Lois Greiman (18 page)

He said nothing, and she scowled as she bent toward him slightly. Her eyes shone suddenly with crystal-bright tears.

“I’ve done nothin’ against you or yer lord,” she said. “Yet you hold me ’ere. And why? Just becuz ’e tells you to.”

He kept his expression absolutely stoic, pretending her eyes weren’t filled with tears. Pretending it wouldn’t matter if they were. “What would you suggest, lass?”

Her face became intensely earnest, her small mouth pursed. “Let me go, old man, and I’ll make it worth yer effort.”

“Will you now?”

“Aye,” she said, her voice low and intense as she laid her hand on his chest. The fingernails were still rimed with dirt. “You’ve got yer eye on me. I know you ’ave.”

He didn’t respond.

“But you’ll not ’ave me without a fight. No one ’as yet. Though there’ve been more than a few what ’ave tried.”

He watched her intently. She was an odd mix of elements—pride, fear, and cleverness to name a few. “How old are you, lass?”

She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Old enough to tame
your fires, old man,” she said, and slid her fingers down his chest.

He watched the movement for a moment, then took her hand in his own and placed it by her side. “Why don’t you start by taming your hair, lass.”

Her fists tightened like small mallets. “Is that what cranks yer crossbow?” she said. “A great mound of silly ’air piled atop me ’ead? If that’s what it takes to gain me freedom, then send in the fat old cow.”

He refrained from smiling. “She refuses to have anything to do with you.”

“She refuses!” She drew herself up as if mightily offended. “She was the one what tried to steal me ’air.”

He eyed it, noting the amazing tangled heights. “Any idea why she might want it?”

“Them fancy ladies in London and whatnot would pay a fortune to get their ’ands on ’air like mine.”

He didn’t respond.

She bristled. “Send the old bat in.”

He shook his head. “That ship has sailed, lass.”

She scowled at him for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess you’ll ’ave te let me go, then, since yer lord don’t want no audience with no scraggly-’aired peasant?”

“He wanted you cleaned.”

“I am cleaned.”

“And coifed.”

“Well that’s damned tough then ain’t it,” she said. “Cuz we can’t always get what we want.”

“MacTavish can.”

“You got another royal simp out there who’s game to tame me ’air?”

“Aye,” he said, and took a step toward her.

She raised her chin another couple inches and backed away. “What the devil are you doin’?”

“Hand me that brush and sit down.”

“I will not.”

“Sit your skinny arse down,” he warned, “before I think of more fitting things to do with a hairbrush.”

“S
’il vous plaît,” said Sir Albert.

“Go away,” ordered Cairn.

“S’il vous plaît,” repeated the tutor.

“Get the hell out of here,” gritted Cairn, and Albert, finally taking the not so subtle hint, arched his spine in deep afront and headed for the door.

Cairn sighed and paced to the window. Far below in the courtyard, a team of grays jangled their bits and rolled their white-rimed eyes.

“Lord Remmy always had an eye for the maids.” What the hell did that mean? Not that he cared. If Magical Megs wanted to seduce the man, she was free to do so. Hell, she could seduce the devil himself if she wished, just so long as she told him what he wanted to know. But until then she had to stay alive. Thus the lessons. He couldn’t afford to have anything happen to her. A titter of guilt crossed his mind. He didn’t mind lying, but it had always seemed foolish to lie to himself. And the truth was, it was unlikely that the girl would fall into trouble here at Portshaven. Then again, she had been
here when she was taken last time. When she was taken and shot. He closed his eyes. Damn! She could have been killed. And what would happen next time? Not that there would be a next time. After all, he had her carefully guarded.

But the truth bedeviled him. Eventually she would leave—would escape by her own confounded means or be turned loose, for despite everything, he would not harm her. No, she would leave Westheath. She would leave him, and she would fend for herself.

He winced and ground his teeth as he paced, for she was barely the size of his pillow, and like his pillow, she was soft and…

Triton’s balls! He growled a curse and paced again. She was not defenseless! She was Magical Megs. She had lied, had stolen. That was why he held her here because…

His thoughts shambled to a halt as his memory burned back to the sight of her asleep on his couch, the feel of her in his arms, her lips soft against his, her body…

Damn! He paced again. Did he detain her because she was guilty, or did he hold her because he was too weak to let her go? Perhaps he had no right to keep her. Perhaps she had loved ones who awaited her return. Perhaps there was a man. And perhaps that man was Wheaton. The thought scoured his mind. He ground his hands to fists. Aye, maybe she would return to Wheaton, but if she did, she would not go defenseless. Thus the lessons. It all made sense. He winced at his own logic.

But Burr’s words rang in his head. “
An eye for the maids!
”

“To hell with that,” Cairn growled, and marched down the hall once again.

The door to Gem’s bedchamber was closed, the hallway empty. Cairn scowled as he glanced about. It wasn’t like Burr to leave his post. The man might be a looming barbarian, but you couldn’t say that he was the kind to abandon his duties.
He would tear his head off and throw it at a prisoner before he’d let her escape.

It was then that he heard a moan. It was low and pained and came from inside the nearest chamber. Drawing his dagger, Cairn burst into the room.

Burr and Gem were near the window. The Norseman stood behind, her before. Her hands were splayed against the stone wall. In profile, with her expression blissful and her eyes closed, she was truly pretty. But Cairn’s intrusion jerked them apart. Gem gasped. Burr growled. They turned in unison. The girl’s expression was somewhat dazed, but Burr stood at the ready, his legs spread, his feet planted, and his huge arms flung wide. In his gargantuan right hand, he held a hairbrush.

Cairn let his dagger droop down by his side.

The room went absolutely silent, and Cairn let the silence fall, waiting.

Burr cleared his throat and lowered the hairbrush, which he’d held like a damned scimitar. “I was just…” He paused, scowled, then pointed the brush toward the girl. “The ladies refused to see to her hair.”

Cairn said nothing.

Burroun cleared his throat again. “You said to see her cleaned up proper.”

“You were…” Cairn tried to wrap his mind around the situation, but it didn’t seem possible that Burr, the pirate, Burr the brigand, Burr the deadliest bodyguard in all of Teleere, had been caught playing nursemaid to some ragamuffin street urchin. “You were brushing her hair?” he asked.

Gem’s expression, usually as sharp as a highwayman’s blade, was still vague, as if she’d reached utopia and dreaded the return. But even as he watched, her eyes began to focus. “’E’s right ’andy with a ’airbrush,” she said. The words came out on a sigh.

Cairn couldn’t have stopped the grin if he had tried. He didn’t try. “You were brushing her hair?” he asked again.

“’Twas in the line of duty,” Burr said. “The ladies were loath to tackle the job so—”

“So you braved the task.”

Burr’s expression darkened considerably. “Is there something you needed…
me laird
?”

Cairn’s light mood vanished. “Aye,” he said, remembering his mission. “I’ve changed me mind about Lord Remmy.”

Quiet settled in again. Burr watched him for a moment, then, “Decided your skills be good enough to match the lassie’s, have you, lad?”

Tension cranked into Cairn’s muscles, but he loosened them with an effort and gave a languid shrug. “I don’t want to keep you from your brave deeds, Burr,” he said, and turned toward the door. “Carry on, man, I think there may yet be a tangle left to conquer.”

Cairn would have liked to enjoy having the final word, but his mind was atumble, and Megs, the magical thief, was only a short distance down the hall.

He nodded to Peters as he passed him, then opened his bedchamber door with no prelude.

Megs sat very upright on an ivory-hued upholstered chair. She was completely clothed, every button holed and every hair in place. Her shoes, though scuffed, were laced tightly and perfectly aligned, the heels together just so. As the door opened, she turned her head slowly, like a princess about to be coronated, not like a prisoner awaiting her sentence, and for a moment he was stunned by her regal beauty.

He closed the door slowly behind him.

She set her book aside, and they stared at each other, neither speaking for a moment.

“Stand up,” he said finally.

“What?”

“Stand up,” he repeated.

“Time for my execution?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

She did as told, but slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, as if her subjects watched every graceful movement.

He scowled. “Come here.”

Again, she did as commanded. She was dressed in the gown he’d first seen her in. It was a decent garment made of sturdy brown linen with dark piping at the ends of the sleeves and around the modest bodice. But somehow it didn’t suit her. And he had no idea why that foolish notion should bother him.

“Turn around,” he said when she was less than a full yard away.

“Why?”

“Because I’m the laird,” he said, “and I’ve ordered you to do so.”

She did as told. Her deep sable hair shone in the candlelight, and as he reached out, his fingers brushed it, scattering the gleam, but he ignored the seductive softness as he wrapped his arm around her neck. He took a deep breath and settled his mind. “What would you do if I meant you harm?”

“You do mean me harm.”

He gritted his teeth. “If I were a brigand.”

“You are a brigand.”

“Listen.” He turned her about rapidly, nearly spinning her off her feet so that she faced him. “I’ll not have you so ill protected.”

She was staring at him as if he’d lost a good portion of his mind, but he refused to drop his gaze, though it was a close thing. “Peters is at my door,” she reminded him.

“Peters can’t chew his own food.”

“Then why do you keep him about?”

“Because loyalty deserves—” He stopped himself. She
hardly needed to know how he valued loyalty, especially since he’d told her he didn’t believe in it. Drawing a deep breath, he slowed his speech. “If word got out that Teleere’s premiere thief is feeblish, we’d be the laughingstock of all Europe.”

“Because I can’t protect myself,” she said, as if trying desperately to understand his lunacy.

He didn’t shuffle his feet. “That’s right.”

“And you still think me a thief.”

“Aye.”

“But you want me to be able to defend myself.”

Yes, he was as daft as a turnip. “Norway has Rupert,” he said as proof.

“I beg your pardon?”

He sounded like a blathering idiot in the presence of a princess. “Rupert,” he repeated. “He stole the crown from right off King Charles’s head, then held off fifteen guards with nothing but a staff until he made his escape.”

She stared at him for a full ten seconds, then turned pointedly and headed toward the door.

He scowled. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t respond, but lifted the latch and stepped into the hallway.

“Lieutenant.” Her voice was absolutely earnest. “I fear your lord is not feeling well.”

There was a moment of quiet, then Peters burst into the room, his face pale as winter and his eyes bulging. “My liege!” he said, his gaze rushing to Cairn. “You are ill?”

Cairn eyed him levelly. “Get back to your post, man.”

The lieutenant looked confused at best. “But—”

“Our prisoner is amusing herself, Peters.”

Confusion turned to bafflement.

“She jests,” Cairn explained.

Peters scowled. “About your health, my lord?” His tone
was beyond shocked. His thoughts were clear; surely no one would joke about Lord MacTavish’s well-being. The idea was bewildering. There had once been a time aboard the
Skian Dubh
, when, while fishing, Cairn had mistakenly landed a shark. It wasn’t a huge creature, but it was large enough to take a chunk out of its captor’s leg. The entire crew had laughed for a week, and not a single soul had offered to bandage his wounds.

“Return to your post,” he repeated.

“Yes, my lord.” One quick glance at Megs, and Peters left with floor-rapping precision, closing the door firmly behind him.

Cairn exhaled and scowled. “You are my link to Wheaton.”

She continued to stare. No expression shown on her face. As if she were above simple emotion.

“You were right when you said not everyone has my opportunities to learn to fight,” he said, and shrugged. If he couldn’t do stoic, he’d settle for nonchalant. “Burr thrashed me regularly until I learned to defend meself.”

Her face was solemn. “Thrashed you.”

“Well,”—another oh-so-casual shrug; damn, she was beautiful—“he challenged me. It turned out to be pretty much a thrashing. I’m guessing you didn’t have that advantage.”

“No,” she admitted. “Nary a Norseman to pit myself against.”

“Did you have a father?”

“Most do.”

“Didn’t he worry? You being so…” He avoided the word frail. She didn’t seem to like it. In fact, his balls ached at the thought. “Delicate,” he said instead. “Didn’t he teach you any sort of self-defense?”

“I fear not,” she said, and offered no more.

It frustrated the hell out of him that he had no idea what
kind of past she had experienced. He kept the thought to himself. “If you’re killed, Wheaton will have no reason to return here,” he explained.

“And you’re afraid I might be accosted surrounded by a dozen guards…and the walls of Westheath Castle.”

“If I remember correctly, you already left our kindly protection once.”

She nodded in mild concession. “That is because you threatened to hang me.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if there were no hard feelings, as if, in fact, there was nothing he could do to pierce her cool calm. And perhaps there was not. Not again, though he remembered her losing her refined demeanor on a few occasions. Aye, he remembered her heated words, her hot caresses, and he would not soon forget, for he enjoyed a little honest fire. Since Elizabeth he saw a good deal of value in fishmongers’ aromatic wives and giggling goosegirls. And yes, in thieves. But not in thieves who acted like duchesses. Hell, if they were going to act like duchesses, they might just as well have the funds to match. As it was, he would not marry again, not to deepen Teleere’s coffers, not to form an alliance, not if the entire continent threatened to explode like black powder around his ears.

“Do I have your word that you will not try to escape again?” he asked.

She paused, blinked, remained perfectly still, and said, “No.”

“Then I have little choice but to help you defend yourself.”

“Lest I escape.”

“Aye. So that you are safe until I find you again.”

“Tell me,” she said, “was your mother closely related to your father? A sister perhaps.”

He gave her a sardonic grin. “My mother was the daugh
ter of a Scottish wagonwright and a Welsh milkmaid,” he said. “My father was Anthony Penworth, laird of this isle.”

“Still—”

“I’m not daft,” he said, though he wished he could believe his own words. “I’m merely cautious.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “I—”

“Did you know he murdered my wife?”

The blood drained from her face. “What?”

“Wheaton,” he explained, and found that his tone was admirably steady. “He killed my wife.”

“No.” The word was little more than a whisper.

“Aye,” he said, and the story spilled out. “They were lovers. He was exciting, I suppose. The son of a banished, aging earl. Still, some thought he should be next in line for the throne. Elizabeth thrived on excitement, and on my humiliation.” He shrugged. “But she’d cheated so often in those first two years. By the time I learned of Wheaton, her infidelity no longer mattered.”

“I am sorry.”

He watched her carefully for a moment, then continued on. “When I failed to care…” He paused for a moment. “She meant to put a stop to their trysts, I think. Or perhaps that’s just what I wish to believe. But Wheaton is not one to be set aside. He killed her, in her own bed, in my bed, here at Westheath.

“Making it look as though you did it.”

He said nothing.

“And you think that could happen to me. Hence the lessons.”

His gut hurt, and his throat felt damnably tight, but he shrugged with casual disregard.

She walked toward him, never losing eye contact. “MacTavish, I am so—”