Lois Greiman (8 page)

“Why?” Cairn mused.

“Maybe she’s afeared of you. After all, you’re the laird of the isle.”

“For today.”

Burr grinned.

“Why do you think she lied? Even if she didn’t know Megs, she’d surely say she did, just to get a chance to be free of this hell.”

“She’s naught but a thief.”

“A onetime thief.”

Burr snorted. “You come around asking ’bout a lass named Megs. Showing a good deal of interest. She hears you got the lass up to the castle.”

They exited the stifling confines of the prison. Cairn scowled across the cobbled street toward the waiting carriage. The team was a quartet of dark bays. Stallions no less, bred for speed and fretfully groomed. Their coats gleamed with mahogany good health as they fidgeted with distraught energy. His gut clenched. He should have known better than to allow Burr to choose the team. In fact, he was going to go out tomorrow and purchase a pair of plow horses—maybe something in their second century of life.

“Anyone in their right mind would be scared,” Burr said.

Cairn flashed his gaze from the restive stallions to the giant.

A smile lurked just beneath Burr’s stoic features. “I’m talking ’bout the girl,” he said.

“Of course.”

Burr grinned.

Cairn swore in silence. “She didn’t seem scared.”

“Maybe she’s a better actress than your Megs even.”

“Tell me…Olaf…” He felt the Norseman’s dour glare, but continued on. “Is there any conversation I’ve had in the span of my life that you haven’t listened in on?”

Burr thought for a moment. “Once when you were a lad you spoke to a man named Grady.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” Cairn promised, “and try to let you know what was said.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

A liveried footman lowered the carriage steps with a bow and a flourish, as if he were swinging wide the pearly gates of heaven.

Cairn grabbed the window with a deadly grip and levered himself into the rocking casket. Burr swung his tremendous weight casually up behind him and wedged himself into the opposite seat.

“What are you doing here?” Cairn asked. There were few things worse than letting another witness his weakness. And if he had to choose the person to do so, Burr would be the last on his list. As far as Cairn knew Burr was unimpressed by death itself. “What about your horse?”

Burr shifted in his seat, widening his personal space. “I missed you, my laird.”

Cairn scowled. “Curious about my visit here?”

“Not atall.”

“Really?”

Burr gave him a baleful glare and pulled a curved pipe from somewhere inside his furry vest. “’Tis pitifully obvious, lad.”

“Oh?”

“The lass has bored beneath your skin.”

Cairn carefully controlled both his surprise and his irritation. It was best to show Burr no emotion whatsoever, but Cairn was not the stoic sort. Emotion and actions rode hand in hand in his world.

“The lass.” Burr sighed as he leaned his back against the plush upholstery of the red velvet cushion and put a light to his pipe. “She’s made you sit up and notice.”

“Interesting theory for a barbarian. You know she stole my mother’s brooch.”

The other shrugged.

“And she’s Wheaton’s accomplice.”

“Ahh. So we finally get to the crux of the matter,” Burr said, and puffing once, thrust his arm out the window to rap twice on the carriage’s sleek mahogany siding.

There was a word from the driver, and the vehicle lurched forward. Cairn gritted his teeth. Burroun’s eyes seemed strangely bright as if he were enormously happy.

“You’re making less sense than usual, Burr. I didn’t know it was possible.”

The big man smiled. “You want me to speak plain, lad?”

“It’d be a change.”

“Very well then.” He leaned forward and looked Cairn in the eye. “The young laird of Teleere is enamored.”

“Enamored.” Cairn said the word dryly as if tasting the flavor of such an impossible term, but the other raised a mocking brow and continued on.

“Aye, he’s met a wee maid. Bonny she is and fair, with a quick wit and a bold manner. A maid who stirs his interest and his blood like none of the highborn lassies what have come before her.”

“Remind me to check for a vacancy in Portshaven’s asylums.”

If Burr heard him he gave no indication. “But the pirate laird dare not let down his guard, so he proclaims her to be a thief and a—”

“She is a thief,” Cairn reminded him. “She stole my brooch.”

Burr held up one stubby finger. “And not just a thief, but Wheaton’s accomplice. In case one death sentence isn’t satisfactory for the isle’s grand sovereign.”

“Perhaps it’s you who is enamored,” Cairn suggested.

Burr raised his brows as if considering. His forehead wrinkled like an aging hound’s. “She
is
a bonny piece. If you’ve got no use for her, I’ll—”

“Stay away from her,” Cairn ordered.

Burr grinned. “My hairy ass, but you’re almost too easy.”

Cairn ground his teeth and managed a rough smile at the same time. “She’s my link to Wheaton.”

“Ahh, so that’s it. You’re not aching to have her for yourself then?”

“I’ve little use for conniving women.”

“Had your fill with Elizabeth, did you?”

Cairn’s stomach churned. “Leave her out of this, Burr.”

“Dammit, lad!” The grin was gone. “It’s been all of two years. When might you be planning to cease your brooding?”

Cairn clenched his teeth. If his stomach weren’t churning like a Mediterranean whirlpool, he might just have taken a punch at his lifelong companion, even though he rather suspected that his title would do him little good in the way of protection.

“You know what you need?” Burr’s tone was deep. He puffed again, watching carefully.

“I can only hope you’ll enlighten me.”

Burr nodded his agreement. “You need to be bedded.”

“I’m flattered,” Cairn said, careful to keep his tone dry. “But you’re not my type.”

Burr snapped his pipe from his teeth and leaned forward in his seat. “And what is your type, boy? Some milk-fed princess who speaks of everlasting love, then spreads her legs for every handsome liar that smiles her way?”

Cairn’s teeth hurt from clenching them. “She was my wife, Burr.”

“Aye.” He nodded curtly. “That she was, lad, but she’s dead now. Dead and gone.”

“You think I hadn’t noticed?”

“Aye, you noticed that, lad. But little else. Since her death you’ve been like a walking corpse, but it’s time to wake up now. You’re not some wayward bastard, leaping with the waves anymore. You’ve a country to rule now. Open your eyes.”

“I’m awake.”

“And the guilt is eating you every minute.”

“Guilt.” He stared at Burr in honest surprise. “Why would I be guilty?”

“Because you wanted her dead.”

Besides the whirring of the carriage wheels, the world seemed to have gone absolutely silent.

“If you’ve an accusation to make, Burr, you should take it to a magistrate.”

“Damn Bert and the fancy words he put in your head!”

Cairn watched the Norseman in surprise. He rarely swore.

“There was a time I could get a straight answer out of you, lad.”

“I didn’t kill her if that’s what you’re asking.”

Burr’s face turned red. His hands clenched to mallet-sized fists, clasping the pipe hard in short, broad fingers. For a moment Cairn thought the other might reach out and strangle him. Well let him come; he was spoiling for a fight.

“You must think me the daftest fool in Portshaven. Of course you didn’t kill her, but you might as well have for the flogging you give yourself.”

“You’re a far cry off course, Burr. I have no guilt.”

“So it wasn’t your fault that she went to Wheaton’s bed.”

Cairn tightened his grip on the window and said nothing.

“She would have lain with the devil himself if she thought it would hurt you.” Burr’s voice was suddenly quiet.

Cairn turned to look out the window, but he saw nothing except Elizabeth’s face, twisted in anger, in hatred. It was entirely possible there had never been another human being who had despised him with such hot intensity. Funny, as a young, ragged lad, he had believed a lady’s every thought would be filled with peace and light. Her smile would be radiant, her love would be pure. Elizabeth had taught him much.

“I didn’t resent her early affairs,” Cairn said to the blur of the passing trees.

“She was a whore, lad. Everyone knew it.”

Cairn turned slowly toward his oldest friend. “She was my wife.”

The Norseman nodded once. “But it’s not your fault that she chose her bedmates poorly.”

The window called again. “I should have stopped her.”

“How?”

“I am the laird of Teleere.”

Burr snorted. “Since when does a laird overrule a woman, lad? You couldn’t have stopped her, not without killing her yourself.”

“Maybe I should have.”

“Aye.” Burr sighed as he leaned back again. “Mayhap. But Wheaton beat you to it, and so you make others suffer.”

“The girl knows where to find him.”

“Does she?”

“Aye. And she’ll say eventually.”

“Planning some torture are you?”

“I thought I’d leave that up to you, Burr.”

“You’ve always been generous. Even as a lad.” He sighed and settled back into his seat.

The wheels lurched, launching them into the air. Cairn gritted his teeth and swore between them.

Burr shook his head and grinned. “I love them bays.”

Cairn turned his gaze to his companion and allowed a thin smile.

“What is it?” Burr asked, his brow furrowing.

“I have a plan.”

“Does it involve me risking me life?”

“Aye,” Cairn said. “That’s my favorite part.”

T
atiana paced. Outside her door there was at least one guard. She gave a passing thought to the man she had hired. Where Ralph had gone was impossible to guess. Although he had already been paid a goodly portion of the sum agreed upon, he seemed the sort to continue searching for her. MacTavish’s plans, however, were more obscure. She knew she had to escape, and the hour was getting late. Though she’d never been unusually strong, she was hardly fragile. Nay, she was stout enough, but it was a bit too optimistic to think she could overwhelm an armed guard with physical strength. Therefore, she’d best think.

The Viking called Burroun had gone with MacTavish. That left Peters at the door. She focused her thoughts on the lieutenant for a moment, reading his personality. Who was he really? Aye, he was determined to do his lord’s will, perhaps obsessively so. But what was his lord’s will? What were MacTavish’s plans for her?

He despised her. That much was clear, for he’d had her imprisoned. But he’d also seen her released. It seemed obvi
ous, then, that he did not want her dead, but was keeping her close at hand in an attempt to capture Wheaton. Therefore, it stood to reason that he would be careful to keep her alive. And Peters would be more careful still.

She turned like a cornered badger to face the door. Yes, he would be careful, and she must be the same.

She longed to pace again, but she forced herself to wait, to sit on the bed, to plan. Perhaps it did not take long before the knock sounded at her door, but it seemed like forever.

“Who is it?” She made her tone soft, and if there was the slightest quaver to it, it was not altogether planned.

“’Tis Lieutenant Peters.” His voice was the antithesis of hers—commanding, brash, a young soldier with much to prove.

“Come in, Lieutenant.”

The door snapped open, and he stepped inside. Behind him came two others, one bearing a tray, the other bringing a bottle and a mug.

Peters stood very straight, though he didn’t look directly at her when he spoke. Perhaps he felt some shame for the debacle of the night before. After all, he had delivered her to Pikeshead, and his master had fetched her back. And although she’d heard little of the following conversation between the two of them, she could assume that MacTavish was somewhat irritated. Why then, she wondered, did he continue to put her care in his hands?

“My lord commanded me to bring you sustenance,” he said.

She blinked and kept her hands tightly clasped. “My thanks,” she murmured. “But I fear I am not hungry.”

He shifted his gaze quickly to her and away. A scowl marred his freckled features. His back was perfectly straight, his brightly polished boots aligned just so. “Lord MacTavish ordered me to make certain you eat.”

She wrung her hands. “I…” she began, then let her gaze fall to her fingers. “I’ve no wish to cause you any trouble, Lieutenant.”

She could feel his attention shift to her again, though she did not raise her eyes to make certain. “But I…” Parting her hands, she touched her fingers to her forehead. “I fear I am not well.”

“Not well?”

“Dizzy,” she said. “Sick to my stomach.”

His scowl deepened, and she forced a weak smile. “You needn’t worry. I’m not about to perish and disparage you in front of your lord.”

“Perish!” He looked paler than ever.

She brightened her tremulous smile a bit. “I will be fine. I only need to rest.”

“Food will help settle your stomach,” he said, and motioned one of his men to set the tray beside her on the bed. “Eat.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

He stared at the wall again. “I am.”

Tatiana retrieved the loaf of bread from the tray. It was made of well-milled flour, soft-grained and white. She broke off a piece and ate it, then finished off the wine.

Peters watched her in some amazement. His shoulders were only slightly behind vertical.

“Shall I bring up a tub, Lieutenant?” asked the second-closest man. He was short and stout and dark of hair. But his eyes were very blue.

“There is no need, Cormick,” said Peters. “There is a bathing area in the adjoining chamber.”

“Right there?” The young man sounded awed. Peters kept his expression stoic.

“Shall we fetch water for it then?”

“It is piped up.”

“Piped up, sir?”

Peters scowled. “You are not an oarsman on some wave-tossed frigate any longer, Cormick. Try to remember that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go now and fill the vessel.”

“Aye, Lieutenant,” Cormick said, and hurried across the room to the far door. He opened it, stepped through, and whistled low.

An expression of perturbation crossed Peters’s face but he said nothing. Indeed, she couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t turn toward the other chamber, though the sound of splashing and chuckles echoed in the place.

Tatiana nibbled on her bread and tasted her pie. It was pigeon, mixed in a savory broth and baked to bubbled perfection. Regardless of MacTavish’s host of faults, he kept a good kitchen, but perhaps a night in prison would heighten anyone’s appreciation for cuisine.

She said nothing as the tub was filled, but concentrated on her meal.

“How do you feel now, madam?” Peters asked. His tone was stiff.

She smiled, employing her most girlish expression, but if truth be told, she was not one for maidenly glances and girlish giggles. Being in line for the helm of the country, even when the possibilities were remote, tended to eliminate flippancy. Being her mother’s daughter negated flirtations. Nevertheless, her life depended on her ability to do just those things, so she glanced up through her lashes and fiddled with her mug.

“I am much improved, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

“The water…” said Cormick, entering the room and grinning like a prankster. “It’s warm.” Tatiana noticed that his sleeves were wet well past the elbows and his trousers damp about the knees.

Peters gave him a disdainful glance and turned his atten
tion back to Tatiana. “I will leave you to your bath then.” She would not have been the least surprised if had clicked his heels together.

“My thanks,” she said, and stood, but as she did so, she wobbled slightly and lifted her hand to her brow as if she were about to swoon.

Peters grabbed her elbow in a steely grasp. “Are you unwell?”

She took a moment to answer, then, “Nay,” she said, and straightened with a brave effort. “Nay, I am well. Do not concern yourself.”

His scowl deepened. She almost smiled.

“You needn’t worry,” she said as she made her way into the adjoining chamber. It was small and close, almost filled by the round copper tub that stood near the wall. Steam curled like silvery fronds into the air. But it was the window that captured her attention. It was long and narrow, but surely broad enough for her to squeeze through. Her heart leapt to her throat, but she planned carefully. Long ago she had learned her capabilities…and her weaknesses. She skimmed the room again. It was not so cluttered as the bedchamber, but it was far from empty. A tall, brightly woven basket with an hourglass shape stood beneath the window, its cover slightly askew. Wooden shoes with curled toes were nestled against an earthenware pot, where a miniature pine tree grew at odd angles. “I am not about to drown,” she said, and glanced over her shoulder at Peters. “Or escape through yonder window.”

The lieutenant paled visibly. “Perhaps you should wait before entering your bath.”

She smiled. “Your lord may return at any moment, and despite what you think of me, I have no wish to disrobe in front of him.”

Peters’s paleness was gone, immediately replaced by a rush of color. “I did not mean to imply—”

“I will be fine,” she assured him, and closed the door behind her.

There was a rap on the other side in less than a heartbeat.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’ve no wish to disturb you, my lady…”

My lady. She almost smiled.

“But I cannot allow you to remain in there alone.”

Slipping out of her shoes, she padded silently to the window, but one glance told her that her initial assessment had been correct. She was too high up. She would not escape by that route. Turning back toward the tub, she loosened the ties at the back of her simple gown.

“Surely you are not suggesting that you watch me bathe,” she said.

“Nay.” He sounded appalled, then cleared his throat. She could almost see him straighten. “But I must insist that you leave the door ajar.”

“But…” She let her voice waver again. “Lieutenant, ’twould not be seemly.”

“I assure you I’ve no interest—That is to say, I will not watch you. I only wish to ascertain your safety.”

She opened the door and granted him the smallest of smiles. “In other words, you want to make certain I do not escape.”

He cleared his throat again, but didn’t look her in the eye. “I can see the window from this chamber,” he said.

It was her turn to scowl. “And you will not…dishonor me?”

If his back were any straighter, he would surely keel over backward like an axed pine. “You have my word, my lady.”

She bit her lip. “Very well then. But you will stay well back by yonder wall?”

He glanced over his shoulder, past the menagerie of unidentified objects toward the bedroom’s only door. “I will
guard the portal,” he said. There was a host of places to sit, including a small satiny couch of sorts that curled dramatically at one end. There was also the bed, which seemed the most welcoming, but he would use neither of those. No, she was certain he would stand hour upon end like a stone sentry and be perfectly happy doing so.

She nodded, then left the door ajar and pattered out of sight. His footfalls were distinct as they paced from the plush weave of the carpet, onto hardwood, and back onto softness.

She skimmed the room quickly now—the tub, the plant, an ungainly statuette. It seemed to be a figure of a man. It was not large, perhaps twelve inches in height, but what it lacked in stature, it made up for in earthy suggestiveness. The figure’s penis was nearly half the length of its body and as erect as an oak tree. Her hands shook as she lifted it. It was heavy, solid, substantial. A fine weapon. A noise brushed from the other room, and she stiffened. But in an instant it was silent again. She exhaled heavily and set the figurine quickly aside.

This was no time to hesitate. Straightening, she set her hands to her laces. She was not accustomed to dressing herself, but her costumes were usually more elaborate. This gown was simple enough to remove. She did so, controlling her breathing and glancing furtively toward the door. Not that she didn’t trust Peters. If she were reading him right, he would take a sword through the heart before he would dare displease his lord, and if there was one thing the princess of Sedonia was adept at, it was reading people. She had learned long ago to know whom to trust and whom to fear. All fawned, few cared. She had been a duke’s daughter since the day of her birth, a commodity, an heiress, and now a sovereign. Like so much gilded treasure, to be carefully hoarded and well spent.

In a moment her shift had joined her gown. Her stockings came next, and she drew a deep breath as she shed her long cotton stays.

The clothes reeked. That much was true. She needed a bath, but that was hardly her reason for agreeing to this foolishness. She stepped into the tub. The temperature was perfect. She wouldn’t have suspected Cormick for a lady’s maid.

The water slipped steadily up her body. It was almost tempting to relax, to let the warmth soothe her frazzled nerves, but of course she had no time for that. She had been less cautious than her situation warranted, true. She had made a misstep, had lost her guard, but she was no fool, and she would prove that.

Reaching up, she splashed the water a bit and glanced toward the door. Not a sound came from the adjoining room. Her heart was beating heavily against her ribs, but she forced herself to pick up a canister of dried herbs that sat beside the tub and spread them across the water. Lavender perfumed the air. She relaxed a smidgen. There would be little enough time for such a luxury. So she lifted the bar of soap and tried to hum a tune. But for the life of her, she could think of nothing. She splashed again, thinking, then finally remembered Beethoven’s
Eroica
.

She hummed it softly. Her voice wavered a little. She steadied it and continued on, splashing and washing.

Not a sound issued from the bedchamber, but from the bailey below, she heard a horse nicker. She stiffened. Had she waited too long? Had MacTavish already returned? She remained frozen in place, listening with her entire being, but all was silent again. No one entered, no one exited, no one spoke. There was nothing she could do but continue with her plan.

She hummed again. The dramatic symphony sounded frenetic, but her heart seemed to be pounding in her very ears, and her hands shook on the scented soap.

She could wait no longer. Holding her breath, she said a silent prayer, then lifted the well-aroused figurine from the floor. Letting her arm droop over the side of the tub, she gave
a small whimper of sound and sank quietly below the surface.

Thoughts swarmed like wild bees in her head. She’d been too quiet. Peters hadn’t heard. But suddenly the hard tattoo of boots echoed against hardwood. Even beneath the water, she heard Peters rasp an expletive. She waited, breath held, but still he didn’t reach for her. Instead, he turned and ran for the door. Panic seized her. She should have guessed he would be leery of touching any woman found naked in his lord’s bedchamber. She should have known…but at that moment she heard Peters turn back, heard him falter, and then he reached for her, hauling her out of the water, cradling her against his chest. In that instant, she struck.

She crashed the figurine against his skull with all her strength. His eyes opened wide, and then, like a loosened marionette, he crumpled to the floor, bearing her with him.

She scrambled to her feet, wanting to cry, to check his pulse, to call for help, but she did none of those things. Instead, she dropped the figurine and grabbed the pistol from Peters’s belt. It felt heavy in her hand, but she didn’t delay. Yanking the door open, she brandished the weapon. Not a soul was in sight. She jumped into the hallway and leapt toward the corner. She would duck into a room, find a disguise, and then she’d be—