay. They warned me, my sisters, that that is what men do. Why could you not do as other men?” Lachlan draped the fur around her shoulders. “I don’t care what other men do, I would not have you stay against your will. You would end up hating me for it. It is in your nature to leave, you know that. And I love you. Enough to let you go, for I love you as you are, for what you are. I would not change you, Morven, even if I could.” “You love me.” “You know I do. Have I not shown you how much, every day?” “Lachlan, I can’t bear it. I love you so much. I can’t.” She threw herself into his arms, pressing frantic kisses onto his face. “I love you, Lachlan, no matter what Ishbel Macfarlane says, I know I love you. Say you believe me, please say you believe me.” “I do,” he said gently, putting her from him. “And I don’t regret it for a second. Having you with me for even this short space of time, it is better by far than never having you at all. You’ll take care of Sorcha, won’t you?” He got to his feet, tenderly lifting his sleeping daughter from her cradle. “Come.” As in a dream Morven took his hand and followed him down to the beach. The sea roared. The surf rushed and tumbled, white and seething, onto the sand. A full moon hung low, glowing gloomily through the thin veil of cloud. The air was tangy with salt. With every step she took toward the water, Morven felt as if the gloom were enveloping her. She could see them waiting. Her heart pounded as she raised her face for a farewell kiss. “Beloved,” she said, pressing herself close and closer into the familiar contours of his body.

Then it happened. The burning in her eyes became hot trails down her cheeks. Salt water. Tears. She was crying. And then she knew, of a sudden, that Ishbel was wrong. There was a choice, if only there was enough love. And she had love enough for anything. She took the child from him. She waded into the shallows and held Sorcha in front of her for her sisters to see. They came closer into the surf to welcome her. She turned to find Lachlan watching her, such sorrow on his face as she wished never to see again. The tears poured from her eyes as if they would never stop. She ran back ashore and handed Sorcha to Lachlan. Then she ran into the surf, deeper now, so that it whipped at her knees, washing up to her thighs. She bundled up the fur and threw it as hard as she could, out to where her sisters were waiting. For an endless moment the world seemed to stop. Sea, clouds, surf, her heart, all froze in time. Behind her she could hear Lachlan calling her name. In front of her, her sisters were doing the same. Then she turned, ran to the shore, and into the arms of the man she loved. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said to her, “you won’t be able to go back.” “Why would I want to go back, when my heart is here? It’s only a lifetime, it will never be enough, but however long it is, I want to spend it with you.” “Morven. Oh, God, Morven, you won’t ever regret this. I love you so much.” Lachlan wrapped her in his arms. His kiss was worth all eternities. They left the beach huddled close together, with Sorcha snuggled safe on Lachlan’s shoulder. Had they looked back, they would have seen the three Selkie sisters swimming with the fur out to sea. But they did not look back. They never looked back.

Epilogue Morven and Lachlan were married in the spring, and in the same ceremony, Sorcha was baptised. She was indeed a beautiful child, the only one of their children to inherit her mother’s eyes. And like her mother, she was drawn to the sea. Often, too often, Morven would find her daughter sitting on the beach, staring out at the rocks at low tide where a seal basked, returning her gaze. Morven and Lachlan lived happily ever after. An unusual ending for a Selkie tale, for Selkies are elusive and rare creatures, blessed and cursed by their immortality. Irresistible, in human form, but unfortunately for the mortals who are so easily beguiled by them, most Selkies are incapable of remaining true, or of staying in one place. This is especially true of the male of the species, for whom many a ruined maid has wept seven tears at high tide in the vain hope of bringing about her seducer’s return. But that’s another story.

Enjoy more passion through the ages with the sensual Harlequin Historical UNDONE titles on sale now: CONVENIENT WIFE, PLEASURED LADY by Carole Mortimer TO BED A LIBERTINE by Amanda McCabe TAKEN BY THE HIGHWAYMAN by Amelia Casey WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW by Bronwyn Scott WEDDING NIGHT WITH THE RANGER by Lauri Robinson AN ACCIDENTAL SEDUCTION by Michelle Willingham NOTORIOUS ELIZA by Barbara Monajem THE MAID’S LOVER by Amanda McCabe AWAKENING HIS LADY by Kathrynn Dennis SEDUCING A STRANGER by Christine Merrill THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER by Marguerite Kaye THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS by Margaret Moore THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN by Michelle Willingham AT THE DUKE’S SERVICE by Marguerite Kaye Craving something a little longer? Find more historical romantic adventure from Harlequin Historical at www.eHarlequin.com or your local bookstore. Interested in writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE? Send your submission to [email protected].

Born and educated in Scotland, Marguerite Kaye originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise – a decision which was a relief both to her and the Scottish legal establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up a first-class honors and a Masters degree along the way. The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent traveling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living – a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine. Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite’s fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration. Though she continues to write regular pieces for a number of Scottish magazines and also publishes short stories in women’s weeklies, romances are her passion. When she is not writing, Marguerite enjoys cooking and hill walking. A confirmed Europhile who spends much of the year in sunny climes, she returns regularly to the beautiful Highland scenery of her native Argyll, the place she still calls home. Marguerite would love to hear from you. You can contact her on: [email protected]

ISBN: 978-1-4268-5276-3 The Highlander and the Sea Siren Copyright © 2010 by Marguerite Kaye All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries. www.eHarlequin.com