Lois Greiman (11 page)

She scowled. “As a lord—”

“I promise,” he said. “As a man.”

She bit her lip, glanced toward the door, and scowled. “Very well,” she said slowly. But that was it. She didn’t move. Didn’t touch him. Didn’t smile. In fact, she looked as stiff as a longboat’s oar and just about as eager.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m not planning to tie you to the mizzenmast and flay you,” he said. “You can relax.”

She swallowed. “What is a mizzenmast?”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, gently, then drew back with a hard effort.

“It’s the mast aft of the main mast,” he explained, and kissed her jaw.

“Oh,” she said, and tilted her head slightly. “What’s a mast.”

He kissed her throat. “How can you live on an island and know nothing of ships?” Letting his fingers skim her jaw line, he kissed her collarbone.

She sighed, but quietly, as if she didn’t want him to know. “I don’t live on an island. I live—”

He froze. Her eyes popped open.

“In London,” she said.

“With Winston.”

“William,” she corrected. “And he is deceased.”

“And you never
knew
him.”

“No. I did not.”

“Did you see him naked?”

“What?”

He smiled at the shock in her voice. He was certain she wasn’t a virgin, but he would never again doubt her acting ability. “Surely he must have removed his clothes from time to time.”

“Yes. Of course. He…” She swallowed. “Disrobed.”

“Then you won’t be shocked by the sight of me.”

By the look in her eyes, he would guess that might be a false assumption.

“Will you?” he asked, and brushed aside her hair to kiss her neck.

“He was not—” She was breathing hard again. It was, perhaps, the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, like the soft lap of waves against a swift vessel’s prow. “He wasn’t like you.”

He drew back and raised his brows. “The bull must have done a hell of a job.”

“I did not mean—” She inhaled slightly and pursed her lips. “You are making light of this.”

“Am I?”

“His injuries were quite serious.”

“Were they?” he asked and stroked her neck.

“Yes. He almost died.”

“Did you nurse him back to health?”

“I did in…” She paused as he kissed her hairline.

“Was he naked?”

“You keep coming back to that.”

He smiled. “I don’t want you breaking down the door in your rush for freedom if I unbutton my shirt.”

She swallowed. “Are you going to?”

“I was hoping you would do it for me.”

“Me?”

“Aye,” he said, and, sliding his hand down her arm, lifted her fingers in his own. Bearing them to his lips, he kissed them gently. “After all, you nursed your husband back to health. Surely it will not be a shock—”

“I told you. He was not like you.”

“He did have a chest, didn’t he?” Cairn asked, and set her hand against the front of his shirt.

She licked her lips. “Of course he had a chest.”

He shrugged. Her fingers shifted slightly over the play of his muscles. Her eyes widened.

“Then how were we different?”

Her hand remained exactly as it was, pressed lightly over top of his right nipple.

“You could take a look if it would better help you remember.”

For a moment he wondered if she really would flee for the door, but instead she drew a deep breath and lifted her other hand.

His shirt sighed open with breathtaking slowness.

“Well?” he asked.

She cleared her throat and raised her gaze to his. “He was not so…” She paused as if revising her original thought. “Sun-browned as you.”

“He probably didn’t spend a lot of time topside.”

“Topside? No.” She glanced at his chest again and licked her lips. “He was a—” Cairn moved a fraction of an inch closer. “Tailor.”

“You told me that.”

“And very good at his appointed task.”

“Appointed task.” He liked the way she used her words. Execrable. It was now one of his favorite words. And it had been given to him by Magical Megs. But just now she didn’t seem like Teleere’s most infamous thief, but rather like some fine lady just dropped into his lap, like a delectable bit of ripe fruit.

“Yes.” Perhaps she was insulted, because she stiffened slightly and drew her hand away. He was immediately sorry he had spoken because he missed the feel of her hands against his chest.

“So Wallace was a good tailor.”

She pursed her lips. “William. And yes, he was.”

He wondered vaguely if it seemed strange to her that she was sitting buck naked telling stories about her fictional dead husband.

“So he could have made…” He paused and slipped out of his tunic. “This shirt?”

Her mouth dropped open. Her gaze was glued to his chest.

“Megs?”

She jerked her eyes upward. “Yes. Yes. He could make it. Could have made it. Could—”

“And the trousers?”

For a moment he thought she might leap right off the bed. But she calmed herself with an effort and raised her chin even more.

“Yes, he could have made those, too, and you needn’t remove them for me to be certain,” she added quickly.

“But it would make getting to
know
you simpler.”

“I…I think you know me well enough.”

He laughed. “You play the innocent maid very well, Megs,” he said, and reached for his belt.

She licked her lips and glanced toward the door.

“What of our deal?” he asked.

She shifted her eyes back to his. There was panic there, but it was not real, he reminded himself. Still, she was an incredible actress. The stage was sorely lacking.

“I do not trust you,” she said.

“You don’t think you’ll enjoy it?”

“I do not think you will let me go when I do not.”

He smiled again. “Then call it quits, Megs. You’re welcome to stay here indefinitely.”

“Or until you execute me.”

“Or that of course.”

She stiffened. “I guess I have little choice.”

“You’re hard on a man’s ego,” he said, and setting his hands to his trousers, removed them with ease, barely noticing the wound that haunted him. Hoary sprang to attention.

Candlelight flickered in her eyes, which she refused to lower. But he could no longer read her emotions. If indeed, she had any.

He took a step toward the bed. She scrunched back even farther as he eased onto the mattress.

“Really, Megs, some women find me somewhat preferable to death.”

He watched her swallow. Again, he couldn’t read her mood. He only hoped it wasn’t disdain. He’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

“In fact,” he added, “there are a few who might envy your position.”

“Truly?” There might be tension in her body, but her voice was a cool as river water. “Any you could contact immediately?”

He laughed again. She was good at insults. If you were careful, you might miss that completely. You had to like that in a murderous thief.

“Lie back, lass,” he ordered. “Relax.”

She remained exactly as she was. Scrunched into a ball the size of a pillow. “Which do you want?” she asked.

He raised a brow.

“I can lie back or I can relax. Both would be quite impossible.”

“I am starting to believe there is nothing impossible for the Magical Megs. Lie back.”

He thought she would refuse, but she finally did as told, scooting stiffly downward, so that she lay stretched out before him. Still, her arms managed to cover a surprising portion of her more interesting parts. But then they were pretty much all interesting.

Her legs were ridiculously long for such a small frame. Her hips were narrow, her belly nonexistent, and her breasts…

They were stunning, full and heavy with pale mocha skin topped with checkerberry nipples.

Impatience stroked him like a playful whip. Hoary whimpered. But he’d made a deal, and he would stick with it.

True, he was certain she would not do the same. He was certain she would swear she felt nothing and leave him forever. But he would know the truth, and that would be enough.

So he stroked her gently. She shivered beneath his fingertips. His own body reciprocated, seeming to absorb the rush. But still he wouldn’t hurry. It had been a long while for him. But when she returned to Wheaton, she would return knowing he could move her. And eventually Wheaton would know the same. So he caressed her until her tension eased. He
kissed her arms, her waist, the delicate indentation of her navel. And finally, when he thought he could bear no more, her tension returned, but it was a different sort of tension now. Impatient, writhing.

“Megs.”

She moaned, and he slid his hand between her thighs. They parted like magic, baring the sweet fruit of his labor. She was sleek and wet. Did she get so wet for Wheaton? The question tormented him, but he shoved it back. Concentrating on her alone, he eased down beside her, stretching full length along the hot iron of her body.

“Are you ready, lass?” he asked.

She was breathing hard, and for a moment she lay absolutely still, but finally she nodded, and there was something about that movement, something about the width of her eyes, the tempting stillness of her body, something that made him pause. Could it be that she was telling the truth? Could it be that in all her years on the street she had protected her innocence? He scowled at the thought.

“Maybe,” he said, holding her gaze. “It could be that there will be a little pain—” He was a fool to believe her an innocent. An absolute fool. “At first. But it’ll pass in a moment. Don’t be afraid.”

She said nothing, but shivered once before closing her eyes and kissing him.

Heat scorched him, but he drew back, trying to think. Could she have told the truth? He skimmed his palm down her belly. She drew air softly between her lips. Her eyes remained closed, her lashes dark shadows against her satiny cheeks as she turned her head and arched against his hand.

And that was all it took. He could wait no longer. Damn Wheaton to hell, he thought and, easing between her legs, reared up.

He was there, a moment from utopia. Her body was warm and slick. Hoary salivated. Cairn pulled back, ready for the first thrust.

And lightning exploded in his skull. He didn’t have a chance to turn or flee or defend himself.

In fact, the last thought he had before blackness took him was that he should have hurried.

T
atiana moaned and writhed. She was burning, boiling, cooking slowly from within. Damn Sedonia and virginity and her mother’s cool admonishments. She would do this. She would take him inside of her, would quench the fire, would seize this moment of passion and remember it forever.

MacTavish reared over her. She held her breath, but suddenly there was a thud and a gasp. Jerking her eyes open, she watched him topple limply onto the mattress.

She stared in bewilderment, but a shuffle of noise caught her attention. She glanced upward. It was then that she tried to scream. In fact, she opened her mouth to do just that, but nothing issued from her but a breathy rasp of shock.

“Megs!” whispered a girl. Her voice was frantic, her hair was snarled, and in her hand she held Dimitri. “You all right?”

Tatiana scooted back against the wooden headboard, all but kicking MacTavish aside as she did so, her mind spinning wildly. “Who—Why are you here?”

The girl scowled. Candlelight flickered across her mobile
features. Her gaze skittered sideways and back. “I comes ta bust you out.”

“Bust…” Tatiana began, but the rest of the words got caught in her throat. She was naked, bewildered, and shocky.

The girl leaned closer, motioning wildly. There was dirt beneath every nail. Even in the wavering candlelight, Tatiana could see it. She leaned away.

“Come on,” she rasped. “We ain’t got all night.”

Facts were clicking along slowly in Tatiana’s mind. She was a prisoner. This girl thought she was Megs, and she was offering her a means of escape. Of course she might very well be killed if she accepted it.

Her heart clanged like a smithy’s hammer against her ribs. She stalled for time, trying to think.

“How did you get in here?”

“Through the window of course. Weren’t no great feat. They ain’t watchin’ now. Not with ’is ’ighness in ’ere with you,” she hissed, and scowled. “Funny, a great laird don’t fall any ’arder than no other man.”

Tatiana glanced breathlessly at MacTavish. “Is he…dead?”

“Dead?” She shrugged, but her face looked pale beneath the coat of grime. She glanced rapidly toward the window, as if longing to be off. “Don’t think so. But ’e’s gonna ’ave one ’ell of a ’eadache when ’e wakes up. And that ain’t goin’ to improve ’is mood. We’d best be off.”

Tatiana stared at MacTavish. His buttocks glowed in the candlelight. His right wrist lay across the toes of her left foot and his fingers were twitching.

“Mary and Joseph!” the girl gasped, and grabbed Tatiana by the upper arm. “Come on, we’s out of time.”

She was dragged from the bed.

“Clothes! I need—” she began, but the girl was already throwing an unidentified garment at her. She slipped it over
her head, but even that simple task was difficult, for her hands were shaking like maple leaves in a hurricane.

“All right then. Out you go,” hissed the girl.

“Out—”

“Careful of the first step. She’s a right bitch, but there’s a small ledge off to your left,” she whispered, and veered toward the bed again.

Tatiana could only stare. “Who are you?”

The girl turned abruptly toward her. The candlelight cast her sharp features in stark relief, the bright eyes, the peaked chin, the frown wrinkling her brow.

“What’d ’e do, Megs, knock you senseless? I’m Gem, you knows that.”

Tatiana stared and the girl glanced at MacTavish before snuffing the flames off the candelabra with her grimy fingers. The room burst into blackness. “Blast them pretty lads. You can’t trust ’em be they king or clown? But you’ll be right as rain soon nuf, Megs. We just got to get you ’ome.”

“’Ome?”

The girl grasped Tatiana’s arm, propelling her toward the window. “Aunt Ned’s”

“Aunt—”

“Shh.” Gem’s fingers tightened like talons on Tatiana’s upper arm. Outside the door, footsteps rapped up, then passed by. The girl’s relief was palpable. “Go,” she hissed.

And Tatiana went, because she could think of nothing else to do, because she had been threatened and bullied. Because the lord of Teleere was lying unconscious and possibly dead on the mattress they had shared only minutes before.

She glanced over the windowsill. Thirty feet below her, candlelight flickered from the bailey. Her heart got stuck in her throat, making it difficult to breathe, impossible to move.

“’Urry up.”

She tried to say she couldn’t. That she was frozen, but
Gem gave her back a shove. She stumbled forward and wobbled one foot onto the windowsill. Somebody moaned. Possibly it was herself, but maybe the noise came from the bed.

“Bloody ’ell,” Gem rasped. “Go!”

Another moan echoed in the chamber, but it was most certainly MacTavish this time. She dangled her leg over the sill, dragged the other beside it, and gazed into eternity.

“Turn around! Climb down! Shit, Megs, ’e’s wakin’ up.”

She would have sworn she didn’t have the nerve to move, but suddenly she
was
moving, shimmying downward with her knees quaking and her arms stiff with fear. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. In the darkness, her toes searched for a hold. Her fingers clawed at the stone.

“’Urry up. ’Urry up!”

And she did. She swore she did, but suddenly Gem was all but atop her, clambering down behind like a monkey on a rope, stepping on her fingers, kicking her in the head. If it hurt, she didn’t realize it, for she was certain she was about to die, about to crash to the earth a mile below and break up like a clay doll on a rocky shore.

“Let’s go!”

Tatiana glanced sideways, and suddenly Gem was there, grasping her arm, dragging her along. And she realized in some dim part of her consciousness that she had reached the ground, that she had not died. Gem yanked her down behind some unseen obstacle. The smell of hay filled her nostrils. She fell to her knees.

Off to their left, a man laughed.

“So Lord MacTavish is busy this night.”

“Aye.” A pair of footsteps rapped past. Lanternlight swung in their wake. “Aye, he is that. Busy with the thieving little trollop what stole his mother’s brooch. Like they say, you don’t take from the pirate lord without paying pretty.”

“And she is.”

“Pretty or paying?”

“Both,” said the first man.

They laughed in concert. Tatiana felt sick to her stomach, but there was no time to retch, for Gem was already pulling her into the darkness.

And then things got worse. They slunk through holes no bigger than a rat’s chamber and splashed like hunted deer into a millpond, hiding in the fermenting shadows until a guard passed by.

They crawled out like drowned ferrets and scrambled away, down back alleys that smelled of vermin and a dozen things she dared not think about, over fences, past growling dogs, and through a back door that listed badly and squeaked like coffin hinges as it was carefully pushed closed.

“’Ere we are then,” said Gem, and sighed deeply as if she had settled onto a velvet chaise after a long day of lawn bowling. The air smelled of rancid urine and spoiled wine.

Tatiana turned carefully. Utter darkness was combated by a single flame above a smoky, tallow candle. But even that feeble bit of light showed too much. Perhaps the building had once been a decent house, but now it was rubble. The smell of decay filled the stagnant air, and somewhere in a far corner, she heard the scurrying sound of rats.

“Where are we?” she breathed, and Gem chuckled.

“We’re ’ere, ’ome sweet ’ome.”

Tatiana’s stomach churned, and in that instant someone grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. She squeaked in fear and tried to jerk away, but knuckles were up tight against the back of her skull, and against her throat she felt the hard edge of a blade.

“’Oo’s this then?” a man rasped. His breath was fetid against her ear.

“Cott.” Gem’s voice was low, and despite everything, Tatiana could hear the fear in it. Her own stomach twisted. “What are you doing ’ere?”

“I come to collect what’s due me.”

“I…Listen. About the coin. I don’t ’ave it just now,” Gem said.

“Don’t you?” The knife eased along Tatiana’s throat, drawing forth a whimper. “That’s unfortunate, Gemmy. How ’bout your friend ’ere? She got anything?”

“Let her go, Cott.” Gem’s voice actually wavered. “She ain’t got nothin’ to do with this.”

“Don’t she?” he asked. “Then I might as well slit ’er throat and be done with.”

He moved his hand.

“No!”

Cott froze.

“She’s Megs.”

“What’s that, Gemmy?”

“She’s Magical Megs.”

“You’re lyin’,” he said, but his hand had moved back a bit. Tatiana squeezed her eyes closed and tried to breathe, to remain alive, one second at a time.

“Ain’t you never seen ’er afore?” Gem’s tone was only slightly derisive.

“Maybe I ’as and maybe I ’asn’t. But I knows this much, if she’s Megs, she’ll ’ave something on her to brighten old Cott’s day huh?” he said, and suddenly the knife was removed and she was propelled across the floor, flung forward to crash into the far wall and nearly drop to her knees. She turned there, terror closing her throat as effectively as the knife had.

“What do you say, girlie?” he asked, and approached, stalking her like a fetid cat, the knife still in his hand. “You Megs?”

Past his shoulder, Tatiana could see Gem nodding. Fear. Her eyes were bright with it. What would make a girl like Gem afraid? A girl who could storm Westheath Castle and defy all?

Tatiana straightened slightly, finding a sliver of resolve amidst the terror and fatigue. “Yes,” she said, and felt her heart tattoo in her throat, “I’m Megs.”

The man stopped in his tracks, and then the corner of his parched lips lifted. He was missing a tooth, his arms were bare beneath a tattered tunic and high on his stringy right biceps, a tattoo shown blue in the candlelight. His hair was as white as combed wool. “Then there ain’t no reason you can’t pay yer friend’s debt, is there?”

Tatiana felt the wall behind her, hoping for some sort of weapon, but there was nothing. Nothing to protect her. No guards. No title. Not even a fertility god.

She swallowed hard and stiffened her knees. “That depends.” Instinct made her stall, though she had no idea how it might help her.

“Depends does it?”

“Yes.” Her legs were bare from midthigh down, and her knees were quaking. So she maintained eye contact and prayed that he would not realize her fear. For she knew without a doubt that he fed on terror. “It depends on how much she owes you.”

The villain chuckled. The sound permeated the room like a noxious gas. “She owes me ’er soul, little Megs. You think you can pay for that?”

She shrugged, but even with that simple motion she felt her hands shake, so she crossed her arms against her chest and stared him down. “I can’t say for certain,” she said. “What are souls worth these days?”

Cott threw back his head and howled at the roof, and it was in that moment that she saw the edge of a wound rising
just past the top of his tunic. When he lowered his head to grin at her, it disappeared from sight.

Outside, someone yelled. Footfalls clattered along a hard-packed surface. Cott shifted his bloodshot gaze toward the door and back.

“Listen, it’s been fun chattin’ with you girls, but I’ve got to be off. What you got to give me?”

“You?” Tatiana asked. Could it have been a night watch that she’d heard outside? “I’ve got nothing for you.”

He turned back toward her and drew his lips back like a rabid dog when he smiled. “I don’t think I much care for your friend, Gemmy.”

“She’s ’ad a ’ard time of it lately, Cott. That’s all.”

His eyes never left Tatiana’s. “Yeah?”

“She’s been in Pikeshead.”

He chuckled. “I go to Pikeshead when I need to relax,” he said, and approached her slowly, eyeing her blatantly as he did. “Or when I need a bit of new meat.”

It seemed as if her heart dropped out of her chest, as if the floor had fallen from under her feet, but she kept her chin up, kept from whimpering, kept from passing out. Instead, she dropped her hands to her sides and sidled to the left. There was a rotting mattress on the floor, and near its end, a stick leaned against the wall. Perhaps it had once served as a staff, but whatever its original purpose, she saw his wound in her mind’s eye now. She couldn’t best him in strength. She couldn’t outrun him. And if he got close enough to use the knife, she was dead. She knew it beyond a whisper of a doubt. But a plan had begun to form.

“Is that what you do, Cott?” she asked. “Prey on children half your size?”

He shook his head as he veered to follow her. “No. I prey on women, and I don’t care what size they be. Tall, fat.” He shrugged. She dropped her gaze to his chest. But she
couldn’t see the wound. Still, it was there. “Saucy like you.”

“Really?” The word sounded breathless. Her head felt light. But the stick was behind her now. Within reach. She was sure of it. Almost. “Then it’s true—what I always heard about you.”

“Yeah?” he said. “What’d you hear? That I ’as a dick like a cart ’orse?” he asked, and laughed.

“No.” She smiled herself and prayed she wouldn’t faint. “That you’re a coward.”

The room went absolutely still.

“Gemmy.” His voice was soft, breathy. “I’m afeared I’m gonna ’ave to kill yer friend,” he said, and in that instant he charged.