Sea Lord Read online

  She had recovered before the ferry left the dock.

  Flu, concluded the island doctor.

  Stress, said the physician’s assistant at Dartmouth when Lucy was taken ill on her tour of the college.

  Panic attack, insisted her ex-boyfriend, when their planned weekend getaway left her wheezing and heaving by the side of the road.

  Whatever the reasons, Lucy had learned her limits. She got her teaching certificate at Machias, within walking distance of the bay. And she never again traveled more than twenty miles from the sea.

  She climbed to her feet. Anyway, she was . . . maybe not happy, but content with her life on World’s End. Both her brothers lived on the island now, and she had a new sister-in-law. Soon, when Dylan married Regina, she’d have two. Then there would be nieces and nephews coming along.

  And if her brothers’ happiness sometimes made her chafe and fidget . . .

  Lucy took a deep breath, still staring at the garden, and forced herself to think about plants until the feeling went away.

  Garlic, she told herself. Next week her class could plant garlic. The bulbs could winter in the soil, and next season her seven-year-old students could sell their crop to Regina’s restaurant. Her future sister-in-law was always complaining she wanted fresh herbs.

  Steadied by the thought, Lucy turned from the untidy rows.

  Someone was watching from the edge of the field. Her heart thumped. A man, improbably dressed in a dark, tight-fitting suit. A stranger, here on World’s End, where she knew everybody outside of tourist season. And the last of those had left on Labor Day.

  She rubbed sweaty palms on the thighs of her jeans. He must have come on the ferry, she reasoned. Or by boat. She was uncomfortably aware how quiet the school was now that all the children had gone home.

  When he saw her notice him, he stepped from the shadow of the trees. She had to press her knees together so she wouldn’t run away.

  Yeah, because freezing like a frightened rabbit was a much better option.

  He was big, taller than Dylan, broader than Caleb, and a little younger. Or older. She squinted. It was hard to tell. Despite his impressive stillness and well-cut black hair, there was a wildness to him that charged the air like a storm. Strong, wide forehead, long, bold nose, firm, unsmiling mouth, oh, my. His eyes were the color of rain.

  Something stirred in Lucy, something that had been closed off and quiet for years. Something that should stay quiet. Her throat tightened. The blood drummed in her ears like the sea.

  Maybe she should have run after all.

  Too late.

  He strode across the field, crunching through the dry furrows, somehow avoiding the stakes and strings that tripped up most adults. Her heart beat in her throat.

  She cleared it. “Can I help you?”

  Her voice sounded husky, sexy, almost unrecognizable to her own ears.

  The man’s cool, light gaze washed over her. She felt it ripple along her nerves and stir something deep in her belly.

  “That remains to be seen,” he said.

  Lucy bit her tongue. She would not take offense. She wasn’t going to take anything he offered.

  “The inn’s along there. First road to the right.” She pointed. “The harbor’s back that way.”

  Go away, she thought at him. Leave me alone.

  The man’s strong black brows climbed. “And why should I care where this inn is, or the harbor?”

  His voice was deep and oddly inflected, too deliberate for a local, too precise to be called an accent.

  “Because you’re obviously not from around here. I thought you might be lost. Or looking for somebody. Something.” She felt heat crawl in her cheeks again. Why didn’t he go?

  “I am,” he said, still regarding her down his long, aquiline nose.

  Like he was used to women who blushed and babbled in his presence. Probably they did. He was definitely a hunk. A well-dressed hunk with chilly eyes.

  Lucy hunched her shoulders, doing her best turtle impression to avoid notice. Not easy when you were six feet tall and the daughter of the town drunk, but she had practice.

  “You are what?” she asked reluctantly.

  He took a step closer. “Looking for someone.”

  Oh. Oh, boy.

  Another slow step brought him within arm’s reach. Her gaze jerked up to meet his eyes. Amazing eyes, like molten silver. Not cold at all. His heated gaze poured over her, filling her, warming her, melting her . . .

  Oh, God.

  Air clogged her lungs. She broke eye contact, focusing instead on the hard line of his mouth, the stubble lurking beneath his close shave, the column of his throat rising from his tight white collar.

  Even with her gaze averted, she could feel his eyes on her, disturbing her shallow composure like a stick poked into a tide pool, stirring up sand. Her head was clouded. Her senses swam.

  He was too near. Too big. Even his clothes seemed made for a smaller man. Fabric clung to the rounded muscle of his upper arms and smoothed over his wide shoulders like a lover’s hand. She imagined sliding her palms through his open jacket, slipping her fingers between the straining buttons of his shirt to touch rough hair and hot skin.

  Wrong, insisted a small, clear corner of her brain. Wrong clothes, wrong man, wrong reaction. This was the island, where the working man’s uniform was flannel plaid over a white T-shirt. He was a stranger. He didn’t belong here.

  And she could never belong anywhere else.

  She dragged in air, holding her breath the way she had taught herself when she was a child, forcing everything inside her back into its proper place. She could smell him, hot male, cool cotton, and something deeper, wilder, like the briny notes of the sea. When had he come so close? She never let anyone so close.

  His gaze probed her like the rays of the sun, heavy and warm, seeking out all the shadowed places, all the secret corners of her soul. She felt naked. Exposed. If she met those eyes, she was lost.

  She gulped and fixed her gaze on his shirt front. Her blood thrummed. Do not look up, do not . . .

  She focused on his tie, silver gray with a thin blue stripe and the luster of silk.

  Lucy frowned. Just like . . .

  She peered more closely. Exactly like . . .

  Her head cleared. She took a step back. “That’s Dylan’s tie.”

  Dylan’s suit. She recognized it from Caleb’s wedding.

  “Presumably,” the stranger admitted coolly. “Since I took it from his closet.”

  Lucy blinked. Dylan had left the island with their mother when she was just a baby. Four months ago, he’d returned for their brother Caleb’s wedding and stayed when he fell in love with single mom Regina Barone. But of course in his years away Dylan must have made connections, friends, a life beyond World’s End.

  Lucky bastard.

  “Dylan’s my brother,” she said.

  “I know.”

  His assurance got under her skin. “You know him well enough to help yourself to his clothes?”

  A corner of that wide, firm mouth quirked. “Why not ask him?”

  “Um . . .” She got lost again in his eyes. What? Crap. No. No way was she dragging this stranger home to meet her family. She pictured their faces in her mind, steady, patient Caleb, edgy, elegant Dylan, Maggie’s knowing smile, Regina’s scowl. She blinked, building the images brick by brick like a wall to hide behind. “That’s okay. You have a nice . . .”

  Life?

  “Visit,” she concluded and backed away.

  Conn was affronted. Astonished.

  She was leaving him.

  She was leaving. Him. Sidling away like a crab spooked by the rush of the water. As if his magic had no power over her. As if he would pounce if she turned her back.

  His lips pulled back from his teeth. Perhaps he would.

  He had not exerted the full force of his allure, the potent sexual magic of his kind. Why should he? He had felt her yield, smelled her arousal. Her eyes, the soft gray-
green of the sea under a cloudy sky, had grown wide and dark. For a moment, as he held her gaze, Conn had felt a twist in his belly, a click of connection like a barely audible snap in his skull.

  And then she blinked. When she met his eyes again, her own were shallow and bright.

  Frustration tightened his gut.

  He concentrated until his head pounded, bending his gaze and his will upon her, seeking . . . what? Surrender? Or a vision, a sign, something to guide him.

  Nothing, he acknowledged wearily.

  Nothing but her face, pale between the curtains of her straw-colored hair, and his own reflection, trapped within her eyes. The magic that had goaded him here had drained like a wave from the rocks, leaving him high and dry.

  Conn set his jaw. He wished, not for the first time, that he had the old kings’ power—or shared his father’s disregard for anything beyond his own pleasure. But he was not his father. He had not left Sanctuary for the first time in centuries to satisfy a need as simple as lust.

  “Come with me,” he urged.

  She jerked. “What?”

  He would deal with her resistance later. What he would not do, now that he had found her, was let her get away. Both his magic and his glands were clear on that score.

  “To see your brother,” Conn improvised smoothly.

  The girl shook her head, making her pale hair fall forward like a veil. “Dylan and I see enough of each other, thanks.”

  Conn’s face must have revealed his surprise, because she added, “He moved back home a couple of months ago. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “No. We lost touch,” Conn said grimly. Another reason Conn had been forced to leave Sanctuary and seek out the woman of his visions. Dylan was on World’s End at Conn’s command. But Conn had expected him to report back to Sanctuary weeks ago.

  She tucked her hair behind her ears, regarding him with confusion and a hint of challenge. “Then what are you doing here in his suit?”

  Conn stiffened. He was not accustomed to having his actions questioned. To avoid explanations, he had donned clothes. Uncomfortable, modern clothes, the best in Dylan’s wardrobe, befitting Conn’s rank. And now this girl was challenging his selection.

  “Perhaps you would prefer I take it off,” he suggested silkily.

  She had very fair skin. Every blush showed. But she did not back down. “I just think you should have asked before you raided his closet.”

  “Very well. Take me to him.”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know if . . . He’s probably at the restaurant at this time of day.”

  What restaurant?

  “Then we will go there,” Conn said.

  He watched politeness war with reluctance on her face. He admired both her manners and her caution. But of course, he could not allow her to refuse.

  “Or we could wait at your home,” Conn added.

  Her eyes widened. Something flashed in those soft green depths, like a fish darting below the surface of the water, before she dropped her gaze.

  He stared, frustrated, at the top of her head.

  “This way,” she said.

  The road zigzagged to the harbor, bumping around hills between snug, square houses and trees burning red and gold. Lucy followed the pavement like a spool of black ribbon unrolling to the sea, uncomfortably conscious of every step, every breath of the man beside her.

  She wasn’t afraid of him, exactly. Growing up on the island, you learned to take care of yourself and your neighbors. Her brother Caleb, the island police chief, was rarely called for anything more serious than teenagers lifting beers from Wiley’s Market or fishermen settling a dispute with their fists.

  Until this past summer, when some madness had infected World’s End beyond the usual “germs”—vacationers, in island-speak. A woman from Away had been murdered on the beach by a lawyer living on the point. A homeless vet had attacked Regina Barone in her own restaurant. And just two months ago, an unknown intruder had broken into the clinic, nearly killing Regina and the island doctor.

  Lucy swallowed the flat taste of fear in her mouth. Not that the guy striding next to her looked like a killer. But you never knew, did you? Bruce Whittaker, the lawyer convicted of the beach murder, hadn’t looked like the kind of man who tortured women in his living room either.

  She was relieved when the road unfurled into town. The afternoon sun danced on the waters of the harbor, painting the peaked roofs with yellow light. Shadows stretched under cars and between buildings, gathering under the eaves like cobwebs. The storefront windows were papered with flyers advertising a shellfish commission meeting, a bake sale in support of the community center, free kittens.

  The faded red awning of Antonia’s Ristorante extended over the sidewalk, casting a warm glow over the tables inside. Empty tables. Empty chairs. A typical Wednesday in the off-season, between the lunch and dinner rush.

  “This is it,” Lucy announced.

  Her companion glanced from the hand-lettered chalkboard in the doorway to the cat napping in the restaurant window. “Dylan is here?”

  Lucy pushed the door—he didn’t try to open it for her, she noticed—making the bell jangle. “Usually. He—”

  “Hi, Lu.” Regina straightened from the refrigerated case behind the counter, her dark hair tied under a jaunty red bandana and a wide, white apron wrapped over her baby bump. Her Italian heritage showed in the tiny gold cross at her neck and her big, dark, expressive eyes. Her gaze wandered over Lucy’s shoulder; brightened with interest. “Friend of yours?”

  “I just met him.”

  “Oh?” The interest sharpened. “Nice. As long as you’re here, you can take his order. Maggie’s off the clock.”

  Lucy cleared her throat. “I don’t think—”

  “Maggie?” repeated that deep, cool voice.

  “Maggie Hunter.” Regina shot him a smile. “I’m Regina Barone.”

  He inclined his head, acknowledging the introduction. “Conn ap Llyr.”

  Regina stilled. Her eyes narrowed. “Nice suit.”

  He regarded her the way he’d looked at the cat, as if she were a species of creature barely worthy of notice. “Nice place.”

  Regina crossed her arms over her middle. “We like it.”

  Lucy’s stomach knotted. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what. But you didn’t grow up in an alcoholic household without learning to pay attention to eyes and hands and tones of voice.

  The door behind them opened. Lucy jumped.

  But it was only her brother Caleb, still in his police uniform, coming to pick up Maggie after her shift. Relief relaxed Lucy’s shoulders. Strong, patient Cal, steady as an oak tree despite the limp he’d acquired in Iraq. His hair was darker than hers, his eyes the same gray-green.

  His smile faded as he picked up the tension in the room. “What’s going on?” he asked evenly.

  “This guy”—Regina jerked her head without taking her eyes off the stranger—“is Conn ap Llyr.”

  Lucy watched the two men size each other up like ten-year-olds on the playground. Only ten-year-olds never left her feeling shaky and breathless, as if they’d sucked up all the available oxygen.

  Few men had the height or the balls to look down on her brother. Conn ap Llyr apparently possessed both. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Caleb Hunter. Chief of Police.”

  Neither man offered to shake hands.

  Lucy reminded herself to breathe. She had brought this stranger here. It was her responsibility to smooth things over. “He knows Dylan, he said.”

  Caleb aimed a look over her shoulder at Regina. “Where is Dylan?”

  Regina pressed her lips together. “In back. With—”

  “Get him,” Caleb ordered before she could say Maggie’s name.

  Regina disappeared through the kitchen door without a backward glance, leaving Lucy alone with the two men. And no idea what was going on.

  It was like a scene out of some old Western, she thought fancifully. The local sh
eriff facing down the visiting gun-slinger in the bar. Her heart bumped. She had never liked confrontation. Still, she could appreciate the picture they made, solid Caleb in his wrinkled uniform, the big stranger in his elegant suit.

  Her brother’s suit.

  Dylan swung through the kitchen door and completed the set: tall, dark, and lean in a black T-shirt tucked into faded khaki shorts.

  The air fairly boiled with tension and pheromones, almost too thick to breathe. Lucy shrank into herself, retreating to the line of booths along one wall.

  “Is it just me,” Regina asked from the doorway behind him, “or is it crowded in here?”

  Caleb’s wife, Maggie, spoke from the kitchen, amusement smooth in her voice. “Crowded and hot.”

  She strolled forward, and every man in the room watched her move. Lucy sighed. Caleb’s new wife was exotically beautiful, full-lipped, full-bosomed, with masses of wavy dark hair and sleek, female confidence.

  She took her place by her husband and smiled around the room. “Very hot.”

  “Margred,” Conn said gravely. “You look . . . recovered.”

  Caleb jammed his hands in his pockets, his shoulders squared.

  Conn knew her, Lucy realized. How did he know her? Maggie was a newcomer to the island, a victim of the violence earlier in the summer. Caleb had found her, bloodied, dazed and naked on the beach, and brought her home. Maggie said that the attack had robbed her of her memory. But she certainly seemed to recognize Conn.

  “I am well.” Margred touched her husband’s arm, a subtle gesture of restraint or support. “As you see.”

  It really was like watching a movie, Lucy thought. Or taking part in a play. Only she’d wandered into the second act, and nobody had handed her a script.

  Red stained Dylan’s high cheekbones. “My Lord,” he exclaimed. “Conn.” Except he ran the phrases together: My Lord Conn. “What are you doing here?”

  Conn raised his eyebrows. “Have you forgotten your responsibilities, that you must ask?”

  Lucy looked at her brother’s face. Ouch, she thought.