Chapter 2

––––––––

F lynn kept his distance as he followed the young woman to her bothy. He didn't wish to set her on edge, scarce believing he'd finally met her face to face. She didn't know he had watched her for some time.

He'd lived a solitary life. It was the way of his kind, and it had never bothered him. While he had made forays into fishing villages once or twice before, it never lasted long. Until, that is, he saw a certain young woman on the beach.

Perhaps her own solitude had first caught his attention. According to his previous observations, humans clustered together, as if isolation were a curse. This human lived alone. She was wrestling seaweed from the beach the day he first saw her, a small, slim figure no match for the power of the ocean in which he swam and lived and devoured. Yet she went about her work with such determination. A borderline ferocity, even, as if the seaweed had much to answer for and she brought its reckoning. He returned every day to watch her from the shelter of the rocks. The more he answered the lure of curiosity and the more he witnessed her at work, the more she intrigued him. What made her so fearsome, this fragile slip of a human? What made her shun her own kind? And why was this pull towards her irrevocable?

Something unknown in him answered this pull. Something he wanted to understand. Something that compelled him to take his human form, and wander out, exposed, where she would see him, where he could meet her face to face–if she didn't run from him first.

And now he was walking behind her. He'd heard her voice, smelled the soap and salt on her skin, and she hadn't run. She'd invited him home, even. Meeting her brought a rush of sensations, some familiar, some not. He was awash with hunger for her, the human kind he'd experience before. But perhaps the strangest sensation of all was fear.

This woman was real, no longer a distant fantasy. She was vulnerable in her humanity, beneath her laughing, teasing capability, wary beneath her flirtations. For the first time, Flynn realized the precariousness of his situation. His actions could leave a mark on them both. It was a strange and sobering thought.

He had no expectations and a thousand desires. He wanted to know her thoughts, to catch a glimpse of the woman beneath her playful, evasive manners, if she would allow it. Any time spent in her presence was a gift more generous than anything the sea could ever give him.

She pushed the door open and let him inside. It was a small space, clean and sparse. A fireplace took up most of one wall. A bed and a trunk sat alongside another, the bed small and neatly made. Flynn's thoughts rioted at the sight of it. The woman made a show of taking a slim knife from the kitchen and tucked it into her apron, smiling merrily at him, and his thoughts settled down with proper sobriety.

"You can put these on." She pulled a bundle of clothes from the trunk and handed them to him.

He thanked her. The small, intimate space of the bothy gave him pause. This was her domain, her safety, and she had invited him in. Even though she had seen him naked there was something different about dressing in front of her, in her home. He waited for the woman to turn around before dropping the shawl and struggling into the clothes. They were well-made if worn, and hung on his frame as if they had belonged to a larger man.

"Will your husband miss these clothes?" He asked. When she didn't turn around, Flynn ventured into her line of vision and repeated the question. His voice seemed to startle her out of a reverie. She blinked her large hazel eyes.

"They were my brother's. He died of illness. I am not married." Accepting the shawl from him, she retrieved two small, rough pieces of bread from a box and handed him one. "Eat up," she continued briskly. ""I'll need to gather as much seaweed as possible today. You could help me with that."

She was unmarried. He'd expected as much from his observations of her, but the relief he felt at hearing the affirmation was immeasurable. Just as great was the fact that she was giving him a chance to stay, at least for a few hours. "Would you consider us even if I helped you gather seaweed?" He asked playfully, very much hoping the answer would be no. "Clothes in exchange for work?"

She pursed her pretty lips, yet it didn't quite stop the grin tugging on her mouth. "Not quite. I gave you food, too. You could start by sharing your name."

"Flynn."

"Mirren."

"Mirren," Flynn repeated. Her name felt like a current on his tongue, one he could happily drown in. "I am sorry for your loss, Mirren, but glad I found your shore."

––––––––

T hey carried baskets back to the water's edge and gathered seaweed, a simple enough task if a burdensome one. Flynn, awkward without the flirtations which came so easily to him, tried to make conversation. "How do you spend your days, Mirren of the shore?"

"Oh, general mischief and skullduggery." She tossed him a brief grin, then laughed at his bewildered expression. The sound sent a jolt of delight through him. "Just like this, really. Working." Bending over, she set the basket down next to a large tuft of dune grass and looked out to sea, a remote look stealing across her face. Strands of dark, curling hair escaped their knot and caressed her cheek and throat. He wanted to gently brush her hair away and cup her face and bring her to the present with a searing, searching kiss. But she didn't seem ready for that, not yet. "I'll have to take the boat out and fish tomorrow. If you're not adverse to that, I could use the help."

She looked at him with a questioning glance.

"I'm not adverse," he said, and grinned like a silly boy when she turned away and walked back towards the bothy, her hips swaying in a way that drove him mad. She wants me to stay. It was too good to be true.

He walked at her side this time, thinking it would be strange to follow her like a lost puppy now that they'd exchanged names. For all the desire he'd seen in her eyes, Flynn admitted to himself that he felt nervous. What if he moved too fast and scared her away? Another thought struck him, terrible and unwanted: she didn't know what he really was. He feared what would happen if she found out.

The thought receded when Mirren, picking up her pace, cast him a glance over her shoulder. Flynn could have sworn he saw that tormenting smile of hers tugging one corner of her mouth, making her look mischievous.

She showed him how to dry the morning's finds in long, wavy-edged rows of slippery ribbons on low rock walls shaded by thatch. Kelp ricks, Mirren called them. He didn't care what they were called when they provided the chance to work so closely that he couldn't avoid softly bumping into her. She must have noticed, for that tiny smile lurked in the corners of her mouth, but she said nothing.

The long grasses rustled in the wind, brushing against his legs and bare feet. He had insisted that he fared better without shoes. Which was just as well, as Mirren had sold everything of her brothers' save what Flynn wore.

They stood on the low, wind-swept dunes near her bothy, overlooking the vast sea on one side. Farmland stretched in the other direction, dotted with red-haired cows huddling together on the low, rolling hills. In the distance he could see another stretch of the beach, and near that, a cluster of buildings that must be the village. He'd only been there a few times before. Overhead, seagulls wheeled and screeched.

"It's a lonely place for one person," he said.

"I'm used to it," Mirren replied, bent over the last of the seaweed. She straightened and looked up at him, her eyes piercing. "I have questions, Flynn."

Of course she would. I should have anticipated them. She would be curious, and he would have to answer her honestly–as honestly as possible. He maintained a calm expression as he replied, "ask me."

"Are you in trouble with someone? The law?"

"No. Neither." He exhaled; that much was true. None of his kind cared whether he lived or died.

"You haven't left a sweetheart behind? No pretty girl crying her eyes out for want of you?"

"No." He had dallied with a barmaid a few times, and was delighted to find that at least one human woman found him desirable, even if she did end their encounters before he was ready. Not long after, he'd seen Mirren. Flynn silently thanked the barmaid for so generously educating and releasing him.

"Hm." Mirren's fists rested on her hips. She studied him openly, without cynicism. "Why are you here, Flynn?"

He ran a hand through his hair, thinking frantically. You. You are the reason I'm here. That did not seem like an answer that would put him in a favorable light, honest though it was. He thought of all the human behaviors he'd observed during the past few months. It was fascinating, and sometimes confusing, to witness the subtleties and nuances in manner and speech. Speech, especially. Humans seemed to say one thing and mean another. With that thought, an answer came to him.

"I want a fresh start," he said. That was true, even if it was not the whole truth, even if he had not allowed himself to think of what might come after that start.

"Are you a good man, Flynn?"

By the deep, how was he supposed to answer that? He suddenly envied the seaweed that Mirren wrestled from the shore: it didn't have to withstand such questioning. He could feel his calm expression falter under her scrutiny. Yet how could he look away? Her mouth twitched with humor, as if she enjoyed watching him squirm. But her eyes were serious as death.

Something tugged within his chest. How can I disappoint her? She will be my undoing.

If she was a tide, he was near drowning, and he could almost give himself up for lost.

"I don't know, Mirren," he answered. "I don't know if I'm a good man."

"Hm." Mirren dropped her hands and stepped closer so that they stood a hand's breadth away, her gaze searching, searing. "A truly bad man would likely claim goodness," she said, her voice maddeningly low. "Some have tried to do so because they thought it was all I wanted to hear. Your honesty does you credit, Flynn. But do you want to know something?" She leaned forward and put a hand on his forearm; Flynn's hands clenched at her nearness. "Not all wickedness is bad," she whispered.

"Would you care to elaborate?" His voice sounded raw as Mirren withdrew, her eyes dark. "You have my full attention."

Her lips parted in a half smile that held more hunger than humor. A desire to taste her lips overcame him, and he lowered his head. But Mirren's eyes darted over his shoulder and widened. The moment crumbled like an eroding cliff. "Oh, saints, Flynn. Get down."

Flynn barely registered the figure walking towards them before Mirren grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him to the earth behind the nearest rick.

"What is it?" He sat upright, every muscle rigid, ready to fight anyone who could make her feel the need to hide, but Mirren pushed him back against the stones.

"A farmer I'd rather not speak to." Her hand still on him, her gaze was intense as she looked out over the hills. Irrational anger flared hot in Flynn's chest, competing with the heady sensation of her touch through the shirt fabric.

"What has he done?" He demanded.

"Only proposed marriage to me once every month, and he's overdue. I don't want to speak to him now."

"Don't worry. I'll dispose of the brute myself." Flynn made to stand, but Mirren flung herself across him and clamped her hands over his mouth.

"Are you daft? He's no villain!" She was shaking. Her eyes danced, silent laughter running through her body as she tried to compose her features, but that dazzling smile took over. His anger melted into something else altogether at the awareness of her body pressed against his as they lay sprawled across the earth. How easy it would be to roll her over, spread her legs, and pleasure her until she gasped and writhed and wept. His hands found and gripped her waist. He could feel the knife tucked into her skirt and moved his hand away from it, watching as the laughter fled her eyes and desire darkened them. Somehow, he had passed her test, satisfying her barrage of questioning. A shift had occurred. She'd been teasing him all morning. Perhaps it was time she got as good as she gave–or better. He smirked against her hands. Shall I show you just how well I can play this game?

"He is not a villain," she repeated breathlessly. "We do not hurt men like him."

Flynn kissed her hands. She withdrew them to brace herself against his shoulders, but he kept her locked against him. The blood roaring in his ears drownedthe crash of the surfand the sigh of the wind.

"Then why don't you want to be his wife?"

"He isn't–he's too nice. Too boring. He wants a quiet little wife who will mind the fire and give him lots of children."

Flynn's grin widened. "Mirren, if there's one thing I can promise you, it's that I am not boring." Experimentally, he drew his hands down her waist to her hips. "I can be just the right kind of nice, if you want me to be."

Her breathing hitched. "And what if I prefer you wicked?"

"Do you?" Flynn's hands slid lower, gripping her through the fabric of her dress. Pausing, searching her face for any sign he should stop and finding none, he pulled her onto his lap so that she straddled one of his legs. Mirren's hips squirmed. "Shhh," he whispered, "or he'll hear you."

He curled his hands around her thighs and squeezed gently, lifting his leg just enough to press against the secret, sensitive place between her legs, the place he imagined was already wet and throbbing. Mirren's eyes fell shut and her head went back, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Is this wicked enough?" He whispered.

When her only response was a whimper, he grinned.

"Mirren? I just want to speak to you," came a male voice nearby.

Flynn cursed under his breath. He hadn't even heard the man approach. Mirren's eyes flew open, her body tense again. His hands fisted and fell to his sides. Mirren couldn't fail to notice his frustrated arousal, but she remained on top of him. Not until the farmer left, the grass swishing in his wake, did Mirren inhale shakily, roll off of Flynn, and rise unsteadily to her feet.