Lois Greiman (17 page)

He slipped his hand beneath her hair, cradling her neck and tilting her head back slightly. Then he kissed her again, slowly now and so thoroughly that her knees threatened to buckle.

Desire steamed through her. Unexpected and unwanted, it melted her resolve and dimmed her reason. She kissed him back, pressing against his heat, tasting the hard strength of him.

He drew back a fraction of an inch, breathing hard, and in his expression she thought she saw some of the same raging insanity she felt.

“Dammit, lass!” His tone was ragged. “Where did you learn to kiss?”

She couldn’t think, couldn’t see straight. All she could do was feel. The heat of his skin. The strength of his hands. She shivered and, slipping her fingers into his hair, pulled his head down for another kiss.

For one frantic second, she thought he might resist, and then he was growling against her mouth, kissing her with wild passion. She answered with every aching fiber in her body.

He pulled away, and she mewled desperately, trying to draw him back. But his hands never left her. In an instant, her gown was gone. And she was all but naked.

“Lass.” His voice was a low rumble of desire. He stared down at her, his eyes hot as he skimmed his hand over her breast.

She closed her eyes, shivered, and pressed her hips to his.

“Damn Wheaton!” He breathed the words like a prayer and lifted her into his arms.

The world ground to a halt.

“What?” she rasped. “What did you say?”

She could feel his heart beating against her breast, could feel the heat of his gaze against her skin.

“You’ve a body like a sea siren and passion like a blaze.” He kissed her again, but her eyes remained riveted to his. “Damn him!” he said, and carried her to the bed.

“W
heaton!” Tatiana hissed and scrambled wildly from his arms. He tried to hold her, but she had the force of surprise and managed to stumble to her feet. “Wheaton!” It was hard to breathe, impossible to think. “You would bed me to hurt another.”

“Lass—”

“You still believe I lied.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you’ve been honest?”

Her chest hurt with the force of her emotion. “At least I’ve been honest with my feelings.”

“Feelings?”

“Yes. I—” She stopped the words short, realizing what she’d almost said. Panic consumed her. She stepped back a pace.

“Feelings?” he repeated and followed her.

“Do not touch me,” she warned. “Never again, or I swear on my father’s grave you will rue the day.”

“Is that what you said to Wheaton?” He was stalking her, following her in a slow circuit about the congested room.

“Damn you, MacTavish,” she said.

“And what of that?” he asked, and, quick as a serpent, he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Did you tell him that, too, or did you only moan his name as you spread your legs?”

She slapped him as hard as she could. He turned his head, but his grip didn’t loosen, and in an instant he turned back to stare into her eyes.

“Is that what you did to discourage him, lass? A little tap on the cheek? Is that how you piqued his interest? By acting the innocent, then moaning like a whore?”

She slapped him again. This time he didn’t even turn away. Instead, he smiled.

Anger boiled like tar inside her, burning her soul.

“Has there ever been a single man you’ve managed to discourage like that?”

“Touch me again, and I’ll kill you, MacTavish.”

“Kill me!” He threw back his head and laughed. She raised her hand to strike again, but he caught her arm with no effort at all. “Megs,” he said, feeling her puny biceps, “you couldn’t kill a flea with a hammer. But you know that, don’t you?”

She glared at him and he stared back, watching her with narrowed eyes.

“You had no intention of stopping me, did you?”

She quivered with unaccustomed rage. She would make him pay. Somehow. Someday.

“You only planned to egg me on, to arouse my interest, to act like an innocent that could no longer resist me.” He nodded. “How many men have you enticed this way?”

“Let me go.” Her voice quivered—with rage or humiliation or a strange blend of the two.

“Why?” he asked. “So you can kiss me or strike me?”

She straightened her spine and found her pride. “So I can kill you,” she said.

He smiled. “You don’t want to kill me. I’ve too much to offer you.”

She said nothing.

“You may have the finances of a thief, but you’ve got the morals of a duchess.”

“You—What?”

“You don’t want to damage me, princess.”

She canted her head at him. Rage still simmered inside, but she could now control her hand. Never had she struck another living creature—until she met
him
. “Yet again I’m surprised at how often you can be wrong,” she said.

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

He glanced around the room, then dropped her arm and stepped away. Retrieving a magnifying glass from his desk, he hefted it in his hand for an instant, then smashed it against the wall. Brass bent and glass shattered. He twisted the remaining metal away from the handle. Pacing across the floor to her, he lifted her hand, placed the broken handle against her palm, and curled her fingers tight around it.

It felt heavy and hard. She scowled at it, then at him.

“Strike me,” he said.

She raised her brows. “What?”

“Hit me,” he said.

She shook her head in bewilderment.

“So I was right. You never intended to discourage me advances.”

“Believe what you will.” She felt tired suddenly, tired and spent. “Do what you will.”

“Come now, lass. Surely Wheaton’s whore has more spirit—”

She never meant to swing, and apparently he didn’t expect her to, because she caught him solidly on the chin. He rocked back on his heels like a hobbyhorse, teetered there for an instant, then settled back onto his feet and stared at her.

Raising his hand, he tested his jaw. His gaze never dropped from hers, and she held it like a bulldog.

He nodded judiciously. “That was better,” he admitted.

Better! Hell, it was wonderful.
She stepped toward him. He raised his brows.

“Want to try again?”

Perhaps she nodded. Perhaps she just dived in, but suddenly she was wrapped in his arms, her fist stretched out in front of her, her shoulder against his chest.

“You’ve got to stay balanced. Don’t overreach,” he said, and slapped her bottom as he released her.

She swung even as she turned. Her knuckles skimmed his shoulder, but he danced back.

“Good. Never let your enemy settle in. Never let him know what you’re thinking. But you’re good at that, aren’t you? The mistress of manipulation. That’s how you snared Wheaton.”

She swung again. He sidestepped easily, shaking his head as he did so.

“I expected that one. You’re too frail to use strength alone, even with a weapon. You’ve—”

“Damn you!” she growled, and swung again.

He danced to the side, grinning now.

“Surely you know you’re frail, Megs. Even you can’t be that deluded.”

She jabbed wildly. He laughed as he backed against the wall.

“Triton’s balls, you’re hardly big enough to make a decent meal.”

She strode in. He feinted left. She followed.

He dodged right, smiling as she stumbled past.

“Still,” he said, his eyes gleaming as he stared at her breasts as they bobbled above the laces of her shift, “you’re more than a mouthful.”

She barely stopped herself from falling, but came around hard, swinging her fist wildly upward as she did so. It was a poor effort, but he was distracted and she had rage on her side. Her fist caught him right between the legs.

He grunted loud and doubled over, his mouth twitching as he did so.

She backed cautiously away, amazed, silent, watchful.

He remained as he was, his knees slightly bent, his eyes closed, his arm laid protectively across the abused area.

“That…” He nodded slightly and exhaled carefully, but he didn’t straighten. “That was a good, solid strike.”

An apology was on the tip of her tongue, but his gibes were still clear in her mind. She straightened her back.

“Shall I call the physician?”

He squinted up at her from his bent position. “And tell him what? That I’ve been hit in the balls by a woods fairy with a brass handle?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. No.” He shook his head and straightened a couple inches. A muscle spasm in his cheek. “You’re too frail to hurt me, remember?” His tone was rueful.

“I didn’t mean to strike you…there.”

He straightened some more, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Why not?”

She winced as he levered upward. “It’s not…very…” She was watching him carefully, wondering if he was about to keel over like a rotten parsnip. “Sporting?”

“Sporting.” He gained his full height with some difficulty and frowned at her. “What kind of thief are you?”

“I told you—”

“Then what kind of woman are you?” He sounded more peeved than when she’d first hit him. “I’m a man, fully grown and bent on ravaging you. Hell, I was taunting you. If anyone deserves to be hit in the balls, I do. And you want to be…sporting?”

“I’m not…” They were talking conversationally, as if she weren’t naked, as if he didn’t plan to execute her, as if she hadn’t just hit him in the balls with the handle of a magnifying glass. “I never claimed to be a fighter.”

He eyed her carefully. “How do you survive, lass?”

There was something in his eyes. It was disconcerting and arousing and frightening. She turned away. “I am highly intelligent.”

“Then why haven’t you learned to defend yourself?”

She raised her chin. “Not everyone has your opportunities, MacTavish.”

He nodded once, skimmed his gaze down her body, tightened his fist, and nodded again.

“Get some sleep,” he said, and, shuffling toward the door, made an inelegant exit.

“I’ll not do it!” Carolyn’s back was arched with prim dismay, her thin lips pursed and her pinched face disapproving. “She’s a thief and a heretic and other things my good graces keep me from mentioning.”

“I gave you an order.” Burr’s voice was deep.

“I’ll not—”

“I wish to speak to Burr alone,” Cairn said, giving Carolyn a nod of dismissal as he approached.

Her eyes widened slightly. “Yes, my lord,” she said, and curtsied hurriedly before making her way down the hall.

Cairn waited until she was out of hearing. “Troubles, Burr?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” said the Norseman, but he turned a miserable eye toward the door as he did so.

The irritation on the giant’s face made Cairn feel somewhat better. His own night had been endless, for while he had found a comfortable bed not far from his own chamber, his damn cock ached in concert with his head, and his balls didn’t feel so good either.

“You look like hell,” Burr said, seeming to read his thoughts.

“
Me laird
,” Cairn corrected mechanically, and Burr grinned and nodded.

“Aye, you look like hell,
me laird
.”

“Do you remember Lord Remmy?”

Burr narrowed his eyes, which were generally narrow to begin with. “The fencing instructor?” he asked.

“Yes. Didn’t he teach other forms of…defense?”

“Aye, I believe he did.”

“Contact him. Have him come to Westheath.”

Burr remained unmoved for a moment, then grinned and nodded as his lightning quick mind caught Cairn’s intent. “Aye, ’tis a good idea, lad. Teach Teleere’s master thief to defend herself. ’Tis a grand idea.”

His head hurt. “I didn’t say the lessons were for her.”

Burr laughed happily. “Then the lass must be scrappy indeed if the pirate laird feels the need to hire a bodyguard.”

Cairn gritted his teeth. “I didn’t sleep well,” he said. “So you may want to keep your clever comments to yourself.”

Burr shrugged. “What are you going to do? Have the lass avenge your wounded pride?”

Cairn tightened his fists, then swore softly and rubbed his brow. “Just get word to Remmy,” he said, and turned away.

“As you wish,” Burr agreed. “Lord Remmy. He’s the right man for the job. Always had an eye for the maids, he did.”

Cairn turned back. “What the devil do you mean—” he began, but the door behind Burr snapped open, and Gem stepped out.

“I thought—” The girl’s words stopped short. “Oh,” she said and bobbed a curtsy. Her face was clean, but she’d donned her old, much-abused gown and her hair was frayed and snarled. She blinked once at him. “’Scuse me fer sayin’ so, but you look like ’ell, me lord. Are you feelin’ good?”

Cairn pivoted away, and Burr grinned before transforming his expression and turning toward Gem with a scowl.

“You’ll not speak to Laird MacTavish that way.”

She scowled aggressively in return, but she backed up a pace. “What be you doing ’ere, Viking? I thought them ladies were to primp me ’air.”

“Aye, well perhaps the ladies weren’t in the mood to be mauled by an undersized urchin with more brass than brains,” he said.

She grinned. It was like watching an imp peek through a window glass. Her slanted eyeteeth made her look somehow foxy.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Do you mean she refused ta challenge me again?”

He saw no reason to answer, but her grin lifted just the same.

“Fer such a mean old toad she couldn’t tek much abuse, could she?”

The maid’s disposition could stand some improving, and no, when it came right down to it, she hadn’t stood up well to the narrow girl named Gem, but Burr refused to let himself smile.

“Don’t think yourself so smart, girl. You’re in deep trouble here.”

“I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” she said.

“Of course not. You’re the pillar of society.”

“Just cuz I weren’t born haughty-tauty like you don’t make me no thief.”

“Haughty-tauty.” Him. He almost laughed out loud. “So you’re not a thief.”

“’Course not,” she said, and tried to look affronted. She only managed hair-frizzled surprise.

“Then you shouldn’t look like one,” he said, and skimmed her with a cool gaze.

She settled her tattered gown into place around her narrow hips. “I bathed right and proper. As I’m sure you recall, you old lech.”

He shrugged “I do seem to remember a skinny little scamp stepping into the tub,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure whether it was a lass or a walking stick.”

“Hah!” she croaked, and he shook his head as if offended by the very sound.

“Things might go better for you if you’d cease sounding like a heavey horse and rid yourself of that rat’s nest atop your head.”

“Really?” she said, sounding suddenly coy. “So you think if I fix meself up, Lord MacTavish might be interested in me.”

“Laird MacTavish?” He grinned a little, not because he was amused, but because nothing would give him more pleasure than irking her just as she irked him. “I’m afraid the lad’s interests lean toward women who can speak without spitting,” he said. “But I’m thinkin’ the hounds might find you tolerable if you got yourself cleaned up.”

She glared at him. “Don’t pretend you ain’t interested in me,” she said. “I saw you watchin’ me whilst I was bathin’ last night.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “I feared you were so skinny you might slip down the drain with the muddy water you left behind.”

“Miss me, would you, Viking?”

“’Tis hard to fool the likes of you, I can see that, lass,” he said. “Now get inside and do something with your hair.”

“Me hair’s fine. I washed it meself.”

He snorted.

She bristled. “And I suppose you can do better, you great galloot?”

“As could me steed.”

“Sure then, come on in,” she said, and swung the door wide.

He snorted. “You may not have noticed, lass, but I’m a long shot from a lady’s maid.”

“Oh I know what you are,” she said. “Yer the master’s puppet. Bound to do what ’e tells you to. You’ve got no choice, do you now?”