Lois Greiman (16 page)

T
atiana sighed in her sleep. She was warm and comfortable and someone was stroking her hair, easing it along the length of her arm. It felt quite lovely, though even in the depths of her dreams, she realized that none was allowed to touch her. The duchess’s daughter was far above such mundane activity as physical contact.

“You’re different. I’ll give you that.”

She opened her eyes with a gasp and a start.

MacTavish was sitting on the slipper-shaped couch beside her. Candlelight gleamed in his honey wheat hair. His chest was bare, his stomach flat, his hip only inches from her thigh. She stiffened but refused to scoot away.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He smiled at her. She’d raised her head to stare at him, but her hair remained draped across the ivory-toned satin of the couch. He curled a stray lock around his wrist, watching the shine shift as he bent it to the light of the candelabra. “It’s my chamber, Megs, remember?”

She sat up. Pain niggled at her shoulder, but the physician
had seen to the wound and assured her that all would be well. If only she were a believer.

“You didn’t don the bed gown I sent.”

She pursed her lips and refused to glance away, though if the truth were known she had found a slim, primitive dart amongst his treasures and had pinned it into her underskirt. At some point she would have another chance to escape, and she would need every possible advantage.

“The color would look right on you.”

She said nothing.

“Innocent. Untouched.” He shook his head as if baffled. “If I didn’t know better, I could almost believe that you don’t belong in prison,” he said, and took her hand, turning it over in his. Her hair loosened on his wrist, but remained twined softly against the golden skin of his arm, stroking the taut tendons. “Your hands are soft.” His fingers were gentle against her palm, his eyes thoughtful.

She licked her lips. “The life of a seamstress oft consists of long hours, but rarely entails heavy labor.”

“Entails,” he repeated, and raised his brows slightly. “You’ve an extensive vocabulary for a thief.”

“I am not—”

“Or a seamstress,” he interrupted, and stroked her palm again, skimming his thumb along the smooth line beneath her fingers. “I suppose Walden did all the manly labor?”

She blinked in dismay at her hand. It was not a particularly sensitive area, after all, and yet, sensations kept sprinting wildly up her arm every time he touched her. He caught her gaze, and she swallowed. “William,” she corrected numbly. “And yes, he did.”

He nodded, absorbed by her hand again as he rubbed a slow circle into the center of her palm. “So if I brought in a length of cloth, you could stitch me a doublet?”

Panic struck her like a rock, but she remained as she was,
though every instinct told her to wrest her hand from his grasp and run like hell. Aye. Perhaps she should have considered this eventuality, but if she were to worry now about all the things she should have done, she would be paralyzed until her death, which might be in the very near future if she didn’t think hard and fast. So she canted her head slightly and forced a prim smile. “Are your tailors all ill?” she asked.

He held her gaze for another few seconds, then called out, “Come in.”

An elderly servant entered, carrying a bolt of gray fabric. Behind him, another brought a basket filled with scissors and thread and a dozen items she couldn’t name but assumed any seamstress with half a mind would be able to identify.

Tatiana’s heart was thumping in her chest. She glanced at MacTavish, making certain her expression was partly mocking, partly bored. It was the same look that had made the king of Denmark back down in chagrin. “So this is what you meant when you told me to be prepared to defend myself?”

He shrugged.

“And all the while I was desperately trying to choose between the crossbow and the lance.”

“And it looked like you were merely sleeping.”

“’Tis strange how appearances can deceive,” she said pointedly.

He smiled again, but her heart could hardly beat faster than it already was. “A needle’s the only weapon you’ll need, lass,” he said, and, taking the bolt of fabric, sent the men from the room. “I’m told this is linen.”

She glanced at the material, then nodded smoothly. “’Tis good to know your subjects wouldn’t lie to you. About cloth at least.”

The chamber went absolutely silent, then, “Stitch me a doublet fit for a king, lass,” he said. “And I will set you free.”

For a moment her heart ached with hope. Freedom—
within reach. Nearly hers. But the truth came hard on the heels of hope. She could no more stitch a doublet than walk on water.

Her mind was spinning and her hands were shaking more dramatically, so she swung her feet to the floor, perhaps to distract him, perhaps to keep herself occupied, lest her brain burst from her skull. But she did so slowly, as taught from birth, “
like a princess, not a ragged street urchin
,” as Mother had often said.

Her arm brushed his as she slipped from the bed, and her hair trailed along his fingertips like a dancer’s veil. Standing up, she paced to the fabric and spread it upon the coverlet.

She eyed it leisurely as if she were in some fine market with wares spread about for her royal inspection, as if her very next words would not condemn her to death. He watched her from uncomfortable closeness.

“I’m afraid there’s not enough fabric,” she said.

He remained exactly as he was, and yet there was a change, a stiffness, almost as if he waited with bated breath for her next words. Almost as if he were disappointed. “Cy assured me there was,” he said.

“Cy?” She raised one brow, trying to read the nuances. After all, she was a queen. All revered her, few liked her. It was a matter of life and death that she know the difference, that she be able to differentiate between those who were looking for independent gain and those few who had her best interests in mind. She had learned well, for she knew that she could count on one hand those who truly cared.

“Cy was my father’s favored tailor,” he informed her.

“Ahh.” She gave him a small shrug. “Well, I do hate to make Cy feel unneeded. Perhaps he should craft the garment himself.”

“I want you to do it.”

“And if I do…” She flitted her gaze to the fabric and up,
feeling an odd catch in her stomach as though it had twisted in on itself. “You’ll set me free?” It was difficult to force the words from her constricted throat, but to her own ears the words sounded almost normal. ’Twas another trick she had learned at a selfish court.

He was watching her like a hunting falcon: his gaze absolutely steady, his mouth immobile. She refused to lower her eyes. After all, raptors followed movement. They liked their prey fresh and frightened. “Why not admit that you aren’t a seamstress, Megs?” he asked. “Things can hardly get worse for you.”

“Not true,” she said, and ran her fingers leisurely along a fold in the fabric. “I am still alive after all.”

“Ahh.” He leaned back to watch her. “So you’re a maid who expects little from life.”

She gave him a single, noncommittal nod. “A humble lass,” she agreed.

He laughed a little. “One would expect humility in a thief,” he admitted, “but one would be disappointed. The dichotomy piques me interest.”

“Dichotomy,” she repeated and tilted her head at him, much as he had done to her. “I’m impressed.”

He shrugged. The movement was strangely boyish. “The good people of Teleere seem to think their laird should be able to say more than, ‘yo me hearties.’”

She laughed, then, wondering at his expression of surprise, she sobered immediately, feeling nervous under his stare, her gaze flitting foolishly to the side.

“So Magical Megs has a sense of humor,” he said.

“I am not M—”

“Then stitch me a garment.”

She almost winced, but managed to keep her face impassive and her hands steady. “I cannot.”

Seconds ticked by in silence.

“No?” he asked.

“The truth is…” She paused, waiting for inspiration, for breath, for her mind to kick back into gear. “You see…” She shrugged, hoping she looked charmingly defenseless. “William did all the actual labor.”

“William?”

“Yes.”

“Your virginal husband.”

She fiddled with a frayed edge of fabric. “I never said he was virginal.”

“Only that you are.”

She cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to her hands. They were clasped together in front of her body now, and she wondered with a kind of vague distraction when she had linked her fingers. One could hardly tell they were shaking at all.

“I believe my…marital status is none of your affair,” she said.

MacTavish rose to his feet with slow, leonine grace, watching her every second. “My laird,” he said.

“What?”

“’Tis what you might say in this situation,” he said, pacing slowly toward her. “I believe my…marital status is none of your affair, my laird.”

“Of course,” she said, and raised her chin, though her soul trembled at his nearness.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I believe—”

“But I don’t,” he said, and, lifting his hand, brushed his fingers along her cheek. He was larger than he seemed. Perhaps it was his beauty that created the illusion. Perhaps it was his physical perfection that made him seem less intimidating, but now she was aware of every inch of him. “In truth, I don’t
believe much of what you tell me.” He traced his fingers along the curve of her ear. She tried to control the shiver, but experience was everything, and she was not accustomed to being touched, to him. Even her mother had avoided such a personal contact. “You say your name is Linnet, but Gem denies that. You say you are a seamstress, but there you call yourself a liar. You say you don’t know Wheaton, but circumstances prove otherwise. You say you are a virgin…” He paused. “It seems to be the only thing you’ve left to convince me of.”

She didn’t speak. Indeed, she was quite sure she was incapable of doing so. Instead, she raised her chin and drew a careful breath.

“Where do we start?” he asked.

Her heart fluttered like a songbird in her chest, but she was certain her face would show nothing.

“I’m told there are several ways to prove your statement,” he said.

So he had been discussing her with others. Perhaps his physician, and somehow that knowledge made the humiliation that much worse, but she showed nothing in her gaze.

“Oh?” she said, as if she were only mildly interested.

He watched her with hot intensity, and for the first time in a long while she wondered if her mask had slipped, if he could see past her well-polished defenses into her quivering soul. “I could call the good doctor back in to examine you,” he said. “Or—”

“If you mean to humiliate me, you needn’t try so hard, MacTavish.”

His eyes were hard now and his expression unfathomable. “But I’ve hardly tried at all yet. You should experience being stripped to the waist and tied to the masthead.”

“But I feel belittled already and not a masthead in sight.
Belittlement must be a gift of yours.” She tried to step back, but he slid his hand onto her shoulder, keeping her close with a light pressure. “’Tis not very noble of you,” she added.

“Amusing, isn’t it?” he said. “I am a laird who acts like a pirate, while you are a thief who acts like a princess.”

She tried to scoff or laugh or deny. She managed none of those things, but stood like a trapped mouse beneath his hand.

“How do you explain it?” he asked, and, leaning forward, kissed the corner of her mouth.

She licked her lips as he drew away. “Perhaps it is because you
are
a pirate.”

He skimmed his hand down her arm and stepped closer. She could feel the heat from his half-naked body. She was eighteen years of age, had visited more countries than she could remember and spoke a half dozen languages, but never had she seen a man unclothed. Her mother had been careful about that, all but obsessed with the idea of keeping her pure. A pure lady was a valuable lady.

But his chest was mesmerizing, hard and rounded, with small, peaked nipples. Below that, muscles marched in double rows down to a fine strip of golden hair. For a moment she was almost tempted to reach out and touch it.

“And you?” he said.

“What?” Had she been staring at his chest? Had she lost so much control?

He smiled slightly, but there was something other than humor lighting his eyes. “I
am
a pirate,” he said. “While you…”

“I am naught but a humble seam—”

He tsked a warning and slipped his arm about her waist.

“The…” She was breathing hard. “The widow of a humble tailor,” she corrected.

“The virginal widow,” he added, and kissed her lightly on the lips.

Terror melded wildly with unknown emotions and shivered up her spine. “Please—” It was the only word she could seem to force out.

“Please what, princess?” he murmured, and leaned close again.

“Let me go.” She breathed the words against his mouth.

He drew back slightly, but the smile was gone, replaced by an expression of tension. He closed his eyes and exhaled softly, his breath warm against her cheek.

“You steal me property, cause Wheaton’s escape, and lie at every turn, lass. How can I let you go?” They were pressed together now. His eyes held her gaze as firmly as his hand cradled her bottom. It did strange things to her equilibrium, shattering her concentration, unbalancing her thoughts, and yet she had no desire to shift it. In fact, something in her ached to move closer still, to feel his hand slip more intimately against her body, to let her own fingers taste the flavor of his skin.

She fought the insanity. “I tell you again, I am not what you believe me to be.” She whispered the words, as if they were an awful secret.

“Then what are you?” Was there desperation in his voice?

“I am innocent,” she whispered.

“Innocent,” he repeated, and stroked her hair away from her face.

She closed her eyes and nodded. Her lips felt swollen, and between her thighs, she felt strangely warm and heavy.