Nathaniel grunted, sounding more himself. "He spends all his time in the round-house, watching the water. They've posted an armed guard on deck."

"Perhaps they are worried about thieves," Elizabeth murmured. One more danger, she thought, but kept it to herself.

Nathaniel pulled her closer. "Or the Campbells."

"Or the Campbells," she echoed. "But I must admit that right at this moment the Campbells are as real to me as the Green Man."

"Let's hope it stays that way." He tugged on her hair. "Tell me, Boots, don't you ever get tired of being logical?"

She laughed. "Now that you mention it, yes. Sometimes it is a relief to stop thinking."

"Ah," he said. "Now there's something I can help you with."

His tone had changed, not to anger or irritation or even worry, but in another direction, one that she knew very well. The air was chill and she had lost both her blanket and most of her nightdress, but she flushed with a new heat.

His mouth was at her ear, and an old teasing rhythm: "It's late, Boots. The logical thing would be to sleep."

"I suppose it would," she agreed. "You must be very tired."

He smiled against her neck, his fingers tracing gently, rousing every nerve. "And if I was, it wouldn't matter. The smell of you would wake a dead man."

Elizabeth put her hands in his hair and brought his face to her own to kiss him. She whispered against his mouth.

I dreamt my lady came and found me dead ...

And breathed such life with kisses in my lips

that I revived, and was an emperor.

He laughed, and stripped the rest of her nightdress away so that they could curl together, legs entwined and arms and mouths, belly to belly. His body was a map she could read in the dark: the tiny hooked scar under his left eye; the cleft in his chin; the puckered bullet wound on his shoulder and another low on his right chest; a raised ridge carved into the hard plane of thigh muscle, leading her curious fingers up and up.

He caught his breath and let it go again. Kisses soft and softer, until every pore was saturated and he came to her in a single heavy stroke: the deepest touch. His place inside of her, where no one else knew her; where she did not know herself.

Nathaniel hovered over her, joined completely yet completely still. She touched his face, wound around him and murmured, a question half asked.

He hushed her. "Wait," and then hoarsely, "listen."

And then she heard what he meant her to hear: his blood and her own, surging like the sea itself in an endless circle between them.

Margreit MacKay was uneasy in death, or perhaps she was just lonely; she came to Elizabeth again to pace the cabin. This time her arms were empty, and in her dream state Elizabeth began to search for the lost child in every corner.

Mrs. MacKay took no notice of her loss; all her attention was on Elizabeth. "Be wary o' the cold damp," she sang in her clear, deep contralto. "Be wary o' the mists. Be wary o' the nicht air. Be wary o' the roads, and the bridges and the burns. Be wary o' men, and women, and bairns. Be wary o' what ye can see." Her voice grew faint and fainter. "And what ye canna."

22

It was just after dawn and the rain had stopped when Elizabeth roused herself to see to the babies. Behind her, a clean summer light filtered into the cabin through the shutters: the last day they would spend on the Lass in Green.

She looked like a fairy, or one of the selkies that Nathaniel's mother had told stories about, with hair as deep and dark as sleep itself against the white skin of her shoulders. It floated in tangled curls to the small of her back, and he could barely contain the urge to put his hands in it, to wrap it around himself so that he could breathe in her smell. He wanted to sleep the day away like that with her head tucked under his chin. But in the next cabin Daniel babbled, and he would not be content for long.

She lifted her arms over her head and took up her hair to plait it, her elbows pointed to the ceiling.

"Let me," he said.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were the color of a sky set on rain. "You could sleep."

"Could I? Come then, let me do that for you."

In the soft early light her expression managed to be both severe and sleepy, but she held herself steady while he worked.

He finished and let the plait drop over her shoulder. "I kept you up too late."

"Don't be absurd," she said, her voice muffled as she pulled her nightdress over her head. Then she leaned over to kiss him, a quick stamp of her mouth with a wayward curl caught between them. "I did not need very much persuading. Or don't you recall?"

"Oh, I recall very well," he said solemnly. He reached out to trace a finger along her collarbone where the skin was still mottled. She blushed, new color flooding her chest and throat, and grabbed his hand to still it. "You take delight in embarrassing me."

"That I do," he said. And then, "Promise me you'll still blush like that when you're seventy."

She slipped out of bed before he could stop her. At the door she paused to smile at him over her shoulder.

"If you'll promise to give me reason, why then, sir, I'll promise to oblige you."

Charlie brought their breakfast with the puffin tucked under his arm like a tame chicken.

"Good morning from Mr. Brown to Hannah," he reported dutifully. "And would she be so kind as tae look after Sally, who doesna take kindly to the rushing about on deck."