The Princess and Her Pirate

by Lois Greiman

She laughed, then, wondering at his expression of surprise, she sobered immediately, feeling nervous under his stare, her gaze flitting foolishly to the side.

  “So Magical Megs has a sense of humor,” he said.

  “I am not M—”

  “Then stitch me a garment.”

  She almost winced, but managed to keep her face impassive and her hands steady. “I cannot.”

  Seconds ticked by in silence.

  “No?” he asked.

  “The truth is…” She paused, waiting for inspiration, for breath, for her mind to kick back into gear. “You see…” She shrugged, hoping she looked charmingly defenseless. “William did all the actual labor.”

  “William?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your virginal husband.”

  She fiddled with a frayed edge of fabric. “I never said he was virginal.”

  “Only that you are.”

  She cleared her throat and dropped her gaze to her hands. They were clasped together in front of her body now, and she wondered with a kind of vague distraction when she had linked her fingers. One could hardly tell they were shaking at all.

  “I believe my…marital status is none of your affair,” she said.

  MacTavish rose to his feet with slow, leonine grace, watching her every second. “My laird,” he said.

  “What?”

  “’Tis what you might say in this situation,” he said, pacing slowly toward her. “I believe my…marital status is none of your affair, my laird.”

  “Of course,” she said, and raised her chin, though her soul trembled at his nearness.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I believe—”

  “But I don’t,” he said, and, lifting his hand, brushed his fingers along her cheek. He was larger than he seemed. Perhaps it was his beauty that created the illusion. Perhaps it was his physical perfection that made him seem less intimidating, but now she was aware of every inch of him. “In truth, I don’t believe much of what you tell me.” He traced his fingers along the curve of her ear. She tried to control the shiver, but experience was everything, and she was not accustomed to being touched, to him. Even her mother had avoided such a personal contact. “You say your name is Linnet, but Gem denies that. You say you are a seamstress, but there you call yourself a liar. You say you don’t know Wheaton, but circumstances prove otherwise. You say you are a virgin…” He paused. “It seems to be the only thing you’ve left to convince me of.”

  She didn’t speak. Indeed, she was quite sure she was incapable of doing so. Instead, she raised her chin and drew a careful breath.

  “Where do we start?” he asked.

  Her heart fluttered like a songbird in her chest, but she was certain her face would show nothing.

  “I’m told there are several ways to prove your statement,” he said.

  So he had been discussing her with others. Perhaps his physician, and somehow that knowledge made the humiliation that much worse, but she showed nothing in her gaze.

  “Oh?” she said, as if she were only mildly interested.

  He watched her with hot intensity, and for the first time in a long while she wondered if her mask had slipped, if he could see past her well-polished defenses into her quivering soul. “I could call the good doctor back in to examine you,” he said. “Or—”

  “If you mean to humiliate me, you needn’t try so hard, MacTavish.”

  His eyes were hard now and his expression unfathomable. “But I’ve hardly tried at all yet. You should experience being stripped to the waist and tied to the masthead.”

  “But I feel belittled already and not a masthead in sight. Belittlement must be a gift of yours.” She tried to step back, but he slid his hand onto her shoulder, keeping her close with a light pressure. “’Tis not very noble of you,” she added.

  “Amusing, isn’t it?” he said. “I am a laird who acts like a pirate, while you are a thief who acts like a princess.”

  She tried to scoff or laugh or deny. She managed none of those things, but stood like a trapped mouse beneath his hand.

  “How do you explain it?” he asked, and, leaning forward, kissed the corner of her mouth.

  She licked her lips as he drew away. “Perhaps it is because you are a pirate.”

  He skimmed his hand down her arm and stepped closer. She could feel the heat from his half-naked body. She was eighteen years of age, had visited more countries than she could remember and spoke a half dozen languages, but never had she seen a man unclothed. Her mother had been careful about that, all but obsessed with the idea of keeping her pure. A pure lady was a valuable lady.

  But his chest was mesmerizing, hard and rounded, with small, peaked nipples. Below that, muscles marched in double rows down to a fine strip of golden hair. For a moment she was almost tempted to reach out and touch it.

  “And you?” he said.

  “What?” Had she been staring at his chest? Had she lost so much control?

  He smiled slightly, but there was something other than humor lighting his eyes. “I am a pirate,” he said. “While you…”

  “I am naught but a humble seam—”

  He tsked a warning and slipped his arm about her waist.

  “The…” She was breathing hard. “The widow of a humble tailor,” she corrected.

  “The virginal widow,” he added, and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  Terror melded wildly with unknown emotions and shivered up her spine. “Please—” It was the only word she could seem to force out.

  “Please what, princess?” he murmured, and leaned close again.

  “Let me go.” She breathed the words against his mouth.

  He drew back slightly, but the smile was gone, replaced by an expression of tension. He closed his eyes and exhaled softly, his breath warm against her cheek.

  “You steal me property, cause Wheaton’s escape, and lie at every turn, lass. How can I let you go?” They were pressed together now. His eyes held her gaze as firmly as his hand cradled her bottom. It did strange things to her equilibrium, shattering her concentration, unbalancing her thoughts, and yet she had no desire to shift it. In fact, something in her ached to move closer still, to feel his hand slip more intimately against her body, to let her own fingers taste the flavor of his skin.

  She fought the insanity. “I tell you again, I am not what you believe me to be.” She whispered the words, as if they were an awful secret.

  “Then what are you?” Was there desperation in his voice?

  “I am innocent,” she whispered.

  “Innocent,” he repeated, and stroked her hair away from her face.

  She closed her eyes and nodded. Her lips felt swollen, and between her thighs, she felt strangely warm and heavy.

  He slipped his hand beneath her hair, cradling her neck and tilting her head back slightly. Then he kissed her again, slowly now and so thoroughly that her knees threatened to buckle.

  Desire steamed through her. Unexpected and unwanted, it melted her resolve and dimmed her reason. She kissed him back, pressing against his heat, tasting the hard strength of him.

  He drew back a fraction of an inch, breathing hard, and in his expression she thought she saw some of the same raging insanity she felt.

  “Dammit, lass!” His tone was ragged. “Where did you learn to kiss?”

  She couldn’t think, couldn’t see straight. All she could do was feel. The heat of his skin. The strength of his hands. She shivered and, slipping her fingers into his hair, pulled his head down for another kiss.

  For one frantic second, she thought he might resist, and then he was growling against her mouth, kissing her with wild passion. She answered with every aching fiber in her body.

  He pulled away, and she mewled desperately, trying to draw him back. But his hands never left her. In an instant, her gown was gone. And she was all but naked.

  “Lass.” His voice was a low rumble of desire. He stared down at her, his eyes hot as he skimmed his hand over
her breast.

  She closed her eyes, shivered, and pressed her hips to his.

  “Damn Wheaton!” He breathed the words like a prayer and lifted her into his arms.

  The world ground to a halt.

  “What?” she rasped. “What did you say?”

  She could feel his heart beating against her breast, could feel the heat of his gaze against her skin.

  “You’ve a body like a sea siren and passion like a blaze.” He kissed her again, but her eyes remained riveted to his. “Damn him!” he said, and carried her to the bed.

  Chapter 18

  “W heaton!” Tatiana hissed and scrambled wildly from his arms. He tried to hold her, but she had the force of surprise and managed to stumble to her feet. “Wheaton!” It was hard to breathe, impossible to think. “You would bed me to hurt another.”

  “Lass—”

  “You still believe I lied.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you’ve been honest?”

  Her chest hurt with the force of her emotion. “At least I’ve been honest with my feelings.”

  “Feelings?”

  “Yes. I—” She stopped the words short, realizing what she’d almost said. Panic consumed her. She stepped back a pace.

  “Feelings?” he repeated and followed her.

  “Do not touch me,” she warned. “Never again, or I swear on my father’s grave you will rue the day.”

  “Is that what you said to Wheaton?” He was stalking her, following her in a slow circuit about the congested room.

  “Damn you, MacTavish,” she said.

  “And what of that?” he asked, and, quick as a serpent, he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Did you tell him that, too, or did you only moan his name as you spread your legs?”

  She slapped him as hard as she could. He turned his head, but his grip didn’t loosen, and in an instant he turned back to stare into her eyes.

  “Is that what you did to discourage him, lass? A little tap on the cheek? Is that how you piqued his interest? By acting the innocent, then moaning like a whore?”

  She slapped him again. This time he didn’t even turn away. Instead, he smiled.

  Anger boiled like tar inside her, burning her soul.

  “Has there ever been a single man you’ve managed to discourage like that?”

  “Touch me again, and I’ll kill you, MacTavish.”

  “Kill me!” He threw back his head and laughed. She raised her hand to strike again, but he caught her arm with no effort at all. “Megs,” he said, feeling her puny biceps, “you couldn’t kill a flea with a hammer. But you know that, don’t you?”

  She glared at him and he stared back, watching her with narrowed eyes.

  “You had no intention of stopping me, did you?”

  She quivered with unaccustomed rage. She would make him pay. Somehow. Someday.

  “You only planned to egg me on, to arouse my interest, to act like an innocent that could no longer resist me.” He nodded. “How many men have you enticed this way?”

  “Let me go.” Her voice quivered—with rage or humiliation or a strange blend of the two.

  “Why?” he asked. “So you can kiss me or strike me?”

  She straightened her spine and found her pride. “So I can kill you,” she said.

  He smiled. “You don’t want to kill me. I’ve too much to offer you.”

  She said nothing.

  “You may have the finances of a thief, but you’ve got the morals of a duchess.”

  “You—What?”

  “You don’t want to damage me, princess.”

  She canted her head at him. Rage still simmered inside, but she could now control her hand. Never had she struck another living creature—until she met him. “Yet again I’m surprised at how often you can be wrong,” she said.

  “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced around the room, then dropped her arm and stepped away. Retrieving a magnifying glass from his desk, he hefted it in his hand for an instant, then smashed it against the wall. Brass bent and glass shattered. He twisted the remaining metal away from the handle. Pacing across the floor to her, he lifted her hand, placed the broken handle against her palm, and curled her fingers tight around it.

  It felt heavy and hard. She scowled at it, then at him.

  “Strike me,” he said.

  She raised her brows. “What?”

  “Hit me,” he said.

  She shook her head in bewilderment.

  “So I was right. You never intended to discourage me advances.”

  “Believe what you will.” She felt tired suddenly, tired and spent. “Do what you will.”

  “Come now, lass. Surely Wheaton’s whore has more spirit—”

  She never meant to swing, and apparently he didn’t expect her to, because she caught him solidly on the chin. He rocked back on his heels like a hobbyhorse, teetered there for an instant, then settled back onto his feet and stared at her.

  Raising his hand, he tested his jaw. His gaze never dropped from hers, and she held it like a bulldog.

  He nodded judiciously. “That was better,” he admitted.

  Better! Hell, it was wonderful. She stepped toward him. He raised his brows.

  “Want to try again?”

  Perhaps she nodded. Perhaps she just dived in, but suddenly she was wrapped in his arms, her fist stretched out in front of her, her shoulder against his chest.

  “You’ve got to stay balanced. Don’t overreach,” he said, and slapped her bottom as he released her.

  She swung even as she turned. Her knuckles skimmed his shoulder, but he danced back.

  “Good. Never let your enemy settle in. Never let him know what you’re thinking. But you’re good at that, aren’t you? The mistress of manipulation. That’s how you snared Wheaton.”

  She swung again. He sidestepped easily, shaking his head as he did so.

  “I expected that one. You’re too frail to use strength alone, even with a weapon. You’ve—”

  “Damn you!” she growled, and swung again.

  He danced to the side, grinning now.

  “Surely you know you’re frail, Megs. Even you can’t be that deluded.”

  She jabbed wildly. He laughed as he backed against the wall.

  “Triton’s balls, you’re hardly big enough to make a decent meal.”

  She strode in. He feinted left. She followed.

  He dodged right, smiling as she stumbled past.

  “Still,” he said, his eyes gleaming as he stared at her breasts as they bobbled above the laces of her shift, “you’re more than a mouthful.”

  She barely stopped herself from falling, but came around hard, swinging her fist wildly upward as she did so. It was a poor effort, but he was distracted and she had rage on her side. Her fist caught him right between the legs.

  He grunted loud and doubled over, his mouth twitching as he did so.

  She backed cautiously away, amazed, silent, watchful.

  He remained as he was, his knees slightly bent, his eyes closed, his arm laid protectively across the abused area.

  “That…” He nodded slightly and exhaled carefully, but he didn’t straighten. “That was a good, solid strike.”

  An apology was on the tip of her tongue, but his gibes were still clear in her mind. She straightened her back.

  “Shall I call the physician?”

  He squinted up at her from his bent position. “And tell him what? That I’ve been hit in the balls by a woods fairy with a brass handle?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No. No.” He shook his head and straightened a couple inches. A muscle spasm in his cheek. “You’re too frail to hurt me, remember?” His tone was rueful.

  “I didn’t mean to strike you…there.”

  He straightened some more, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Why not?”

  She winced as he levered upward. “It’s not…very…” She was watching him carefully, wondering if
he was about to keel over like a rotten parsnip. “Sporting?”

  “Sporting.” He gained his full height with some difficulty and frowned at her. “What kind of thief are you?”

  “I told you—”

  “Then what kind of woman are you?” He sounded more peeved than when she’d first hit him. “I’m a man, fully grown and bent on ravaging you. Hell, I was taunting you. If anyone deserves to be hit in the balls, I do. And you want to be…sporting?”

  “I’m not…” They were talking conversationally, as if she weren’t naked, as if he didn’t plan to execute her, as if she hadn’t just hit him in the balls with the handle of a magnifying glass. “I never claimed to be a fighter.”

  He eyed her carefully. “How do you survive, lass?”

  There was something in his eyes. It was disconcerting and arousing and frightening. She turned away. “I am highly intelligent.”

  “Then why haven’t you learned to defend yourself?”

  She raised her chin. “Not everyone has your opportunities, MacTavish.”

  He nodded once, skimmed his gaze down her body, tightened his fist, and nodded again.

  “Get some sleep,” he said, and, shuffling toward the door, made an inelegant exit.

  “I’ll not do it!” Carolyn’s back was arched with prim dismay, her thin lips pursed and her pinched face disapproving. “She’s a thief and a heretic and other things my good graces keep me from mentioning.”

  “I gave you an order.” Burr’s voice was deep.

  “I’ll not—”

  “I wish to speak to Burr alone,” Cairn said, giving Carolyn a nod of dismissal as he approached.

  Her eyes widened slightly. “Yes, my lord,” she said, and curtsied hurriedly before making her way down the hall.

  Cairn waited until she was out of hearing. “Troubles, Burr?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” said the Norseman, but he turned a miserable eye toward the door as he did so.

  The irritation on the giant’s face made Cairn feel somewhat better. His own night had been endless, for while he had found a comfortable bed not far from his own chamber, his damn cock ached in concert with his head, and his balls didn’t feel so good either.

  “You look like hell,” Burr said, seeming to read his thoughts.