by Lois Greiman
Fifty strides away, above the heads of the packed crowd, a gallows stood against the gay blue of the sky. And upon those gallows a body swung with slow deliberation, like a grotesque pendulum.
She gasped, crossing herself as she did so.
“A friend of yours?” asked the cretin. “Or is it Wheaton you favor?”
She tried to shift backward, away from the staring corpse, but there was no room. “What did he do?” she rasped.
“Rethinking your sins, wee one?”
“Cut that man down.” Her voice was impressively strong considering the turmoil in her stomach. The corpse’s eyes were open wide and staring. “Does your lord know of this…this…” She faltered, realizing with belated nausea that there was another man awaiting execution—a dark, handsome fellow with black rakish hair and a pale expression. He could not have yet reached his twenty-fifth year. Her stomach roiled.
“Does your lord know of these proceedings?” she demanded.
“Aye, he does.” He watched her like a hunting falcon and stood too close. “In fact he is enjoying the…proceedings…even now.”
Dear God! So the stories about Teleere’s rogue ruler were true. She’d been entirely wrong to come, but she lifted her chin, unbowed. At least she knew the truth now, could return to Sedonia and choose another to share her throne. “Then I will see him at once.”
“MacTavish?” There was laughter in his voice. Laughter at her, laughter at this situation, with the corpse swinging grotesquely and the pretty lad silently awaiting his horrible fate. “Will you now?”
Rage shook her. Aye, she was young, and some called her haughty, but she did not seek entertainment in others’ misery. She ruled her people as best she could. “Laugh at me, and you will wish you shared the fate of that hapless corpse,” she vowed. “Take me to MacTavish.”
He gave her a mock bow. “Tell me what game we play, little midge, so I may know the rules.”
“You think this a game?” She gestured toward the gallows. The corpse was jerking now, as if, even in death, he were fighting for life. The smell of feces fouled the air. She refrained from covering her nose and barely kept from gagging. “Take me to your pirate lord.”
He grabbed her by the arm, startling her breathless and leaning in close. “I am the pirate lord, as you well know, and you have played your last trick.” His fingers cut into her flesh.
She reared back in shock. “Let me go!”
“Go?” He laughed and pulled her closer. “I think not. In fact…” He nodded toward the gallows. “There seems to be an extra rope for you, my wee thief. Do you suppose you will soil yourself, too?”
“My lord,” said a soldier from behind. “The hour grows late. Are you ready for Wheaton?”
He didn’t turn toward the soldier, and in that insane moment Tatiana wondered if he had told the truth. Was he really Lord MacTavish—the man she’d hoped to wed to fulfill her uncle’s requirements and become queen regnant in her own right? If he was indeed the man she sought, then she’d been foolish. It was clear that he was the devil himself. Panic burned like bile in her stomach.
“What say you?” he asked, his grin still crooked on his boyish face. “Are you ready to see your friend die, or would you prefer to test the rope first?”
She tugged frantically at her arm.
He tightened his grip until she nearly cried out in pain. “Of course with your light weight it would hardly be a test atall. You might hang there for hours without effect.”
“You’re mad.” The entire world had gone insane. Surely this was a nightmare.
“And you’re a thief,” he gritted “But I’m not above a bit of thievery. Murder, on the other hand—”
“Murder!” Her heart was battering at her ribs, threatening to burst from her chest.
“Aye, murder,” he gritted and shook her. “But perhaps you didn’t know that about him aye? Perhaps you only warmed his bed. Or did you share in his plans?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I tire of games, wee one,” he gritted. “Spill the truth or share his fate.”
She didn’t speak. Indeed, she could not. He grabbed her chin and turned her toward the gallows. The corpse’s eyes bugged from his head, his tongue was a grayish purple, and still he twitched.
She jerked her chin free, but too late. Her stomach revolted. She tried to control it, but there was no hope. Half-digested food spewed forth, striking MacTavish full in the chest, plastering his blue cutaway and dripping from his double row of brass buttons.
The crowd gasped and drew back. A soldier hissed something unintelligible. From the gallows there was a scrape of metal. A woman screamed.
MacTavish jerked away with a curse. “Daniel! No! Peters! Stop him!”
A pistol fired. Then another. Tatiana watched in disbelief as the man called Wheaton raced toward a galloping horse. A gun fired again, but he had already grabbed the rider’s waist and launched himself behind the saddle. The steed reared, bearing both men high. The crowd screamed and milled, trying to escape, and into that opening path, the riders raced, knocking down pedestrians as they ran.
Soldiers yelled and swore, but MacTavish turned back to her with a deadly silence.
She backed away, realizing belatedly that she should have run, should have escaped while she could. But nothing in her life had prepared her for this.
“Well.” The single word was articulate and low, accompanied by a smile that was still strangely boyish. “It seems you have accomplished your goal, my little harlot. But you forgot one thing.”
She didn’t speak, didn’t move. Couldn’t, for the hatred in his eyes held her entranced, like a field mouse before a striking adder.
“We are not biased here on Teleere. We hang women just as well as men.”
She tried to voice the truth. To back away. But she could do no more than stare at the vomit that hung suspended from the black piping of his lapel. It swung gently back and forth. She watched its cadenced movement for a moment, and then, like a broken marionette, she fainted.
Chapter 2
“Y ou swoon very well.”
Tatiana awoke blearily.
“Have you been practicing?” MacTavish asked, and crossed the floor toward her. She sat up with an effort, wincing as she did so. Her head was swimming, and her throat ached, as if it had been scrubbed with sea salt and left to dry, but her stomach felt somewhat restored. One glance at MacTavish assured her he was rid of his soiled jacket. In fact, he had changed his entire ensemble and now wore a simple tunic of soft brown. It was open at the neck and belted over a short, plaid skirt of sorts. His knees were bare and his wool stockings gartered over lean-muscled calves.
She stared, blinked, then pushed back a few dark tendrils of hair that had come loose from her sensible coiffure. Back home she wore it intricately coiled and oft as not embellished with jewels. But of course that would have been inappropriate and foolish here. No, the valise was all she had brought to the isle of Teleere that would attest to her wealth and station. But it was gone now, and her looming interrogator seemed deluded enough to think they had met before. Nevertheless, she would keep her head, literally and figuratively, and would find her way out of this mess. There was naught to do now but find the escort that waited at the abbey and return home posthaste.
She calmed her nerves with an effort and raised a slow, imperial gaze to his. “Where am I?” she asked. Her voice sounded cool and aloof, befitting a queen. Or a hastily crowned princess.
He said nothing, but seated himself on the edge of her bed and poured wine from a bottle into a silver goblet. Yes, she was sitting on a bed. It was wide, huge really, and draped in velvet curtains that boasted an intricate pattern of bright gold and deep green swirled in a background of rich burgundy. Beyond that, the room seemed to go on forever, but instead of the barren, clean-swept expanse of her own chambers, the place was packed with an odd assortment of every imaginable item. A huge, textured globe stood on clawed, walnut feet. A Gr
ecian statuette stood in feminine grace beside an immense, cluttered desk. Draped over the statue’s bare, ivory shoulders was a silken scarf of sapphire blue, and scattered about the room were scores of other articles she could not begin to identify or consider.
She smelled the contents of the goblet and tasted the wine. It was dry and robust. She emptied the glass and handed it back.
MacTavish raised his brows, glanced into the goblet, and returned his attention to her. “Who is he to you?”
She turned slowly toward him, shifting her attention from the strangely organized clutter of the room. Her mind was clearer now, as was her eyesight, but still she could barely believe her senses, for she would never have imagined the pirate lord to look like this. Nay, though she had made it a point to learn a good deal about him, she had not inquired about his physical appearance. Why would she? She had intended to marry the man, not paint his portrait.
He was the lord of Teleere, shrewd, cunning, and powerful enough to gain control of the island’s unruly people. She had assumed his physical attributes would agree with his nature. He would surely not be young and fair-haired. And he would certainly not have a crooked, gleaming smile that spoke more of boyish pranks than of an empire conquered and ruled. Everything was entirely wrong here.
She stared at him, suspicion growing in her mind. “Is this some sort of intricate deception?”
His brows rose slightly. They were only slightly darker than the wheat-toned hue of his hair. But it was his eyes that held her interest, for they were a blue so vivid it seemed beyond the realm of possibility. “Deception?” he asked.
The way he said the word only raised her suspicions, for his tone seemed too happy, too even-tempered and lighthearted to possibly suit this horrid situation. And suddenly she was certain she was right. “Nicol coerced you into this.” She said it as a statement of truth rather than a question, for she had learned long ago that uncertainty bred chaos. Always be assured. Always think things through. Never rush in.
“I don’t know a Nicol,” he said.
She ignored his words and raised her gaze to glance about the room, half-expecting the handsome viscount to step out from behind some bulky, unidentified article. “Is he here?”
Her captor’s smile had faded a bit, but that fact did nothing to diminish his beauty. It was ridiculous, really, how pretty he was. Golden and gleaming and perfect. And that fact, more than any other, assured her she was right. Nicol had planned an intricate prank. Nicol, who had found the girl, Birgit, to take her place on the throne. Nicol, who forever believed she could not understand her people unless she lived like them for a time. Well, this certainly would satisfy his desires, wouldn’t it?
“Where is he?” she asked, anger burning through her.
He canted his head as if uncertain of her meaning, but amused just the same. “Maybe that’s not the question you should be asking just now, midge.”
“My name is not midge,” she said and, pulling her knees up, prepared to swing her feet from the mattress, but at that precise instant she realized the truth. She was naked. Completely and utterly naked.
Snatching the blankets back up to her chest, she pursed her lips and caught her breath. “What have you done with my clothes?”
He smiled again. Slowly, leisurely, like a golden cat that had cornered its prey and chose to toy with it before dining. “Ahh, now there’s the question,” he said and, placing a palm upon the mattress, leaned back slightly and drew up a knee. His woolen plaid, crafted of dark blues and bright reds, slipped languidly away from his thigh as he settled more comfortably onto the bed. His legs were hard with muscle, tight with sinew, and all but naked.
She scowled, her mind whirring. True, Nicol could be inappropriately capricious at times, but even he would not have gone so far as to put her in such a compromising position. Yes, he had often said she was too stiff, too cool, too removed from the common man, but he cared for her as few others did. Of that she was certain. Something had gone wrong here. Terribly wrong. But she was not sure just what it was. So she raised her chin slightly and looked her captor directly in the eye. “Who are you, sir? Truly.”
He watched her in silence for a moment, then nodded once. “Very well then, midge, I shall play your game if you like,” he said, and executed a truncated bow from his seated position. “I am Cairn MacTavish, pirate lord, as you called me, and bastard son of the late laird of Teleere.” He paused. His lips tilted lyrically. “And pray, midge, who are you?”
He was keeping with his story then. Whoever had put him up to this had bid him be convincing. But if they meant to fool her, they should have found a more believable pirate. “You lie,” she said simply.
Something flashed in his eyes, but he smiled. “Do I?” he asked, and rose abruptly to his feet. Pacing to the dark, oversized desk, he placed the goblet atop it and turned back toward her. “I suppose you should know a liar when you meet one, aye, Megs?”
There was a sudden intensity about him that belied his grin. An intensity that did nothing to soothe her own unease. She tightened her grip on the bedsheets and watched him carefully. “My name is not Megs.”
“Isn’t it?” Pacing back, he sat again, closer still, so close, in fact, that she could smell the wine on his breath, could feel the warmth of his body against her arm. “Then who are you?”
She sat absolutely still, her mind storming in her head. Who was he? Perhaps he was MacTavish as he said. Who else would have access to such lavish rooms but the lord of the isle? And who else would dare treat the princess of Sedonia with such casual disrespect? But then, he didn’t know she was royalty, did he? No, for she had planned carefully, had put a well-tutored impostor in her place.
“Her name is Birgit,” Nicol said.
“And where did you find her?” Tatiana asked.
“In Teleere. Just to the west of Portshaven is a village called Thornborough. There is a tavern not far from there. She is the spitting image of you, Anna, except that you are a princess and she is a…well.” His crooked mouth had shifted into a smile. “A barmaid I suppose.”
“A barmaid!”
“Aye,” he said. “A commoner. And who else? She is young, and she is hungry. There is no other class in the world so easily manipulated.”
“I have no wish to manipulate anyone,” she countered.
“Don’t you? Think on it, Anna. You need someone to take your place without spilling your secret. Even if she told the truth, there is none who would believe her, since she is naught but a commoner.”
Tatiana scowled. “If she is so common, what makes you think she can succeed in this ruse?”
“Because common is not the same as slow-witted. Neither is it the equivalent of worthless—no matter what your noble counselors think. She is clever, Anna. Maybe as clever as you.”
Nicol had told her the tale of his journey to the tavern many times. Had told her of his meeting with Birgit, and from those tales, they had secretly laid their plans. The girl would sit on her throne for a few short days while Tatiana traveled to Teleere. Yes, she had planned to meet with Lord MacTavish, and if he was the man she judged him to be, she would offer an alliance. Indeed, she would offer a royal marriage, for that was the only way for her to fullfill Sedonia’s requirements for her. She must marry and marry soon. But her decision would be a quick one. She would return to her homeland long before Midsummer’s Eve, for she had no wish for another to make the annual sojourn to Bartham to choose Sedonia’s finest steed. It was a tradition begun countless years ago and one that she would not abandon. Her uncle, the old king, had raised the price of the horse chosen, thereby improving Sedonia’s stables as well as elevating public morale.
Yes, she had planned to make a quick trip to Teleere and find herself a suitable husband.
But she no longer had such plans, for she had witnessed the pirate lord’s true nature, had seen the light in his eyes at the execution. She would not bind herself to such a man no matter how dire Sedonia’s straits, no mat
ter how unsteady its government. She would find another way to solve her country’s problems. Her advisors had been right. She must marry and marry wisely. But MacTavish would not be her groom. Even Lord Paqual’s assessment had been correct. MacTavish was a scoundrel and a barbarian, hardly above the rumored murder of his young wife.
Tatiana had misjudged him completely, had hung her hopes on a dream. Despite MacTavish’s ability to rule a country, he was nothing like her dead uncle, the old king. She’d played a bet and lost, but it was not too late. He did not know her true identity. He could not spill the truth to her advisors or cause any harm to befall the young woman who sat upon her throne.
“It should not take you so long to think of your name, lass.”
She stared at him, her mind buzzing. He was toying with her. But why? What did he hope to accomplish? Might he know her true identity? Might he be planning to hold her hostage? Despite her country’s diminutive size, it was a wealthy empire—rich in spices and diamonds and a dozen other gemstones. Did he hope to gain a ransom for her return?
“Unless the bump on your head has addled your thoughts.” Reaching out, he touched the side of her skull. She winced, surprised by the pain, but in a moment, he left the wound and trailed his fingertips along the curve of her ear. The caress was gentle and strangely unnerving. She shivered at its descent. “Have you lost your memory, lass?”
She said nothing, but watched him closely. He had an odd lilt to his voice, as though he had been carefully schooled, but had not quite smoothed out all the rough edges.
“I admit that you are bonnier than I recall,” he said, and skimmed his knuckles down her cheek to her throat. She shivered, for the sensations were disturbingly erotic, but she found her tongue and spoke coolly.
“We have not met before.”
He grinned. His teeth were ungodly white, his smile tilted like a satyr’s. “Aye, we have, lass. Surely you remember. I was just about to board the Skian Dubh with my first mate when you caused a distraction and stole my brooch.”
