The Princess and Her Pirate

by Lois Greiman

  MacTavish reared over her. She held her breath, but suddenly there was a thud and a gasp. Jerking her eyes open, she watched him topple limply onto the mattress.

  She stared in bewilderment, but a shuffle of noise caught her attention. She glanced upward. It was then that she tried to scream. In fact, she opened her mouth to do just that, but nothing issued from her but a breathy rasp of shock.

  “Megs!” whispered a girl. Her voice was frantic, her hair was snarled, and in her hand she held Dimitri. “You all right?”

  Tatiana scooted back against the wooden headboard, all but kicking MacTavish aside as she did so, her mind spinning wildly. “Who—Why are you here?”

  The girl scowled. Candlelight flickered across her mobile features. Her gaze skittered sideways and back. “I comes ta bust you out.”

  “Bust…” Tatiana began, but the rest of the words got caught in her throat. She was naked, bewildered, and shocky.

  The girl leaned closer, motioning wildly. There was dirt beneath every nail. Even in the wavering candlelight, Tatiana could see it. She leaned away.

  “Come on,” she rasped. “We ain’t got all night.”

  Facts were clicking along slowly in Tatiana’s mind. She was a prisoner. This girl thought she was Megs, and she was offering her a means of escape. Of course she might very well be killed if she accepted it.

  Her heart clanged like a smithy’s hammer against her ribs. She stalled for time, trying to think.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Through the window of course. Weren’t no great feat. They ain’t watchin’ now. Not with ’is ’ighness in ’ere with you,” she hissed, and scowled. “Funny, a great laird don’t fall any ’arder than no other man.”

  Tatiana glanced breathlessly at MacTavish. “Is he…dead?”

  “Dead?” She shrugged, but her face looked pale beneath the coat of grime. She glanced rapidly toward the window, as if longing to be off. “Don’t think so. But ’e’s gonna ’ave one ’ell of a ’eadache when ’e wakes up. And that ain’t goin’ to improve ’is mood. We’d best be off.”

  Tatiana stared at MacTavish. His buttocks glowed in the candlelight. His right wrist lay across the toes of her left foot and his fingers were twitching.

  “Mary and Joseph!” the girl gasped, and grabbed Tatiana by the upper arm. “Come on, we’s out of time.”

  She was dragged from the bed.

  “Clothes! I need—” she began, but the girl was already throwing an unidentified garment at her. She slipped it over her head, but even that simple task was difficult, for her hands were shaking like maple leaves in a hurricane.

  “All right then. Out you go,” hissed the girl.

  “Out—”

  “Careful of the first step. She’s a right bitch, but there’s a small ledge off to your left,” she whispered, and veered toward the bed again.

  Tatiana could only stare. “Who are you?”

  The girl turned abruptly toward her. The candlelight cast her sharp features in stark relief, the bright eyes, the peaked chin, the frown wrinkling her brow.

  “What’d ’e do, Megs, knock you senseless? I’m Gem, you knows that.”

  Tatiana stared and the girl glanced at MacTavish before snuffing the flames off the candelabra with her grimy fingers. The room burst into blackness. “Blast them pretty lads. You can’t trust ’em be they king or clown? But you’ll be right as rain soon nuf, Megs. We just got to get you ’ome.”

  “’Ome?”

  The girl grasped Tatiana’s arm, propelling her toward the window. “Aunt Ned’s”

  “Aunt—”

  “Shh.” Gem’s fingers tightened like talons on Tatiana’s upper arm. Outside the door, footsteps rapped up, then passed by. The girl’s relief was palpable. “Go,” she hissed.

  And Tatiana went, because she could think of nothing else to do, because she had been threatened and bullied. Because the lord of Teleere was lying unconscious and possibly dead on the mattress they had shared only minutes before.

  She glanced over the windowsill. Thirty feet below her, candlelight flickered from the bailey. Her heart got stuck in her throat, making it difficult to breathe, impossible to move.

  “’Urry up.”

  She tried to say she couldn’t. That she was frozen, but Gem gave her back a shove. She stumbled forward and wobbled one foot onto the windowsill. Somebody moaned. Possibly it was herself, but maybe the noise came from the bed.

  “Bloody ’ell,” Gem rasped. “Go!”

  Another moan echoed in the chamber, but it was most certainly MacTavish this time. She dangled her leg over the sill, dragged the other beside it, and gazed into eternity.

  “Turn around! Climb down! Shit, Megs, ’e’s wakin’ up.”

  She would have sworn she didn’t have the nerve to move, but suddenly she was moving, shimmying downward with her knees quaking and her arms stiff with fear. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. In the darkness, her toes searched for a hold. Her fingers clawed at the stone.

  “’Urry up. ’Urry up!”

  And she did. She swore she did, but suddenly Gem was all but atop her, clambering down behind like a monkey on a rope, stepping on her fingers, kicking her in the head. If it hurt, she didn’t realize it, for she was certain she was about to die, about to crash to the earth a mile below and break up like a clay doll on a rocky shore.

  “Let’s go!”

  Tatiana glanced sideways, and suddenly Gem was there, grasping her arm, dragging her along. And she realized in some dim part of her consciousness that she had reached the ground, that she had not died. Gem yanked her down behind some unseen obstacle. The smell of hay filled her nostrils. She fell to her knees.

  Off to their left, a man laughed.

  “So Lord MacTavish is busy this night.”

  “Aye.” A pair of footsteps rapped past. Lanternlight swung in their wake. “Aye, he is that. Busy with the thieving little trollop what stole his mother’s brooch. Like they say, you don’t take from the pirate lord without paying pretty.”

  “And she is.”

  “Pretty or paying?”

  “Both,” said the first man.

  They laughed in concert. Tatiana felt sick to her stomach, but there was no time to retch, for Gem was already pulling her into the darkness.

  And then things got worse. They slunk through holes no bigger than a rat’s chamber and splashed like hunted deer into a millpond, hiding in the fermenting shadows until a guard passed by.

  They crawled out like drowned ferrets and scrambled away, down back alleys that smelled of vermin and a dozen things she dared not think about, over fences, past growling dogs, and through a back door that listed badly and squeaked like coffin hinges as it was carefully pushed closed.

  “’Ere we are then,” said Gem, and sighed deeply as if she had settled onto a velvet chaise after a long day of lawn bowling. The air smelled of rancid urine and spoiled wine.

  Tatiana turned carefully. Utter darkness was combated by a single flame above a smoky, tallow candle. But even that feeble bit of light showed too much. Perhaps the building had once been a decent house, but now it was rubble. The smell of decay filled the stagnant air, and somewhere in a far corner, she heard the scurrying sound of rats.

  “Where are we?” she breathed, and Gem chuckled.

  “We’re ’ere, ’ome sweet ’ome.”

  Tatiana’s stomach churned, and in that instant someone grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. She squeaked in fear and tried to jerk away, but knuckles were up tight against the back of her skull, and against her throat she felt the hard edge of a blade.

  “’Oo’s this then?” a man rasped. His breath was fetid against her ear.

  “Cott.” Gem’s voice was low, and despite everything, Tatiana could hear the fear in it. Her own stomach twisted. “What are you doing ’ere?”

  “I come to collect what’s due me.”

  “I…Listen. About the coin. I don’t ’ave it just now,” Gem said
.

  “Don’t you?” The knife eased along Tatiana’s throat, drawing forth a whimper. “That’s unfortunate, Gemmy. How ’bout your friend ’ere? She got anything?”

  “Let her go, Cott.” Gem’s voice actually wavered. “She ain’t got nothin’ to do with this.”

  “Don’t she?” he asked. “Then I might as well slit ’er throat and be done with.”

  He moved his hand.

  “No!”

  Cott froze.

  “She’s Megs.”

  “What’s that, Gemmy?”

  “She’s Magical Megs.”

  “You’re lyin’,” he said, but his hand had moved back a bit. Tatiana squeezed her eyes closed and tried to breathe, to remain alive, one second at a time.

  “Ain’t you never seen ’er afore?” Gem’s tone was only slightly derisive.

  “Maybe I ’as and maybe I ’asn’t. But I knows this much, if she’s Megs, she’ll ’ave something on her to brighten old Cott’s day huh?” he said, and suddenly the knife was removed and she was propelled across the floor, flung forward to crash into the far wall and nearly drop to her knees. She turned there, terror closing her throat as effectively as the knife had.

  “What do you say, girlie?” he asked, and approached, stalking her like a fetid cat, the knife still in his hand. “You Megs?”

  Past his shoulder, Tatiana could see Gem nodding. Fear. Her eyes were bright with it. What would make a girl like Gem afraid? A girl who could storm Westheath Castle and defy all?

  Tatiana straightened slightly, finding a sliver of resolve amidst the terror and fatigue. “Yes,” she said, and felt her heart tattoo in her throat, “I’m Megs.”

  The man stopped in his tracks, and then the corner of his parched lips lifted. He was missing a tooth, his arms were bare beneath a tattered tunic and high on his stringy right biceps, a tattoo shown blue in the candlelight. His hair was as white as combed wool. “Then there ain’t no reason you can’t pay yer friend’s debt, is there?”

  Tatiana felt the wall behind her, hoping for some sort of weapon, but there was nothing. Nothing to protect her. No guards. No title. Not even a fertility god.

  She swallowed hard and stiffened her knees. “That depends.” Instinct made her stall, though she had no idea how it might help her.

  “Depends does it?”

  “Yes.” Her legs were bare from midthigh down, and her knees were quaking. So she maintained eye contact and prayed that he would not realize her fear. For she knew without a doubt that he fed on terror. “It depends on how much she owes you.”

  The villain chuckled. The sound permeated the room like a noxious gas. “She owes me ’er soul, little Megs. You think you can pay for that?”

  She shrugged, but even with that simple motion she felt her hands shake, so she crossed her arms against her chest and stared him down. “I can’t say for certain,” she said. “What are souls worth these days?”

  Cott threw back his head and howled at the roof, and it was in that moment that she saw the edge of a wound rising just past the top of his tunic. When he lowered his head to grin at her, it disappeared from sight.

  Outside, someone yelled. Footfalls clattered along a hard-packed surface. Cott shifted his bloodshot gaze toward the door and back.

  “Listen, it’s been fun chattin’ with you girls, but I’ve got to be off. What you got to give me?”

  “You?” Tatiana asked. Could it have been a night watch that she’d heard outside? “I’ve got nothing for you.”

  He turned back toward her and drew his lips back like a rabid dog when he smiled. “I don’t think I much care for your friend, Gemmy.”

  “She’s ’ad a ’ard time of it lately, Cott. That’s all.”

  His eyes never left Tatiana’s. “Yeah?”

  “She’s been in Pikeshead.”

  He chuckled. “I go to Pikeshead when I need to relax,” he said, and approached her slowly, eyeing her blatantly as he did. “Or when I need a bit of new meat.”

  It seemed as if her heart dropped out of her chest, as if the floor had fallen from under her feet, but she kept her chin up, kept from whimpering, kept from passing out. Instead, she dropped her hands to her sides and sidled to the left. There was a rotting mattress on the floor, and near its end, a stick leaned against the wall. Perhaps it had once served as a staff, but whatever its original purpose, she saw his wound in her mind’s eye now. She couldn’t best him in strength. She couldn’t outrun him. And if he got close enough to use the knife, she was dead. She knew it beyond a whisper of a doubt. But a plan had begun to form.

  “Is that what you do, Cott?” she asked. “Prey on children half your size?”

  He shook his head as he veered to follow her. “No. I prey on women, and I don’t care what size they be. Tall, fat.” He shrugged. She dropped her gaze to his chest. But she couldn’t see the wound. Still, it was there. “Saucy like you.”

  “Really?” The word sounded breathless. Her head felt light. But the stick was behind her now. Within reach. She was sure of it. Almost. “Then it’s true—what I always heard about you.”

  “Yeah?” he said. “What’d you hear? That I ’as a dick like a cart ’orse?” he asked, and laughed.

  “No.” She smiled herself and prayed she wouldn’t faint. “That you’re a coward.”

  The room went absolutely still.

  “Gemmy.” His voice was soft, breathy. “I’m afeared I’m gonna ’ave to kill yer friend,” he said, and in that instant he charged.

  Chapter 11

  T atiana grabbed the stick and screamed in terror or rage or some emotion so feral she couldn’t guess at. But he kept coming, careening into the staff. It struck him full in the chest, and for a moment she thought it would remain there, but it did not. It clattered to the floor. Still, he staggered back, clutching his wound. His knife wobbled and fell to the floor, but he straightened with a growl, pulled a pistol from his trousers, and fired.

  Agony struck her chest. She staggered away. But he was after her.

  She screamed as she felt the sweep of his hand past her shoulder.

  “Cotton!”

  He pivoted wildly toward the sound of his name. She turned in unison, panting hard.

  A woman stood there. She was tall and slim and as regal as any queen.

  “You will leave my house now,” she said.

  He snarled a chuckle. “I don’t think so, old witch.”

  She smiled, and in the flickering glow of the candlelight, her face looked perfectly serene. “Then be prepared to suffer the consequences.” He cursed, but his eyes darted right and left as if searching for hidden demons.

  Still, he drew himself up and shook his head. “I ain’t afraid of you, you crazy old crone.”

  “Perhaps that is because you are brave. But I rather suspect it is because you’re a fool. For as you said, I am a witch,” she said, and dramatically raised one hand.

  Cotton crouched. His face contorted, then he snarled something and pivoted away. Still holding his wound, he stumbled past her and out of the house.

  Tatiana stood like one possessed, waiting to wake from the nightmare, for surely it was a dream. Surely. But the throbbing pain seemed hopelessly real, though her head was spinning wildly, twirling the floor away from her feet.

  “Gem.” The old woman’s voice seemed to come from far away, down a long tunnel perhaps. “Put her on the bed, lass.”

  “Ned.”

  “Hurry now.”

  They were the last words she heard for some time.

  Tatiana’s head still felt light when she awoke, but the pain in her shoulder had been reduced to a dull pulsation. She lay in silence, letting memories swirl around her.

  “So you are the infamous Megs.”

  She opened her eyes. The old woman sat on a three-legged stool beside the bed. Pulled back in a tight knot at the back of her head, her hair was as silver as moonlight. Her eyes were nearly the same hue, and her face pale.

  “What time is it?�
��

  “I find it strange,” said the other slowly, “that when people awake their first concern is the time of day.”

  Tatiana studied the woman’s face. It was virtually unlined, and yet it showed age as surely as hers showed youth.

  “As if they may have missed something so ultimately important that they dare not remain asleep another instant.” She smiled. Ned, Gem had called her. Memories were flittering erratically back into Tatiana’s hazy brain. Aunt Ned, an old woman in an ancient house. “What is it you had to wake up for, lass?” She spoke softly, and yet there was strength in her tone.

  Cotton—

  The memory of her attacker screamed into Tatiana’s consciousness, and she flinched.

  “All is well.” The old woman touched her hand. “He is gone. You will heal.”

  Tatiana glanced at her shoulder. It was bandaged in a grayish cloth.

  “He shot me.” She was still surprised. Surely this could not have happened to her. She was Princess Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau. Untouchable.

  “Yes.” The old woman nodded soberly. “But I was able to remove the bullet without undue trauma,” she said. Her hand was gentle upon Tatiana’s knuckles. “And you are young.” Her expression was wistful and wan. “You will heal well.”

  “You tended me yourself?”

  Ned smiled. Fatigue stretched the expression tight. “I have learned to do much for myself in the past few years,” she said, and in a moment she drew away and rose to her feet. She faltered a little, then steadied herself on the wall before moving on.

  Tatiana winced as she tried to sit up. Pain burned like hell through her shoulder. She ignored it as best she could. “You are Gem’s aunt?”

  “I am everyone’s aunt.” The old woman didn’t turn from where she squatted by the crumbling hearth, but poured a measure of broth into a metal bowl and straightened slowly. “Here then, lass, drink this.”

  It smelled strongly of onions and some spice she couldn’t quite name. “What is it?” she asked.