Page 1 of The Merman's Betrothal
Chapter One
Deep beneath the black and rolling waves of the Minch, Prince Fionn patrolled the territory of his kinsmen. He swam deftly in darkness, guided by the flow of current and the tidal pull of the moon.
His blue skin blended well with the underwater murk, natural camouflage from predators. Swirling tattoos over his right shoulder and left hip enhanced the illusion of invisibility. If Fionn were to be hunted, it was his fine silver hair that would give him away: a mark of his royal blood.
For this patrol, the prince had tied his hair into a braid and masked its colour in the traditional way the warriors used, by weaving in strands of seaweed and shells like Iomhar had taught him.It would do to be cautious,the old Minchman had advised him. There were greater dangers than sharks in these waters.
Fionn spotted a line hanging from the surface and kicked off toward it. It was a rope extending to the seabed. Fionn glanced up first, checking for the shadow of a boat. There was none. He made out the shape of a lonely orange buoy bobbing on the waves above.
The rope from the buoy led to a string of small, domed cages settled on the seabed. Five of them were spaced out along the line.
Fionn’s lip curled as he inspected the traps. They were loathsome objects: left by trespassers. He found three lobsterscaught in the cages and a handful of spider crabs, all clawing uselessly at the the mesh that confined them. They would be waiting here for hours until the human who set the trap returned to haul them from the water.
Today, that human would return disappointed.
Fionn felt along the belt he wore across his torso, slung from shoulder to hip. Like the kilt that preserved his modesty, the belt was made from tightly woven kelp. Fionn unstrung the clam knife attached to it and then carefully sawed at the mesh on the occupied traps.
The crustaceans scuttled slowly to freedom. Fionn put away his knife with satisfaction.
He cast a final glance to the orange buoy on the surface, then whipped away into the current.
* * *
One mile from the same orange buoy, Rory Douglas was struggling to keep his fishing boat afloat.
Not because there was anything wrong with the boat. And not because the sea was rough. In fact, it was an uncharacteristically calm day on the Minch, the strait that separated the Scottish mainland from the islands of the Outer Hebrides.
No, the reason Rory was struggling not to purposefully capsize his own vessel was because of the company he was suffering aboard it.
Presently, as Rory angled theWandering Startoward the next orange buoy, his companion, Ol’ Doaty, was shouting in his ear between taking swigs from a can of stout.
‘You kids t’day dun know yers alive,’ was the current train of slurred condemnation. ‘All soft. Dunno what a real day’s work is. Look at yer!’
He made a shaky gesture with his hand that loosely pointed to Rory’s appearance, from the scruffy dark hair poking out under his hood to the work-worn patches on the toes of his boots. But Rory knew it wasn’t his scruffiness that Doaty took offense to. More the fact that Rory was still somewhat young and fresh-faced, despite the weariness in his eyes.
By comparison, Ol’ Doaty was a broad, grey-faced man with a straggly beard he never combed. His pocked skin was a scar of some childhood infection overlaid with decades of battering weather, and he had a habit of letting spittle fly when he talked—or yelled, as he seemed incapable of speaking at a reasonable volume. He was a vastly experienced, seasoned fisherman. The trouble was, in Rory’s opinion, the seasoning stank.
‘How many hours y’worked this week boy, eh? Eh?’
Rory grit his teeth. ‘Forty.’
‘Pah!’ White specks of saliva peppered Ol’ Doaty’s beard. ‘Forty. S’barely part-time. Seventy! Tha’s how many me and yer pa put in, every day! Hard workers, us.’
‘Seventy hours a day?’ Rory repeated flatly. ‘You’re right, I couldn’t do that.’
The sarcasm must have cut through Ol’ Doaty’s alcohol haze because he responded with a hard smack to the back of Rory’s head.
‘Jesus, Doaty! I’m on the wheel.’ Rory fought to steady theStar. She rocked briefly, but wasn’t in any real danger. He knew Doaty wouldn’t give a shit, anyway.
‘Fuckin’ kids,’ Ol’ Doaty grumbled. He rattled his beer can and, finding it empty, spat into it. ‘The cheek on you. I oughta tell yer pa.’
Rory huffed through his nose. This would be good. ‘Tell him what?’
‘That yer a useless prick, Rory. The likes o’ you ain’t fit to run his business, whatever he thinks.’
‘Is that right? Too bad I’ve been doing it so long, then.’
‘Aye, rightest thing I know. Yer lazy, too. S’like you dun even want t’be on the water. Always rushin’ home. Taking weekends. Pah! Pathetic. No wonder yer failin’.’
