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He sucked in his breath. “More dangerous than you know, lass.”
Emma watched from her window as the sun stained the western sky, setting the ocean on fire.
She breathed deep. After the vermin-infested boardinghouse in Liverpool, after her cramped and stinking quarters belowdecks, it was a relief to fill her lungs with crisp, clean air. To be standing in a castle by the sea as the sun went down in a welter of crimson and gold.
It felt good to be alive.
The boy Iestyn had kindled a fire and provided her with a bucket of warm water to wash in. The girl with him—Una, all glossy brown curls and dark, sidelong glances—brought her clothes and a comb. Emma had been surprised no trace of salt or moisture clung to her skirts. Or to her hair, she realized belatedly. As if it had been washed while she slept.
The burning fire warmed the room, creating a flickering illusion of home. All the room wanted to be completely comfortable was a rug on the floor. Emma rubbed her arms. And perhaps glass in the windows, to keep out the rain and hold the sea at bay.
The rich salt-brew sea smell poured through the casement, pushing back the heat from the fire. The boom and hiss of the waves rose from the rocks below. She could see seabirds, wheeling and dipping in the pink-streaked sky, and—she caught her breath in mingled pleasure and dismay—seals in the water. She watched them, wondering at their fluid grace as they plunged and played, their big bodies perfectly at home in their element. She groped her way through a swaying forest of half-remembered impressions, dark and tangled as kelp.
What had she seen?
And how much had she imagined?
The door to her room bumped open. Emma whirled, her heart crowding her throat at the large, male silhouette filling her doorway.
Griff.
He waited, a smile in his eyes and a tray in his hands, and her heart jumped again for a different reason.
Awareness filled the room—along with a strong aroma of grilled fish.
Emma’s stomach rumbled.
A corner of Griff’s mouth lifted. He set the tray on top of the chest. “Dinner.”
She flushed. “It smells wonderful.”
“It’s not much.” Four small, dark apples, an enormous fish cooked whole, and a handful of raw oysters gleaming in their shells. “Not what you are used to.”
He sounded gruff. Defensive.
“For the past four days, I’ve been on a diet of stale bread and foul water,” she replied frankly. “This is better than what I’m used to.”
His smile warmed her from the inside out.
“Will you join me?” she asked. And then realized, too late, there was no place to sit but the bed.
“I have eaten,” he said politely in his deep voice. “But I will take a glass of wine.”
He sounded so civilized.
Emma clasped her hands together. She did not entertain strange men in her bedroom, she certainly did not drink wine with them, she was a teacher—
Had been a teacher, she corrected crossly. She was ruined now. She could hardly be ruined twice.
While she debated with herself, Griff folded his big body and lowered himself to the floor.
Well.
That took care of the seating problem.
She perched on the edge of her mattress, watching him pour wine from a crusted bottle into deep-bowled glasses. Two glasses. Her eyes narrowed as he handed her one, shifting forward in the firelight so that the lovely warm glow slid over his smooth shoulders and hard, furred chest. Her mouth went dry.
She gulped her wine.
