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man, this man, picking her up out of the cold water and carrying her away.
    Obviously she’d been seeing things. The man had rescued her, but she was remembering him as an animal. Her mind was playing strange tricks on her. Or was it?
    “You saved me,” she whispered.
    “Yes, I did.”
    His voice was deep and melodic, penetrating. Just the few syllables from him made her eyelids flutter and dried out her throat. It was that Orcadian accent. There was something altogether sensual about a Scottish brogue colored with a Norse lilt. Frank had had the same melodic accent. Not that it mattered anymore. She swallowed, desperate for a drink, but all she could taste was seawater. The lingering bitter taste made her forget her need for a beverage.
    “You shouldn’t have bothered.” She turned away from the man, feeling as bruised as an overripe plum inside. She felt more pummeled than an entire truckload of plums that had been dumped onto the freeway.
    She heard him stand, pick up his chair, and drag it to the other side of her bed so he could look at her. He sat with his hands clenched together, elbows on his knees. His knuckles were white. Black eyes bore into hers. “You really want to die?”
    She didn’t answer his question, as defensive hackles rose on her back. “Who are you anyway?”
    “Machar Kirk. Call me Mack.”
    “Mack,” she whispered. It sounded like a trucker’s name, not the name of a mysterious savior. “I suppose, Mack , in a situation like this, I should thank you.”
    This time he didn’t answer her question. Instead, his gaze fell to her neck, and then he considered her face as if evaluating each angle. As if he didn’t quite know what to make of what he glimpsed there. “Why don’t you tell me who you are?”
    “Beth Pedersen.”
    “You’re not Orcadian, Beth Pedersen. Is that an American accent?”
    She nodded, tugging on the balled tufts of gray lint on the worn sheet covering her legs. “I’m from New Smyrna Beach, Florida.”
    He grinned, making those lines around his eyes dance for a second. His pink lips twitched in a half grin, and she couldn’t seem to move her gaze off them. “Sounds like a sunny place. What on earth possessed you to come to Orkney? Did you take the wrong turn at Disney World?”
    She didn’t crack a smile. In another life, she would have laughed out loud. Not in this life. She didn’t ever want to laugh again.
    *
    Mack stared at her red face, colored as it was by pique. He’d been pretty proud of his peedie joke, but she didn’t appear to be impressed. Suddenly, he realized he really needed Beth Pedersen to smile, even just a little. He also knew he might have to wait. He dragged his chair closer to her bed. “Beth, what brought you to the water? Were you trying to hurt yourself?”
    “Why do you care?”
    Did he care? Yes, even though he should be boarding a salvage vessel right now, heading off in search of treasure. He realized he cared about the despondent woman, even though he should be falling into Leda’s bed and fucking her until she cried, “Hallelujah, saints be praised!” Instead, he wanted to stay here and make sure Beth was okay, despite his need to figure out his life and his mate. And he wanted to know what led her to become bait for the most malicious finman in the sea.
    He tried another tack. “Is Luke your husband?”
    Her soft voice cracked with a bitter laugh. “No.”
    “Then you’re not married?”
    She looked right at him. A flitting shadow in her eyes seemed to be warning him away. “I’m married.”
    Well, bugger . His inner voice started to murmur something about all the interesting ones being taken, but he quashed the complaint. The dark, satanic peal of Big Ben crashed inside him. Bloody nonsense . “Would you like me to contact your husband then?”
    The strange laugh erupted near the back of her throat again. “You’d need a medium to contact Frank. He’s dead.”
    A wave of sympathy washed over Machar at the