Samhain Publishing

Trystan awoke to sunlight blazing through a window. He struggled to drag open salt-encrusted lids. His eyes burned as he focused on that streaming light. Not a porthole—a real window. He lay in a four-poster bed that did not swing. His mouth felt as dry as the sand from the hold of the Sunrisen. His body screamed with thirst. But his leg no longer pained him. The nauseating smell of decaying flesh was gone. He held his breath as he reached beneath the quilt and ran his hand down the back of his thigh, relieved to find intact skin over muscle. The bandage was gone. He’d shifted under the full moon and healed.

He frowned. His memory returned in splintered fragments, like shards of broken pottery. He remembered Doc trying to convince him to permit surgery afore a storm hit, then bits of the tempest itself—an insane, raging beast of screaming wind and surging waves. The Sunrisen had shattered around him on jagged rocks. Men had scrambled about in the dark, trying to save their own skins. He relived freezing water closing in around him, over him, and shivered even now. Then the miraculous appearance of a dog built like a bear, the shadow of a fish with long green hair and the sharp stones of a shoreline digging into his skin.

He recalled a woman’s dark eyes in the moonlight. He stared at the colorful design that graced the white quilt covering him, vivid interlocking circles of red and blue, and took a deep breath. A woman’s bed. His body stirred. The pillows, the sheets were ripe with her rich, musky scent. There was no scent of a man at all. Where were Niadh and Ealga?

Where was he?

The door opened and a dark-haired woman strode into the sunlit room. Her scent hit him first—day over night, clean sunshine and the sharp briny tang of sea air over warm woman. The lethal sway of her hips got the attention of parts of him he’d nigh forgotten existed on the long celibate journey westward. She carried a pitcher and a cup, and smiled. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

His body hardened at her sultry voice. “Thirsty.” He stared into familiar brown eyes. The soft liquid eyes of a doe. Bedroom eyes. ’Twas her—the woman from last night. He’d not been dreaming.

She poured water into the cup and handed it to him, then set the pitcher on the bedside table aside a basin. “You must have swallowed some seawater last night. Drinking lots of fresh water will help.”

“Where am I?” He frowned at the rough, rusty edge to his voice and drank.

She poured him another. “You’re in Lighthaven, in Rhattany.” She sat down aside him, on the edge of the bed. “Do you remember anything from last night?”

“Bits an’ pieces.” Lighthaven. So the Sunrisen had made it after all, afore foundering on the rocks. “How many asides me?”

“Living or dead?”

He took another sip. Fresh, cold, with the tang of minerals, a tinge of iron. Never had plain water tasted so good. “Either. Both.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. His gaze locked on those plump lips. “I went down into the village to check. We lost four of the crew and two of the rowers you rescued after the corsair attack. Captain Reed, Mick and Doc are fine.”

“What o’ Giles an’ Toby?”

“Giles survived. I’m sorry, I don’t know who—”

“The cabin boy, Toby.”

“Oh.” The woman blinked. “He’s fine. He’s resting at Madame Jasmine’s, along with the rest of the crew who don’t have families here. The girls there spoil him rotten.”

Relief eased the tightness in his back.

She leaned over to rest the satiny inside of her wrist against his brow. “You don’t have a fever. That’s good news. With that leg I feared I’d find the worst this morning. But the moon did Her part, and your black-furred companion was right. You’re a fast healer.”

Trystan frowned. She knew? She knew what he was? She communicated with Niadh? Niadh survived? He glanced over at the doorway.

A bright silver eye peeked around the door. “Glad t’ see ye this morn’, too, laddie.”

“Where’s Ealga?”

“Shreddin’ a rabbit for breakfast. She’s as sick o’ fish as the rest o’ us.”

Trystan studied the woman, for the first time catching a sense of “Other” from her, along with a deep well of sadness, of desolation, she held locked up tight. ’Twas reminiscent of Niadh’s darker moments, the feeling of a Shifter caught in a single phase and unable to escape.

“But whilst mine was imposed, a punishment, hers was stolen. ’Twas no fault o’ hers.”

She placed cool fingertips against the pulse in his neck.

He scrubbed at his eyes. Delicate but work-roughened hands stopped him.

“It’s dried salt, from seawater. You’re covered in it. Don’t rub them. You might scratch your eyes. I’ve water heating for a bath.” She poured water into the basin, wrung out the wet cloth within and placed it over his eyes. “Here, this should help for now.”

Trystan wiped the gritty crust away and twisted to put the cloth back into the basin. He relaxed against the pillow, relieved. “It does. Thanks. What’s yer name, lass?”

“Finora. Yours?”

Finora. “Trystan. Me companion out there is Niadh.”

“Where are you from? Forgive me, but you don’t sound either Rhattan or Arcadian.”

“The mountains north o’ Arcadia.”

“Long way from home, mountain man.” Finora grasped the edge of the quilt and tugged it down to his waist.

He tensed as she bent down to lay her head on his chest. Sun and moon, her hair was soft. He held very still, so stiff he ached. “What’re ye—”

“Ssh.” She reached up to rest her fingers against his lips. “I’m just listening to your heart and lungs. Now be quiet and let me listen.”

She could lie there all day if she liked. Or slide her face farther down, wrap her lips around him and ease the discomfort… Of their own volition, his fingers threaded through the sable strands. They slid over his skin like silk. He wondered where she’d slept last night.

Too soon, she rose. “Sounds good. No lingering effects from last night. Roll over.”

He frowned. How could he be so aroused and she be so oblivious? “What for?”

Finora rolled her eyes at him and fisted her hands on her hips. “Stars, you’re suspicious. I want to look at the wound.”

She was all business. Pity. “’Tis gone. There’s naught t’ see.”

“Don’t be such an old lady. Humor me.”

Mayhaps she preferred women. Now that’d be a shame. He did as she bade, felt cool air on his bare skin as the quilt was ripped away. Her hands slid down the length of his left thigh with thorough but quick efficiency afore she replaced the quilt. Trystan rolled over and captured her hand, curled his fingers around her wrist. “Naught else ye cared t’ ogle this morn’?”

She blushed. Awareness sparked in her eyes. Optimism stirred. Mayhaps she liked men after all. “Spoken like a man who’s been at sea too long,” she retorted. “For your information, I’m an old widowed mother of two and hardly a lass. You don’t have anything I’m not already well acquainted with, and if you’re looking to get ogled this morning you’re in the wrong house. Sounds like you could use Madame Jasmine’s. I’m sure they’d spoil you rotten, too.”

Trystan grimaced. “Sorra t’ disappoint ye but I dinna frequent whores.” He far preferred sexual encounters based on genuine attraction and liking to the simplicity of women who doled out their favors to all and sundry for the shine of hard coin.

But never afore had attraction flashed so immediate, so hot and fast.