Chapter 1

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T he last thing Mirren expected to find after the storm, on her corner of the island or anywhere, was a naked man.

The wind had howled all night, driving waves upon the shore and battering her little bothy. She had slept little and fitfully.

When morning broke grey and the storm ceased, she rose early, gathered her wide basket, and took the little path down to the shoreline to look for seaweed. No one would be about yet–or so she thought. She'd scarcely begun to peel the heavy, broad strips washed up from the depths when she discovered that someone was there after all. Not a fisherman, for there were no boats. And fishermen, as a general rule, did not go about their business without their clothes on.

He stood waist deep in the frigid grey water, facing the horizon with his back to her.

No one in their right mind wanders into the sea without a stitch of clothes, especially not at the tail end of winter.

Mirren paused on the beach. He hadn't seen her, and didn't seem to hear her, either. Upon further inspection, the man looked strong and uninjured. Dark, wet hair hung past his naked shoulders and grazed a lean, equally naked back that tapered into a narrow waist just visible above the gentle, rippling waves.

Mirren was not a complete innocent. The male form was not a total mystery to her. Yet she wasn't prepared for the interest and heat that bloomed within her at the sight of him.

She tossed her curly brown hair over her shoulder. Don't be silly, she scolded herself. He's likely got himself a wife . Or a missing tooth, or an over-fondness for ale. Or he's lost his clothes gambling the night away.

He turned around and caught her gaze. His eyes were as grey as the sea, an undercurrent of something wild and tantalizing shadowing their depths. His frame was slender, not large, and his chest and abdomen were as lean as his back, suggesting he was familiar with a hard life. Everyone on the island was familiar with hard living. But Mirren didn't recognize him from the village. By the grin that spread across his face, she could see that all his teeth were perfectly intact, neat and healthy–and that he was a man who liked an appreciative gaze.

And I am someone who likes to make the first move.

"It's early for bathing," she called. "Have you lost something? A wager, perhaps, or your wits?"

His grin broadened into a smile that dimpled one cheek. "I've never found the need for a wager," he replied. His voice was low yet carried easily over the incessant rush of the waves. "My wits are sound as ever, whatever that's worth." He stumbled sideways as a larger wave crashed against him, both covering and threatening to reveal.

Mirren found herself at the water's edge as a new, distressing thought came to her. "You haven't come in on the storm, have you? A shipwreck?" She craned her neck to look along the expanse of the beach, but saw no signs of flotsam anywhere. If he'd been washed ashore, surely there would be signs.

"No, I've come to no harm, lass. But I am a newcomer of sorts. And I find myself lacking the essentials." The dimple returned as his smile turned sheepish, somehow making him even more attractive.

"You'll catch cold if you stay in there. Take this." She pulled off her shawl and held it out, watching in fascination as he strode towards her, muscles rippling with the effort. She stumbled backwards as he reached the sand. Water streamed down his skin, smooth as finely carved stone. As he took the shawl, his fingers brushed hers with a jolt that made Mirren drop her gaze, where she had a fine view of the stranger as he wrapped the material around his waist.

"Lacking the essentials, indeed," she repeated breathlessly, and cleared her throat. "What will your wife say to this foolishness?"

"I'll have to ask her when I meet her."

A smirk tugged at Mirren's mouth. Oh, he was smooth. Far more so than the men of the village. Every unwed male from eighteen to fifty-eight had offered her marriage after her brother's death, claiming how wrong it was for her to live alone. This had made her want to keep her solitary life all the more. The work was hard, but she was harder, and as stubborn as the sea. She'd had two or three brief dalliances, giving her more experience than many a maiden carried with her to the marriage bed. But not one man had ever tempted her to settle down. Each had parted ways once he knew she would not make the wife he wanted, acting as though they'd never shared more than a chaste, everyday interaction. Mirren was content to leave these facades unchallenged.

But this stranger was different with his haunting, sea-grey eyes that never left her face. He was alluring and possibly dangerous. And Mirren, who had lived her entire life by the sea and knew its moods, its generosity and mercilessness, had never met anyone who seemed to hold all these things the way this man did. It pulled at her like the tide and sent a thrill of arousal through her. Steady, girl, she warned herself. A little fun never hurt anyone, herself warned back. Oh no, but ruthless men and pregnancy might . She bit back a scoff at herself. Sometimes her practical side was far too bossy for her liking.

"I'd be grateful for any clothes, if you can spare them." The stranger broke into her muddled thoughts. "Unless you have men folk who'd object."

The idea made her laugh. Mirren narrowed her eyes. "Plenty of men would object, but I pay them no mind. I'll not leave a stranger without hospitality. You'll have clothes and food at my place. But you mind this: try one trick and you'll find out how handy I am with a knife."

"I don't doubt it," he replied. "I'm grateful for the offer." Mirren felt his words in her chest, in her belly, reminding her suddenly that he stood a handbreadth away. Up close she could see the green and gold flecks in his grey eyes. She let her gaze trail down to the hollow in his throat, the smooth, hair-dusted chest. A silver chain hung there, so fine it could have been spun from spider's webs, and on it rested a charm whose shape she could not quite make out. She wanted to touch it, to remove it and feel the warmth of another's skin beneath her own hands. She wanted to run her hands down his torso and feel his firm length in her grip. Hunger flared dangerously hot, competing with warnings firing in her mind, as her gaze snapped up to find his eyes mirroring the heat she felt.

"And if you need anything in return," he continued, his voice a low burr, "you have only to ask."

Those eyes made her want to throw caution to the wind and ask for what she wanted. Or preferably show him, right there on the beach. But it was morning, and the fishermen would come to the beach soon. She didn't know this stranger at all. As alluring as this man was, if life had taught her anything, it was to keep caution nearby.

"Then we had better get you dressed," she said, shrugging one shoulder, "unless you want to be caught."

"Depends on who catches me."

"People will talk if they see you." Not to mention, I'm not sure how many more risks my reputation can withstand.

He cocked his head to one side, mock concern in his voice. "Is that a challenge?"

Mirren only laughed.

The stranger adjusted his grip on the shawl slung low on his hips. "Are you going to tell me what you want in return, or shall I guess?"

"That depends." Mirren leaned closer, tilting her chin up. "Are you going to tell me what you were looking for out there?"

His low, brief chuckle sent a thrill through her. "I'm hoping I've found it."

Mirren had no answer to that. She turned, expecting him to follow, and hauled the basket along with a smirk on her lips and heat pooling between her legs.

She had no idea who this stranger was, or what his intentions were. She was used to taking care of herself. She was used to getting what she wanted. I want to know if he's as amenable to a day's dalliance as his anatomy suggests. But first, I'm going to test him.