by Lois Greiman
“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 attention 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 o
f 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—
It was at that very second that MacTavish rounded the corner. She hit him dead on, striking his chest with the impetus of her weight and bouncing off like a ricocheting cricket ball. Her bare buttocks slapped against the floor. The pistol flew out of her hand, struck the wall with a wooden thud, and exploded nearly in her ear.
By the time she sat up, dazed and disoriented, Peters had stumbled around the corner, Cormick was grinning like a demented monkey, and MacTavish was staring down at her in utter glaring silence.
It was Burr who finally spoke. “I like her,” he said. “She’s got spunk.”
Comrick’s grin widened.
“And she’s not shy ’bout being naked,” added the Norseman. “’Tis a rare quality in a maid these days.”
“Peters.” MacTavish never shifted his attention from her.
She scooted backward, found her feet, and rose with shaky determination. Every instinct in her insisted that she cover herself, but it would do no good, so she balled her fists at her sides and raised her chin in tremulous defiance.
“Do you think you can manage one simple task?” MacTavish’s tone was dry and dark.
The lieutenant nodded, looking as pale as an Easter lily beneath his freckles.
“Fetch a blanket.”
The soldier turned rapidly away, but MacTavish spoke again.
“And Peters.”
The man pivoted, wobbling slightly. If Tatiana weren’t terrified for her own safety, she might have felt guilty. As it was, she truly did feel sick to her stomach, and a bit light-headed. But swooning seemed out of the question. Chances were good that if she passed out again, they would simply toss her out the nearest window.
“Yes, my liege.” The lieutenant’s voice was as pale as his complexion.
“One more damned blunder and you’ll be having your meals at Pikeshead. And it won’t be as a guard.”
There was absolute silence as MacTavish’s meaning came home to Peters, but he finally swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he nodded once before hurrying away.
Chapter 8
T he bedchamber was absolutely silent.
The girl stood in the center of the room with nothing but a tattered plaid blanket wrapped tightly about her shoulders. Her hair was a dark mess of silken chaos running down her back. And yet she stood as straight as a mizzenmast, unbowed and unembarrassed. But what did she have to be embarrassed about? Cairn had seen her body. Hell, they’d all seen her body.
He ground his teeth and circled her. She didn’t turn, but watched him from the corner of her eye until he was well out of sight.
The candles lit to ward off the impending darkness gleamed on her kitten-soft hair. “Why naked, Megs?”
She didn’t respond for a moment. Indeed, for several seconds, he thought she would not.
“I tire of this game, MacTavish,” she said finally, and she did sound tired, but in a bored sort of way, as if they sat in some well-appointed parlor playing faro in the wee hours of the morning.
He felt his brows rise, but not so much as other body parts. “And what game is that?”
“This game of make-believe,” she said.
“Is that what we’re playing?”
She nodded. Her chin was tilted up slightly, perhaps to enable her to look into his eyes, but perhaps it was simply her attitude. Take no prisoners, bow to no man. “But I seem to be the only one with a fictional name.”
“It does seem to be the case,” he agreed.
She gave him a nod for the twist of her words and continued. “Mayhap I shall conceive one for you. I believe I like the name…” She paused as if thinking. “Norman.”
He waited a moment, then, “You know I could have you executed, don’t you?”
If he had planned to frighten her, his goal was sorely missed, for her chin notched up another fractional inch. “Truly?” she said, fluttering one hand to her chest. She was the very mistress of sarcasm. “And all the while I was only dashing about in the altogether for the sheer joy of the romp.”
Something tightened in his gut at the memory of seeing her naked. Hoary had tightened, too. Joy would not quite describe his own feelings, but if truth be told he was entirely at a loss to guess at hers.
“I can understand why you might want to bash Peters on the head,” he admitted. “I’m tempted to do the same meself at times. Taking his pistol…” He shrugged, feeling a spark of admiration. The top of her shiny little head barely reached his shoulder. “’Twas a good try. I’d have done the same meself if I—”
“I am so flattered,” she interrupted.
He paused. She made him grit his teeth. All the time. As if he were braced against some deviant pain. “Flattered?”
“That the great MacTavish might actually choose the same course I myself undertook.” She pressed a splay-fingers hand to her breast, which was something of a silly gesture, since her other hand still held like a recalcitrant hound to that damned, ragged blanket.
He nodded once as if accepting her compliment at face value. “Aye,” he said. “I would have taken the pistol.” He paced again. “The only difference is…” He shrugged. “I would have taken a garment or two with me. And I would have succeeded, of course.”
If she was angry, the emotion didn’t show on her face. In fact, few situations ever seemed to change her expression. As if she were untouchable, far above his reach, except those few times he had reached through her defenses. And that stoicism made him feel all the more edgy. Pirates were not known for their sterling control over their emotions. But he managed a smile and let his gaze skim down her form. It was a wasted effort, for she was bundled like a newborn babe and seemed oblivious to his disdain. Damn her.
“I’m ever so sorry to offend your sensibilities with my nakedness,” she said, and curtsied. “But if you would hand me my clothes, I might shield my shame from your sight.”
“Shame.” He felt a muscle dance in his jaw, calmed it with an effort, and circled her again. “I begin to think you have no shame, Megs.”
“You bas—” She never completed the thought, but caught herself immediately as if she were about to say something rather uncomplimentary. He smiled and realized she seemed as surprised as he by the truncated outburst. Perhaps she was not so unaffected after all.
He raised a brow.
She drew a deep breath through her nose. Her nostrils flared slightly. Above the blanket, her phenomenal breasts rose. Her dark hair was slicked back from her heart-shaped face, and her body was wrapped in green plaid, narrowing at her thighs, then sweeping toward the floor. And despite all the good sense he believed he might possess, he couldn’t help but think she looked like a mermaid come to land. But not just any mermaid, a sea princess, gracing the lesser folk with her presence.
“You are the one who should be ashamed,” she said. “Holding me here against my will. Threatening me at every turn. Taking my clothes.”
He hadn’t taken her clothes this time, but he didn’t mention that fact. “And of course you have done no wrong?”
“No, I have not.”
“You did not steal my brooch, allow a criminal to escape?”
She was shaking her head.
“Stab me with a compass? Knock my lieutenant unconscious?”
Her head shaking ceased, and for the briefest instant, her eyes flickered away. “Aye, I did that one…those last two things.”
And suddenly he wanted to laugh, but it would surely not seem very “lordly.” He should probably be calling for the executioner even now and bellowing, “Off with her head. Off with her head,” with a good deal of fanfare and pomp.
But she had such a proud, witty head. And it was attached to such a fine, luscious body. Surely she would miss it if she were parted from it.
“If you’re going to kill me, why wait?” she asked.
He wondered vaguely if she could read his mind. But nay. It was far more likely that she was only watching his expressions. Anger was an emotion he bent to his will. ’Twas what came of having the face of a prepubescent lad while trying to keep a score of seasoned sailors from wreaking havoc.
