by Lois Greiman
“The mighty lord of Teleere with…” He indicated her with a sweep of a soft, long-fingered hand. “Her!” He couldn’t have sounded more disapproving if his master had been found abed with two sheep and a handful of snails. “Really, my lord!”
MacTavish rubbed his eyes, but perhaps there was the hint of humor quirking his lips now. “So you’ve heard of her, Bert?”
“Yes.” He didn’t sniff, but he might have just as well. “Lieutenant Peters informed me of her presence.”
“Did he say he put her in Pikeshead?” There was something in his tone she could not quite decipher.
“My lord…” The little man’s voice had lowered to little more than a whisper, as though he barely dared to say the words. “You should not have gone there yourself.”
“To Pikeshead.”
“You must think about your reputation. Your safety.”
He smiled. “Aye, I’ll have to do that.”
“You think I jest.”
“No. I’m sure you don’t.”
“Your father—”
“Was a true gentleman,” MacTavish finished.
The little man nodded. “And not one to take in…” He paused as if he had no wish to offend her, but his expression did that for him. “If one has…” He paused again as if searching for the perfect words. “If one has needs one should keep himself to himself.”
MacTavish’s smile widened. “I’m sure you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”
The little man actually blushed.
“This is not a matter lightly taken.”
“I’ve rarely taken sex lightly.”
Sir Albert drew himself even straighter. He had a beard, neatly trimmed. Even that seemed affronted. “If you hope to shock me, you will be sorely disappointed, my lord.”
MacTavish laughed out loud. “And if you hope to discourage me from bedding who I will, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“She’s not the proper sort.”
“I’ve always liked the improper sort, Bert.”
He pursed his lips. “So you’ve no wish for an heir, my lord?”
MacTavish scowled. “I doubt that bedding the girl will make a difference on that front.”
“You think a proper heiress will want you after you’ve soiled yourself on her.”
“Aye. I think a proper heiress will want my money regardless.”
“So jaded, my lord.” He sniffed sadly. “It pains me to hear it.”
“Damn.” He sounded immensely tired suddenly. “Have you come here for a reason, Bert?”
“What of disease?”
“What?”
“Look at her. The wastrel of the streets. Might you believe that she’s kept herself pure?”
MacTavish glanced at her. She stared back. “I hope not.”
“’Tis not a laughing matter, my lord. Aye, she may be comely enough to look at if you’ve a weakness for that sort…” Again she imagined a sniff. “But is she worth the loss of an heir?”
MacTavish opened his mouth, but Albert hurried on.
“’Tis said it falls off.”
“What?”
Sir Albert’s face was beyond red now, beaming like the inner core of a blacksmith’s fire. “Your…” He cleared his throat. “Your most private parts.”
“They can fall off?”
He pulled back his shoulders. “I have heard it said. Surely, you do not wish for that.”
“No.” MacTavish shook his head slowly. “No I don’t.”
“Then think long and hard, my lord. Think what you’ve accomplished since coming to this isle. How much more might you achieve if you keep your head.”
Perhaps there was something of a pun there, for MacTavish smiled ruefully.
“Aye, I’d like to keep my head.”
“Then send her back to the dungeon. ’Tis surely where she belongs. Forget this foolishness with Lord Wheaton. It can only cause you grief.”
Burr stepped into the doorway. “Bert,” he said, toasting the other with a spiced custard he held in his gigantic hand. Part of it toppled down his vest and rolled to the floor. “You’re back from old Parree, aye?”
Sir Albert turned slowly. Rarely had she seen more disdain on a man’s face, not even when he’d looked at her. “Aye.” He bowed his head slightly. “I have returned from Paris.”
“The lads there are a lively lot, I hear.”
The tiny man’s thin lips pursed. “Was it your idea to bring the chit here?” he asked.
“The chit?” asked Burr, then nodded. “You mean Magical Megs, here? Nay. It wasn’t me own idea. She swooned all pretty at Cairn’s feet. The lad thought of it himself. You can hardly blame him for taking her to his bed.” He paused, looking Sir Albert up and down. “Or maybe you can.”
The room fell silent.
“She should be returned to Pikeshead.”
“Pikeshead? The lass be too clever to stay there for long.” Something flashed in Burr’s eyes. “Besides, the place is crawling with murderers and sodomizers. Surely you wouldn’t wish that on your worst enemy.” His gaze sharpened. “Maybe your best friend, but—”
“You go too far!” Albert’s voice shook.
“Leave the lass alone. She’s done you no harm.”
“If she harms my lord MacTavish, she harms—”
“What do you think she’s likely to do, the wee slip of a thing? Wrestle him to the ground and have her way with him?”
“I know her type.”
“I rather doubt it.”
“She deserves to be hanged.”
“Have you nothing better to worry on, Bert? Napoleon invades Russia. England’s regent is a fool, and trouble brews in Sedonia, threatening to bubble over on Teleere itself. But you are worried that the lad here might find himself a bonny lass, dashing your hopes for—”
“You are a cretin and a degener—”
“Get out, the two of you.” MacTavish sounded tired.
“My lord—”
“Shut up,” he ordered.
“Tav—”
“You too,” he said, and strode toward the door. They turned to follow him. “Peters.” His voice was just short of a yell. His lieutenant appeared in less than an instant, his face strained, his eyes wide.
“Yes, my lord.”
“I’ll be gone for some hours. I’m leaving the girl here. Can I trust you to keep her safe?”
“Yes, my lord. Without a doubt, my lord. I’ll not fail you again, my lord.”
MacTavish nodded curtly and continued through the door. She heard his voice from the far side. “Get her a meal and a change of garments.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And a bath.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And do not let her escape.”
“No, my lord. Of course not, my lord. I’ll watch her every moment.”
“Every moment?” MacTavish’s tone was strange and suddenly clearer, as if he’d turned back.
“Well not…not when she’s bathing, my lord.”
“Very well.” She heard footsteps again, then, “And Peters, relax. She’s only a lass. I’m certain you can handle the job.”
Chapter 6
H e took a carriage to Pikeshead, gritting his teeth against the jostle and jolts of the horrid contraption. Carriage rides had never improved his disposition. As a lad he had learned that horses tended to be fractious and unpredictable, opinionated and sour-minded. Not like the sea, where he could see a swell coming for miles and guess every dip of his vessel. Some might think the sway of a carriage was reminiscent of the pitch of a ship, but some were idiots. A frigate’s roll was rhythmic and soothing. A carriage trip was tantamount to suicide. But he was in a hurry.
The streets of Portshaven deteriorated as they wound their way southward. Cobblestone gave way to clay, clay to mud, and mud to ruts as deep as his funk. The buildings became shabbier, the children dirtier. He scowled out the window and disembarked after a final jolting halt in front of Pikeshead Prison.
It loomed over him like a gray, foul cloud. Somewhere to the east a crow broke the silence with its harsh call. It sounded like nothing less than the raucous laughter of a ghost.
Cairn stepped out of the carriage. It rocked beneath his feet, and he held tightly to the doorframe lest he be pitched into the street. He had insisted that he come alone, but he knew better than to believe that his wishes had been met. Olaf Burroun, master intimidator and frequent pain in the ass, was nearby.
Pikeshead’s gate master was a tall man with hair gone gray and a somewhat ghoulish expression. He bowed at Cairn’s approach.
“My lord,” he said, and straightened. “I swear I did not know there had been a mistake. I was told to imprison the girl, and I did so. Had I—”
“Tell me,” Cairn interrupted. “Do you keep such watchful care over all your prisoners?”
The warden licked his lips and shifted his eyes side to side as if debating if this was sarcasm or a question truly asked. “I am not certain of your meaning, my lord.”
“I mean, do you simply throw every prisoner to the wolves, regardless of his crime or station?”
“They are…” He paused for a moment as if baffled. “…criminals, my lord. Incarcerated as a punishment for their crimes.”
Cairn scowled and straightened slightly. The man was right, of course. They were criminals, here to be punished. Cairn had never been squeamish about punishment. For God’s sake, he’d spent most of his life on a frigate, and there were few milieus in the world that boasted harsher conditions. He had a score of scars to show for those years, and yet, the idea of punishment irked him now, eating at his consciousness, gnawing at his gut.
“It matters naught if they are female or male, hardened criminals or tender maids?” he asked, though he supposed it would have been a fine time to keep his mouth firmly shut.
“Tender maids.” The warden looked affronted at best. “My lord, ’tis true, they sometimes look mild, but this I know from experience—they would as soon rip your heart from your chest as do an honest day’s labor.”
He considered arguing, but his chest ached from the puncture of a certain compass, so he only scowled instead.
“But…” The warden continued to look anguished. “Had I known you favored her, my lord—”
“I do not favor her.” He made certain his tone was chill. “But I am laird of this isle and ’tis my duty to look after even the lowliest of my subjects.”
The warden looked confused. Cairn gritted his teeth and exhaled between them. This was getting him nowhere.
“Did you recognize her?” he asked.
“Your pardon, my lord?”
“The girl,” he said. His impatience was mounting, for though he had been fortunate enough to leave Burr out of sight during the journey, the irksome giant had left his steed behind and now stood a few yards away. He had leaned a huge shoulder up against a wall and appeared to be busy with his own rudimentary thought processes, but Cairn knew better. The Norseman heard every word, dissected every nuance. Damn him and his barbaric facade. Why the hell couldn’t he be a cretin who thought like a cretin? “Did you know the girl who was brought here last night?”
“I believe the lieutenant said her name was Megs.”
“But you hadn’t seen her before.”
“No, my lord, but as I have said, there are brigands and vermin aplenty in Portshaven. I cannot know them all.”
Cairn drew a deep breath and refrained from knocking the warden upside the head just for sport. “I need to speak to the girl’s cell companions,” he said instead.
The jailer blanched. “Surely not, my lord. They are—”
“Brigands and vermin,” Cairn finished.
“Exactly, my lord, and not fit for your esteemed company.”
And yet he had spent most of his life in just that sort of company. With any luck, he could make some new friends here. Burr’s companionship was becoming wearing.
“I’ll be speaking to them,” Cairn insisted grimly, and the other capitulated with a bow. There were certain advantages to being lord of all. One could coerce without even issuing a decent threat. But sometimes he missed the opportunity.
On the other hand, even his title did nothing to induce Megs’s two cellmates to talk. When they were led into the light, they were blubbering and incoherent. He asked them much the same questions he’d asked the warden, but they knew nothing, or at least, in his glowering presence, they professed to know nothing of the girl called Megs. They had thought her just another cell rat. They’d had no intention of harming her. Just fooling they were.
Memories knotted in Cairn’s mind. The stench, the screams, the sight of tiny Megs unconscious. He was tempted to wring their scrawny necks, but they were so pitiful, so low and wretched already that he could do nothing but send them back to their hole.
Cairn gritted his teeth as they were led away. He turned back to the guard. “Were there any others there last night?”
“No, my lord. Just the two.”
He scowled, remembering. “Even in prison you called me Megs.” But he hadn’t called her. God only knew if he had spoken at all. Rage was a primeval thing.
“Was there another she might have spoken to?” he asked.
The warden looked nervous, shuffled his feet and blinked. “There may be others she spoke to in the adjoining cell. There is no way to keep them from conversing though we—”
“I want to see them.”
“My lord?”
“Anyone who may have spoken to the girl. But don’t tell them my title.”
His wish was granted, but not happily. Five people were ushered into a barren, rough-stoned room. They came one at a time—a tattered old man, so debilitated he could barely speak, a woman who cackled when she spoke, but was not above trying a bit of seduction should it better her lot, two boys barely into puberty, and a young woman. A girl really.
Cairn stood in the nearly empty room. A wooden chair adorned the chamber, but there was little else. The walls were stone. The floor the same. The girl eyed him carefully as she entered, but if she were afraid, she was careful not to show it. Behind him, Burr said nothing.
“What’s your name?” Cairn asked her. The corner of a grin lifted her lips. Her hair might have been red. It was matted and her face dirty, but under other circumstances, she might have been pretty. Under any circumstances she would have been scrappy. That much was clear in every move she made.
“That depends,” she said. “On why you be askin’.”
He remembered saying something similar on his first day at sea. Ten stripes should have taught him better, but punishment didn’t always have the desired effect, for he would guess this girl had known her share of stripes, yet she spoke as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
“I am asking because I wish to know.” He employed his best upper-crust speech. It came in handy now and again, and he was not above using it, unless Albert was within hearing, of course.
“Oh?” She sounded bored, irritated even. “And who are you that I should be sharin’ my name?” she asked.
He paused a moment, taking in her appearance. Her gown might have been blue at one time. Now it was an undistinguished grayish hue, faded almost white at the ends of her ragged sleeves.
“MacTavish,” he said, and let the word sink in for a moment. “My mother called me Cairn.”
She paled, but she didn’t cower. “Bloody ’ell,” she murmured, and he laughed despite himself.
“What’s your name, girl?” he asked again.
She straightened her spine. “I don’t need ta—”
Burr shifted his feet, settling his weight more comfortably against the wall. The girl looked nervously past him to the giant. At first glance one might think he’d died in an upright position. At second one might guess the other was merely bored. It took some brigands a good deal of time to realize he was watching every move. By that time they were usually already dead. But the girl seemed to have gotten the gist of his personality
already, for she swallowed once and turned her gaze rapidly back to Cairn. “They calls me Gem,” she said.
He repeated the name with a nod. “Do you know a lass named Megs?”
“Megs, you say?’ She glanced at Burr again. He was like an unsightly wart. Hard to ignore and harder to be rid of. “No, me lord, I don’t believe I do.”
He watched her carefully. It was the first time she’d given him any sort of proper address. Why this sudden civility? “Why are you at Pikeshead, Gem?”
“Me?” A corner of her mouth lifted again as she glanced about. “I enjoy it ’ere, guvner. Don’t you?”
The smart mouth was back. He liked to think he himself had shown some bravado under duress, but she was a common thief, and he was the king of her world. It was entirely possible even he would manage to show a little more caution in the same situation.
“We usually hang murderers,” he said. It wasn’t that he didn’t admire her spunk, but he had things to learn, and a subtle threat seemed the most expedient means to that end.
“Murder!” She stumbled back a step when she said it, then snapped her gaze to Burr, as if expecting him to produce a noose from beneath his tunic. Her eyes were wide. Perhaps he should have felt guilty for the threat. But guilt was wearing and of little real value if you came right down to it. She narrowed her eyes now, thinking. “I didn’t do nothing but steal some bloke’s snuffbox.”
“Really?”
“Aye. Bloody lot of good it did me, too, cause it weren’t even silver.”
“Are you saying that’s the only thing you stole, Gem?”
“On my honor, guvner, I never took nothin’ else.”
He smiled. “I hope you’re a better thief than you are a liar, Gem.”
“You callin’ me a liar?” Her hands were formed to fists, her bright mouth pursed.
“Aye,” he said, and nodded once. “I am that.”
She watched him for a moment, lifted her gaze to Burr, watched him again, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Cairn smiled. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed common thieves. “About Megs—” he said.
“I didn’t kill ’er.”
He paused in his thoughts. “Is she dead then?”
“I…I…” She shifted her attention back to the giant and shrugged, striving for a casual demeanor once again. “How would I know, guvner? I was thinkin’ you ’ad found ’er dead, what with the way you was talkin’.”
