Lois Greiman (30 page)

He nodded without hesitation.

“And can you learn who told the prince to be there at that precise moment?”

He settled himself into a chair. “Your time away has made you suspicious.”

“As I said, I will be choosing a husband soon.”

“And you would know whom to trust.”

“Or at least whom to distrust the least.”

He smiled a little, that roguish grin that was his alone. “MacTavish—” he began, but she cut him off in an instant.

“Not MacTavish.”

The smile disappeared and his dark eyes narrowed slightly. “What did he do to you, Anna?”

She didn’t answer immediately and he rose slowly, setting his drink aside. He was lean and handsome, dark of skin and hair, and as elegant as a Venetian waltz, but there was something in his eyes that made him seem suddenly dangerous. Her Nicol. Perhaps she didn’t know him so well as she thought. Perhaps she didn’t know anyone.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” she said and turned abruptly away so she couldn’t see the emotions she failed to control. “But he is not interested in…” She caught herself and straightened. “The match would not be in Sedonia’s best interests.”

“Sedonia’s best interests.”

“Yes.”

“And what does Sedonia need, Anna? A king with half your wit and none of your strength.”

“It needs a king who can better my people’s lot.”

He watched her carefully. “What did MacTavish—”

“I do not think it is your place to question me, Nicol.”

“Nay, that would be a husband’s place,” he said. “If he had the nerve. MacTavish seems the type—”

She interrupted him quickly. “I am asking for your help,” she said. “Will you give it?”

“Help.” He watched her too closely. She held his gaze with some effort. “Aye,” he said. “I will help you. I will always help you, whether you want it or not.”

“M
y lord.” Peters bowed perfunctorily. His face was pale and solemn, his eyes wide. “It is good to have you home.”

Cairn grunted as he pushed past his lieutenant. His mood was blacker than hell.

“What’s wrong?” Burr’s tone sounded no more congenial, and Peters stiffened even more.

“I fear we’ve had a bit of trouble here at Westheath, my lord.”

“Trouble?” Burr rumbled.

Peters swallowed. “Some days past, Maid Carolyn thought she saw Wheaton in the village.”

Cairn’s spine stiffened. He waited.

“We tried to follow him, but he was gone. Like a shadow really.”

“But all is well?” Burr asked. “No one was injured?”

“No…” Peters said, but the single word was uncertain. “No one was injured…so far as we know.”

Burroun’s scowl deepened. “What the devil does that mean?”

Cairn would not have thought the man could get paler. He would have been wrong again. Damn!

“The lass called Gem…” Peters paused. Silence fell like a cannonball into the room, and in that silence, Burr stepped forward and grasped the lieutenant by the front of his tunic.

“What about Gem?”

“She’s gone, my lord.”

“Gone!”

“Aye. One of the serving maids thought she heard something in your chambers, my lord. But when she checked, no one was there. Still…” He paused again.

Burr shook him like a rat. “Still, what?”

“She felt as if she were being watched.”

“Watched?”

“Aye. Then later Cormick thought he saw the shadow of a man in the hallway near the girl’s room. We kept a guard there all the while and one below the nearest window, but when we checked…” He swallowed again. “She was gone.”

Burr let the man’s feet settle onto the floor. A muscle ground in his jaw. “Was she forced? Or did she go of her own accord?”

“I do not know, my lord.”

“When was this?” Cairn asked.

“Two days past.”

“And you’ve searched for her?”

“Aye, my liege. We have searched diligently. But we’ve found no sign. Neither of her nor Wheaton.”

Burr was atypically silent.

“But no one was hurt?” Cairn asked.

“No, my lord.” There was another pause.

Burr reached for him again. Peters stepped back. “But Lord Burroun’s stallion is gone.”

The Norseman’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he turned like a man of steel and left the room.

It was some days later that Cairn found Burr in the kitchen. The Norseman had been gone since the night of their return from Sedonia, but he had not found the girl called Gem. Nor had they seen any sign of Wheaton. Just now Burr was sitting alone on a stool near a thick slab table and didn’t turn at the sound of his lord’s approach.

Instead, he emptied his tankard and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. In the giant hearth behind him, embers still glowed bright. A red-cored faggot popped and sizzled. The scent of cinnamon and cloves was heavy in the warm air.

“Burroun,” Cairn said, and pulled up a stool next to his. “I’ve no wish to spoil your fun, but I have to tell you, you’re not a drinking man.”

Burr shrugged. “I believe you’re wrong there, lad, but reality’s a bit blurrier every minute.” He refilled his tankard and drank again.

Cairn watched him a moment, then sat down. “Give me that,” he said, and took the mug from the giant’s hand. It was not Westheath’s best brew, but he finished it in a moment and set the tankard aside. “Damn them,” he said quietly.

Burr turned toward him with slow deliberation. “Them?” he asked.

“You think you’re the only one who’s been wronged, Norseman?”

A muscle worked in Burr’s jaw. “She took me steed,” he said, and nodded. “The one thing she knew I valued.”

Cairn shrugged. “She wished to escape. It only makes sense. You’d do the same yourself.”

Burr glowered into his empty mug. “She doesn’t ride.”

“Maybe Wheaton took the horse, forced her to go with him.”

He paled for a moment and his fist tightened around the mug, but he shook his head finally. “More likely she told him just what steed was mine. More likely they’re laughing over tales of an oversized Viking who—” He ground his teeth and filled the mug again. “I’d have thought I was too old to be made a fool by a scrap of a thing like her.”

“Someone once told me that all men are fools where women are concerned.”

Burr snorted a laugh. “He sounds like a fool.”

“Better a fool than a liar,” Cairn said, and, grabbing a new mug from the table, poured himself a full cup.

“Shut the hell up,” Burr rumbled.

Cairn drank. “Some might think it unwise to speak like that to one’s laird.”

“And some would be an arse,” Burr said. “And a dolt.”

“Are you implying something in your own subtle way, Burr?”

“Aye,” the Norseman growled, and leaned close. “I’m implying that you’re an arse and a dolt.”

Cairn drank thoughtfully. “Any particular reason?”

Burr rolled a jaundiced eye at him. “Because she’s gone.”

“And you blame her disappearance on me?”

“Who else? You’re the damned laird.”

“And you were in love with her.”

“In love w—” Burr began, but he stopped himself immediately and paled just a little. “It could be that you are the stupidest creature ever to walk the face of the earth.”

Cairn shrugged. It was possible. In the past few days he had come to a similar conclusion.

“The lass is gone, sent away by your own hand, and you don’t even know who I’m talking about.”

“Tatiana.” He said the name slowly, trying it out on his tongue. It fit her so damnably well.

“Aye. Tatiana,” Burr said. “The princess of Sedonia.”

Cairn felt his muscles tighten up one by one. “She lied.”

Silence fell softly into the room.

“Do you miss her, lad?”

“Miss her! ’Twas the same thing Lady Nedra asked. Nay, I don’t miss her! She was—”

“And you do not lie,” Burr interupted. “Is that your point?”

Cairn stared into his beer. There wasn’t nearly enough. “A princess…” He choked a laugh. “Hardly do I need another fine lady to ruin me life.”

“Clearly you can do the job well enough on your own,” Burr said.

“Huh!” Cairn chortled. “Look at who’s calling the donkey an arse.”

Burr nodded rumatively. “Aye,” he said. “You might well say so, lad, for I have made a host of mistakes. I left her alone here, and said she was safe in my—” He drank again. “I, too, visited Lady Nedra where she assists in the infirmary. But even she cannot guess where the lass has gone, though she has an uncanny way about her.” He snorted a laugh. “The girl would have been better in the care of an old woman than in mine. She should not have come here. Should not have trusted…” He paused and emptied his tankard. “Aye, I made me own mistakes, but I would right them if I could.”

“What are you saying, old man?”

Burr turned on him with a snarl. “I’m saying you’re sitting here like a sack of moldy meal when you should be setting sail for Sedonia this very minute.”

Cairn’s throat tightened like a knot. The past three days were a blur of vague, unnamed agony. He could not seem to breathe properly, could not function. But she had lied from
the start, and the truth had revealed a truth even worse than he had dreaded. She was not just some grand lady, capable of deception. She was a princess, bred to manipulate, born to betray. And yet…leaving her behind…watching her country fade into the mist had been…He winced. But perhaps Burr was right. Perhaps there was a way to right the wrongs, to fill the emptiness where his soul had been. Perhaps…Hope bloomed like wild orchids in his chest, but old wounds gnawed at him, crushing the blossoms.

“She’s a liar and a noblewoman,” he said. “Just like Eliz—”

Burr slammed down his mug. The table shook, but the Norseman failed to notice as he leaned toward his laird. “She’s a fucking saint for not killing you when she had a chance, you lackwit. And you’re too much the coward to admit it.”

“I don’t mind you calling me a lackwit,” Cairn said. “But I don’t care to be called a coward.”

Burr straightened slowly. “Don’t you now?”

“Nay.”

“Then you can admit the truth?”

“And what truth is that, old man?”

“That she was naught but good for you.”

“Good—”

“Aye. She opened your eyes, lad. You were all but dead before she came along.”

“I had Wheaton in my grasp before she came along.”

“Wheaton!” Burr scoffed. “Aye, he is a thorn in your side. But he is a small thorn. While you are the laird.” He tightened his huge fist against the tabletop. “Chosen to lead, born to rule.”

Cairn laughed. “Olaf Burroun, subscribing to Teleerian propaganda.”

“Is that what she thought? Is that what she believed? Pro
paganda? Aye, that was most probably it. She was too much the fool to think on her own, so she believed what others told her. She believed you were strong. That you were trustworthy. That is why she came here at the outset, is that it?”

Cairn shrugged and Burr swore.

“Damn you!” he said, and smacked the table with his bare hand. “She came to offer an alliance. She came because she has a mind of her own. She came because, despite what she’d heard—and she’d heard a good deal, lad, don’t think she didn’t—she thought you were better than the average fool who can prop a crown on his head. She believed you were one to better the world. Not one to sit on his arse and do nothing.” Burr shook his head. “It saddens me to see she was wrong,” he said, and rose to leave, but Cairn caught him by the arm.

“I am laird,” he said. “And I will rule as I see fit.”

“As you see fit,” Burr scoffed. “You don’t even have the courage to get her back, boy, when you know Teleere would benefit from the alliance. When you know you are worthless without her.”

A dozen scenes flashed through Cairn’s mind. She was in each one, her face like a beacon, her voice like an incantation. She made him whole. She made him worthy, but he would be damned before he would beg her to return.

Burr stared at him, then snorted as if he could read the younger man’s mind. “So Elizabeth has won. You are a weakling, lad.”

Anger seared Cairn, fueled by frustration, fanned by self-doubt. But here was a course of action he could take. A means of proving himself while admitting nothing. “I can take you, old man,” he said.

The giant grinned, showing the first sign of joy since their return to Teleere. “I’ll tell you what then, lad. We’ll have a go at it. Bare hands. No weapons. If you best me, you can sit on
your arse and pity yourself till you’re rotting in the grave. But if I beat you…” His grin widened. “The lads should be able to wake you up before you reach her shores.”

Cairn rose slowly to his feet. Hope had returned, making his heart feel too large for his chest, making his lungs feel tight. The floor tilted slightly beneath his unsteady stance, but he gave Burroun a smile and as he motioned for him to begin. He only prayed the Norseman wasn’t too drunk to best him.

“So you are saying that Prince Edward did not shoot the assassin,” Tatiana said.

Nicol shrugged. He looked tired, older. But maybe she did, too, for she felt weary.

“Edward fired a gun,” he said. “But I believe it was one of his guards who killed Fitzgerald.”

She glanced out the window. “Might the guard be in the market for a bride?”

Nicol smiled wryly. She could feel the expression, though she didn’t turn toward him. “I haven’t asked. But I hear Lord Malborg is.”

“Lord Malborg?” She turned her gaze wearily back to the viscount. “Is he the suitor
du jour
?”

“He waits in the morning room as we speak.”

“Well.” She didn’t sigh, didn’t cry, merely gathered her skirts and hardened her heart. “I had best paint on my smile then,” she said, and rose to return to her rooms, but Nicol stopped her.

“Tell me,” he said, “if you weren’t the princess of Sedonia, would you have remained in Teleere?”

And just like that, she weakened. Her mind drifted in an instant. She was in MacTavish’s arms, feeling the strength of him surround her. Feeling the rightness of their union. But it was not to be. For a thousand reasons. “It matters little,” she
said, and straightened her back as she turned away. “For I
am
the princess.”

Her ladies followed her silently back into her chambers, where she was coifed and powdered and primped, like a carriage horse on parade, with no more say, no more real value. Finally, unable to bear their attentions any longer, she sent them away and sat staring numbly at herself in the mirror.

There she was, Princess Tatiana. But who was she inside? Or did it matter? Nay, for she was Sedonia’s sovereign head first and foremost. She would do what she must. She would marry whom she should. She—

“I liked you better as Megs.”

She turned with a start, her heart racing. Gone for a moment was the cool princess, and in her place was a ragamuffin lass who hoped foolishly and loved wildly.

“MacTavish,” she said. In her mind she wept his name, but despite her emotions, her tone sounded smooth, level. Lady training at its best. “What are you doing here?” There was calm reproach in her voice though her heart felt tight in her chest.

He stared at her, his eyes an intense blue. Her joints felt strangely loose. “I would give the same question to you, lass.”

“These are my private chambers, MacTavish. Surely you do not resent my being here.”

“Nay.” He moved away from the wall like water, all long smooth motions. “’Tis what was in the morning room that I resent.”

“Lord Mal—” she began, then, “
was
?”

“I fear he won’t be able to consider a union with you after all, lass.”

Her eyes widened despite herself. “What did you do to him?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. It had been several days since
he’d shaved, and there was a purplish bruise on his cheek, making him look feral and dangerous. “I didn’t kill him if that’s your concern.”

She relaxed with an effort and raised one brow. Perhaps she smiled a little, for in her soul there was a tiny flame of hope. “Nay,” she said, and turned to open a window as she grappled for nonchalance. “’Twas not my concern.”