Twenty-One

 

Penelope's disapproval weighted heavily on Margareta. Penelope simply didn't understand the risks inherent in what Margareta was. If she touched the man, she could harm him.

"You danced with him just fine at the Harvest Ball," Penelope said. "Touched his hand and everything, so don't tell me there wasn't skin contact. And if he really is the boy you knew all those years ago, you definitely didn't hurt him then."

Margareta shook her head. Penelope could never understand. She was human, and –

"So are you!" Penelope exploded. "As human as I am! All right, you swim more often than most, but what's a little magic, when it's in your blood? There is no law that says you're not allowed to love, or touch people or...do any of the things normal people do! How many people have you killed?"

Margareta knew as well as Penelope did that the answer was none.

"You've saved one man's life, and killed no one. That makes you pretty safe to be around, in my opinion. Why don't you just let things happen the way they should, and worry about the consequences later?" Penelope asked.

If one of the consequences was Erik's death, Margareta didn't want to just let things happen. She wanted to protect him, not kill him.

"Well, he wants to protect you almost as much as he wants to kiss you, so that's a good start," Penelope said.

Kiss her? He wanted more than that. He wanted what every man wanted, Margareta was certain.

"Perhaps," Penelope said, "but that's not what he keeps thinking about. Not even what he dreams about. The only thing I've seen in his thoughts is visions of him kissing you. His eyes are fixed on your face. Except for the moment he first saw you, when he looked at your whole body, his focus is your eyes. Apparently, that's how you'll tell him whether his kiss is as perfect as he plans it to be."

A perfect kiss? Was there such a thing? The very idea intrigued Margareta. What would it be like to press her lips against Erik's and...

NO!

Margareta forced the thought from her mind. A kiss could lead to more and it was immodest to have such desires. If her father knew, he would only say it was her siren nature coming to the fore. No human girl would have such desires.

"Your father is a prude. Most girls dream about their first kiss, the same way he does about you. You could do worse, you know," Penelope said.

Of course she could. She could kill him.

"Just as long as you get the kind of kiss other girls only dream about first," Penelope said. "He'd die happy, you know. He's afraid of you, and that's one of the things he tells himself to bolster his courage. That if he died after kissing you, he would die happy."

No he wouldn't, Margareta thought angrily. He would die screaming, because sirens enjoyed the pain of their victims. She would –

"Now I'll go see that some breakfast is sent up, and leave you two alone," Penelope said, striding out of the library as Erik entered it. "And if she doesn't let you kiss her before I return, I'll see that the whole island knows she's an ill-mannered sea-cow!" she threw over her shoulder before vanishing from sight.

Margareta's face grew beet red.

Erik took pity on her embarrassment. "My apologies, my lady. Despite our history together, we have not been properly introduced. Allow me to correct this terrible oversight. I am Prince Erik, and I am honoured to meet you, Lady Margareta. Never have I met such a fair lady, who is also a graceful dancer and a learned scholar. I am quite entranced." He held out his hand.

A hand Margareta knew she should cover with her own. Custom demanded it. So did Penelope, who would know if she did not. She'd touched him before, as both a human and a siren, and he was still alive. If she could control herself for a few brief seconds, he would live to see tomorrow, too.

Margareta stretched out her arm, biting her lip as she saw her fingers shaking. If only she didn't have to touch him. She didn't want to hurt him. She wanted...

Erik captured her trembling fingers and brought them to his lips. Warm and soft, his lips made her fingers tingle as he kissed each one. Her mind screamed at her to pull away, but Margareta could not. Her own lips parted as she stared at him, eager to know what he would do next.

"Lady Penelope was right to berate me for being so unkempt. I was so caught up in my research, I forgot myself. Now, perhaps, I am in a fit state to greet you as I should have on the day we met. If I meet with your approval, then perhaps..." Erik swallowed, then lifted her hand to his now smooth cheek. "If my lady would permit, I would like to offer you a kiss of peace."

As her father's vassals offered to him, Margareta knew, and the captains who sought his favour. It was a religious thing, a chaste thing, a ceremony of power. It shouldn't send her heart racing like hers did now.

And yet...to refuse would be churlish. He honoured her, for such gestures were for leaders like her father. Not his youngest daughter.

Shakily, Margareta gave a nod.

Erik lifted his hands to touch her shoulders.

A fountain of butterflies erupted in her belly. This was dangerous, she shouldn't...

Margareta brought her other hand to his cheek so that she could cup his face. She took a deep, steadying breath, then stretched up to lay her lips against his.

For one brief moment, their kiss was a chaste thing. Then Margareta forgot everything but the feel of Erik against her, the taste of his mouth and the hardness of him between her thighs as he pulled her closer, closer, still kissing her as if she was the very air he needed to breathe. She needed more than air from him, more than the deep, gasping breaths she drew in as she tugged at his tunic, sliding her hands inside to feel soft skin over firm muscles, stroking every bit of him she could reach until she wrapped her fingers around the hardest part between them and –

Her eyes on fire with desire, Margareta met Erik's gaze. God, he wanted her as much as she wanted him. She wanted, oh how much she wanted...

"Oh God, Margareta, I love you," he groaned.

Love? What she would do to him wasn't love. Hers wasn't a kiss of peace. It was a kiss of death.

Margareta tore herself away from him and ran.