Lois Greiman (23 page)

T
atiana sidestepped quickly, avoiding the man at the corner table. There was a miniature gun shoved under her garter and a knife in her sleeve, but the lush still tried to grab her bottom. Maybe it was because her bodice drooped halfway down her bosom. Maybe it was because her skirt was hiked up between her knees. And maybe it was simply because he was a pig.

He straightened in his chair and leered at her. “Quick little snippet, ain’t you?” He was drunk and leering and smelled something like a wine vat gone bad. She considered having him executed, but remembered with some disappointment that her army was no longer at her beck and call.

“Did you want a bit more beer, luv?” she asked instead.

“Nay.” He was eyeing her breasts. Was there spittle in the corner of his mouth? “I want a bit o’ that.”

His companion chuckled blearily. “Looks like she got plenty te spare don’t it, George?”

The first genius grinned. “What do you say, lass. I’ve some coin if’n you have some time.”

Her feet ached, and her head pounded. She’d been here most of six hours. Fatigue wore at her like the plague.

“I’d like te and all.” She tried a smile again, but it was entirely possible that she snarled instead. “But then I’d have ta kill—”

The door opened. She felt the draft and turned, and somehow she knew it was the man she’d been waiting for. He was casually dressed in gray trousers and fawn waistcoat, and yet there was something about his bearing that spoke of importance. He glanced about the room, caught her gaze for a moment, half smiled, and folded his tall frame into a chair near the door.

An arm curled around her shoulder, and she was jerked to the side.

“Old George was talkin’ to you, girl.”

The lush had risen, and, despite his inebriated state, he felt incredibly strong. She was crushed against his side like a rotten pear.

“And George don’t like to be ignored. Not for a piece o’ shit like that.” He nodded toward the newcomer. “I got twice the tail that’s got.”

“Let me go.” She tried to push away, but he was far stronger. Panic felt hot in her throat.

“Let you go where? To my room?” he asked, and chuckled as he pressed his groin up against her hip. Bile rose like high tide.

“Release me,” she ordered, and realized too late that she’d dropped her Seaport dialect.

But George was far too intoxicated to give her accent any importance. “Release me,” he mimicked and chuckled. “Did you hear that, Mug? We got us a princess in tart’s clothing.”

“I wouldn’t mind being in her clothing.”

They laughed together, then George dropped his arm from
her waist. She nearly darted away, but in the same instant, he caught her wrist and began dragging her toward the door.

She dug in her heels, resisting madly, but he glanced back as if barely noticing and yanked her against him. She bounced wildly against his sloppy body, and he chuckled again.

“If you knew what I ’ad in my pants, you’d be beggin’ fer attention,” he said. She shoved the panic back and found the knife in her sleeve. It came away in a shaky fist. She pressed it to his groin, low and steady.

“And if you knew what I had in my hand, you’d be begging for mercy,” she growled.

The color drained from his cheeks like river water as he felt the knife’s tip penetrate his trousers.

“Hey there, missy…” His face contorted. It may have been a smile, but it was difficult to tell for sure. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

“Let me go.” She found that if she gripped the blade firmly enough, it barely shook at all.

“You’re makin’ a mistake, girl.”

“Then you had best depart,” she said, “before I mistakenly kill you.”

His face reddened, but he dropped her arm and stepped back a pace. “Come on, Mug,” he said, not looking at his companion. “The girl ain’t in the mood right now, but I’m bettin’ she will be soon.” He grinned, but the expression was evil and threatening. “Real soon.”

Mug stood up unsteadily, and the two of them left, wending their way between the tables and out.

Tatiana waited breathlessly. It seemed that the world might end, or she might faint, or at the very least, someone would rush to her side with words about her bravery, her boldness. But the world did not stop. No rescuer came.

From the rear of the tavern, a skinny man with a beard yelled for ale, and she stumbled toward the kitchen to fulfill his request.

Her hands shook as she filled two mugs, and when she reentered the common room, she saw that the tall stranger had been joined by another man.

Her stomach coiled hard in her gut and her throat felt dry. They were here then. This was it, a chance to prove herself. A chance to win her freedom, but she must not rush in. She must not appear too eager, so she tended a pair of old men and a sailor before making her way between the patrons to the appointed table.

She wiped her hands on her apron and tried a smile. Although her face felt stiff with panic, they didn’t grimace and draw away, so perhaps the expression wasn’t quite so ghoulish as it felt.

“You gents lost?” she asked, though in truth they did not stick out so drastically as they might. Obviously, they had dressed to fit the occasion, but perhaps they, too, had not realized such wretched places existed.

“No,” said the newest arrival, but the first man smiled.

“Perhaps I am,” he said. “Is this not Westheath Castle?”

She laughed. It sounded crazed, but she swept her straying hair back with a weary hand and tried to hide the tremble. “You’re a bit off the mark,” she said. “This ’ere is ’ell.”

The first man laughed. His hair was fair, his features comely. The second finally smiled. “Ahh,” he said. “I understand. She jests.”

And in that instant she recognized his accent. He was Sedonian. She smiled, though her heart was beating hard and high, making her certain they would see it pounding in her well-exposed chest.

“What can I bring you?” she asked.

“A pint of beer,” said the first man. She almost nodded,
then realized suddenly that he hadn’t spoken in Gaelic, but in French with a soft Teleerian accent.

She scowled and shook her head. “Me apologies,” she said. “’Fraid I don’t speak no Italian.”

He smiled and repeated his order in the common tongue. The dark Sedonian asked for Scotch.

She scurried off. Why French? Why would he speak French but to test her linguistic skills? She didn’t rush back to them, but cleared a table and hoped her heart rate would fall back into normalcy. It did not, but she could wait no longer. Finally, she filled a pair of mugs and toted them back to the twosome, taking her time and approaching from the rear, but their conversation was banal, revolving around recent voyages and natural disasters.

She deposited their libations and turned away, but the men at the next table stopped her, wanting meals with their drinks. She shambled into the kitchen, carrying their orders in her head, then returned minutes later with bowls of stew and loaves of bread.

There were complaints all around. Too stale, too cold.

The night wound away interminably. She wandered near the appropriate table whenever possible. The Sedonian watched her, though he spoke to his companion. “You islanders raise your women well.”

The Teleerian laughed as he sipped his beer. “She’s half your age, Martinez.”

“She is that, Douglas, but luckily, she’s just my size.”

They laughed, already well in their cups.

Patrons came and went. Tatiana delivered more drinks to the twosome in question and listened in when she could, but there was little to hear.

She dropped a pitcher of beer, splattering it in every direction. A sailor pinched her buttocks. Two fisherman threatened to brawl, and a trio of laborers called her over, but
finally the patrons began to wander out. The place grew quieter, and in the midst of the softening conversations a single word caught her attention.

“The princess?” said the islander in French.

The word rang like a bell in her brain, stopping her cold. She stiffened.

“Girl,” snapped a patron, and she refocused. It seemed to take forever to satisfy him, longer still before she could return to an empty table near the Sedonian. She wiped it down slowly, then bent to clean up an imaginary spill on the floor.

“I’m told your country is quite rich,” said the Teleerian. He was leaning back in his chair, and his French was slurred. “Perhaps such a match would be advantageous for my country.”

“Perhaps,” said the Sedonian. “But it would not be advantegeous for my benefactor. Or for your pocketbook.”

The fair man sat up suddenly. Tatiana flinched, but he took no notice of her. “You’d bribe me?” he asked.

The Sedonian stiffened. “I was told you were sympathetic to our cause.”

“I am not,” said the other brusquely, then laughed as he leaned back again. “I am sympathetic to my own. So tell me, who do you have your princess earmarked for, if not for our bastard lord?”

“’Tis not my place to know or care. But this I will tell you: Those I work for will not allow the princess to dally here.”

“And if she does?”

“Princesses are a frail lot and can fall prey to a host of troubles.” The Sedonian drank with casual disregard, then continued with a shrug. “But she was put on the throne at some risk, and my lord is loath to see her gone just yet. Thus—”

“You’ve waited for me.”

Tatiana glanced rapidly up. George had returned and stood swaying near a table to her left, but he was not alone. Two thugs had come with him.

She stood up slowly, realizing belatedly that the room was nearly empty but for the two she’d been eavesdropping on. She glanced at the Sedonian, her countryman. He shifted his gaze toward the brutes and rose to his feet. “Perhaps we should continue our discussion elsewhere.”

The islander caught her eye, then rose beside his companion. “Aye,” he agreed and dropped a pair of coins on the table. “We’ll leave you to your fun, lass.”

They were gone in a moment. She turned with them.

George smiled. “You ready then, girl?” he asked, and lumbered heavily forward.

She stepped back. “If you leave now, no harm will come to you,” she said.

“I like the way you talk,” he said, and chuckled. “Don’t you like the way she talks, lads?”

They followed their leader, closing in on her. Breath clogged in her throat. She grappled for the gun beneath her skirts. It came away in her hand, but it was gone before she could bring it to bear, snatched from her fingers.

“Girl!” shouted the cook from the kitchen.

She tried to call for help, but in that instant, George clasped his hand over her mouth and dragged her toward the door. She kicked madly, but it was hard to breathe, impossible to think.

They were outside in a moment, but there was no one in sight, no help to be found. She tried to shriek, but even as he shifted her under his arm, his hand remained over her mouth.

She bit him. He dropped her, and she scrambled wildly, trying to gain her feet, but he was on her in an instant, snatching her up by the hair and ripping her bodice away with one fist.

She cried out in terror, but he slapped his hand across her mouth, thumping her against the wall of the inn and grinding his groin into her.

“Here’s a right fine place for a fuck then if’n yer in a hurry for—” Something swung out of the darkness. George crumpled sideways, spinning her about with his momentum, and when she found her feet, MacTavish was there.

He stepped toward her, as Burr grunted and let the other two fall.

Tatiana tried to be strong, tried to keep her back straight and her head high, but fatigue and the tattered remnants of terror corroded her will. She began to shake. A moment later she realized she was crying. Taking off his doublet, Cairn wrapped it about her shoulders and pulled her into his arms.

In the back of her mind, she told herself she should resist. After all, it was he who had endangered her at the start, but his body felt warm and strong. She was sheltered in the lee of his arm, bundled against the heat of his person.

The journey to Westheath seemed to be gone in an instant, but perhaps she had slept. The carriage jolted to a halt. She sat up blearily as Cairn stepped to the ground and lifted her back into his arms. Tatiana was certain she should make her own way up the stairs, but it was so much easier to remain as she was, listening to his heart beat against her ear, feeling his arms around her. His footfalls seemed far away and muffled. The world seemed strangely quiet. In a moment they were in his chambers. A single candle flickered on a thousand outlandish items, casting shadows and light across the unearthly room like a magical wand.

He closed the door with his shoulder and bore her to the bed, where he sat down. She kept her eyes closed and her face turned into his chest. The scent of pipe smoke lingered on his tunic and through the sheer fabric, she could feel the heat of his body. He held her close and swept his hand slowly
down the length of her unbound hair. It felt strangely soothing, but she dared not be soothed. She drew a shaky breath and forced herself to straighten.

“I do not know if you could hear them.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, distinctly at odds with their positions. But it was the only tone she had. “They spoke—”

“I’m sorry.”

She glanced at him. They were close, their faces inches apart, their bodies touching. She was painfully aware of each point of contact. Her arm against his chest, her bottom pressed against the hard strength of his thighs.

She took a deep breath, strengthening her resolve, though not quite enough to force herself from his lap, and ignored his words. “They spoke French.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. His brows lowered. “I didn’t realize they’d come back. When the two left we sent men to follow them. I thought you would be safe. I thought—” He stopped the words. The muscle jumped again. “Did they hurt you?”

She watched him for a moment. “Do you have spies?”

“Besides you?” His tone was serious, his fingers light when he brushed back her hair. She nodded.

“Aye, we have many. But you were as brave as any of them. Barton himself would have been proud.”