The Princess and Her Pirate

by Lois Greiman

  “Peters,” he called.

  The door opened in an instant. Aye, Cairn had ordered him to take his meal, but perhaps the good lieutenant had no need for sustenance so long as he could serve the lord of Teleere. “You have need of me, my lord?”

  Cairn’s stomach knotted. “Aye,” he said. “Take the maid to the dungeon until she sees fit to talk.”

  Chapter 4

  T he night groaned on forever. It was cold and dank in the silent darkness. Worry gnawed, and time creaked along with miserable slowness.

  Damn her! Cairn paced his chilly bedchamber yet again. Not a candle had been lit. Why wouldn’t she talk? What magic did Wheaton employ to engender such wretched loyalty? Did she know his true nature? Did she know and cherish him regardless?

  But he needn’t worry. He would know the answers soon enough. One night in Westheath’s dungeon would surely quell the girl’s spirit. But the damned night dragged on interminably, cramping old injuries and making his head ache until he could no longer bear the wait.

  The sun had not yet risen when he gave up his vigil and clattered down the stone stairs. Beneath the castle, deep in the roots of the ancient fortress, there was a hole in the earth. Rarely had it been used since Cairn’s arrival in Teleere, for there had rarely been a need. It was the place this Megs belonged, however. It was the place she would learn that he meant what he said. She would talk, or she would suffer.

  Down another flight of stairs, around a corner. He scowled into the blackness, and found—nothing. The cell was empty, the door open.

  He cursed aloud, then spun away, taking the steps three together.

  Peters appeared in an instant, his eyes wide. Despite the hour and the fact that he should have been in the barracks long ago, every hair was in place, every garment wrinkle-free. More often than not, he slept in the hallway just down from his laird’s chambers. More often still, he didn’t sleep, but stood, fully dressed, standing guard for endless hours. “Something’s amiss, my lord?”

  Cairn grabbed the man’s pristine tunic in one fist, drawing him up close. “She’s gone!”

  Peters went pale if paler he could be. Confusion clouded his normally cool features. How had she managed to dupe him? Was it seduction? Trickery? Perhaps she truly was magical. “Who—who is gone, my lord?”

  “Who!” The girl had turned the man’s mind to mash. “Megs. The thief. She’s gone.”

  “Nay! She cannot be. I delivered her to Pikeshead myself.”

  “Pikeshead.” Cairn loosened his grip on the guard’s shirt-front, careful of his temper. “You took her to Pikeshead?”

  He made certain his tone was neutral, but perhaps there was something frightening in his expression because Peters took a cautious step to the rear. “Aye, my lord.” He swallowed once, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “’Twas where you said to take her.”

  “I said the dungeon.” He articulated precisely and clenched his fist once, lest he reach out and snatch the man up close again.

  “Aye the…” Peters began, but in a moment his gray eyes widened. “You meant here at the castle.”

  “Where is she?”

  Peters looked as pale as a shade when he shook his head. “I but delivered her to the gate master there. I do not know where they placed her.”

  Cairn gritted his teeth, but refrained from reaching out. Bert had assured him that violence was not the answer. But perhaps Bert didn’t know the question. “Fetch me a steed,” he ordered.

  “A—” Shock was stamped on Peters’s freckled features. “A carriage, sir?”

  “A saddle horse, you twit. Get one before I roast you alive!”

  Tatiana Octavia sat huddled against the stone wall. The cell was dark, dank, and smelled of things she dare not consider. Her stomach had been unsettled for days, and she had no wish to test its endurance. Instead, she steadied her breathing and glanced stiffly about. She could not tell the dimensions of her cell for she had been delivered after dark. But perhaps darkness forever dwelled in this nightmarish place.

  She shivered once and wrapped her arms more tightly around her knees. A highborn lady was above fear, she told herself. Nay, ’twas the cold that made her quake. The cold and fatigue. She was exhausted, but she dared not close her eyes, for she was not alone. Rats quarreled somewhere in the distant dimness, but it was not those vermin that she feared.

  Her terror was closer to hand and human. At least they were said to be human.

  “Are you asleep yet, lassie?” someone asked. The voice was something between a hiss and a croon. She swallowed the bile in her throat.

  “Nay.” She found her voice with some difficulty, but she dared not remain silent, for only fear kept these particular vermin at bay. “I am awake and vigilant.”

  “Vigilant?” A chuckle issued from the odious darkness. “Don’t she talk pretty, Lute?”

  “Aye. And she wields a rock even better, aye, Reek?”

  Reek cursed vehemently. They had come at her shortly after her arrival, had knocked her down, had planned some evil she refused to contemplate, but she had found a stone in the waiting darkness and fought with a strength born of desperation. The bolder of the two would bear a bruise on his temple for some days. But maybe there were more than two. She had no way of telling for certain.

  “She’ll sleep soon enough,” hissed Reek, and sidled closer. She couldn’t see him in the darkness, but she could hear his shuffling approach and felt her throat close up with fear. “Then we’ll see how feisty she be.”

  “I’m thinkin’ you’ll be needing more than your one arm to tame this ’un,” said the other. “’Praps I’d best take ’er first and—”

  “She’s mine!” Reek hissed. Something struck the wall. “And don’t you be forgettin’ it, you sawed-off little bastard.”

  “Bastard am I?” croaked Lute. There was a scuffling in the straw, accented by heavy breathing and raspy curses.

  “Sod off the two of you afore I call the warden!”

  Tatiana jerked at the sound of another voice. It came from her left, not far away and clear as the day. Perhaps it was a young girl, but her tone suggested experiences Tatiana had not shared.

  “Sod off yourself, you lil’ tart,” Reek said, but the scuffling had ceased.

  “Tart am I, Stinky?”

  “A whore more like.”

  “Leastways I confine me interests to me own species,” she said.

  “When the girl ’ere sleeps I’ll show you where me interests lie,” Reek said, but he came no closer.

  Lute muttered something, and the girl snorted, but finally all was quiet. Silence stole in, nearly as suffocating as the darkness. Tattiana shivered. Odd, fermenting odors made it difficult to breathe. It wasn’t fear that made her throat close up, for she was above such mundane emotions. She did not lower herself to extremes, but kept herself always on an even keel. A true lady did not shout, did not cry. Still, when she escaped this hellish nightmare MacTavish would pay. That much was certain.

  From the far end of her cell, someone began to snore. So one of them was asleep, but what of the other? She waited. Minutes ticked away, aching in the blackness. The night wore on. Images flitted through her mind. Her mother’s face. The duchess of Fellway had been cool and unapproachable the entirety of her daughter’s life, but there was a security to that, a constancy. All was well for Mother would make it so. But she was gone now, dead these past five months. Her father had died long before. No help there. But Nicol. She steadied her nerves and let her mind dwell on the viscount of New-burn. Nicol’s crooked smile shimmered in the hopelessness before her.

  “I but said you should not marry the first sniveling cur that sniffs out your crown,” he said. “Not that you should sneak off and marry the bastard lord of Teleere.”

  “But you said he was strong, Nicol.”

  “Yes.” His voice was uncertain, his dark eyes intense. “He is that.”

  “And fair-minded.”

  “He seems to be, from what I could see, Anna
, but—”

  “Then I shall go there and see for myself.”

  “And what of your throne? What of Paqual? You cannot trust him in your absence.”

  “No,” she agreed. “But I can trust you, can I not?”

  He watched her for a long moment, his face atypically somber before he shook his head. “No. Trust no one,” he said.

  And in that moment she awoke. Something was wrong.

  Nightmarish reality screamed back in. Someone was close, within reach. She jerked to her feet, jumping backward.

  From the darkness close at hand, Reek cursed and straightened.

  “Quick little bugger ain’t you, lassie.”

  She could see him now for the first time. His face was twisted into a parody of a smile.

  “Come now, old Reek ain’t goin’ to ’urt you.”

  “No.” She straightened her back and clenched her hands to fists to still their shaking. From the corner of her eye she could see Lute. He was small and scrawny, his eyes eerily bright in the predawn grayness. “You are not.”

  Reek chuckled. “There’s a good girl. Come on over ’ere now, and we’ll ’ave us a bit of fun.”

  “Fun!” The word escaped on hysterical laughter.

  Reek stiffened, then took a step toward her. “You thinkin’ you’re too good for the likes of old Reek?”

  Terror coursed through her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. But her mind was still working, spinning away like a whirling dirvish. She snapped her gaze to Lute and back.

  “Yes,” she said, and suddenly her course was set. There was no turning back. Her legs felt stiff. She braced her back against the cold stone of the wall behind her and prayed. “I am far too good for you. As is every living soul. In fact, I pity poor Lute.”

  “Lute!”

  “At least he has decency to leave me unmolested.”

  “Decency!” Reek laughed and turned his gaze toward his cellmate, who stepped forward a jittery pace. “Aye, ’e ’as the decency to wait till I’m through with you afore ’e takes what’s left over.”

  She felt the wall behind her, searching for some unseen weapon, but there was nothing. “You should not judge others by your own depraved standards,” she said.

  “Depraved!” He took another step closer. It was impossible to breathe. He was too close, only a couple yards away, but she dare not dart away. There was nowhere to go anyway.

  “Yes,” she said. “You are depraved. While Lute—”

  “I’ll learn you to—” Reek began and stepped closer, but Lute came with him.

  “Leave ’er be,” he ordered.

  Reek stopped with a jolt. His eyes bulged as he turned his glare on his companion. “What’s this then?” he rasped.

  “You ’eard ’er. She don’t want nothin’ to do with you.”

  Reek coughed a laugh. “And I guess ’er ladyship wants a tiny wick like you.”

  Lute clenched his fists. Shifting his eyes to her and away, he licked his lips and took a step toward his adversary. “Aye. She’s mine.”

  Reek snorted, then shrugged and turned, but in the same instant, he launched himself at his rival.

  Lute grunted as Reek’s shoulder caught him in the gut.

  They went down in a jumble of flailing limbs. Reek swore. From behind her, someone yelled. A woman cackled, and Tatiana screamed for the guards, grabbing the lattice-work metal bars in both hands and shrieking for help.

  It all happened in an instant. Light burst in her eyes. The door sprang open, and she was flung aside. Her head struck the wall. Men rushed in, but reality was already blurring. Someone yelled. From a great, foggy distance she thought she heard the name Megs, but perhaps it was just a fragmented portion of her dreams.

  Light glowed blearily. Someone bent over her like a looming shadow. There was a whimper of fear. Was it hers? The thought floated groggily through her mind, but it didn’t matter. She let her eyes fall closed and heard someone growl an oath.

  For a moment she tried to sit up, but her body felt strangely heavy, then she was rising, floating mistily from the filthy straw and lifting languidly upward.

  Death. She sighed. It didn’t feel half-bad.

  Chapter 5

  “F orgive me, my lord.” The voice was quiet but fraught with tension. Was she in hell? No one answered. Apparently Satan was the laconic sort. “I thought you meant to punish her.”

  Punishment. So it was hell. Nicol had been right. She should not have been so haughty, so aloof. She should have tried to understand the plight of her subjects. Should have listened when she could, done more to set things right when possible. Still, even in hell it felt good simply to lie in silence and let time slip quietly past her.

  “I had no way of knowing she meant something—”

  “Peters!” Satan growled. “Shut the hell up.” Someone chuckled.

  “Yes, my lord. Am I dismissed, my lord?” There was another growl, which she failed to comprehend. A door opened and closed. Too loud. It echoed in her head. She moaned and lifted a hand tentatively to her brow. Lights sparkled in her cranium, rocking her world.

  “Here, put your hand down.”

  She opened her eyes, but only to slits, for the light seemed ungodly bright, blurring her vision.

  “Who—”

  “Quiet now,” he said.

  “MacTavish!” So he was the devil. Of course. She attempted to sit up. He wrapped a hand around her upper arm and pulled her upright.

  “So you’ve finally learned my name.” His voice was rough, his touch the same. It took little enough effort to hold her. Hell was intimidating, even for a princess.

  “Here. Drink this,” he ordered, and pressed something to her lips.

  She would have enjoyed refusing, but she was horribly thirsty. Sitting was difficult. He steadied her with a hand to her arm and tipped a mug forward. Too fast. She sputtered and gagged as the herb-laced wine burned her lips and throat.

  She coughed, winced, coughed again, then opened her eyes to glare at him. “I’d think Satan would have better seduction skills.”

  The boyish expression of yesterday was gone, replaced by a brooding glare. “You’re raving,” he said, and felt her forehead with the back of his hand.

  She jerked her head to the side and was rewarded with a quick jab of pain through her eyeballs. She gritted her teeth and spoke nevertheless. “Threats and imprisonment and drowning in cheap wine. Is that the only way you can convince women to sleep with you, MacTavish?”

  Someone chuckled again. She turned her head painfully, sweeping her gaze past a tumble of hazy artifacts to land on a man near the door. It was a giant dressed in fur and plaid. He raised a loaf of bread to her in a sort of salute and chuckled again.

  She scowled groggily and turned back to her captor. “What’s next? The cat-o’-nine-tails if I don’t capitulate?”

  He was silent for a moment. “The dungeon is generally incentive enough for most maids.”

  “I am not most maids,” she said.

  “The indomitable Magical Megs,” he said, and leaned back slightly, his hand leaving her brow.

  She laughed. The sound was gritty and coarse, befitting her location perhaps. “Even in prison you called me Megs. I would think you would know my true identity,” she said. “Given your…station.”

  “My station?” He was ungodly handsome, but of course Satan would be. Some thought the god of the underworld old and ugly, but she had always known better. Beauty disguised a host of sins and drew admirers all at once.

  “God of hell,” she explained, though reality was seeping painfully into her head.

  Anger sparked in his eyes. “So you prefer last night’s accommodations?”

  She refused to shudder, refused to dwell on the stench of the dungeon he had saved her from, for he had also been the one to put her there. She tightened her fingers in the blankets that covered her. Memories from the day before sluiced in, and she glanced down quickly, but she was still clothed, though her sleeve wa
s torn.

  So she was well, basically uninjured and virtually untouched. Circumstances could be worse. She raised her gaze back to his and pursed her lips.

  “Let me go, MacTavish, and I’ll not seek vengeance.”

  “Vengeance!” He didn’t laugh, but it sounded like a close thing. Instead, he jerked to his feet and paced back and forth before the enormous bed she found herself in for the second time. “And tell me, Megs, how would one in your position go about seeking vengeance?”

  She longed to tell him the truth, to inform him that she had an army at her disposal, but she had said too much already, for she had no way of guessing what his reaction to her news might be. Instead, she remained perfectly still and watched him in silence.

  “If you think Wheaton will avenge you, you’re a greater fool than I believed.”

  “Tell me, MacTavish, how long have you been obsessed with this Wheaton fellow?”

  Anger flashed in his eyes, and for a moment she thought he might strike her, but he settled back onto the mattress and watched her instead. “I might ask the same of you.”

  “And I might tell you…again…that I know no one by that name.”

  He smiled. It held no charm, no lightness, no joy, and yet, as pure physical beauty went, it was stunning. If she cared a whit about physical appearances, she might have been moved, but she had learned long ago that it mattered not at all. Her mother had been a rare beauty, yet she had no warmth for her only daughter.

  Reaching out, he touched her cheek. She refused to draw away, but met his gaze with her own hard stare. Nicol had once said she could freeze the Cocklewall Falls if she turned her glare on it.

  Unfortunately, MacTavish did not freeze. “Maybe you don’t realize what I can do to you, Megs,” he said instead.

  “I think you already did it,” she replied.

  The giant chuckled.

  MacTavish turned to glower, but Tatiana didn’t shift her gaze. Her statement was not entirely true, of course, for he had saved her. Why? If he meant to have her tortured, Pikeshead Prison seemed a good place to start. Even in Sedonia they heard rumors of it. So why was she back here in his private chambers?