Skin Deep (7 page)

“Well…” She pretended to consider the question.

“How about if I throw in that dinner afterwards?”

Garland smiled. “You drive a hard bargain, but I accept.”

* * *

After Rob left, Garland made sure the fires in the fireplaces were safely banked for the evening, turned out the lights, and went up to change into her favorite flannel pajamas, the blue ones with the black and white cartoon cows filing their hooves and applying lipstick.

So that had been her first date, post-Derek. In her wildest dreams she couldn’t have had a better time. She and Rob had danced a careful, courteous conversational dance around each other, listening and learning, feeling each other out, testing—tasting, in a way. She liked his flavor very much, which made him sound like ice cream. She shook her head at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. Ice cream was cold and could induce a headache. She didn’t think Rob would ever do that. Well, she’d find out. It appeared that she would be seeing a lot of him from now on.

She looked at herself in the mirror again. There was a lift to the corners of her mouth and the tilt of her chin that hadn’t been there for months. Maybe Rob’s half-joke about being under a doctor’s care wasn’t so facetious after all.

Had he really been so attracted to her when they first met at that party? She remembered Derek’s being sulky for the rest of that evening, so maybe Rob’s interest had been obvious. Except to her. It had been so long since she’d thought of herself as a desirable woman that she hadn’t even noticed. She turned off the light, pulled on her electric blue chenille robe and went to check on Alasdair and Conn before she went to bed.

Rob had looked in on them before leaving and left a lamp across the room turned on low. By its dim light she could just see Alasdair’s form, long and straight, under the covers. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. But Conn…he’d not wakened, but was tossing and squirming on his bed, rolling his head fitfully from side to side on the pillow. As she bent over him he cried out weakly and then muttered something in a high, piping little boy’s voice that sounded like pleading. The pitiful sound went straight to Garland’s heart. Had his injuries started to hurt enough to rouse him from his sleep? Or was he dreaming about how he’d gotten them?

She carried the small yellow and blue toile wingback chair from the corner over to his bedside, careful not to let it drag on the floor and make a noise, and sat down. “Hey, it’s okay,” she murmured, smoothing his tangled hair off his forehead then laying her hand on it. No fever, which was amazing. Most people would have come down with pneumonia after spending a night in conditions not nearly as harsh as the ones he’d been in.

As her hand rested on his brow he stilled, and his whimpers faded into a sigh. She hesitated, then stroked his forehead again. He seemed to lean into her hand, like a plant following the light.

Something caught in her throat. Before she could remind herself that she was a failure in the maternity department and had no experience in comforting children, she bent over and scooped him onto her lap, still wrapped in her flannel shirt and the blankets from the bed. He turned toward her and buried his face in her neck, and the tension leached from him in a long, shuddering sigh. After a few minutes, his breathing was deep and even again and his little body was limp and relaxed.

She held him, hardly daring to breathe. Derek had needed her because she was presentable and socially well connected and could entertain his business associates. But this boy needed her because she cared. She’d been right not to send them to the hospital. Conn needed more than just doctoring. He needed someone to hold him when he cried in his sleep. Let Rob say what he wanted about strays. She’d taken responsibility for these two as soon as she’d seen them lying in the sand, and she wasn’t going to abandon them now.

And maybe she needed them, too. Had she been adamant about keeping them here and nursing them herself because maybe she needed to be needed in this way? They all had their wounds to recover from, didn’t they?

She lifted one of his hands and examined the odd webs of skin between his fingers that Rob had mentioned. Strange. She’d never seen anything like that before. And Alasdair had them too. She glanced across at him, asleep in the other bed and looking relaxed and absurdly like his son. His hands were hidden, one pillowed under his cheek and the other tucked against his chest, clutching the lapel of his robe. Maybe she’d get a better look at them tomorrow, before he left. Surely by tomorrow Captain Howe would have found out who they were and where they belonged, and they could return home. And she—she could start rebuilding her life in earnest.

Chapter 5

A
lasdair awoke abruptly, called by the morning light and an achy, all-over stiffness in his body that screeched into downright pain in places. He groaned softly as he stretched, then opened his eyes. Instead of sky, a blank, flat whiteness spread above him, held up by soft yellow walls with long windows divided into rectangles…walls?

Then memory returned. He was in a human dwelling, the house of the blue-eyed human who’d found them on the beach. And Mahtahdou had evidently not found them during the night, for his sleep had been deep and restful. He’d been right to go with her.  With any luck her magic would shield them from Mahtahdou for as long as they stayed.

He stretched again, taking inventory. The cuts in his feet were the worst, sending intermittent stabbing pains up his legs. It was hard to breathe through his broken nose but that would ease with time. The cuts on his body itched as much as they ached, which meant they’d begun to heal. Another few days and he could begin to plan his revenge—if his remaining warriors would still follow a selkie lord who’d lost his sealskin.

He closed his eyes, as if he could escape the thought. The pain in his body was nothing compared to that. And Conn—he turned his head and looked at the platform where Conn had slept. It was empty.

He sat up in alarm, then fell back against his head-cushion. Conn, still wrapped in the soft purple skin that was full of magic, was cuddled in Garland’s arms. She was sitting in a chair, and the two of them were soundly, peacefully asleep. Her hair, the same rich brownish gold as the kelp forests to the north of his home-waters, tumbled over Conn’s darker head.

As he stared at them in astonishment, he saw her frown then open her eyes and blink a few times. She looked down at Conn and he tried to decipher her expression. Surprise? Concern? Maybe even a hint of tenderness? Then she carefully rose and bent to put him on the platform again. As she did, he sighed and groped for her in his sleep.

She smiled and touched his cheek. “I won’t go far,” she murmured, then glanced up and met his eyes. And turned a deep pink color, like a delicate sea anemone.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and pulled the coverings back over Conn. Then she came to kneel by him. “I—he was whimpering in his sleep last night when I came to check on him, and I—I thought maybe he needed comforting so I picked him up and held him, and them we both fell asleep. I didn’t mean to…”

“You didn’t mean to what?” he prompted when she trailed into silence.

“To be inappropriate,” she finished, and turned even pinker. It intensified the fascinating blue of her eyes. He wished he could reach out and hold her face still between his hands and gaze his fill at those eyes.

Then her words registered. Inappropriate? Did humans have some taboo about children? “Is it inappropriate to comfort a hurt child?”

“No…it’s just that I don’t want you to think I’m trying to”—she shrugged and looked even more uncomfortable—“to take anyone’s place.”

So that was what had troubled her. “Conn’s mother is dead,” he said, his voice hardening as it did whenever he had to speak of Finna. “You did him a kindness. He’s known no woman’s touch since he was very small.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, then blinked. “You remember that? Do you remember your last name? Or your address or phone number?”

Shark’s teeth, he had to be careful. “No, I don’t remember anything else. But I could not forget losing my wife. Could you forget losing your husband?”

An odd change came over her face. “I’m trying to,” she muttered.

A sudden loud sound, like a brief whir, came from the table next to him. He tensed, but she quickly rose as the sound came again and reached for something black on it.

“I’ve got to get a new phone for up here. The ring tone on this one is hideous,” she said as she lifted an oblong object from it, poked at it with one finger—it made another short, peculiar noise—and held it to the side of her head. “Hello? Oh, good morning to you too, Rob. No, it’s not too early. I’m awake, sort of.”

Rob. That was the healer’s name. Was she communicating with him through the little black oblong? He’d heard humans did things like that, just as they had boats that moved without the wind and silver metal birds that they flew through the air. It was fascinating to see some of their handiwork up close.

But what was even more interesting was Garland. She’d just said she was trying to forget her husband…might he be dead, too? He touched the skin she’d given him to wear. She must have loved him very much, to judge by the feeling she’d woven into this. No wonder she had seemed so sad when she spoke of forgetting. By Lir, he had to remember that he wasn’t the only creature in the world grieving for a lost love. How long ago had her husband died? Not very long ago, for surely other men would be eager to pay court to a beautiful widow like her. Perhaps one already was. He’d seen the way the healer had looked at her—

“No, the boy’s still sleeping but Alasdair’s awake. They spent a peaceful night as far as I can tell.” Garland made a funny little face as she said that. She wasn’t going to tell the healer about sitting up with Conn all night? Why not? “Of course you can. Boy Scouts? You’re either very civic-minded or very crazy. Or both. See you in a few minutes.”

She poked at the black thing again and stood looking at it with a little smile. “That was Dr. Mowbray. He wants to come check on you two now because he’s doing a first aid class later with the local scout troop. He’s really something, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Alasdair said politely. Most of what she’d said made no sense but it seemed safe to agree.

“I’m going to go start some coffee. Call if you need me, okay?” She set the black thing back down on its platform, glanced again at Conn, then left. He heard her soft footfalls move away from him and counted them. This was a large place, with many rooms—large and lonely, if she lived here all alone. How sad for her.

He lay back against his cushions and winced as one of his cuts gave a twinge. He wished he could like the healer as much as Garland seemed to. But underneath that calm demeanor—all healers, selkie or human, seemed to have it—Alasdair could sense his suspicion, verging on hostility. He didn’t want him and Conn here at Garland’s house, that was certain. Why? Because he didn’t want anyone getting between him and Garland? Too bad there was no way he could reassure the healer that he had no interest in her—not even one as lovely and compelling as she was. He was a warrior, and warriors must know only battle. After Finna had been killed—his hands clenched helplessly at his side. Never would he give Mahtahdou another opportunity to strike at him through a loved one. Someday, when Mahtahdou was again chained, when his people were safe and he’d regained his throne, there would be time for him to love again.

* * *

Garland barely had time to make a pot of coffee before Rob arrived. He wore a tie and his white medical coat under his outdoor jacket and looked even more reassuring and competent in it, if that were possible. She resisted the urge to straighten his already straight tie, just for the sake of touching him. He smothered a grin as he looked at her.

“Wow. I’d pictured you as more the tailored silk pajama type.”

Oh, hell. She’d forgotten that she was still in her cow jammies and fuzzy blue bathrobe and slippers. She spread the skirt of her robe and pretended to curtsey. “I’m sorry to have disillusioned you. Now you’ve seen the worst of me.”

“Oh, I don’t know—I kind of like them.” He came in then paused to consider her as he pulled off his jacket. “But you really need curlers and cold cream all over your face to complete the picture.”

“Beast.” She stuck out her tongue at him. “Next time I’m calling an acupuncturist when I get a splinter.”

“The closest one’s in Provincetown. And she wears clothes remarkably like your pajamas so you two might get on famously. But I’m not sure she makes house calls.” He turned toward the stairs. “How are our guests?

“Rob, wait a minute.” She reached out and touched his arm. “How common is amnesia?”

He paused on the bottom step and looked at her. “Outside of the movies? Not very. And not the global kind that you see in fiction all the time. Damn. I should have sent Alasdair to the hospital. Is he slurring words or showing signs of confusion or paralysis? What happened?”

“Nothing happened. It’s just that—well, he still says he can’t remember anything, but he was able to recall that his wife was dead. And he seems—I can’t describe it. When you called just now, he jumped and stared at the phone as if he’d never heard one before. It’s—”

“Yes?” Rob looked at her expectantly.

“I don’t know,” she finally admitted.

He frowned. “Are you afraid of him?”