by Lois Greiman
Turning her eyes sideways, she snagged the blanket and tried to pull it over her nakedness, but he was sitting on it, and all she managed to cover was her feet. It was unfortunate but he could live with it.
“I never…knew him.”
“You didn’t know your own husband.”
“I knew him. Of course I knew him. I just didn’t…” She winced. “Know him.” She closed her eyes as if shutting out this entire scene. He remained silent. She opened her eyes with a snap, and lo and behold there was anger there.
“You know exactly what I mean,” she said.
He would have laughed, but all his energy had headed south, and he found he lacked the ability for such a Herculean effort. So he drew a deep breath and rallied. “You never swived your own husband?”
“That’s…” She pursed her lips and straightened her back against the headboard. If she’d had clothes, she would have looked quite proper. As it was, she simply looked delectable. “That’s a very crass word, sir.”
He did laugh now, but the sound was unnatural. “Are you correcting my grammar, Megs?”
“I am not—”
“That’s right. You’re Linnet. The widow, who never…knew her own husband.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“Really? Then explain. I’m fascinated. Why would a woman like you…a woman who obviously…” He skimmed her body, but he did not touch. “Who obviously does not…detest the idea of knowing—”
“He was unable,” she interrupted.
“What?”
She cleared her throat and nodded violently. A slick sable curl bobbed across her nipple. He watched its progress breathlessly. “He had been…injured.”
“How did—”
“By a bull.”
“I thought he was a tailor.” He couldn’t resist her any longer, but reached out to brush that teasing hair from her breast.
She drew a hissing breath but spoke fairly steadily. “His father was a landowner. As was mine. Rupert. His father’s name was Rupert. His mother was called Martha. But he called her Fah. I don’t know why. It was silly really. They farmed a piece of land near Midhurst. He planned to be a farmer as well. In fact, he said to me once…‘a man isn’t really a man without’…” He skimmed his fingers across her breast to her arm. She closed her eyes. “Land.” She finished the sentence on a shiver.
“I’ve seen some bonny sights,” he said, and stroked her arm. Her lids lifted with slow deliberation. “The sun climbing, red as cranberries, out of the Caspian Sea. The flight of a sailfish as it soars for the heavens. But you, lass…” He shook his head, knowing he should detest her, should despise her, should at least be wary of her. But her skin was so soft. “You are the most beautiful thing yet.”
She stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then, “He intended to follow in his father’s footsteps,” she whispered.
He slipped his fingers into her hair, stroking it over her velvety shoulder.
“But then the bull—”
He traced a waving strand down her arm. Her lips parted slightly. No words came.
“Gored him?” he suggested.
“Yes.” She nodded, but the expression seemed almost sleepy. “Yes. She gored him.”
He smiled. She was always lovely, even when she was trying to kill him. But now, with her eyes wide with desire and her breasts bare to the world…Triton’s balls She was a sight to behold.
“I don’t pretend to be well versed in animal husbandry, lass,” he said, and trailed a finger beneath her left breast. “But I believe bulls are male.”
“Oh.” The sound was little more than a sigh. “Yes. Of course. He gored him.”
“Before or after you married him?”
“Before,” she said. “Otherwise, we would surely have…”
“Known each other.”
“Of…of course.”
“Which explains your frustration.”
“My…” She sighed as he stroked her forearm.
“Frustration,” he repeated and shrugged. “Because you’ve not been known.”
“I am not frustrated.”
He trailed his fingers up her arm. She shivered.
He watched her eyes.
“It is not frustration. It is—”
“You will enjoy it.”
“What?”
“Let me make love to you.”
“Nay. I—”
He kissed her knee. She started.
“It’s been a long time for me, too. Who knows? It might do us both some good.”
“I—I cannot.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.”
“I mean I will not.”
“Even if I let you go?”
“What?”
He regretted the words as soon as he said them, but they were out and he was horny. “If you don’t enjoy it. If you can look me in the eye and say it didn’t please you”—he shrugged, probably because he was a raving lunatic—“I’ll let you go.”
“Free?”
“Aye.”
“You lie.”
He shrugged again. “I can’t say I haven’t lied in the past.”
“So you are lying.”
“Take a risk, Megs. Why not? Even if I am lying, you’d be no worse off than now.”
“Not true. I’d be compromised, and—”
He kissed her thigh. She exhaled softly between parted lips.
“With child.”
“Surely you don’t think women get pregnant every time they…know a man.”
She stared.
“Do you?”
“Of course not.” She sounded breathless and innocent.
“You won’t get pregnant.”
“How do you know?” Her voice was a whisper.
“I give you my word.”
Uncertainly shone like sunrise on her perfect features. “And if I don’t like it…” Her words trailed off.
“I’ll let you go.”
“But what if I fabricate the truth?”
“Is that the same as lying?”
She nodded.
“When I’m dishonest it’s called lying, and when you’re dishonest it’s called fabricating the truth?”
She scowled, not easily distracted. “What if I lie?”
“I’ll know.”
“Ahh.” She pursed her lips. Everything below his waist ached with anticipation. “So that’s it. Even if I say I abhorred it, you will call me a liar and keep me bound here. You have no intention of—”
“If you look me in the eye and tell me you…abhorred it, I will let you go.”
“How do I know you are telling the truth?”
“You don’t.”
She shook her head. “Then—”
“I could call Peters in. I could sign my name in front of witnesses.”
Her jaw dropped. Perhaps she was beginning to understand the depth of his own frustration.
“Do you want me to?”
“Nay!” she gasped.
He couldn’t help but smile. Neither could he seem to keep his hands to himself. “Then—”
“Very well.” She said the words quickly, as if she were afraid that if she didn’t say them hastily, they wouldn’t be said.
“You agree?”
“Aye, if you vow, as a gentleman—”
“I’m not a gentleman, Megs. And I don’t pretend to be.”
She scowled. “As a lord—”
“I promise,” he said. “As a man.”
She bit her lip, glanced toward the door, and scowled. “Very well,” she said slowly. But that was it. She didn’t move. Didn’t touch him. Didn’t smile. In fact, she looked as stiff as a longboat’s oar and just about as eager.
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m not planning to tie you to the mizzenmast and flay you,” he said. “You can relax.”
She swallowed. “What is a mizzenmast?”
He kissed the corner of her mouth, gently, then drew back with a hard effort.
“It’s t
he mast aft of the main mast,” he explained, and kissed her jaw.
“Oh,” she said, and tilted her head slightly. “What’s a mast.”
He kissed her throat. “How can you live on an island and know nothing of ships?” Letting his fingers skim her jaw line, he kissed her collarbone.
She sighed, but quietly, as if she didn’t want him to know. “I don’t live on an island. I live—”
He froze. Her eyes popped open.
“In London,” she said.
“With Winston.”
“William,” she corrected. “And he is deceased.”
“And you never knew him.”
“No. I did not.”
“Did you see him naked?”
“What?”
He smiled at the shock in her voice. He was certain she wasn’t a virgin, but he would never again doubt her acting ability. “Surely he must have removed his clothes from time to time.”
“Yes. Of course. He…” She swallowed. “Disrobed.”
“Then you won’t be shocked by the sight of me.”
By the look in her eyes, he would guess that might be a false assumption.
“Will you?” he asked, and brushed aside her hair to kiss her neck.
“He was not—” She was breathing hard again. It was, perhaps, the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, like the soft lap of waves against a swift vessel’s prow. “He wasn’t like you.”
He drew back and raised his brows. “The bull must have done a hell of a job.”
“I did not mean—” She inhaled slightly and pursed her lips. “You are making light of this.”
“Am I?”
“His injuries were quite serious.”
“Were they?” he asked and stroked her neck.
“Yes. He almost died.”
“Did you nurse him back to health?”
“I did in…” She paused as he kissed her hairline.
“Was he naked?”
“You keep coming back to that.”
He smiled. “I don’t want you breaking down the door in your rush for freedom if I unbutton my shirt.”
She swallowed. “Are you going to?”
“I was hoping you would do it for me.”
“Me?”
“Aye,” he said, and, sliding his hand down her arm, lifted her fingers in his own. Bearing them to his lips, he kissed them gently. “After all, you nursed your husband back to health. Surely it will not be a shock—”
“I told you. He was not like you.”
“He did have a chest, didn’t he?” Cairn asked, and set her hand against the front of his shirt.
She licked her lips. “Of course he had a chest.”
He shrugged. Her fingers shifted slightly over the play of his muscles. Her eyes widened.
“Then how were we different?”
Her hand remained exactly as it was, pressed lightly over top of his right nipple.
“You could take a look if it would better help you remember.”
For a moment he wondered if she really would flee for the door, but instead she drew a deep breath and lifted her other hand.
His shirt sighed open with breathtaking slowness.
“Well?” he asked.
She cleared her throat and raised her gaze to his. “He was not so…” She paused as if revising her original thought. “Sun-browned as you.”
“He probably didn’t spend a lot of time topside.”
“Topside? No.” She glanced at his chest again and licked her lips. “He was a—” Cairn moved a fraction of an inch closer. “Tailor.”
“You told me that.”
“And very good at his appointed task.”
“Appointed task.” He liked the way she used her words. Execrable. It was now one of his favorite words. And it had been given to him by Magical Megs. But just now she didn’t seem like Teleere’s most infamous thief, but rather like some fine lady just dropped into his lap, like a delectable bit of ripe fruit.
“Yes.” Perhaps she was insulted, because she stiffened slightly and drew her hand away. He was immediately sorry he had spoken because he missed the feel of her hands against his chest.
“So Wallace was a good tailor.”
She pursed her lips. “William. And yes, he was.”
He wondered vaguely if it seemed strange to her that she was sitting buck naked telling stories about her fictional dead husband.
“So he could have made…” He paused and slipped out of his tunic. “This shirt?”
Her mouth dropped open. Her gaze was glued to his chest.
“Megs?”
She jerked her eyes upward. “Yes. Yes. He could make it. Could have made it. Could—”
“And the trousers?”
For a moment he thought she might leap right off the bed. But she calmed herself with an effort and raised her chin even more.
“Yes, he could have made those, too, and you needn’t remove them for me to be certain,” she added quickly.
“But it would make getting to know you simpler.”
“I…I think you know me well enough.”
He laughed. “You play the innocent maid very well, Megs,” he said, and reached for his belt.
She licked her lips and glanced toward the door.
“What of our deal?” he asked.
She shifted her eyes back to his. There was panic there, but it was not real, he reminded himself. Still, she was an incredible actress. The stage was sorely lacking.
“I do not trust you,” she said.
“You don’t think you’ll enjoy it?”
“I do not think you will let me go when I do not.”
He smiled again. “Then call it quits, Megs. You’re welcome to stay here indefinitely.”
“Or until you execute me.”
“Or that of course.”
She stiffened. “I guess I have little choice.”
“You’re hard on a man’s ego,” he said, and setting his hands to his trousers, removed them with ease, barely noticing the wound that haunted him. Hoary sprang to attention.
Candlelight flickered in her eyes, which she refused to lower. But he could no longer read her emotions. If indeed, she had any.
He took a step toward the bed. She scrunched back even farther as he eased onto the mattress.
“Really, Megs, some women find me somewhat preferable to death.”
He watched her swallow. Again, he couldn’t read her mood. He only hoped it wasn’t disdain. He’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.
“In fact,” he added, “there are a few who might envy your position.”
“Truly?” There might be tension in her body, but her voice was a cool as river water. “Any you could contact immediately?”
He laughed again. She was good at insults. If you were careful, you might miss that completely. You had to like that in a murderous thief.
“Lie back, lass,” he ordered. “Relax.”
She remained exactly as she was. Scrunched into a ball the size of a pillow. “Which do you want?” she asked.
He raised a brow.
“I can lie back or I can relax. Both would be quite impossible.”
“I am starting to believe there is nothing impossible for the Magical Megs. Lie back.”
He thought she would refuse, but she finally did as told, scooting stiffly downward, so that she lay stretched out before him. Still, her arms managed to cover a surprising portion of her more interesting parts. But then they were pretty much all interesting.
Her legs were ridiculously long for such a small frame. Her hips were narrow, her belly nonexistent, and her breasts…
They were stunning, full and heavy with pale mocha skin topped with checkerberry nipples.
Impatience stroked him like a playful whip. Hoary whimpered. But he’d made a deal, and he would stick with it.
True, he was certain she would not do the same. He was certain she would swear she felt nothing and leave him forever. But he would know the truth, an
d that would be enough.
So he stroked her gently. She shivered beneath his fingertips. His own body reciprocated, seeming to absorb the rush. But still he wouldn’t hurry. It had been a long while for him. But when she returned to Wheaton, she would return knowing he could move her. And eventually Wheaton would know the same. So he caressed her until her tension eased. He kissed her arms, her waist, the delicate indentation of her navel. And finally, when he thought he could bear no more, her tension returned, but it was a different sort of tension now. Impatient, writhing.
“Megs.”
She moaned, and he slid his hand between her thighs. They parted like magic, baring the sweet fruit of his labor. She was sleek and wet. Did she get so wet for Wheaton? The question tormented him, but he shoved it back. Concentrating on her alone, he eased down beside her, stretching full length along the hot iron of her body.
“Are you ready, lass?” he asked.
She was breathing hard, and for a moment she lay absolutely still, but finally she nodded, and there was something about that movement, something about the width of her eyes, the tempting stillness of her body, something that made him pause. Could it be that she was telling the truth? Could it be that in all her years on the street she had protected her innocence? He scowled at the thought.
“Maybe,” he said, holding her gaze. “It could be that there will be a little pain—” He was a fool to believe her an innocent. An absolute fool. “At first. But it’ll pass in a moment. Don’t be afraid.”
She said nothing, but shivered once before closing her eyes and kissing him.
Heat scorched him, but he drew back, trying to think. Could she have told the truth? He skimmed his palm down her belly. She drew air softly between her lips. Her eyes remained closed, her lashes dark shadows against her satiny cheeks as she turned her head and arched against his hand.
And that was all it took. He could wait no longer. Damn Wheaton to hell, he thought and, easing between her legs, reared up.
He was there, a moment from utopia. Her body was warm and slick. Hoary salivated. Cairn pulled back, ready for the first thrust.
And lightning exploded in his skull. He didn’t have a chance to turn or flee or defend himself.
In fact, the last thought he had before blackness took him was that he should have hurried.
Chapter 10
T atiana moaned and writhed. She was burning, boiling, cooking slowly from within. Damn Sedonia and virginity and her mother’s cool admonishments. She would do this. She would take him inside of her, would quench the fire, would seize this moment of passion and remember it forever.
