Lois Greiman (19 page)

But he could not bear her sympathy, so he stopped her. “I will tutor you,” he said, “and you will remain safe.”

She said nothing, but in a moment she nodded and turned about.

He shoved aside a dozen distractions and wrapped his arm about her neck, but her scent penetrated his barriers, and that was strange, for he had given her no perfume. Nothing to make her smell so tantalizing, and yet she did.

“Are you ready?” she said.

He brought himself back to the business at hand and tightened his arm. “What would you do if I came at you from behind like this?” he asked.

“I am unsure,” she said. “What should I do?”

He focused hard, shoving old memories behind him. “Anything you can.”

“What?”

“What do your instincts tell you to do?”

“I would surely feel the urge to grab your arm and try to wrestle myself free.” She raised her hands to his forearm, holding it with both hands.

“Good. Then what?”

“I would pull.”

“Don’t pull. I’m stronger.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Faint,” he said.

“What?”

He shrugged. “Granted, you’re no bigger than a mite, but if I have to support your weight…” he paused. “Lift up your feet.”

“What?”

“Make me bear your weight,” he said. “It’ll surely pull me off-balance. Then you’ll have the advantage.”

She lifted one foot tentatively.

“No. Fast. Jerk them up. Catch me unawares.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible since you are the one giving me the instructions.”

“Pretend.”

She rose to her tiptoes, then settled back onto her feet. “I am not a very accomplished pretender, my lord.”

Frustration born of a thousand troubles swamped him. “What the hell kind of thief are you?”

“Apparently I am not your renowned Rupert!” Her temper was rising, and somehow that knowledge comforted him.

He drew a deep breath. Glancing over her shoulder, he skimmed her body. From this vantage point, he could see a good deal of her cleavage, the soft mounds of her breasts rising invitingly above her gown. “Tell me, Megs, how did you survive so long? Distraction?”

“What do you mean?”

He glanced down again. “I think you know.”

“No. I do not.” She turned slightly, brushing her bottom against his growing erection.

“You’d make a whoremaster wet himself.”

She straightened her spine with a jolt. “I beg your pardon!”

He laughed. Damn, it felt good to get a reaction out of her again. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I fear I do not.”

“You’ve got great tits,” he said.

There was a second’s delay, then she slammed her heel down on his instep.

He stumbled back, pain burning his foot as she twisted about.

She stood perfectly still, staring at him with flames snapping from her eyes.

He winced once and glared at her as he settled his abused foot to the floor. “Well, what the hell are you waiting for?”

She simply glared.

“Come on!” he commanded. “You’ve injured me. ’Tis not the time for shyness.”

She scowled.

“Hit me!” he ordered. “Or stab me or something. Don’t just stand there and look daft.”

He waited in silence with his arms slightly spread. Nothing happened. He shook his head, relaxed, and scowled.

“You’ve got to take advantage of my weakness, lass, or you’ll find yourself hanging upside down on the mizzenmast before you know what hit you.”

She raised one brow. “It seems unlikely.”

He motioned her over. She stepped closer, looking uncertain. But she finally turned around, and he captured her with his arm again.

“Are you ready now?”

“For what?”

“To defend yourself.”

“This is foolishness.”

He stiffed a groan, then, “You’ve got great tits,” he repeated, and tensed.

From his vantage point, he could see her scowl, but she refused to turn toward him. In fact, she tilted her head away slightly, so that all he could see was the firm angle of her jaw.

The room went silent, then, “What is it about them you find…exemplary?”

He raised his brows, scowled, and relaxed his stance. “What’s that?”

She cleared her throat. “Were you…” The pause was painfully tense. “Were you jesting?”

Here was an interesting development. He turned her around so he could examine her face. “You’ve got a stunning body, Megs. I’m sure you know that.”

She snapped her gaze to his and away just as quickly. “I’ve always been healthy.”

“Healthy.” He laughed and skimmed her stiff form. “Hell, lass, you’d put Cari to shame.”

She lifted her chin and found his gaze again. “Cari?”

“The mermaid on the
Skian Dubh
’s prow.”

“Your ship.”

“Aye.”

She nodded and said nothing.

“You don’t have to pretend modesty, Megs. A maid like you would have to be a fool to be unaware of your…” He considered his choice of words, remembered his throbbing instep, and said, “Your charms.”

She still didn’t speak. Why? Curiosity had always been his weakness. Hence the time he’d inadvertently spent on the mizzenmast.

“Men must have been crowding you for a long time,” he added.

Her lips moved slightly, then she stilled and finally spoke. “In my…formative years…” She paused again. “There were other things to consider. More important things than…” She glanced toward the door. “I had much to occupy my mind.”

“I suppose your childhood wasn’t easy.”

She said nothing for a moment, then, “No, not easy, I suppose.”

“So you learned to make your own way in the world.”

“I had assistance.”

He nodded. If not for Burr, he himself would not have survived childhood much less have grown to manhood aboard the
Skian Dubh
.

“Someone must have taken you in,” he said. “Taught you the fancies.”

“Fancies?”

He shrugged, feeling suddenly foolish, like a ragged lad in the presence of royalty. “The way you talk. The way you stand. Your hair.” What the hell was wrong with him, he wondered, and reached out to brush a few wayward strands back amongst their mates. His fingers brushed her ear. She shivered, and her eyes fell closed, but she opened them in an instant and took a cautious step back, putting distance between them. He watched her—her feline eyes, her flawless skin. “You know,” he said.

There was tension around her tempting lips, but she canted her head slightly. “Know?”

“That you’re beautiful beyond words.”

For an instant, for just a fraction of a fragmented second, he thought he saw honest surprise on her face, but before he could analyze it, her expression had returned to its usual coolness. Still, she couldn’t seem to hold his gaze. Very strange.

“Men must have been telling you so for years.”

She turned back toward him briefly. “No,” she said. “You are the first.”

He knew he couldn’t hide his surprise as well as she. “You lie,” he said.

“Generally, I do not.”

“Wheaton never told you how beautiful you are?”

She cleared her throat and lowered her gaze to her hands. They were clasped neatly together. “As I have told you, I do not know—”

Cairn stepped forward and brushed his knuckles across her cheek. The bones there were high and regal. “He never told you he couldn’t keep himself from touching you.”

“No.”

“And the others?”

“What others?”

A stab of inexplicable anger flitted through him. “The other men in your life, Megs.”

“Oh. No.” She didn’t turn her gaze away this time, but kept it pinned to his. “’Tis not something one says to a…” She paused. “A person like myself.”

What did that mean? Men didn’t find her worthy of praise? Had they thought her so lowly that they would take her against her will without a word of kindness or comfort? He ran his fingers down her throat. She didn’t close her eyes this time, but swallowed, as if there were some great battle going on within her. Perhaps she was not used to tenderness. Perhaps she had only known brutal copulation. Only…But no. What the hell was wrong with him? She was lying again.

“There’s no need for you to pretend, Megs. I set little stock in innocence.”

She said nothing.

“And there is no need to fish for compliments.”

He skimmed her collarbone with his knuckles. She inhaled a long, careful breath.

“I’ll give them freely.” He brushed over the rounded tops of her phenomenal breasts and felt her shiver mirror his own. “You are amazing to look at. Better still to touch.”

Her lips trembled, and though he gave it his best effort, there was nothing he could do but kiss her.

“So who won the first bout?”

Megs jerked around at the words. Cairn turned more slowly.

Burr stood at the door, his barbaric face impassive, his expression innocent.

“Remind me to have Bert teach you to knock,” Cairn said.

Burr laughed. “I’ll do that, lad. And what of you, lass?” he asked. “You look a mite flushed. I hope my lord hasn’t been working you too hard.”

“No.” She studied her clasped hands for an instant. “He
was simply…” She cleared her throat. “…teaching me to defend myself.”

The Norseman nodded. “And not a moment too soon.”

“Did you want something, Burroun?” Cairn asked.

“Did he teach you how to knee a man yet?” Burr asked. “’Tis well worth learning. Of course, half of Teleere is fretting over the lack of an heir. So if you decide to kick him, don’t make it too hard.”

She glanced at Cairn. Was there panic in her eyes? It was impossible to tell, and yet something welled up inside him, some sort of misplaced protectiveness mixed with overt frustration.

“Get out, Burr.”

The big man’s brows lifted, then he grinned broadly and bowed. “As you wish,
my laird.
”

The door closed firmly behind him.

Cairn wasn’t sure, but it looked as if Megs was holding her breath.

“Well, you’ve probably had your fill for today.”

She cleared her throat and raised her chin to regal heights, but her eyes still seemed strangely dilated. “Thank you for the…” He could see a tiny vein throbbing in her throat. “…the tutelage.”

Cairn dropped his gaze to her bosom. Why not take her? He was the laird. She was a thief. But one glance at her eyes, and he turned on his heel, leaving the room without another word.

“I
t’s what the girl said.” Burr’s voice seemed to echo against the solar’s stone walls. The room was all but barren since Elizabeth’s death, and it made Cairn uncomfortable. He liked to be surrounded by tangible things, things he’d collected, things he’d purchased. Perhaps being a penniless bastard did that to a man. Or perhaps he was just an oddment.

“And you believe her?” he asked now.

Burr shrugged. “Could be Gem’s telling the truth. Maybe she
was
mistaken when she claimed the lass was Magical Megs.”

“And the old woman—what does she say?”

“She says we should think hard before we judge the lady too harshly.”

“Lady?” Cairn rose abruptly to his feet and paced once across the floor. “What the devil does that mean?”

“I can’t say for certain. Lady Nedra’s an uncanny one. From what I hear there are more than a few who think she can read minds. That’s why she gave up her duchy. She thought
the poor were better folk than the rich. They deserved her funds more than the people she usually dealt with.”

Cairn snorted. “Well, she pegged Megs all wrong. I’ve seen her myself, you know.”

“Stole your brooch, I think you’ve said.”

“Aye.”

“So where is it?”

Cairn scowled. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “What do you think, man, that she’d keep the damned thing on her?”

The giant shrugged as he puffed on his pipe. Silvery smoke curled from his lips and up over his head, looking like an unlikely halo in the soft candlelight.

“Nay,” Cairn answered himself. “She’d be rid of it. If she’s half as smart as she seems, me brooch would be gone at the first opportunity. Hell. She stole it from the laird of the isle. She’d have to be an imbecile to keep it about.”

“She stole it from the laird,” Burr repeated. “Maybe that’s the reason she would keep it. Maybe she’s an admirer.”

Cairn snorted then scowled. “Even if she did keep it, she wouldn’t have it on her person. She’d have it hidden away somewhere.”

“Where?”

“How would I know?” Frustration was mounting.

“I thought you might ask.”

“You think I haven’t asked?” He felt like strangling someone. But strangulation was frowned upon, even for the laird of the isle.

“Could be if you could find the brooch, you could find Wheaton. Or the other way about.”

Cairn gave him a wry look. “The thought crossed my mind.”

Burr shrugged. “Maybe a well-placed threat might—”

“I’ve threatened everything but her damned dog.”

Burr’s eyes seemed unreasonably bright, as if he were struggling not to laugh, and Cairn sighed.

“Threats don’t seem to move her a great deal.”

“Maybe she doesn’t believe you.”

“That could be,” he said, sarcasm ripe in his tone. “She treats me like a damned indentured servant.”

Burr chuckled, then sobered at Cairn’s stern glance. “That’s unfortunate,” he said. “I could talk to Graves.”

Cairn turned back. “What?”

Burr shrugged heavily. “Aye, he’s a bit rough, but he’s got a gift for getting information when—”

“If you let that bastard within ten feet of her, I’ll—” Cairn caught himself, recognizing the bait a moment too late.

Burr’s eyes were dancing now, and his mouth quirked. “You’re not becoming attached to her are you, lad?”

“Damn you,” he said. His tone sounded tired. Exhausted really.

“She’s a wee bonny thing.”

“She’s a liar and a thief.”

“As was Elizabeth. And a whore to boot. But you married her.”

For a moment Cairn considered striking out, but he checked himself. Life had changed since the
Skian Dubh
, where a rousing fight was always welcome. “You think I forgot?” he asked.

“No, lad.” Burr’s voice was suddenly serious. “I think you remember everything.”

Cairn paced to the window. In the courtyard below, a host of lanterns were lit and swayed gently in the evening breeze. A woman’s laughter floated to him in the darkness.

“She’s not Elizabeth,” Burr said.

“No. She’s Magical Megs, Teleere’s master—”

“Is she?”

“Don’t tell me you have doubts just because Gem said she might be wrong.”

“I’ve heard you threaten her,” Burr said. “Doesn’t it seem strange that she wouldn’t buckle under, give up Wheaton’s location?”

“She’s loyal.” And didn’t that beat the hell out of everything. He was the laird of the entire damned island, and he’d found no way to gain his wife’s allegiance. And yet Wheaton, the son of an ousted traitor, still held Megs’s loyalty in a tight grip.

“Perhaps you should try a bribe,” Burr said.

“Hell!” Cairn turned away again, tormented. “I’ve offered her a dozen chances to be free, and she’s taken each one and thrown it back in me face. She’s made a fool of me a hundred times.”

Burroun sighed. “All men are fools where women are concerned.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “But I am the laird of fools.”

“And she’s the princess.”

Cairn scowled. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

“Think on it, lad, the way she talks, the way she carries herself. She’s a damned sight more elegant than you will ever be. Sir Albert or no Sir Albert.”

“It’s an act. She says she’s a seamstress. But she doesn’t talk like a seamstress.”

“And so she’s a thief?”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

“Gem says the girl’s different than she remembers.”

“Gem says!” Cairn glared. “You’re believing a thief about a thief.”

Burr reddened slightly. “The girl’s seen some rough times.”

“You’re hard for her!” Cairn accused in amazement.

Burr snorted. “And some say you’ve got no sense of humor.”

Cairn grinned, sure of the truth suddenly. “You hope to bed her,” he said.

“She’s not half my age.”

Cairn laughed. “No one’s half your age, Burr. In fact—”

The giant rose suddenly to his feet, looming like an enraged bull in too narrow a space. “Haven’t I taught you to keep your mouth shut regarding things you know nothing about?”

Cairn bristled, spoiling for a fight. “You’ve tried.”

“You saying I failed, lad? Cuz I’m willing to make it right now.”

“My lord.” A servant stood in the doorway, looking tense. Cairn couldn’t remember his name. There were too damned many of them. “A package has been sent for you.”

Cairn scowled. “Have it delivered to M—to my prisoner.”

“Gem?”

He gritted his teeth. “Megs.”

“Very well, my liege.”

The room fell silent.

Burr stared. “What was that?”

“None of your business.”

“I made it me own business when I fished you out of that rock pile a score or so years back.”

Cairn sighed. Tension washed out of him. “Haven’t I ever taught you to keep your nose out of other people’s affairs?”

Burr snorted. “You giving her gifts now?”

“Don’t be a lackwit. If you can help it.”

Burr shook his head. “Don’t know how she’s going to resist your interrogation with you turning the screws like you are. She’ll sure break before dawn. Why—”

Burr’s voice droned on as a half dozen scenarios flitted
through Cairn’s mind. His favorite involved himself hitting the other square on the nose. But the man was as big as a damned whaler, and although the idea of pummeling and getting pummeled was strangely appealing, he had other things to do.

Tatiana lay awake, curled against the satiny slope of the couch. She had scoured the room a dozen times, had found a score of items that might assist in her next attempt to escape, but just now she merely lay there—trying to rest. But sleep refused to come. Normally, she found solace in slumber. Not now. But who could blame her? She slept in MacTavish’s bedchamber with no guarantee that she would be left unmolested. Hardly that. In fact, he might burst into the chamber at any moment.

Her heart picked up a beat at the thought. Fear was unbecoming in a highborn lady, she remembered, but in the back of her mind lay a festering question. Was it fear or was it something else? Something more dangerous. He’d touched her. Caressed her, and she’d felt…something. Something she’d not felt before. But then she’d not been a prisoner before. Of course she would be confused.

A noise sounded at the door. Her heart jumped, but it was a woman who stepped inside.

“So you’re the thief,” said the stranger.

Tatiana sat up and raised one brow in question. “And who are you?”

The servant was plump and pretty. “Ain’t you the uppity one.”

“Did you have a reason for breaching my quarters?”

The woman looked as if she planned to retort, but finally she scowled in confusion. “I been told to deliver these to you.” She laid a bundle of clothing on a cluttered chair.
“They’re gent’s clothing.” She paused. Tatiana stared. “You’re to put them on.”

She would not show her surprise. “Very well.”

“They’re gent’s clothes,” she repeated, as though Tatiana hadn’t heard. As though she weren’t shocked. But “
a lady keeps her thoughts to herself,
” or so Mother had said.

“I believe you said that,” Tatiana said dismissively, and the servant turned away.

The door shut heavily. Tatiana crossed the floor and lifted the garments from the chair. It was a simple cotton tunic and a pair of buff trousers.

Why? she wondered, but at that moment she heard a noise on the far side of the door. Bringing the tunic to her chest, she held her breath and waited, but the noise died down, and she was left alone.

There seemed nothing to do but don the garments and see what happened. She had barely slipped into the trousers when MacTavish stepped into the room. He stopped when he saw her, then closed the door behind his back and crossed the floor.

“Elton and you must be the same size.” His eyes skimmed her. “In some places.”

“May I ask why?”

His nostrils seemed to flare slightly before he found her eyes with his again. “Of course.”

She swore in silence. “
A lady does not curse
.” “Why?’ she asked.

“It will be easier for you to learn the art of defense.”

“Ahh. So you are still insane.”

“Of course,” he said, and pulled a knife from a sheath at his side. Despite his position, it was not an ornamental blade, but a dark, deadly, serviceable weapon. “This is a dagger.”

She said nothing.

“I’ll teach you to use it.”

“You jest.”

He smiled. God almighty, when he smiled one could almost believe that he was sane. Or that his mental stability didn’t matter either way.

“You should keep one on your person at all times.”

“Very well. Hand it over.”

“I mean you are to keep one on you when you are no longer here at Westheath.”

“No more plans for the rack?”

He shrugged. “’Tis late,” he said, hefting the blade. “My master torturer is already abed.”

“And it would be rude to wake him.”

He gave her a look. At least she could pretend to fear him. But then he was offering to teach her to defend herself. Maybe it weakened his position. “This blade is not for peeling quince,” he said, shushing his logic.

“That is not what I had in mind.”

“What were you planning?”

She smiled.

He smiled. “Hoping to have your way with me, Megs?”

“Hoping to get away
from
you, MacTavish,” she corrected.

“When the hospitality here is so fine.”

“Are you planning to relinquish that knife?”

He stared at her for a moment, as if considering a dozen possibilities, then, flipping the knife into the air, he caught it by the blade and handed it to her. “Relinquished,” he said. “Now what?”

She glanced at him, at the blade, at him. “I stab you?”

“A fine idea.”

She actually considered it. After all, he seemed to want her to, and he was lord and master here. But even though her mother’s cool tutelage hadn’t covered this ordeal, she was
pretty sure ladies didn’t stab sovereigns, no matter how daft they might be.

“Come ahead,” he said. “Begin.”

She remained immobile.

“Do I have to talk about your body again?”

She raised her chin, possibly in warning. He sighed.

“First off, you can’t hold it like it’s a damned daffodil.” Reaching out, he wrapped his hand around hers, tightening her grip. Heat radiated from his palm. “And remember what I told you about fighting hand-to-hand. It’s not a costume ball, so don’t be polite. Concentrate on the weak spots.”

“Weak spots,” she repeated, but she was having a difficult time concentrating at all. His own attire was similar to hers tonight. Simple, comfortable, open at the throat. And, strangely enough, it was his throat that fascinated her. It was so broad and sun-darkened and strong.

“The eyes, the vitals, the groin.”

“Of course.” She had no idea what he said.

“Very well.” He stepped back a pace and motioned to her. “Come ahead.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stab me.”

She still stared.

“Balls, woman, stab me!”

She lowered the knife. “Would it not be more efficient to simply allow Peters to execute me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What do you think will happen if I injure you?”

He stared at her for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. She watched, annoyed.

“You are amused.”

“Aye,” he said, wiping his eyes.

“Because you think I cannot win.”

“Aye.”

“So I should add ‘faulty memory’ to your lists of flaws,” she said.

He raised his brows, then nodded in understanding. “Because you hit me before.”

“Just so.”

He was still smiling. “I’m not going to let you stab me, Megs.”

“Then perhaps you should cease insisting that I do so.”

The smile faded softly. His eyes became somber. “Where would a seamstress learn to speak like you do?”

She didn’t drop her gaze. “My mother hoped to see me married well. She insisted that I become a lady in every possible manner.”

For a moment, she almost thought he believed her, but then he spoke.

“Draw my blood, Megs, and I’ll let you go.”