Lois Greiman (24 page)

She refused to tremble, but could not maintain eye contact. “You lie,” she said. “I fear I was not an exemplary spy. I have—”

“The face of an angel.”

“What?’

He watched her in silence for a moment. “The body of a siren,” he said, “and the spirit of a lion. Who are you, lass?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but found she’d lost her train of thought. “I was…terrified and exhausted and…” He was stroking her hair with a rhythmic cadence. “And I
couldn’t help thinking that my people…” She caught herself. “That
other
people feel those same things with regularity. Every day. Every—” He was watching her intently. She closed her mouth and stared down at her hands, knowing she had said too much.

“And what of you, lass?” he asked. “Don’t you usually get tired? Don’t you get scared?”

“Perhaps I have been more sheltered than I knew.”

He exhaled softly. She felt his breath against her. “There are times when I am sure you’re a thief. There are times I believe you are a duchess. And there are times—”

“I am not a traitor, MacTavish. No matter what else you think of me, I did as you asked.”

The muscle in his jaw tightened again. The movement fascinated her, but she forced herself to think of other things. Not his physical beauty, not on the feel of his hands.

“I believe you were correct,” she said. “The smaller man, the darker man…he was Sedonian.”

“Lass—”

She scowled at him. “I risked my life for this information, MacTavish. I…” She paused. “How do people live like that? And—” She shook her head. “Who were they?”

She thought he might try to shush her again, but he answered instead. “The taller of the two is an ambassador of mine.”

“And the Sedonian?”

“He has ties to man named Lord Paqual.”

Lord Paqual! She felt the shiver of betrayal shake her. Felt the heat of shame warm her. Lord Paqual had been her uncle’s most trusted counselor and the man always eager to offer his advice. He was also instrumental in her coronation. Yet he had connived behind her back, had offered money to make certain she would not make the match she thought best
for her country. Had threatened to see her gone if she did not conform to his wishes.

Aye, Lord Paqual had betrayed her. How many others had done the same?

T
atiana’s heart seemed to beat in slow motion. Loneliness hung like a heavy weight between her aching shoulders, but she dared not bend beneath the burden, for MacTavish watched her carefully as if judging her emotions, guessing her thoughts.

“You’ve heard of Paqual?” he asked.

“No,” she said, but her own voice sounded far away, as if spoken by another. “How could I?”

“He’s an important man in Sedonia. The old king’s trusted advisor. Some say he is also the king’s murderer.” He shrugged. “’Tis sure the young princess values him, too, for he was instrumental in gaining her the crown. ’Tis said she is but his puppet. You’ve not heard of him before?”

“No.”

“You’re shaking,” he said, and took her hand in his. She tried to pull from his grasp, but he held her fingers between his palms, and somehow the sight of his hands, large and strong, surrounding hers made her feel just a little less alone.

“You said you lived there once,” he said, and turning her hand over, traced a line in her palm.

“Yes,” she agreed. The simple movement of his fingers against her hand felt disturbing lovely. “But I was young then and…unaware of politics.”

She tried to free her hand. The attempt was unsuccessful, so she tried not to be grateful, though the warmth of his fingers fortified her.

“What else was said?” he asked.

“Apparently the princess of Sedonia hopes to convince you that a marriage would be advantageous to your isle.”

“Really?” His tone was sharp with interest, and with that interest a tangle of uncertain emotions brewed within Tatiana’s breast. Uncertainty, frustration, and some feeling so dark and unfathomable, she could not even guess at its import. Certainly, she could not be jealous. Not of herself. “The princess of Sedonia?” he asked.

She lifted her chin slightly, battling the feelings like a bullfighter with a butterfly net. “Yes.”

He smiled. “’Tis said she is quite…” His fingers were gentle against her wrist. “Bonny.”

“Really?” she asked, then forced herself to lower her eyes and concentrate on the matter at hand. The matters of state—so much more important than the feelings his fingers evoked. “The Sedonian wished to make sure there was no match between you and the princess.”

“Why?”

“They did not say.”

“It doesn’t matter.” His eyes softened. “I am not looking for a bride.” He slid his thumb up her wrist, seeming to drive the unsteadiness out of her hand.

She swallowed. “Sedonia is wealthy…or so I hear.”

“And embroiled in intrigue. The old king died.” Lifting
her hand, he kissed the veins that throbbed in sharp relief in her wrist. Blood scurried hotly through her, screaming the news of his touch to her heart. She licked her lips and remembered not to breathe through them. “The girl, his niece, was left to man the throne.” His eyes were as warm as his fingers. “There will be a bevy of hot-blooded fools vying for her hand…just as many old bastards after her throat. Nay, Teleere doesn’t need the troubles Sedonia would surely bring.”

She tried not to wince. “Perhaps that is why the princess is considering taking a husband. To still the turmoil.”

A slight frown marred his brow. But he shrugged, concentrating on her hand again and stroking it with careful attention. “Sedonia has nothing to offer us. Teleere has enough problems of her own without adding such instability to its troubles.”

“Instability?” Perhaps she should be insulted, but the sensations caused by his fingers were all-consuming, though she did her best to concentrate on the conversation.

“Sedonia is rich, but her leader is young and untried, her counselors old and mercenary.”

“So you will not consider her suit?”

He glanced up, drawing his attention from her hand. “Would you care?”

“No. I mean…of course not. I do not know the princess, after all. Her plight has little to do—”

“Would you care if I took another to bed?”

Her jaw dropped slightly. She drew a soft breath between her teeth. “It is hardly my place to decide whom you take to your bed.”

“But it would get rather crowded if another were here,” he said, and, slipping her off his lap, he kissed her.

Emotions buzzed like mad hornets, racing through her bloodstream, skittering through her nerves. Fear and relief
and uncertainty, all screaming through her system. But it was desire that warmed her blood.

His tongue touched her lips, sweeping gently across them. His fingers tangled in her hair.

She pulled back in a panic, and he let her go. But still, he was horribly close. So close she could feel his heat, could feel the brush of his arm against hers. She shivered.

“You’re still shaking,” he said.

She tried to calm her breathing, her heart, her newly surfaced emotions. “I think I’ve earned the right. ’Tis not every day I’m accosted by living excrement,” she said. Nor was it every day that she learned of a plot against her. It was difficult to say which was worse, but he smiled, and something inside her mewled like a baby at the sight.

“You’ve the heart of a bear, lass,” he said, and stroked her cheek. “In truth, I wasn’t sure whether to save you or them.”

“I believe you made the right choice.” Dear God, she should not let him touch her.

“Your voice was steady earlier.” He watched her carefully. “Your hands the same. But now you tremble. Why?”

She wanted him. Desperately. Completely. God help her. “Delayed reaction I suspect.”

“Or you are more afraid of what lies between us than of the bastards at the inn.”

“You
have
offered to execute me.”

“And you’ve never believed it for a moment.”

“
Are
you planning to?”

“No, lass. But I didn’t intend to make love to you either,” he said, and, kissing her again, pressed her gently into the pillow. His hand was firm against the back of her neck, his chest was hard against hers. She kissed him back, though she knew with absolute certainty that she was a fool to do so.

His tongue touched her lips, and she opened for him, wel
coming him in, slanting across his mouth and searching for more.

“Lass…” His breathing was just as hard as hers.

“We mustn’t do this.” She panted the words, but strangely, her fingers were already on his buttons, pulling them open, revealing the smooth, rigid slopes of his chest. Entranced, she brushed her palm across his nipple. He closed his eyes and shivered. The tremble traveled his arm, shaking the beautiful musculature to his fingertips. She watched, her lips slightly parted, fascinated beyond belief. “It would be foolish,” she murmured, and, reaching up, gently suckled that same nipple she had just touched. “Wrong.”

He jerked against her, arching back, and she drew away slowly, seeing that his teeth were gritted. His eyes opened, though not fully.

“Lass,” he said, “I admit that I’ve no idea whether you lie or tell the truth, but if you are virginal—”

“I am,” she said, and, brushing his shirt aside, kissed the other nipple.

It stood out like a small sentry on a glorious hillock.

“If you are,” he repeated. He was breathing hard. His tunic was pushed off one shoulder, and every muscle stood rigid and ready beneath the golden sheet of his flesh. “It would be best to do this slowly.”

“Slowly.” She nodded, though she wasn’t exactly sure what he had said. The muscle across his shoulder stood out in sharp relief, leaving intriguing hills and dells. She reached up to pet them, to feel them shift beneath her hand. He might have the title of lord, but he had the mind-numbing body of a god, or a pirate. She kissed his chest, just in the center, where the hard sinews and muscle drew together in a tight valley. “You do not look like most lords,” she said.

“Oh.” His tone was breathy. “And have you seen many?”

She realized her mistake, but somehow it was difficult to care, for he was nearly undressed, and she was wet. Wet and far past ready. “Just hearsay.” Reaching up again, she brushed his shirt from his other shoulder, baring the entirety of his chest. “I have heard they are powerful,” she whispered, “and skilled.” She swept her palm down his abdomen. It rippled like high tide, but he stopped her with a hand on her wrist.

“Lass.” His eyes were burning, his voice strangely raspy. “I am a man.”

“Yes, you are.”

Their lips were inches apart. She could feel his desire like the brush of a warm wind. And somehow that desire scorched her. He wanted her. Not for her riches, not for her influence or her title. But for herself. Her body, her spirit, her heart. She was not alone.

She curled her fingers inward, so that her knuckles brushed his skin. He closed his eyes, but opened them in a moment, finding hers.

“The fact that I am laird here…” He shook his head. She tried to move her hand, but he tightened his grip, stilling her movement. “It is little more than an accident.”

She watched him. “And who should be lord, MacTavish? Who deserves the title?”

He shook his head.

“Burr? Peters? Me?” She laughed a little, because everything seemed ultimately clear, yet strangely vague. “The more I see, the more I think that everything is an accident. Luck.” She swept her free hand down his arm. The stark white of his sleeve looked strangely incongruous against the golden strength of his fingers. “There are those who would have us believe that royalty is the divine will of God. But what now?” she asked. “The old lord is dead. You are left in
his place. Does that mean that his death was also the Lord’s divine will?” She shook her head in mild confusion. “Perhaps the experiences you have had, the hardships you have faced…” She paused, drawing her finger along a scar that crossed his shoulder. “Perhaps they make you a better ruler. A better man.”

“But not a better lover.”

“What?” She raised her gaze from the scar to his face.

“I am a man, like any other man.”

She skimmed his body again. “I may be naive, MacTavish, but—”

“If there is a secret, lordly way to satisfy women, the secret stayed with the old man.”

“What?” she said again, but she realized with sudden, mind-blasting certainty that he was not, at this moment, worried about his ability to rule. He was worried about his ability to satisfy her. And she laughed. “You think that because you are the lord you should also be a phenomenal lover?”

He watched her askance. “You don’t think so?”

“I think there may be some sort of mandate to the contrary.”

“Elizabeth thought…” He stopped his words and bent down to kiss her lips. “You are as beautiful as you are brave,” he said. “And maybe…” He scowled. “Maybe you are just as kind.”

“What did Elizabeth think?”

His eyes were warm and deep. “You don’t need to do this, lass, if you choose not to.”

“What did she think?”

He drew a careful breath. “She hated me. For a time I thought it was because of who I am, a lowborn bastard set in the place of a lord. Then I thought she simply detested me.” He shrugged. “Now I don’t know.”

“And it torments you?”

He shook his head, but she ignored his denial.

“It torments you because she was the Benelean king’s youngest daughter. A lady of the purest blood. Surely she was all that is good in a woman.”

“I’ve no desire for ladies,” he said.

Again she ignored him. She could read him like a book. Cairn MacTavish, laird of the isle of Teleere, felt inadequate. And somehow that almost made her cry.

“Gem saved my life,” she said.

He scowled at her.

“Gem.” She nodded, and realized suddenly that her eyes had indeed filled with tears. “I’m nothing to her,” she said. “But she kept me alive, saved me from…” She was unable to go on for a moment. “Saved me from a man some surely believe is a gentleman. She risked her life to escort me to safety.” She smiled. “Or to relative safety.” She shifted her gaze back to his. “I’ve seen you with your people,” she said. “You are above them, and yet you are one of them. Lieutenant Peters. He could hardly make more mistakes if he put forth a concerted effort, and yet he remains.”

“’Tis only because—” he began, but she continued on.

“Most noblemen would not see fit to keep an uncouth Norseman in their households, yet Burr rarely leaves your side.”

He shrugged. “I can’t seem to be rid of him.”

“Even Sir Albert, who surely disapproves of your unrefinement, cannot deny your abilities.”

“Albert,” he said, and winced. “I think he may be in love with me. I try not to be alone with him.”

She smiled. “You’ve a gift, MacTavish. Do not belittle it.”

Silence ticked by.

“Sometimes I can’t decide.” He was watching her care
fully, his heavenly eyes narrowed, his mobile face expressionless. “Are you kind or are you clever?”

“Can I not be both?”

“Most aren’t, lass.”

“Then I shall choose to be honest. I’ve nothing to gain from you, MacTavish. You will set me free, or you will not. But while I am here…” She was calm now. Calm and languid, warmly wet, quietly eager. All seemed hopelessly right. She ran her hand slowly up the dramatic curve of his chest and curled it gently around the back of his neck. “I will learn from you,” she said.

“The more I know of you, lass, the less I think there is anything I can teach you.”

She smiled. “I am sure you are wrong,” she said, and kissed him.