by Lois Greiman
“So you didn’t kill her, but you know her.”
She looked momentarily disoriented. “Who was you asking about?”
“A girl called Megsan or perhaps Margaret?”
She shook her head.
“Megs?”
She scowled as if thinking, then shrugged again. The movement was casual. Too much so, but perhaps a certain amount of taut bravado was to be expected under the circumstances. Burr shifted against the wall again. She scowled, not glancing toward him, but obviously aware. “There was a chit named Megs brought in last night. Or so’s I was told.”
His breath caught, but he forced himself to remain relaxed. “From whom?”
“I ’eard the warden say it.”
“So you’ve not heard of a lass called Magical Megs?”
For a moment her face showed absolutely no expression, but then her eyes widened dramatically. “Was that Megs ’erself?”
“You’ve heard of her then?”
“Magical Megs? Course I ’ave.”
“Could you identify her?”
She shook her head slowly, her eyes wide again. “Like I told you. I only stole that one time.”
“The snuffbox.”
Her expression became enormously sad. She blinked as if fighting tears. “Seems a harsh sentence for one foolish mistake don’t it?”
“Your lying skills seem to be improving already.”
Anger flashed across her mobile features, but one quick glance at Burr, and she shrugged again. “I does what I can.”
“Aye.” He stood, turned away, then slowly swiveled back. “How long will you be visiting Pikeshead?”
The sad expression was back immediately. “Six months. If’n I lives that long.”
He let her words sink into the silence. “What if I set you free?”
“What?” She started suddenly, but her eyes narrowed a moment later, like a small red fox, sniffing a trap.
“If you came to Westheath and identified the thief called Megs, I’d see that you went free.”
“Magical Megs’s at the castle?”
He gave her a noncommittal stare.
“Is she alive?”
“Would you care?”
A rainbow of emotions arced across her face, but finally she shrugged. “Like I said, guvner, I don’t know ’er personal.”
He nodded once, then turned away. A moment later he could hear her heckling the guards as they escorted her back to her cell.
Burr was silent as he fell in beside Cairn. Their footsteps echoed in dull tandem down the stone hallway, but above that noise it seemed Cairn could hear the giant’s mental wheels churning.
“What is it?” he said finally.
“What is what?” rumbled Burr.
Cairn snorted, immediately irritated by the other’s silent reflection. Reflections rarely showed him in a favorable light it seemed. “Next time you find me lying helpless in a pile of rocks, leave me there.”
Burr nodded agreeably. “I won’t even offer me assistance.”
There was silence again except for their footfalls. “You going to ask why I spoke to the girl?”
“I assume you’re improving your circle of friends?”
“She’s lying,” he said.
The other shrugged. The movement might have been reminiscent of the young girl’s, but Burr’s shoulders were huge and round and closely resembled the lumbering motion of a circus bear.
“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 i
ndication. “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.”
Chapter 7
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 obvious, 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.
