Lois Greiman (28 page)

T
he
Fat Molly
pitched sweetly beneath Cairn’s feet. It felt lovely, like the gentle rocking of a babe’s wee cradle, but not everyone, apparently, appreciated cradles.

“You look a mite flushed, Megs,” he said.

Megs…He still called her that, for despite all, he had no more idea of her true identity than he had the day they’d first met. But whoever she was, she tightened her grip on the pistol and pursed her lips. Those bonny, luscious lips. The lips of a liar. The lips of a seductress. Not the lips of a runaway princess. Surely not. But something inside him cranked the screws on his conscience. Was he the liar? Had he been lying the whole time, lying to keep her at his side. But then, he wasn’t the only one to blame. She could have been honest from the first, could have trusted him, instead of spewing outlandish tales of tailors and thieves and princesses. Damn, she made his head ache.

“Sit down,” she ordered. She was braced against the wall of his quarters, looking too weak to stand against the delicate sway of his favorite vessel. He smiled.

“If you’re planning to vomit, you’d best get topside, lass.”

She pulled a sour face. “I am not about to vomit.”

“Then you might as well relax.” He sat on his berth and lifted a wooden bowl of fruit toward her. “Grapes?”

She glanced toward the bowl and swallowed once. The muscles in her jaws clenched, but she spoke articulately.

“Might you think this a lark, MacTavish?”

“Nay. You’ve a pistol pointed at my…” he began, then noted that her aim had wandered somewhat. “Wall,” he said.

She rapidly corrected her aim, pointing somewhere between his navel and his left shoulder. And although that destination might be somewhat preferable to her earlier target, a bullet there would still be painful, if not fatal.

“Do you plan to hold me captive the entire voyage?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, and pursed her lips again. He watched them pucker.

“’Tis a long journey.”

She snorted. Her eyes were very wide, showing an immense amount of sclera around her expanded irises. “I thought you were a seaman, MacTavish. Surely a two-day voyage is no great feat for you.”

He shrugged. “Aye, it might take two days, but it might well take a fortnight if we run off course.”

Beneath them, the sea swelled merrily. He felt the tension build far before it should have been discernible. But it came, lifting them lovingly upward before letting them fall gently in its wake. Megs bumped against the wall, fumbled with the pistol, and brought it frantically back to bear. Maybe the swell wasn’t quite as loving as it seemed to him.

“A fortnight!” she exclaimed. The flush on her cheeks had turned a strange shade. Something akin to the color of a Syrian olive.

He shrugged. “You did not give me time to gather me usual crew, lass.”

“I cannot wait a fortnight.”

“Why not?”

The
Molly
bucked and quieted again. Cairn waited expectantly, letting the silence grow around them. The girl remained as she was for a fraction of a second before her shoulders hunched and her cheeks swelled. Seeing the inevitable, he dumped the fruit onto the table and thrust the bowl toward her, but she had covered her mouth with her hand. He tore it away and shoved the bowl in its place. She tried to resist, to bring her weapon back to bear, but he grabbed the back of her head and pressed it downward. In a matter of seconds, she had emptied her stomach, shuddered, and vomited again.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

“I’ll—” she began, bringing the pistol up again. It wobbled like a cork float in her hand.

“Shut up and sit down,” he said and shoved her toward the mattress. She struck it and tried to bounce back up. “Stay,” he ordered, then bore the bowl to the door and yelled for Burr.

He was there in a moment, listened in silence, and strode away a second later, the bowl held in his gigantic hand.

Cairn turned back toward her. The pistol was trained on him once again. Her eyes were level, but her cheeks were notably paler.

“If you endeavor to take me back to Teleere, you have my vow to shoot you,” she said.

He wondered if she would even manage to stand up. Still, he remained where he was, though he was tempted to push her back onto the mattress and feel her heat beneath him. He took a step toward her.

“You have my solemn vow,” she said. The gun wobbled.

“And at this range, I or the door latch would surely be dead.”

She corrected her aim shakily. “I’ll not go back, MacTavish.” Her tone was steady, her huge eyes the same, but her baby lips quivered. His stomach twisted at the sight, but he pushed any asinine emotions to the rear and took another step toward her.

“Was it so terrible there, lass?”

“Do not come any closer,” she warned. “Tell Burroun to maintain a course for Sedonia.”

“Why?”

Her eyes were ungodly bright. She swallowed hard and raised her left hand to assist her right. “There’s trouble there.”

“What kind of trouble, lassie? Surely the princess cannot be shot if you are she and you are here.”

He stepped toward her.

“Stay where you are.” For the first time since their meeting, her voice sounded panicked.

“If you shoot me, Burr’ll have no reason to obey your orders, lass. You’d be a fool to wound me. And though you may be many things, a fool you are not.”

“Do not come any closer.” She rose shakily to her feet, and in that moment he lunged.

The pistol fired. He grabbed it from sheer instinct, imprisoning her and the weapon in one swift movement.

“What’s this then?” Burr asked from the doorway. His brows were raised, his hand wrapped about a wooden mug. He eyed Cairn up and down, apparently checking for blood in his nether regions, then raised his gaze to note their respective positions, inches apart with her hair wound about them like silken threads.

“Shall we keep hoping for a royal heir then, lad?” he asked.

“Not today, Burr.”

The giant chuckled and set the mug on the table. “I brought the lassie’s tonic.”

Cairn nodded.

“So…” Burr drew himself up. “Where do we point our prow, laddie?”

Cairn felt the girl shiver against him, felt the heat of her body seep into his soul, felt her fear like a tangible force.

“She says there’s trouble in Sedonia.”

“Then Sedonia it is,” rumbled the Norseman, and left the room.

Cairn tossed the pistol away and eased the girl onto the bed before retrieving the mug Burr had left.

“Drink this.”

She stared at him. “You believe me?”

“That you’re the princess of Sedonia?”

She nodded.

“Nay,” he said, and tilted the smooth vessel up to her lips. “But whether you’re royalty or riffraff, I don’t want you soiling on me shoes. Drink this.”

She did so finally, then made a face and pushed the mug aside. He pushed it back until she had finished it.

He settled onto the mattress and stared at her. Color had begun to return to her cheeks and her irises had returned to their normal size. “Better?” he asked.

She nodded once, then, “What are your plans for me?”

Her lips were calling to him. He didn’t answer, but tightened his fist against the blankets and shored up his willpower, though his traitorous left hand seemed to have crept up to smooth a lost tendril of hair behind her ear. “The same as ever,” he said. “To find out who you are.”

She closed her eyes at his touch then opened them slowly. They were as round and soft as a doe’s. “Wouldn’t it be easier simply to believe me?”

His knuckles had strayed down her throat. Her skin was
ridiculously soft, at least for a thief’s. Doubt cranked up in his stomach. He ignored it as best he could. “What did you hear in the meeting?”

Her expression was ungodly sober, making it all but impossible to resist leaning forward to kiss the corners of her plump mouth.

“That you had hired another to kill me.”

His hand paused for a moment, before he slipped it behind her neck, feeling the incredible softness of her hair against his knuckles. “Me.”

“Aye. But it will not work.”

He nodded once. “Because there is another in your place.”

“Yes.”

He ceased kneading her neck and found her eyes. “Then you have nothing to fear.”

She drew a deep breath. “Did you order my death, MacTavish?”

He pressed the great weight of her hair over her far shoulder and caressed the kitten soft underside. “As I said before—”

“Martinez said the orders were yours.” Her voice was a whisper.

“Martinez lied,” he said.

Her lips trembled.

“Why did you come here, lass?” he asked, and leaned forward against his better judgment.

“I cannot tell you.” Her words were a soft breath against his lips. “But I must return. I must.”

“You are safe with me. You needn’t worry.”

“Needn’t worry? Is that how I seem to you, MacTavish? As if I would put another in my place and not care if she died? Do I seem so cold?”

He watched her carefully. “Aye,” he said softly, “sometimes you do.”

Her cheeks went pale again, but it was not the
Molly
’s tossing now, but her own fractious thoughts. “Maybe I was,” she whispered. “Maybe at one time, but no more. She will not die.” Bringing her hand up, she crushed her lapel in her fist. “She must not die because of me. Do you hear me, MacTavish?”

He tried to hold firm to his jaded illusions. But her eyes were too large, her skin too soft, her lips too full. “When is the assassination to take place?”

“On Midsummer’s Eve. Every year at that time the royal family rides to Bartham.”

“Where is that?”

“It is a village. My people bring their best steeds there, and from that herd I choose the best. It is a great honor.” He watched her throat convulse as she swallowed. “I am to be killed en route.”

“You will not be.”

“But the girl who sits on my throne—”

“She will not die either.”

She raised her chin slightly. “Truly?”

“You have me word,” he said. “As a man and a laird.”

Her lips twitched. It was a rare visual of some internal turmoil. “And what then, MacTavish?”

“Then, when I save the princess, you will tell me the truth.”

She nodded slowly.

“Swear it,” he said, “on your immortal soul.”

“I swear,” she whispered. “You shall know all.” There was a sadness in her face suddenly. A loneliness. Fear curled in his stomach, tightening his senses. He skimmed his thumb across her cheek.

“And tell me, princess, after I know the truth, shall I see you again?”

She stared at him for an eternity, her eyes liquid and haunted. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

He told himself he shouldn’t. That it was a bad idea, that one kiss would never be enough, but there was no chance of him resisting. She opened her mouth to his, and he moaned as he pressed into her. Her hands were on his chest, pulling away his tunic and there was nothing he could do, no way to stop her. He was weak, after all. Only a man. Only a laird.

They were naked in a matter of seconds. She lay upon the mattress like a goddess, like a princess, awaiting him, welcoming him. There were no barriers, no words. He smoothed his palm down her breast and over her belly. She was beautiful, he thought. Beautiful and clever and none of the things she claimed to be. Most probably a spy, a spy for the very princess she was trying to save. But just now she was his. He slipped his hand lower. She moaned and arched up to meet him, rocking with the movement of the waves, and there were no more thoughts, not until she lay limp and sated in his arms, not until she was lulled by the sweet rhythm of the water.

He smoothed his hand down the length of her hair and wondered if he had lied. Perhaps he did not have the strength to let her go. Perhaps, even when he knew the truth, he would fail, but in that moment he felt a droplet of warmth against his arm. A tear had trickled from her eye and onto his biceps, and with that tiny tear, he knew that while it would be difficult to let her go, it was no longer possible to hold her against her will.

The wharves were busy. Tatiana stood at the prow, her heart leaping in her chest. The winds had not been favorable. The sea had been rough, the voyage long. She should have resented the delay, but she had been in MacTavish’s arms, wrapped in his security. She closed her eyes, and fortified her strength. She could not turn back. It was over. They had arrived, and despite all Burr had done to hasten the trip, it was the day of her birth.

MacTavish strode up beside her. She didn’t look up, but she could feel his presence.

“When will the princess make her ride?”

“After the noon feast.”

“We have a few hours then.”

“I hope so.”

“You will remain on board,” he said.

She skimmed the crowds. “No.”

He scowled down at her. “Burr knows your country well. We will find our way to Bartham.”

She didn’t glance up. “Yes, we will.”

He glared at her a moment, then cursed softly and called for Burr.

The Norseman appeared in a moment.

“Do you know what to do?” MacTavish asked.

“Keep the princess alive?”

“More specifically.”

“I’ll secure horses. We’ll ride for the palace and warn her entourage.”

MacTavish nodded, and in a moment they were off. But it was difficult to find enough horses. They hired a carriage instead and as many mounts as they could, piled inside, and galloped toward Skilan, the city of her birth, but once they reached the outskirts, the streets were flooded with people. Music played everywhere. Acrobats and jugglers plied their trade, and the smell of roasting foods permeated the air.

Their driver cracked his whip above the team’s sweating croups, but their passage was jammed. And then they saw it—up ahead, a river of royalty moved down the streets like a slow-moving barge.

They’d left early. Tatiana pushed the door of the carriage open and jumped to the ground, trying to break through the crowd. They were almost there, but not close enough. She could not see Burr or the men who were mounted with him.
And then she saw her impostor, perched like a deity upon her favorite gray mare. For a moment she was stunned, caught in a strange netherworld where she was not who she was. Where she could be who she wanted. Not held by the bonds of blood, but free to love and be loved. To touch and be touched. But it was not to be. Duty was strong. She would do what she must. And yet she was trapped, blocked away from the royal entourage.