Sins Against the Sea (11 page)

Abandoning the plan, he formulated another. If she were part nymph or merrow, she should be able to breathe underwater. The ability might be latent, but should still come to the fore when needed. So, once he had legs, he would take her for a walk along the beach, drag her into the surf, and hold her head under until she was forced to take a breath. If she lived, he’d know she was indeed a child of the sea, releasing him from the obligation of murdering her. If she should drown, he’d be sorry, but would have done his duty and kept his vows.

Then what? He didn’t know. Much as he liked the idea of staying with Cordelia on land, he would become an outcast if he did not return to
Tir fo Thuinn
when the breeding season ended.

Thoughts of Shan bobbed to the surface, bringing with them the tautness of guilt. Shan was fair of face, strong of body, and good of heart. So, why did the idea of becoming his blood brother so off-putting?

Kiss me, Cuan. Spawn with me. Be my blood brother.

When and if he returned home, he would have to go through with the ritual and pledge his lifelong devotion to Shan. He’d put off taking the plunge for too long already, and the other warriors were growing suspicious. If they focused too much on his movements, they might start to notice—and soon put a stop to—his secret escapes, which he could abide even less than pretending an attraction he did not feel.

* * * *

Still fuming over her conversation with Peter, Corey made her way down to the beach. In broad daylight, the shoreline looked even more ravaged than she’d dared to imagine. Pools of oil stretched as far as the eye could see. The surf was the color and consistency of mud, and the noxious fumes made her nostrils burn and her head hurt.

At the far end of the beach, somebody had pitched a large white tent. Nearer, a group of men in hardhats and gumboots were dragging rakes along what appeared to be clean sand. Pausing near them, she watched in astonished silence as auburn crude, looking disturbingly like blood, oozed to the surface. All around were piles of clear plastic bags filled with sandy oil. When one of the workers stopped to mop his brow, she asked if he knew where she might find the on-scene commander.

The worker leaned on his rake, dark eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You a reporter?”

“No,” she told him, folding her arms to look more authoritative. “I’m Cordelia Parker, the corporate mouthpiece for Conch.”

“Good,” he said, “because we’ve been given strict orders not to talk to reporters.”

Corey’s gaze darted up and down the beach. “Have there been many journalists around this morning?”

He shrugged. “Only the one…and the helicopter from Channel Two.”

The sound of somebody coming up behind her turned her around. It was Lachlan MacInnes, looking like he’d had a bad night. He was unshaven, red-eyed, and still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt from yesterday.

“I see the crews have arrived,” he said. “A day late and a dollar short, I might point out. Have they managed to plug the leak yet?”

“I’ll brief you just as soon as I’ve been briefed myself,” she told him, scanning the beach for someone who might be Mr. Trowbridge. The prime candidate—a tall man with a hardhat and clipboard—was down the beach near the tent, knee-deep in water and talking to the men who were laying down the booms.

“If you think you can blow me off that easily, you’ve got another thing coming,” MacInnes blustered. “For your information, I made a few calls last night. Among other things, I’ve learned there’s no record of
Ketos
, which makes her presence here doubly suspicious.”

His news struck Corey like a blow. Swallowed hard, she avoided eye contact while struggling to maintain an outward appearance of nonchalance. “Like I said, I can’t tell you anything until after I’ve been briefed.” She started walking toward the man with the clipboard. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find the on-scene commander.”

MacInnes called after her. “While you’re at it, ask him why the coastguard’s got the bloody channel blocked off—an obvious ploy to keep the press and the outraged public from learning the truth. Just what is it you lot are trying to hide?”

Spinning around to face him, she shouted back, “Have you considered the possibility that, instead of being an attempt to cover something up, it might just be a safety precaution?”

“Of course I’ve considered it.” He held her gaze with a searing glower. “But I wasn’t born yesterday, either. I know stonewalling and smokescreens when I see them, lass.”

So did she, and this was beginning to take on all the signs. What was
Ketos
doing afloat when she’d supposedly been unregistered? Why was the tanker in the Minch? Where had she been headed? What was Conch Oil trying to hide? It was to Lachlan MacInnes’s credit that he was suspicious. He’d have to be a total moron not to be…and so would she.

Corey hurried down the beach, cringing with disgust as she picked her way through slimy globules and dead fish. She approached the man with the clipboard, waiting for him to wade out of the muddy surf before asking if he was Finlay Trowbridge.

“Who wants to know?”

He was a tall, middle-aged man with long arms and rat-like features: a sharp nose, prominent ears, beady eyes, and an obvious comb over, which, at the moment, stood in the wind like a sail.

“I’m Corey Parker.” She extended her hand. “The designated media point person.”

Frowning, he looked her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. “It’s about time you showed up. There’s been a reporter snooping around asking a lot of unreasonable questions.”

“I know.” She returned his narrow-eyed scrutiny. “I’ll handle him. Along with any others who show up.”

“There aren’t going to be any others,” he said more sharply than warranted. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Corey regarded him narrowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve asked the coastguard not to let them through,” he explained, “and the Benbecula police are guarding the border. If the jackals want information, they’ll have to get it from the command center.”

His high-handedness infuriated her. What right did he have to make policy where the press was concerned? “Who gave you the authority to erect such barricades?”

“Peter Blackwell.” He shrugged one sloped shoulder. “You’re only here to deal with any that happen to get through our screens—like that nosy prick from Skye.”

Corey cringed at being relegated to the role of sheepdog—or, more accurately, lapdog. Struggling to maintain a professional demeanor, she asked through clenched teeth, “What about the news choppers? How do you intend to keep them out?”

“I have my ways,” he said with a sneer.

She couldn’t guess what those ways might be—short of shooting them down—and wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “I’m still going to need a briefing on the clean-up operation.”

He glared at her like she was a naughty child. “Did I fail to make myself clear? All reporters wanting information on any aspect of the incident are to go to the command center in Benbecula.”

As Trowbridge turned and walked away, Corey stared after him in slack-jawed astonishment. This had all the earmarks of a full-scale cover-up and, evidently, she’d been made a pawn in this little game of subterfuge. Before she had time to work out what to do, MacInnes strode up to her with poison in his eyes.

“When am I going to get some answers?”

“It would seem there’s been a changing of the guard,” she told him, striving to keep the edge out of her voice.

His eyes narrowed and hardened. “Meaning what, exactly?”

She took a calming breath and licked her lips as she prepared her noncommittal answer. “Apparently, the command center is now fielding all press inquiries, so…if you want answers, you’ll have to go there.”

He squinted at her. “What’s this about? What are you lot at Conch trying to hide? I demand that you tell me everything you know.”

What she knew was that she’d just been thrown under a moving bus—not that she was about to disclose as much to this out-for-blood reporter.

“I’ve already told you everything I know,” she said with adamance before stalking off toward the cottage.

* * * *

The crunch of footsteps drew Cuan’s attention toward the dunes. The sight of Cordelia coming toward him with a basket over one arm roused his spirits as well as his hunger. Over the other arm, she carried a folded tartan blanket. The sight of her and her gifts filled him with gratitude.

He’d been watching the horizon, awed by the vivid ribbons of red-orange and fuchsia. He’d seen so few sunsets, the spectacle still awed him. It did not, however, dull the cold or the pulsing ache in his tail. The scaly silver-blue membrane was growing more brittle by the moment. Underneath, he could feel legs, feet, and toes taking shape.

As Cordelia drew nearer, he shifted his focus to the basket she carried, hopeful it contained more salmon…or cockles and carrageen. Meredith used to make a jelly-like pudding with carrageen he found surprisingly flavorful and satisfying.

Meredith’s memory made his heart hurt, so he returned his attention to Cordelia. Like Meredith, she had a fine figure, bonny face, and hair as red as the setting sun. As she pushed back a windblown strand, he saw her fingers had no webbing. Webbed fingers were a dominant trait occurring even in mixed-bloods of his race. She was not, then, part Glauckodai.

What else might she be then? Ashray? Sprite? Selkie? Mermaid? Nereid? Oceanid? A half-blood Nereid was a good possibility, as they were human in appearance and mated with mortal men. Cuan made a note to himself to ask Cordelia about her parents, particularly her mother. Once they could more easily communicate, of course.

Fortunately, he had a gift for picking up languages—or so Meredith had told him. How he wished now he’d paid more attention during his English lessons.

Cordelia stopped before him and spread the blanket over his tail. He met her gaze with a visceral spark. She was comely, to be sure, but was she beautiful enough to be part Nereid? Maybe…and maybe not. He only knew she was lovely enough to awaken desires in him he’d prefer remained asleep.

Kneeling beside him, she set down the basket and opened the lid. As she leaned over him, he caught a whiff of her hair. The salty ocean smell wafting from her head further confirmed his suspicions. Still, even if she was part merrow, she’d have to swear to tell no one about him. Otherwise, he’d be forced to take her life regardless of her bloodline.

Drawing a deep breath, he searched his mind for the English word for keeping a confidence. He was sure Meredith had shared it at some point, but could not for the life of him bring it forward. Giving up, he let out a sigh and spoke the Gaelic word.

“Secret?” she asked, surprising him.

He couldn’t help smiling. “Secret” was the very word he’d been reaching for. How did she know? “Do you have the Gaelic?” he asked, recalling at least that much from Meredith’s lessons.

“Yes, but only a little. My mom, who was from Orkney, taught me a few phrases before she died.”

He understood some of what she’d said, mainly that her mother came from Orkney and had crossed into the Underworld. Robharta also was from Orkney, so perhaps her mother had been a selkie. Or, gods forbid, one of the Finfolk of the Vanishing Isles. Being young and beautiful, she could easily be the offspring of a Finmaid and a human man.

“Your mother,” he began with hope in his heart, “was of the sea?”

She looked at him strangely. “My mother drowned in the ocean…and was human. As far as I know, anyway.”

His hope sank, but only for a moment before floating back to the surface. Perhaps the half-blood came from her father, who might be a Finman. Given her beauty—and that her mother was Orknian—it was another distinct possibility. Finmen had a bad habit of carrying mortal women off to Finfolkaheem, the finfolk equivalent of
Tír fo Thuinn
.

Unfortunately, the Finfolk were sworn enemies of the Glauckodai, though not foes on the same scale as humans. Fins were selfish, scheming creatures, but still showed respect for the sea. For the most part, anyway.

“And your father?”

“My dad, I’m afraid, was about as human as it gets.” He understood only the word “human,” which undercut his theory. “For starters, he grew up in Castroville, a small town in central California. On an artichoke farm.”

“Art-a-choke?” he repeated, sampling the strange new word.

“A kind of thistle that people cook and eat.” She met his gaze, provoking a shiver of longing. “Speaking of food…you must be starving.”

The last part he understood perfectly. Nodding, he reached toward the basket.

“Have some patience.” She swatted his hand away. “I thought we might share this time.”

“Share?” He shook his head to let her know he did not understand the word’s meaning.

Smiling softly, she opened the basket and removed several parcels wrapped in white paper. The luscious aroma of scallops and crabmeat teased his nostrils, making his stomach rumble loudly. She unwrapped the packages one at a time, splitting the bounty of shellfish and crustaceans between them.

When she handed him a rather sizeable oyster, he pried open the shell with his fingers, slurped it down, and licked the briny liquor from his lips. “This is to share?”