before scrambling upright and
bolting down the beach.
Lucy’s laughter brought a pang to his heart and his gut. The selkie laughed almost as seldom as they
cried. The hound coursed in swooping circles, pausing occasionally to dash back and assure itself of his
presence. “He’s certainly glad to see you.”
Yes. Conn clasped his hands behind his back, almost undone.
“I have never been away before,” he said stiffly. Never imagined that the dog would miss him. Never
realized that the animal’s obvious devotion would affect him so. “Madadh, down,” he ordered as the dog
galloped up with great sandy paws.
It collapsed on its haunches, narrow tail whipping back and forth in the sand.
Lucy’s smile lit her face from within. The dog shoved a wet, bearded muzzle into her palm. She rubbed
its head.
Conn fought an instant’s jealousy. Of her? Of the dog? Either was ridiculous.
“Is that his name?” she asked. “Mad Dog?”
“Ma-dug. It means ‘hound.’ ”
She turned that smile on him and took his breath away. “Very original.”
Page 43
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
“I used to name them,” he said abruptly. All of them. “They do not live very long. Nine or ten years. It
became easier after a while to call them by the same name.”
Her wide gray eyes considered his face, as if she saw a side of him that no one else looked for. That he
preferred not to examine himself.
Pride dictated that he not look away.
“How many dogs have you had?” she asked softly.
He shrugged. “Hundreds. After the fourteenth or fortieth, I learned not to become too . . . attached.”
She tilted her head, her gaze still fixed on his face. “Then why bother with a pet at all?”
It was a question he often asked himself. Every time he cradled a wasted old body in his arms or stroked
a white muzzle. Every time he carried a hound’s carcass into the hills to bury it alone and in silence.
“I have always had one. My father always had one. It is tradition,” he said. A way of keeping in touch
with the past, of staying connected with the father who had abandoned him.
“If you’ve had—hundreds?—you’ve had plenty of time to change the tradition,” she observed. “I think
they’re company for you.”
His hands tightened behind his back. He stared at her stonily, appalled. Found out. The selkie lived
alone, free of human encumbrances and human emotions. They did not require companionship. He did
not require it.
“You of course may think whatever you like,” he said politely and swung her up into his arms.
He felt the sharp intake of her breath. But she did not struggle.
Progress? Perhaps.
Her tangled fair hair was caught between them. He freed it gently, shifting her weight.
“I can walk, you know,” she offered.
“You cannot climb,” he said. “Not in bare feet.”
“I’m tougher than I look.” She smiled ruefully. “And heavier.”
Tall and graceful, with skin as pale as willow when the bark was peeled away.
He raised his eyebrows. “I believe I can bear the burden.”
As she must tolerate his touch.
He strode with her up the slope. Despite her pale face and cold hands, she felt warm in his arms, warm
and damp. Beneath the tangle of sealskin and slicker, he discerned the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His
hand was very close to her breast. Her hair tickled his throat. She smelled like woman and faintly of wet
dog.
She was not selkie.
But her humanity—messy, genuine, artless—had its own natural appeal.
The track was narrow, worn by his feet and by the dogs. The long grass whispered of home. A bird
soared over the battlements, crying in warning or welcome.
Lucy looked up at the bird and down at the path and at Madadh, ranging before and behind them. She
looked everywhere, in fact, but at him.
She was pressed against him, angles and curves, long, strong legs and small, firm breasts. Her breath was
warm on the
bolting down the beach.
Lucy’s laughter brought a pang to his heart and his gut. The selkie laughed almost as seldom as they
cried. The hound coursed in swooping circles, pausing occasionally to dash back and assure itself of his
presence. “He’s certainly glad to see you.”
Yes. Conn clasped his hands behind his back, almost undone.
“I have never been away before,” he said stiffly. Never imagined that the dog would miss him. Never
realized that the animal’s obvious devotion would affect him so. “Madadh, down,” he ordered as the dog
galloped up with great sandy paws.
It collapsed on its haunches, narrow tail whipping back and forth in the sand.
Lucy’s smile lit her face from within. The dog shoved a wet, bearded muzzle into her palm. She rubbed
its head.
Conn fought an instant’s jealousy. Of her? Of the dog? Either was ridiculous.
“Is that his name?” she asked. “Mad Dog?”
“Ma-dug. It means ‘hound.’ ”
She turned that smile on him and took his breath away. “Very original.”
Page 43
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
“I used to name them,” he said abruptly. All of them. “They do not live very long. Nine or ten years. It
became easier after a while to call them by the same name.”
Her wide gray eyes considered his face, as if she saw a side of him that no one else looked for. That he
preferred not to examine himself.
Pride dictated that he not look away.
“How many dogs have you had?” she asked softly.
He shrugged. “Hundreds. After the fourteenth or fortieth, I learned not to become too . . . attached.”
She tilted her head, her gaze still fixed on his face. “Then why bother with a pet at all?”
It was a question he often asked himself. Every time he cradled a wasted old body in his arms or stroked
a white muzzle. Every time he carried a hound’s carcass into the hills to bury it alone and in silence.
“I have always had one. My father always had one. It is tradition,” he said. A way of keeping in touch
with the past, of staying connected with the father who had abandoned him.
“If you’ve had—hundreds?—you’ve had plenty of time to change the tradition,” she observed. “I think
they’re company for you.”
His hands tightened behind his back. He stared at her stonily, appalled. Found out. The selkie lived
alone, free of human encumbrances and human emotions. They did not require companionship. He did
not require it.
“You of course may think whatever you like,” he said politely and swung her up into his arms.
He felt the sharp intake of her breath. But she did not struggle.
Progress? Perhaps.
Her tangled fair hair was caught between them. He freed it gently, shifting her weight.
“I can walk, you know,” she offered.
“You cannot climb,” he said. “Not in bare feet.”
“I’m tougher than I look.” She smiled ruefully. “And heavier.”
Tall and graceful, with skin as pale as willow when the bark was peeled away.
He raised his eyebrows. “I believe I can bear the burden.”
As she must tolerate his touch.
He strode with her up the slope. Despite her pale face and cold hands, she felt warm in his arms, warm
and damp. Beneath the tangle of sealskin and slicker, he discerned the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His
hand was very close to her breast. Her hair tickled his throat. She smelled like woman and faintly of wet
dog.
She was not selkie.
But her humanity—messy, genuine, artless—had its own natural appeal.
The track was narrow, worn by his feet and by the dogs. The long grass whispered of home. A bird
soared over the battlements, crying in warning or welcome.
Lucy looked up at the bird and down at the path and at Madadh, ranging before and behind them. She
looked everywhere, in fact, but at him.
She was pressed against him, angles and curves, long, strong legs and small, firm breasts. Her breath was
warm on the
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