Sins Against the Sea by Nina Mason

Author:Nina Mason [Mason, Nina]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Nina Mason Creations
Published: 2016-04-05T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

In the darkness of this strange room, Cuan felt like an empty skiff drifting on the current. He also felt deeply ashamed of himself. Had he known Cordelia feared drowning, he would never have done what he did.

Would she forgive him? He believed she would after she’d had a good think. Aye, he’d held her head under water—which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t the brightest idea—but, by doing so, he’d helped her conquer her fear of drowning and revealed the truth about her bloodline.

Though sorry for upsetting her, holding her head under water had accomplished his purpose. Well, one of his purposes, anyway. He still yearned to spawn with her, and to hold her afterward the way he used to hold Meredith. He’d never been as contented as he was at those times.

Unlike now, when he felt more forlorn than ever before.

Reaching to the bedside table, he switched on the lamp and blinked against the sudden brightness. He could see reasonably well in the dark, but not well enough to read. Before he’d put out the light, he’d been soaking up more of the English-Gaelic dictionary. While he’d absorbed many of the words the last time, there was still a goodly number he didn’t know.

Like asshole, which he’d overheard her call the man who’d come to the door. He’d heard everything they’d said to each other. Some of it, he didn’t understand; what he did understand, filled him with anguish. Like that the red-bearded captain of Ketos was telling people storm kelpies had attacked the tanker. He needed to warn his clan, but, having no boat, couldn’t think how to go about it until his tail regenerated. Not that, even if he could get there, he would be able to explain how he’d come by the information without risking punishment.

Picking up the dictionary, he looked for the word asshole, but found no entry. He flipped through the pages, drinking in many more words before returning the book to the table. How he wished he had his cleasaiche with him. Playing his harp always lifted him out of the doldrums. He could sing, he supposed, but doing so might disturb Cordelia, who was sleeping in the next room. Unless she, too, was lying awake, wishing they were together.

The urge to talk to her, to go to her, to hold her in his arms, shot up from his depths like water from a blowhole. He battled within himself to stopper the spout with rational thinking. She wanted time and space to think things through. That was what she’d asked for and, if he wanted to earn her forgiveness and return to her good graces, he needed to respect her wishes.

She would come around, and when she did, he could apologize to her and explain that what he’d done had relieved him of the duty to kill her—provided, of course, she promised not to breathe a word to anyone about what she knew. Would she make that promise? Would she keep it? He hoped to the gods she would.

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