Selkie's Revenge Read online

  “You’re not Orcadian, Beth Pedersen. Is that an American accent?”

  She nodded, tugging on the balled tufts of gray lint on the worn sheet covering her legs. “I’m from New Smyrna Beach, Florida.”

  He grinned, making those lines around his eyes dance for a second. His pink lips twitched in a half grin, and she couldn’t seem to move her gaze off them. “Sounds like a sunny place. What on earth possessed you to come to Orkney? Did you take the wrong turn at Disney World?”

  She didn’t crack a smile. In another life, she would have laughed out loud. Not in this life. She didn’t ever want to laugh again.

  *

  Mack stared at her red face, colored as it was by pique. He’d been pretty proud of his peedie joke, but she didn’t appear to be impressed. Suddenly, he realized he really needed Beth Pedersen to smile, even just a little. He also knew he might have to wait. He dragged his chair closer to her bed. “Beth, what brought you to the water? Were you trying to hurt yourself?”

  “Why do you care?”

  Did he care? Yes, even though he should be boarding a salvage vessel right now, heading off in search of treasure. He realized he cared about the despondent woman, even though he should be falling into Leda’s bed and fucking her until she cried, “Hallelujah, saints be praised!” Instead, he wanted to stay here and make sure Beth was okay, despite his need to figure out his life and his mate. And he wanted to know what led her to become bait for the most malicious finman in the sea.

  He tried another tack. “Is Luke your husband?”

  Her soft voice cracked with a bitter laugh. “No.”

  “Then you’re not married?”

  She looked right at him. A flitting shadow in her eyes seemed to be warning him away. “I’m married.”

  Well, bugger. His inner voice started to murmur something about all the interesting ones being taken, but he quashed the complaint. The dark, satanic peal of Big Ben crashed inside him. Bloody nonsense. “Would you like me to contact your husband then?”

  The strange laugh erupted near the back of her throat again. “You’d need a medium to contact Frank. He’s dead.”

  A wave of sympathy washed over Machar at the same time that a more disheartening emotion stabbed at his insides. “I’m sorry to hear it, Beth.” He reached for her hand, and she let it remain limply in his as she stared at the webbing between his fingers. “Then who’s Luke?”

  He could almost see the crack in her composure. Clearly, she’d been using her anger to keep her together. But at the mention of Luke, something in her spirit splintered. A single, plump tear trailed down her cheek, and Mack feared it was the precursor to many more.

  “Luke,” she began quietly, “was my son. He’s dead too.”

  *

  Whenever the topic of her dead family had come up in conversation with others, Beth had always seen the same reaction: eyes averted in awkwardness. She understood. People never knew what to say, just as she’d never known how to comfort others who’d experienced loss. There was no comfort. What could one say to a woman whose entire family had been annihilated? No words of empathy were ever sufficient.

  As much as people meant well when they mumbled, “I’m sorry,” it really didn’t help one iota.

  She expected the same clumsy expressions of sympathy from Machar Kirk, the strange man with the black eyes who seemed to tease a rainbow of color out of her grim world.

  He did not react the same way. For long moments, he didn’t say a word. He simply held her gaze, searching her face for … for what? An indication she wasn’t certifiable? An inkling she wasn’t a suicidal freak?

  Or was it that he was simply sharing the excruciating moment of grief with her? Beth wouldn’t have expected such dark eyes could possess such warmth, but they did in that moment. He looked at her, blinking a couple of times, but never dropping her gaze. The lines around his full mouth were tight, and Beth got the sense he was fighting the urge to rail against the injustice of her situation.

  And for that brief spell, Beth was oddly glad to have him in her corner. She felt lighter in his presence, less of a prisoner to her guilt.

  When he did speak, his response was one evocative word. “Beth.”

  At least, it seemed evocative coming out of his sensual mouth. His one syllable was laced with such caring Beth’s heart broke all over again. And when Machar squeezed her hand, she squeezed back. She felt better sitting with this stranger than she’d felt while commiserating with family, friends, and priests over the past soul-numbing year.

  He ran his other hand through his thick, ebony hair, sighing, and she glanced back at him.

  At another time, in another place, Beth might have considered Mack Kirk a very handsome man. Sinfully gorgeous, to be honest. With his noble forehead and the mischievous arch to his eyebrow, to say nothing of those haunting eyes, he was easily the most flawless man of her acquaintance.

  But now wasn’t that time or place. And all Beth wanted to do was cry for her lost child.

  Sensing she needed to, Machar squeezed her hand again. She looked at him, ready to burst. He nodded.

  But she couldn’t. Even though she desperately wanted to cry and wail and whimper. Even though she knew how badly she should let out all the pain that was festering in her soul. The punishing side of her nature wanted to keep her agony bottled up, as if letting it out would somehow mean her loss was less important than it was. Loss had defined her life for a year. It wasn’t about to change now.

  There wasn’t a single crack in the dam that protected what was left of her heart. She’d walled it up. No one would get at it now.

  And so, for about an hour or so, Beth stared into space, a stony captive to her grief. Mack didn’t question her, although he regarded her with curiosity. Clearly he was of the opinion that she should just let it all out. He’d obviously watched too many TV psychologists and felt she should share her feelings. Well, as Frank used to say, “Bullocks.” Mack Kirk could think whatever he wanted of her.

  Even still, in all that time, Mack never once let go of her hand.

  Chapter 4

  An hour later, Mack watched Beth take a sip of the apple juice the nurse had brought her. He watched her swallow and was strangely grateful to see the delicate machinations of her throat as the juice traveled downward.

  Why was he still here with this woman? Shouldn’t he be gone by now? If he had any sense, he’d be gone. Out of this sad hospital, out of sad Beth’s life, and diving into his cherished waves for a much-needed distraction.

  Despite his previous intentions, he didn’t move a muscle, not an inch out of his seat.

  She needed company, and right now he was all the company she had.

  As if some twisted, sick-of-heart goddess of fate decided to intervene, a shadow darkened Beth’s hospital room doorway. And this time, it wasn’t the nurse with a juice delivery.

  Mack watched as a man lingered outside the open door, bearing flowers. He was a tall, bearded redhead who looked like a pirate, complete with gold tooth. He walked in with an extravagant bouquet of red roses, one that looked more expensive than most people’s rent.

  “Gerald,” Beth said, sighing. “You heard.”

  “Aye, lass. News travels quickly here in Kirkwall.” He grinned at Beth, giving her a jaunty wink as if he were about to launch into a drunken jig. “Nothin’ would keep me away, darlin’.”

  Darlin’?

  Beth looked between him and the redhead. “Machar Kirk, this is my neighbor, Gerald Finnegan.”

  Mack stuck his hand out and clamped onto her neighbor’s hand. Gerald gave it a halfhearted shake, but his gaze was locked on Beth, or on Beth’s chest anyway. Mack gripped his hand a little too hard, breaking the man’s concentration on her tits.

  “Beth,” Gerald said, “how are you really, love?”

  “Better, thanks.”

  Gerald piped up, looking at Mack. “Beth teaches my son, Colin, the piano. She’s brilliant with him, and he can be a challenge. Colin
was good friends with Beth’s wee, well, I mean…”

  Mack cut him off before he brought up the topic of her son’s death and looked at Beth. “You play?”

  She avoided his gaze. “I teach music.”

  Gerald’s gaze drifted toward her nipples, outlined as they were under the sheets. “Please tell me you are on the mend, Beth, and coming home.”

  Beth chatted with her neighbor for a few minutes and Mack watched. He felt uncomfortable in his seat all of a sudden and got up to stretch his legs. As soon as he vacated the chair, Gerald Finnegan plunked himself into it, hovering around Beth’s bed like a patient shark.

  Mack didn’t like him. Not one bit.

  He frowned, surprised that he’d have such a powerful opinion of the man. Oh well, he did, and he didn’t like Gerald at all. There, he’d acknowledged it. Although why he should care was beyond him. He didn’t like Gerald’s golden tooth or his ginger locks or his bizarre need to ogle Beth’s chest at every opportunity.

  But at least she had people looking out for her. A rather good-looking person, in fact. Why, Gerald had a roguish charm most women wouldn’t be able to resist, although Mack thought he winked too much. Perhaps he had a blasted ginger eyelash stuck in his eye. Mack could walk out the door now and never look back, content in the knowledge that he’d helped a stranger in need and she was in good hands.

  And yet he wasn’t really aiming to win Samaritan of the Year when he’d rescued her. He just hadn’t wanted her to die at the hands of a finman.

  Look, this man is clearly her friend. She has people who love her. He’ll take care of her. Go to Leda.

  And yet, even as Mack considered it, his selkie intuition kicked in and he glared at the bouquet of roses now sitting on the window ledge. This man said he was a friend and yet he hadn’t bothered to bring her favorite flower. He allowed himself to read her mind for a moment as she eyed the bouquet.

  Most of the shadows seemed to have been swept out of her consciousness. Mack was glad to see that. He concentrated on her feelings about the flowers Gerald had brought. Although she appreciated them, he could see plainly that she didn’t care for roses. Beth preferred lilies of the valley.

  I would have brought her lilies of the valley. If I cared for her, not that I do, I would have scoured the globe until I found some bloody lilies of the valley.

  Because he was suspicious, Mack also indulged in a little mind reading on Gerald. He was sizing Mack up, wondering if he was a threat. He wished Mack would leave. He wanted time alone with Beth, wanted her because he thought she’d make a good mother to his kid.

  She’d be good for Colin. That boy is driving me insane since the divorce. How long do you have to wait before you date a widow?

  Nice, thought Mack. The man just wanted a nanny.

  And then the ginger man stared openly at Beth’s tits again.

  How long will she be in hospital? It’s been too long since I had my rocks off. I wonder if she whimpers or if she’s a screamer. Maybe one day I can convince her to get a boob job and augment those babies.

  Why, the peedie bastard. Mack ground his teeth and held back. Gerald was just horny! So, was she sleeping with fucking Red Beard? No. He didn’t see that in her mind. Thank the fickle gods for that.

  The man was clearly in it for himself. Gerald was definitely not thinking what Mack was: that for some strange reason, he’d give his right arm to be able to wipe the pain off Beth’s face.

  Now he really didn’t like Gerald. Mack let his gaze subtly drop to her chest level for a split second. And her breasts are perfect, thank you very much. Not too big, not too small.

  It was time to act.

  He stood by the door to the room and gestured toward it. “All right. Visiting time is over. Out you go, Gerald.”

  Gerald turned to gawk at him. “How do you know Beth anyway?”

  “I know her a damn sight better than you do, pirate boy.” He pointed his thumb at the door. “Out.”

  Flabbergasted, but seemingly unwilling to have a hospital confrontation with a bigger man, Gerald left the room with muttered promises to Beth to visit her soon at home.

  Beth stared at Mack, just as aghast. “Why did you do that? He’s my friend.”

  He made a face. “That piss weasel isn’t your friend, Beth, love. He wants in your pants. Anyone can see that.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  He took the opportunity to sit by her side again. “Look, forget him. We were in the middle of something before. Would you care to tell me how Luke and your husband died?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again, her tired gaze pinned on him. “Mr. Kirk…”

  “Mack, please. Mr. Kirk makes me sound ancient.” If only she knew the half of it.

  “Mack, then,” she whispered. “You’ve been very kind and patient, but you can go now. You don’t have to pretend you’re interested.”

  “But I am interested.”

  “No,” she persisted. “What you are is curious.” She got a faraway look on her face, and he knew she was revisiting the scene at the beach. “You’re wondering what would lead a seemingly sensible woman to commit suicide. You’re pondering how I could consider death by drowning. You’re wondering if I’m off my rocker and whether or not you can trust me not to top myself as soon as you’re out the door. Well, let me put your mind at ease. I was not trying to kill myself.”

  It was the most she’d said to him yet, and Mack had to remind himself to reply. He’d been so taken by the soft lilt in her voice that he’d almost forgotten to speak. “Then what were you doing wandering by the water on such a day? Saving the whales?”

  “Never mind.” She picked at the lint balls on the sheet with a distracted air again. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You were crying for Luke,” he said, testing the waters. “You thought you saw your son on the water, didn’t you, Beth?”

  Her head darted up, her expression cold. “I said never mind.”

  She was stubborn, this one. Well, he hadn’t lived 593 years without learning how to dig in his own heels here and there. And something told him Beth really needed to get this off her chest, whether she liked it or not. He leaned in. “Sweetheart, in case you can’t see my feet from where you’re sitting, let me assure you they’re planted firmly on the floor.” He paused, composing himself, and offered her his kindest smile. “You need to tell me, Beth.”

  She stared, seemingly at a loss for words. For a moment, Machar spied a softening in her pale sapphire eyes, even a wet glimmer of relief. The smile she offered in return was tight, but at least it was a smile of sorts.

  And then, surprising him, she pressed the button that summoned a rather hefty female nurse. The gargantuan Florence Nightingale descended on them like a merciless Orcadian plague. The nurse cooed at Beth in a voice that was too masculine to go unnoticed.

  “Yes, my wee love?” she intoned like a cross-dressing baritone. “What can I do for you, lassie?”

  Beth stared at Mack. “I’d like this man removed from my room, please.”

  Mack stammered, “Beth, don’t. I’m only trying to help.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  The nurse eyed Mack and rolled her sleeves up the wide circumference of her arms. “Are you going to leave on your own two feet, sunshine, or am I going to have to show you the door?”

  Mack stared back at Beth, suddenly infuriated. He was the one who’d fished her out of the drink, and she was treating him like some sort of undesirable door-to-door salesman.

  He stood. “Fine. I’ll go, but you’ll need to talk to me sooner or later.”

  He turned away and the nurse followed him out. See what he got for being a bloody Good Samaritan? Well, the stubborn woman could look for someone else next time she needed a shoulder to cry on. It was no skin off his nose. He had Leda and her shapely arse to look forward to.

  But as Machar left the hospital, the idea of Beth crying on Gerald’s shoulders gave him an ache in his
gut. It clanged inside him like a gong. He wanted to blame the nagging sensation on the massive helping of steak and eggs he’d had at his parents’ house, but knew that wasn’t it.

  No, this discomfort had nothing to do with indigestion.

  Chapter 5

  The next day, Mack stood at the entrance of Kirkwall’s Balfour Hospital, cursing the cold wind that had just whipped up. Of course, he felt it a little more without his pelt nearby.

  How on earth had he managed to forget it in Beth’s hospital room? He’d never forgotten it anywhere. Selkies were trained at an early age to keep their pelts close when in human form. One never knew who might find it. And Mack had always kept a close eye on the skin.

  But in the confusion of bringing Beth to the hospital yesterday, of seeing how it warmed her body through, somehow he’d neglected to take it back. It was probably still sitting on the hospital chair with her other belongings. If Beth understood anything of selkie lore, she would have known possession of the skin gave her power to compel Mack to be her love slave. An Orkney lass would have seen the skin, hoped to high heaven that it belonged to a selkie, and would have hidden it for dear life, but Beth wasn’t from this part of the world. Clearly she had no idea what sort of power she currently wielded over him.

  And Mack had only noticed the missing pelt last night when, in his frustration at Beth, he’d been about to dive into the waves so he could finally join Leda and the salvage crew. Somehow, the idea of the pelt being with the stubborn Floridian hadn’t worried him as much as it should have. Even still, he needed it back. He couldn’t swim out to Leda without it.

  Only this morning, in the cold light of an Orkney autumn day, Mack realized he wasn’t feeling a great urgency to join Leda after all. Yes, the selkie woman had made his body hum for many a year, but she’d made it patently clear she wasn’t interested in him as a mate. It was ridiculous to consider trying again.

  And there was the orange-eyed finman to consider. Damn. After hunting him for centuries, after patrolling the beaches like a loony, armed lifeguard, the finman had finally decided to show his ugly mug. The timing couldn’t have been worse. As a self-declared stalker of the creatures, he could hardly turn his back now. No doubt the bastard was long gone, but better safe than sorry.