Children of the Sea 03 - Sea Lord by authors_sort

Either was ridiculous.
    “Is that his name?” she asked. “Mad Dog?”
    “Ma-dug. It means ‘hound.’ ”
    She turned that smile on him and took his breath away. “Very original.”

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    “I used to name them,” he said abruptly. All of them. “They do not live very long. Nine or ten years. It became easier after a while to call them by the same name.”
    Her wide gray eyes considered his face, as if she saw a side of him that no one else looked for. That he preferred not to examine himself.
    Pride dictated that he not look away.
    “How many dogs have you had?” she asked softly.
    He shrugged. “Hundreds. After the fourteenth or fortieth, I learned not to become too . . . attached.”
    She tilted her head, her gaze still fixed on his face. “Then why bother with a pet at all?”
    It was a question he often asked himself. Every time he cradled a wasted old body in his arms or stroked a white muzzle. Every time he carried a hound’s carcass into the hills to bury it alone and in silence.
    “I have always had one. My father always had one. It is tradition,” he said. A way of keeping in touch with the past, of staying connected with the father who had abandoned him.
    “If you’ve had—hundreds?—you’ve had plenty of time to change the tradition,” she observed. “I think they’re company for you.”
    His hands tightened behind his back. He stared at her stonily, appalled. Found out. The selkie lived alone, free of human encumbrances and human emotions. They did not require companionship. He did not require it.
    “You of course may think whatever you like,” he said politely and swung her up into his arms.
    He felt the sharp intake of her breath. But she did not struggle.
    Progress? Perhaps.
    Her tangled fair hair was caught between them. He freed it gently, shifting her weight.
    “I can walk, you know,” she offered.
    “You cannot climb,” he said. “Not in bare feet.”
    “I’m tougher than I look.” She smiled ruefully. “And heavier.”
    Tall and graceful, with skin as pale as willow when the bark was peeled away.
    He raised his eyebrows. “I believe I can bear the burden.”
    As she must tolerate his touch.
    He strode with her up the slope. Despite her pale face and cold hands, she felt warm in his arms, warm and damp. Beneath the tangle of sealskin and slicker, he discerned the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His hand was very close to her breast. Her hair tickled his throat. She smelled like woman and faintly of wet dog.
    She was not selkie.
    But her humanity—messy, genuine, artless—had its own natural appeal.
    The track was narrow, worn by his feet and by the dogs. The long grass whispered of home. A bird soared over the battlements, crying in warning or welcome.
    Lucy looked up at the bird and down at the path and at Madadh, ranging before and behind them. She looked everywhere, in fact, but at him.
    She was pressed against him, angles and curves, long, strong legs and small, firm breasts. Her breath was warm on the side of his face. Her hands were cold.
    His blood stirred. He shifted his hold. If he could get her to his room, if he could get her in his bed, he could warm her, comfort her, persuade her, bind her . . .
    He frowned. Because that had worked so well the first time.
    She slid him a sidelong glance. “Are you all right?”
    His shaft was hard as stone. “Fine.”
    “I told you I was heavy.”
    Long and lean, rather, with a strength to meet his own. “It is not your weight that disturbs me.”
    “Oh?” She met his hot gaze and flushed. “Oh.”
    The tower door was ajar. He elbowed it open. The air of Sanctuary rushed to envelope them, cool with mist and magic, smelling of time, stone, and the sea.
    She cleared her throat. “You can put me down now.”
    He did not want to let her go. The longer she submitted to his touch, he felt, the more chance she would Page 44
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