Taming The Heiress
Susan King

Excerpt

Scotland, the Inner Hebrides
Summer, 1850

He washed out of a cold sea in darkness, finding a desperate grip on an immense rock that soared upward through crashing waves. The water withdrew and surged over him again as he lay motionless, deeply grateful for the bulwark of rough stone.

Lungs burning, he crawled higher and collapsed, shivering and naked. Peering through darkness and lashing rain, he gradually recognized the unique profile of his sanctuary: Sgeir Caran, the largest rock in the notorious Caran Reef that lay west of the Inner Hebridean islands. The half-mile crescent of black basalt, most of its peaks submerged, formed a wicked lure of eddies and whirlpools that had trapped countless boats and ships over the centuries.

He had found safety in an unlikely place. Enough for now to lay on the still, solid breast of rock--enough just to breathe. He knew this reef, had studied and measured its jagged rocks in his capacity as a lighthouse engineer. He had listed the ships wrecked upon these rocks, had numbered the lives lost. A few of those names were known to him, for they were his own kin.

The Caran Reef had taken his parents, wrecking their ship and sinking it while they sailed on a holiday journey, after leaving their thirteen-year-old son and his sisters in the care of a relative. That devastating loss had forever changed the course of his life, had altered him, heart and soul.

He wondered, now, if he was destined to join them here. Perhaps he had done so already, but with his usual obstinacy, had simply not yet recognized death. Clinging to the rock, he sank his head down and closed his eyes.

Pelting rain brought him back to awareness, and his shivers confirmed that he was indeed alive. The gale raged on, and black stormclouds swallowed the half-light of the Hebridean night. Daylight had been a warm glow when he had sailed out, and the sky gave no hint of a storm.

He had been a fool to sail out alone, sodden drunk, on a dare. But Dougal Robertson Stewart, heir to the estates of Kinnaird and Balmossie, never turned down a challenge, never quailed at a physical risk--even welcomed them, truth be told.

Perhaps he should regret that tendency, he told himself, as he crawled naked up the black and slippery incline of the rock.

A high, fierce wave rose and crashed down over him, while he scuttled out of the water's reach toward the long upper plateau of black basalt. Two hundred feet away, a stack rock soared in an eerie natural tower. Caves permeated the far end of Sgeir Caran, but Dougal was too exhausted to seek them out yet. He lay supine, summoning his strength while he watched the writhing, turbulent sea and felt the cold sting of rain on his bare back.

They had vanished, the beautiful ones who had carried him here through the storm. Graceful yet frightening, they had appeared just as he was drowning in the deep. Wondrous and majestic, they had pulled him onto their backs and had galloped in unison with the waves, their manes pale froth, their hooves whipping the sea to wildness.

He had heard of the legendary sea kelpies, the water horses who raced through the foam. Tonight he had seen them himself, had twisted his fingers in their white manes and placed his feet on their magnificent backs while they carried him forward like the steeds of Neptune.

Or had he dreamed it?

My God, he thought, shoving a hand through his wet hair, I am drunk indeed, and in a sorry state.

Concussed as well, for he had taken a blow to the head when his borrowed fishing boat had overturned in a high swell brought on by the sudden storm. Fighting to stay conscious, caught in restless waves, he had clung to the boat's underplanking. When his wet clothing dragged him under, he had stripped bare to save himself. As the boat sank, it sucked him downward--until a legion of pale horses had swept him onto the shoulder of the great rock.

As he got to his feet, a wave arched high and slammed down over him. He lunged to grab hold of a ridge of rock to keep from washing back into the water. The wave's force knocked his head against stone, and he sank into a black void.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a perfect pair of bare feet.

Pale and delicate, perched on the black rock inches from his face, small toes and slender ankles showed beneath the frothy hem of a white gown. Rain splashed all around her, dancing drops that soaked the fabric of her garment.

A sea fairy, he thought dimly. No mermaid, for she had lovely lower limbs.

As she sank to her knees, he saw the blur of her face and gown. Drenched hair spilled over her shoulders in fine, small curls. She wore a cloak or a blanket over her shoulders, which she slipped off and wrapped around him, murmuring as she did so. The thick warmth of the wool felt divine, and her touch felt like heaven's own.

He began to thank her, but his hoarse voice failed.

"Ach Dhia, you are alive, then, and a man come out of the sea," she said, sounding calm despite the hellish storm. "I have waited for you."

Gaelic. He understood some, spoke less than that. Had she said she had waited for him? He nodded uncertainly.

"Ach, you are cold and shivering. Not yet used to your human form, I think." She tucked the shawl higher. "When I waited here to keep our ancient promise, I thought I would be very afraid of you--but you are weak as a babe just now. You may be a king in your world, but you need care in ours."

Ancient promise? He stared at her, uncomprehending. "I came from the sea," he managed in awkward Gaelic. His mind was so muddled he could hardly think.

She smiled, and he heard the silver-bell sound of a fairy's laughter. A gust of wind took the rest of her reply. Holding his arm, she urged him to his feet. Rising on shaking legs, he felt like a babe indeed. She tucked her shoulder under his arm and he leaned gratefully on her. Despite her elfin appearance, she felt solid, strong, and offered capable support.

"Who are you--" he croaked out, but the wind snatched words away, making any exchange nearly impossible. He set out over the rock with her, their heads bent against the gale, her gown and the blanket whipping and soaked.

Was she human and shipwrecked, too, in this wild place? Or had his nightmare transformed into a wondrous dream? He could hardly believe she was there, and whoever--or whatever--she was, he felt grateful for her company. She seemed magical to him, a spark of dancing light in the blackness, a fey creature made of gossamer and seafoam.

He knew some islanders still believed that the ocean was inhabited by kelpies, selkies, mermaids, sea fairies, blue men, and the like. Having witnessed the water horses of the Otherworld himself that night, he could believe that the girl might be something magical in human form. He thought of her as a sea fairy--they were said to be beautiful and delicate, and very kind creatures.

In an onslaught of wind and rain, he stopped, shielding her slighter form with his tall, solid bulk. She clung to him as he gathered her close under the plaid. Waves slammed the rock, arching, drenching. Under the plaid, the girl clasped her arms around his waist as they withstood the winds and lashing rains.

Again he wondered if he was dreaming. Was he truly stranded naked on a Hebridean rock with a sea fairy? Perhaps he had made it back to shore and now lay sleeping off the effects of Mrs. MacDonald's whisky, following Mr. MacDonald's wake.

Vaguely he remembered a night of drinking, mourning, music, and fond stories of the deceased. He had swallowed too many drams out of politeness and camaraderie during a fine wake for a good man. When his companions had dared him and a friend to row a circuit of the reef in honor of the deceased, he had accepted the challenge. The fellow who raced him had paused to retch over the side, and Dougal had rowed onward, into the mouth of the gale.

The girl cried out as the wind shoved them, whipped at them. Holding her, Dougal kissed her brow to reassure her. Gazing over her head, he watched the haze of rain, and wondered if he would die here on this rock, with the strange and beautiful sea fairy in his arms.

Seeing the promise of shelter in the black crease of a cave opening, he tugged her toward it. She stumbled and fell, and Dougal bent to sweep her into his arms, fighting the winds as he carried her inside the crevice. The niche was just large enough for them to huddle inside. He set her on her feet and she went again into his arms, naturally seeking comfort and protection. They watched the storm, her cheek upon his chest, his arms wrapped around her.

Sheeting rain and shrieking winds broke large stones loose from the slope and sent them skating effortlessly into the sea. Waves loomed and crashed down over the rock, deluging the plateau, sliding away only to arch upward again.

Water swirled around their ankles in the little cave, and the spray stretched wraith-like toward them. Dougal turned his back to the opening to protect the girl from the stinging spray and the bite of the wind. Standing in a shivery embrace beneath the plaid, he remembered that he was nude and she nearly so, yet it did not seem to matter. With her curving form pressed against his harder planes, a little blessed heat generated between them. That warmth, and the solace of arms and solid company, were far more important. He wondered if fairies even cared about proprieties.

He sensed the moment when she relaxed against him rather than clung, when she conquered her own fears and found her strength and confidence. He felt her breath fall into rhythm with his own, and she calmed and grew lush in his arms.

Desire, raw and sudden, flamed through him. As if she felt it, too, she nestled closer, wrapped her arms around his neck. Her thin, soaked chemise was no barrier between them, and her body seemed to meld against him.

He did not know how the kiss began, the tilt of a cheek, the nudge of a chin. Lips touched, caressed. Her mouth was soft and willing, his exploring. Thunder boomed and the sea slammed the rock, and the next kiss was deep, wild, and desperate. One kiss followed another in rushing waves. He wove his fingers into the damp mass of her hair, tilted back her head.

Her lips were fervent under his, and her willingness and natural passion seared him like whisky brose, all cream and fire.

Vaguely, he told himself to stop, to draw back....