Lois Greiman (15 page)

“Sometimes I almost believe…” She paused, her expression deadly serious. “If there weren’t this misunderstanding between us. If circumstances were different, you might prove to be a decent human being.”

He laughed. “Triton’s balls. I don’t know if I should thank you or behead you.”

“You should thank me,” she said with utmost sobriety. “It is not something I would say to many even though they are highly bred and gently born.”

Truly?
He almost said the word out loud, but he managed to refrain. Magical Megs, after all, was the very mistress of manipulation. But how was it that she knew of his self-doubts? And what of his leg injury? Only his closest advisors
were privy to the extent of the damage. Only Burr knew of the intermittent pain.

But of course. Elizabeth had told Wheaton, and Wheaton had in turn told Megs. The humiliation of that knowledge ground into him like salt into an open wound. Who was she to him? he wondered, but he did not ask again, for she would only deny knowing him, and he was so damned tempted to believe her, for she was beautiful and soft and everything a man would want in a woman. But he had learned a hard lesson with Elizabeth, and he was not fool enough to forget it easily.

“Take off your gown, Megs,” he ordered, and perhaps there was something in his tone this time, for he saw her tense.

“I will not,” she said, but there was fear in her eyes.

And that was good. She should fear him. She was his enemy, but her eyes were so large and her lips so seductive.

He kept his tone steady. Damn her eyes and her stupid, pouty lips. “Show me your wound.”

She didn’t move.

“Do as I say,” he ordered. “I don’t wish to hurt you.”

“Then let me go,” she whispered.

He shook his head and reached for her.

She leaned away. “You first!” she rasped.

He drew back. “What?”

“I will…bare my injury if you will do the same.”

“I told you, I don’t have—”

“Then neither do I.” She raised her chin, and in her eyes was such damnable pride that he wanted to weep. Why the hell was he drawn to these haughty women? These women who could tear him to shreds without batting an eye.

“You don’t have an injury?” He kept his tone carefully level. Surely he could manage to play her game.

“No more grievous than yours. But you are too cowardly to admit to the truth.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then, rising to his feet, he rucked up his plaid.

“What are you doing?”

He raised his brows at the panic in her voice. “I am baring all.”

“I just…I only asked to see the wound.”

“It’s on my thigh.”

“No. ’Twas your knee that was injured when thieves broke into the castle.”

Thieves! His knee! It was the story they had loosed to the public. So she had heard that version of the tale and not the truth?

Nay, they had not spilled the truth to Teleere’s populace for none needed to know how close he had come to impotency. Neither did they need to learn of Elizabeth’s betrayal. He had protected her reputation rabidly at the time of her death. No one needed to know she had taken her husband’s nemesis as a lover. No one needed to know that enemy had killed her. Cairn had failed to protect her in life, but he would do so in death. Or so he told himself. Yet in the back of his mind, doubt ate at him. Perhaps he only protected himself.

He pulled up his plaid along with the tunic beneath and Megs’s gaze followed its accent. Her gasp was soft when he bared the wound. It ached even now, more than ever, burning with hot humility. Aye, he had been stabbed, and yes, the cut hurt, but he had also been cheated, surprised, cuckolded.

And Magical Megs, queen of the damned, dared sound surprised at the sight of his humiliation when Wheaton had surely told her the truth of the tale.

He dropped his plaid back into place and stared at her.

“Now yours,” he said.

For a moment he thought she would refuse. For a moment he almost wished she would, for anger had replaced every
other emotion, and it felt good, safe. She was Wheaton’s. He knew it, and yet she lied. For him. Just as Elizabeth had.

He waited, then her hands moved, slowly reaching for the ties on her gown.

Her gaze never wavered from his. Her expression was unreadable as she watched him, and he saw, as the gown slipped lower, that her shoulders were perfect, and her breasts…They were phenomenal. Large and round and as bold as her temperament, they bulged outward as if begging for attention, and they were his, legally and otherwise. There was no reason he shouldn’t take her. Revenge, after all, was sweet. It was a documented fact.

But then she slipped the bodice lower and every thought came to a screaming halt. For while the wound was small and healing and did little to distract from her beauty, her hands, where they supported her gown, shook. They trembled. Like a child’s. Like an innocent’s.

A myriad of emotions quivered through him. Rage and lust and a dozen other feelings he dare not admit.

“Put it back on,” he ordered.

“What?” Her voice was breathy.

“Put your clothes on,” he said, and pivoted woodenly toward the door. It was strangely difficult to open his fist enough to turn the latch. He managed it with some effort, then turned back toward her.

She hadn’t moved. Her breasts were still partially bare, but in that instant she broke free from her trance and pulled the gown up.

“I am sending in a physician,” he said. “You will let him see to it?”

She nodded. He scowled. So it was just her laird who was not allowed to touch her. The thought scored his mind.

“But I shall accompany him.”

She said nothing, made no objection. He deepened his scowl.

“And be prepared, because afterward there will be a lesson.”

She tipped her chin up a notch, but the haughty attitude lacked something now, for he had seen her trembling hands. “A lesson?”

“Aye.” He clenched his jaw and turned the latch. “You will learn to defend yourself.”

“T
he physician,” Burr said. His tone held no inflection. His face remained unmoved. He stood with his gargantuan legs spread and his back to Gem’s bedchamber door. A scrape issued from inside the room, followed by a soft, muffled dispute.

Cairn scowled but continued on. “Yes,” he said.

From the far side of the door, voices could just be heard, rising in disharmony.

“You want the physician to see to the thief’s wounds,” repeated the Norseman.

Cairn ground his teeth and refused to reiterate his request. “Where is he now?”

Something solid struck the wall inside the bedchamber.

“He’s with the elderly lady, as ordered.”

“What has he learned?”

A feminine voice squealed from the far side of the door.

Burr shrugged as if he heard nothing. His shoulders were slightly hunched as if in battle, despite his careful nonchalance. “’Tis hard to say,” he admitted, his brows lowering the
slightest amount, perhaps in concession to the rising noise that issued from the adjacent room. “Since I have been playing nursemaid this whole morning.”

“Nursemaid?” Cairn said, then brightened at the thought. “For Gem?” he asked, and nodded toward the door.

Burr’s scowl only deepened.

Cairn grinned, just a little, letting his tension ease slightly. “Averse to bathing, is she?”

“I believe—” Burr began, but at that precise moment a shriek sounded clear as a bell through the nine-foot wall.

Cairn raised his brows. His day was improving. “Sounds like they could use your help, Burroun.”

“They’ll work it—” Burr began, but his platitude was interrupted by another shriek, a curse, and a bevy of screams.

Burr glanced behind him, hesitated an instant, then whipped the door open and strode into the storm. Cairn followed.

Inside the chamber, women were everywhere, gasping and swooning and shrieking, and in the center of the melee, was Gem. She was spread-eagle atop another maid, who was screaming like a banshee and thrashing like a trout.

Burr waded resolutely into the maelstrom. He grasped Gem by the back of her gown with a deep-throated growl and fished her out of the pile like a hooked mackerel. She came up swinging, limbs pistoning wildly. But he held her at arm’s length until she swung about and landed him a blow on the chest. His expression didn’t change a whit. Not a muscle twitched.

The second blow caught him in the groin.

He grunted softly and doubled slightly, and in that second Gem glanced up.

Her face went white, her arms quit swinging, and the room fell absolutely silent.

“Mr. Burr!” she rasped.

His glare was enough to sour cream. His lips twitched as he forced himself to straighten.

“What the devil’s going on here?”

She was still hanging from his fist by the scruff of her gown, but she lifted her chin and glared at Carolyn, who was scrambling ponderously to her feet.

“That old cow tried to steal me hair.”

Cairn glanced at Burr and back at Gem.

The room went silent again, then, “What the bloody devil are you talking about?” asked the Norseman.

“’Er!” Gem shrieked, and spat in the direction of the rapidly retreating maid. Carolyn did rather resemble a cow. Still, she had been Elizabeth’s favorite. But Elizabeth tended to surround herself with plump plain-faced maids. “She ’ad a scissors in ’er ’and, she did.” And indeed a scissors lay on the floor, alongside a hairbrush, three petticoats, and a bar of scented soap that had been cracked down the middle.

Burr glanced at the girl’s hair. It stood out from her head a good nine inches, like a wasp’s nest gone mad. “My laird gave orders to see you cleaned,” he rumbled.

“Aye, well…” She’d lost a bit of steam, but her hands were still formed to fists and her brows were down. “’E won’t be cuttin’ me hair.”

Cairn glanced happily at Burr and back.

“The lad orders,” said Burr. “I enforce.”

The girl swallowed visibly. Half the women were now hiding behind Burroun. The others were backed prudently against the walls.

Carolyn pointed a shaky finger at Gem. “She’s possessed with the devil. I’ll have nothing to do with her.”

“I ain’t possessed, you old witch!” shrieked Gem, and the room exploded back into chaos.

Burr stood in a sea of women, like a rat drowning in perfume, looking more tense by the second.

Cairn actually chuckled.

Burr glanced in his direction, saw his liege’s happy expression, and straightened his back with a scowl.

“Quiet!” he roared.

The chamber went absolutely silent to the count of five, then burst back into confusion.

“Get out!” His voice was quiet this time, but somehow the word carried above the din.

The women stopped in midsentence, their mouths still open.

“Get out,” he repeated. “All of you.”

Gem swiveled toward the door, but Burr kept his fist tight in the back of her gown, and Cairn took that opportunity to go about his business. In moments, the room was all but empty.

Only Burr and Gem remained. Burroun loosed his hold on the girl’s garments and settled her heels onto the floor with a scowl.

He glared at her. “You are a thief,” he said. “And a liar. Laird MacTavish could see you executed before nightfall if he so wished.” Staring into her eyes, he saw that he’d gained her attention. “But he has vowed to see you fed and clothed and hear you out before he decides your fate.”

The girl swallowed and blinked owlishly. “She ain’t ’avin’ me hair,” she whispered.

Burr ground his teeth. Right this minute he could be back on the high seas, storm tossed and starving. Ahh, the good old days.

“She doesn’t want your hair,” he assured her, skimming the mess atop her head. “But you’ll not be seeing the laird whilst looking like that.”

“I ain’t never asked to talk to his mightyship.”

“No. You simply broke into the castle and took the girl who’s caught his interest.”

Her eyes brightened slightly, but her face was still pale. “Megs?”

He shrugged. “Can you get that rat’s nest out of your hair yourself?”

“My ’air ain’t no rat’s nest.”

He glared. She swallowed.

“Aye. I can take care of it.”

“And get cleaned.”

She nodded, all starch gone from her demeanor.

He lowered his brows. “Try to escape, and I’ll feed you to the pigeons. Do you understand me?”

She dropped her eyes. “You was right, guvner,” she said softly. “Lord MacTavish ’as been decent to me, and I’ve repaid him poorly. I’ll do as ’e asks from here on in.”

He stared at her. She bobbed her gaze up and back down.

“You won’t try to escape?”

She shook her head. “No, guvner. You ’ave me word of honor.”

He stared at her for another moment, then said, “Good, because I’ll be watching you the whole time.”

Her eyes came up with a snap. “What’s that?”

“While you brush your hair, while you bathe, while you dress,” he growled. “I’ll be right here.”

“I gave you me word to stay put.”

“Aye, and I’ll help you keep it.”

She swore at him then. As cursing goes, it was fairly impressive, he thought, and he’d spent most of his life with sailors. He waited for her to finish.

She pursed her lips and glared into his downturned face. “I’ll not ’ave you gawkin’ at me in the altogether, you great leering oaf.”

Bending down, he retrieved a hairbrush from the floor and offered it to her.

“I won’t do it,” she repeated.

He took a step toward her. She backed away. “I know yer sort.”

“I doubt it.”

“Takin’ advantage of a young girl like me. Gettin’ ’er with child then—”

“Hah!”

She stopped in midsentence and narrowed her eyes. “You find somethin’ amusin’?”

“You are a child,” he said. “A scrawny, lying street urchin with diseases that haven’t been named yet.”

“I am not diseased.”

He didn’t reply.

“
You’re
diseased, you whoremonger.”

He stretched a smile across his teeth and considered drawing her across his knee. “Why don’t you quit your cursing so I won’t feel a need to paddle your behind?”

“Damn you, you—”

“These are the rules,” he growled. “You don’t try to escape. You don’t steal anything, you don’t strike anyone, and you don’t curse.”

She opened her mouth. He lifted a brow. She shut her mouth.

“Abide by those rules,” he added, “and you’ll be treated well and kept safe so long as you’re in my care.”

“Care! Hah! It’s rape you have on your mind, you lecherous old—”

“But break my rules—” he interrupted, “and you’ll miss a meal for every violation.”

“So it’s starvation you plan for me.”

“Your life’s your own to decide, lass.”

“And me life was perfectly fine until you came along.”

“Aye.” He looked her up and down. “I can see all was going well for you.”

“F—”

He pointed a warning finger at her.

She raised her chin, but backed off another step. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You can’t be as daft as all that.”

She glared.

“Now, lassie, are you going to get in that tub, or am I going to have to throw you in?”

“Try it, you—”

He cocked his head.

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “I’ll do it meself, but you’ll ’ave ta turn yer back.”

He sighed. “I wish I could.”

Propping her hands on her hips, she sharpened her glare. “And what are you meanin’ by that remark?”

He didn’t reply. He’d have to be a fool to let a scrap of decay like her get his dander up. But there were more than a few who had called him a fool.

“Are you sayin’ you don’t like the look of me?”

He didn’t respond.

“Are you sayin’ I don’t raise yer flag, old man?”

“Watch yer tongue, girl.”

She cocked her head, studying him as if he were a rare reptile. “Are you that ancient then?”

He wasn’t sensitive about his age, of course, but paddling her sounded better by the minute.

“If I’m wanting fleas, I can always bed down with the hounds,” he said.

“I don’t ’ave no fleas.”

“Maybe it’s the stench that keeps them at bay.”

For a moment he thought she would curse him again, but she closed her mouth, straightened her back, and reached for the ties on her gown. The garment slipped rapidly away from her shoulders. Even they were dirty. He shook his head and
strode across the room to lean against a nearby wall. When he turned back to her she was scowling. She was also naked to the waist. Her breasts were small and firm and high. Her ribs were prominent, and her gown hung askew about her narrow hips.

He yawned and rubbed his tired eyes. When next he glanced her way, she was stepping into the tub.

Her buttocks were tight and white and as round as twin buckwheat loaves.

And his erection ached.

Damn him. If only he were as old as she thought.