Fear the Drowning Deep(24)

“I hope you’ll keep trying, though.” Without thinking, I’d leaned closer to him. “Before you showed up, a girl drowned. And now two girls from town have gone missing. The littlest detail might help us catch the culprit before it’s me or one of my sisters that goes over the cliffs and never comes home.”

“I’ll try to remember,” he said softly. “It’s the least I can do.” He shivered suddenly from head to toe, but kept talking through his discomfort. “For my brave rescuer.”

“Thank you.” Blushing furiously, I unscrewed the jar of salve. “I should see to your bandages now, or we’ll be at this all night.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

I started removing his old bandages. Little by little, his wounds were revealed, the flesh around them deathly white from the combination of salve and wrappings. I peeled away the layer just below his waist and hesitated. Should I unfasten his pants to reach the last portion of the wrappings, or slide my hand down his stomach and remove them by feel? If I touched him below the waist, my face would glow brighter than the coals in the hearth.

I rested my hand on the sofa and cleared my throat. “Do you mind if I—?”

His hand suddenly covered mine. The contact made my skin tingle, but not in the way it had when I’d touched his wounds on the beach. This reminded me of the sensation that came with holding Lugh’s hand lately.

Lugh, who hadn’t come to see me since I’d abandoned him at the market yesterday. We hardly ever went this long without talking.

“I’ll get the rest of these,” Fynn murmured, drawing my gaze. I gave him a smile of thanks and was surprised by the reddish tint to his face. I lowered my eyes, pretending to study the salve until the last of the bandages dropped to the floor.

“You can look now.” Fynn’s trousers were buttoned, and he’d crossed his arms behind his head. “Let’s have the foul stuff, then.”

I arched a brow. “You mean Mally’s homemade salve? The balm she spent hours making for you?”

Fynn’s eyes shifted guiltily. “Yes, that.”

“I understand you tried to eat some of it earlier.”

“Won’t make that mistake again,” he muttered.

“But surely you know what balm is? With or without your memories?”

He didn’t answer. He was probably exhausted. With a gentle touch, I smeared salve around his wounds. Mally had used the same mixture on my cuts and scrapes, and time never dulled the memory of its distinct burn.

Fynn sucked in a breath. “That feels about as good as gnawing off my own arm.”

“I know.” I paused with my fingers in the jar. Perhaps getting him to talk would distract from the sting. “Have you given any more thought to who you are? Where you’re from, or your profession?” I considered what little I knew of him. “Maybe you were the captain of a ship, caught unaware by a storm that drowned your crew and destroyed your vessel.”

Fynn managed a smile. “Do I look old enough to be a captain?” I shook my head. With the slight shadow on his jaw, he looked a few years older than me at most. “But maybe I worked on boats around the island.”

I dipped my fingers in the salve jar again. “I don’t think you’re a native.”

His smile broadened. “Prove it.”

“Fine. If you live anywhere on the Isle, you’ll be able to tell me this: what’s the Manx symbol?”

Fynn barely thought for a moment before shrugging. “No idea. You’ve made your point.”

“It’s the Triskelion. It stands for life, death, and rebirth.” I traced the symbol’s three points in the air. “Hmm.” I thought harder and drummed my sticky fingers against the sofa. “Your accent might give me a hint. Say something.”

“I’m tired of being on this sofa, and I’d like to go for a walk on the beach.” His voice was clear but his words were plain, devoid of the Isle’s lilting brogue. I detected no trace of a Scottish burr or the crisp accent of the English.

“You’re definitely an American,” I declared, unable to suppress a giggle as I offered him my less sticky hand. “And the first one I’ve met. Tell me, what’s it like there? Is there truly land available for anyone who wants a piece?”

He flashed a broad grin as he shook my hand. “That’s right, I’m from America. You’ve solved the mystery. I have a bottomless bank account and fifty servants.”

“Fifty!” I laughed as Fynn nodded emphatically.

Still, I didn’t like the sound of his labored breathing. I quickly applied the salve to the last of his cuts, sneaking scandalous peeks at him as I worked. His tanned skin suggested he’d spent time in the sun, and his powerful arms could have rigged sails or wrangled cattle anywhere. When he remembered where he belonged, perhaps I could visit him there. That is, if he didn’t mind the imposition from a near stranger.

“What about you?” Fynn asked, disrupting the stillness. “There’s not much more to say about myself yet, unless you’ve already devised another life for me outside America.” His smile reappeared.

“There’s not much to tell.” Picking up the clean bandages, I started binding his wounds.

“That can’t be true.” Fynn waved a hand at the hearth. “Grayse told me you chopped all that firewood. Is that how you earn a living?”