The Princess and Her Pirate

by Lois Greiman

  “Me laird,” Cairn corrected mechanically, and Burr grinned and nodded.

  “Aye, you look like hell, me laird.”

  “Do you remember Lord Remmy?”

  Burr narrowed his eyes, which were generally narrow to begin with. “The fencing instructor?” he asked.

  “Yes. Didn’t he teach other forms of…defense?”

  “Aye, I believe he did.”

  “Contact him. Have him come to Westheath.”

  Burr remained unmoved for a moment, then grinned and nodded as his lightning quick mind caught Cairn’s intent. “Aye, ’tis a good idea, lad. Teach Teleere’s master thief to defend herself. ’Tis a grand idea.”

  His head hurt. “I didn’t say the lessons were for her.”

  Burr laughed happily. “Then the lass must be scrappy indeed if the pirate laird feels the need to hire a bodyguard.”

  Cairn gritted his teeth. “I didn’t sleep well,” he said. “So you may want to keep your clever comments to yourself.”

  Burr shrugged. “What are you going to do? Have the lass avenge your wounded pride?”

  Cairn tightened his fists, then swore softly and rubbed his brow. “Just get word to Remmy,” he said, and turned away.

  “As you wish,” Burr agreed. “Lord Remmy. He’s the right man for the job. Always had an eye for the maids, he did.”

  Cairn turned back. “What the devil do you mean—” he began, but the door behind Burr snapped open, and Gem stepped out.

  “I thought—” The girl’s words stopped short. “Oh,” she said and bobbed a curtsy. Her face was clean, but she’d donned her old, much-abused gown and her hair was frayed and snarled. She blinked once at him. “’Scuse me fer sayin’ so, but you look like ’ell, me lord. Are you feelin’ good?”

  Cairn pivoted away, and Burr grinned before transforming his expression and turning toward Gem with a scowl.

  “You’ll not speak to Laird MacTavish that way.”

  She scowled aggressively in return, but she backed up a pace. “What be you doing ’ere, Viking? I thought them ladies were to primp me ’air.”

  “Aye, well perhaps the ladies weren’t in the mood to be mauled by an undersized urchin with more brass than brains,” he said.

  She grinned. It was like watching an imp peek through a window glass. Her slanted eyeteeth made her look somehow foxy.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “Do you mean she refused ta challenge me again?”

  He saw no reason to answer, but her grin lifted just the same.

  “Fer such a mean old toad she couldn’t tek much abuse, could she?”

  The maid’s disposition could stand some improving, and no, when it came right down to it, she hadn’t stood up well to the narrow girl named Gem, but Burr refused to let himself smile.

  “Don’t think yourself so smart, girl. You’re in deep trouble here.”

  “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” she said.

  “Of course not. You’re the pillar of society.”

  “Just cuz I weren’t born haughty-tauty like you don’t make me no thief.”

  “Haughty-tauty.” Him. He almost laughed out loud. “So you’re not a thief.”

  “’Course not,” she said, and tried to look affronted. She only managed hair-frizzled surprise.

  “Then you shouldn’t look like one,” he said, and skimmed her with a cool gaze.

  She settled her tattered gown into place around her narrow hips. “I bathed right and proper. As I’m sure you recall, you old lech.”

  He shrugged “I do seem to remember a skinny little scamp stepping into the tub,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure whether it was a lass or a walking stick.”

  “Hah!” she croaked, and he shook his head as if offended by the very sound.

  “Things might go better for you if you’d cease sounding like a heavey horse and rid yourself of that rat’s nest atop your head.”

  “Really?” she said, sounding suddenly coy. “So you think if I fix meself up, Lord MacTavish might be interested in me.”

  “Laird MacTavish?” He grinned a little, not because he was amused, but because nothing would give him more pleasure than irking her just as she irked him. “I’m afraid the lad’s interests lean toward women who can speak without spitting,” he said. “But I’m thinkin’ the hounds might find you tolerable if you got yourself cleaned up.”

  She glared at him. “Don’t pretend you ain’t interested in me,” she said. “I saw you watchin’ me whilst I was bathin’ last night.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “I feared you were so skinny you might slip down the drain with the muddy water you left behind.”

  “Miss me, would you, Viking?”

  “’Tis hard to fool the likes of you, I can see that, lass,” he said. “Now get inside and do something with your hair.”

  “Me hair’s fine. I washed it meself.”

  He snorted.

  She bristled. “And I suppose you can do better, you great galloot?”

  “As could me steed.”

  “Sure then, come on in,” she said, and swung the door wide.

  He snorted. “You may not have noticed, lass, but I’m a long shot from a lady’s maid.”

  “Oh I know what you are,” she said. “Yer the master’s puppet. Bound to do what ’e tells you to. You’ve got no choice, do you now?”

  He said nothing, and she scowled as she bent toward him slightly. Her eyes shone suddenly with crystal-bright tears.

  “I’ve done nothin’ against you or yer lord,” she said. “Yet you hold me ’ere. And why? Just becuz ’e tells you to.”

  He kept his expression absolutely stoic, pretending her eyes weren’t filled with tears. Pretending it wouldn’t matter if they were. “What would you suggest, lass?”

  Her face became intensely earnest, her small mouth pursed. “Let me go, old man, and I’ll make it worth yer effort.”

  “Will you now?”

  “Aye,” she said, her voice low and intense as she laid her hand on his chest. The fingernails were still rimed with dirt. “You’ve got yer eye on me. I know you ’ave.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “But you’ll not ’ave me without a fight. No one ’as yet. Though there’ve been more than a few what ’ave tried.”

  He watched her intently. She was an odd mix of elements—pride, fear, and cleverness to name a few. “How old are you, lass?”

  She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Old enough to tame your fires, old man,” she said, and slid her fingers down his chest.

  He watched the movement for a moment, then took her hand in his own and placed it by her side. “Why don’t you start by taming your hair, lass.”

  Her fists tightened like small mallets. “Is that what cranks yer crossbow?” she said. “A great mound of silly ’air piled atop me ’ead? If that’s what it takes to gain me freedom, then send in the fat old cow.”

  He refrained from smiling. “She refuses to have anything to do with you.”

  “She refuses!” She drew herself up as if mightily offended. “She was the one what tried to steal me ’air.”

  He eyed it, noting the amazing tangled heights. “Any idea why she might want it?”

  “Them fancy ladies in London and whatnot would pay a fortune to get their ’ands on ’air like mine.”

  He didn’t respond.

  She bristled. “Send the old bat in.”

  He shook his head. “That ship has sailed, lass.”

  She scowled at him for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess you’ll ’ave te let me go, then, since yer lord don’t want no audience with no scraggly-’aired peasant?”

  “He wanted you cleaned.”

  “I am cleaned.”

  “And coifed.”

  “Well that’s damned tough then ain’t it,” she said. “Cuz we can’t always get what we want.”

  “MacTavish can.”

  “You got another royal simp out there who’s game to tame me ’air?”


  “Aye,” he said, and took a step toward her.

  She raised her chin another couple inches and backed away. “What the devil are you doin’?”

  “Hand me that brush and sit down.”

  “I will not.”

  “Sit your skinny arse down,” he warned, “before I think of more fitting things to do with a hairbrush.”

  Chapter 19

  “S ’il vous plaît,” said Sir Albert.

  “Go away,” ordered Cairn.

  “S’il vous plaît,” repeated the tutor.

  “Get the hell out of here,” gritted Cairn, and Albert, finally taking the not so subtle hint, arched his spine in deep afront and headed for the door.

  Cairn sighed and paced to the window. Far below in the courtyard, a team of grays jangled their bits and rolled their white-rimed eyes.

  “Lord Remmy always had an eye for the maids.” What the hell did that mean? Not that he cared. If Magical Megs wanted to seduce the man, she was free to do so. Hell, she could seduce the devil himself if she wished, just so long as she told him what he wanted to know. But until then she had to stay alive. Thus the lessons. He couldn’t afford to have anything happen to her. A titter of guilt crossed his mind. He didn’t mind lying, but it had always seemed foolish to lie to himself. And the truth was, it was unlikely that the girl would fall into trouble here at Portshaven. Then again, she had been here when she was taken last time. When she was taken and shot. He closed his eyes. Damn! She could have been killed. And what would happen next time? Not that there would be a next time. After all, he had her carefully guarded.

  But the truth bedeviled him. Eventually she would leave—would escape by her own confounded means or be turned loose, for despite everything, he would not harm her. No, she would leave Westheath. She would leave him, and she would fend for herself.

  He winced and ground his teeth as he paced, for she was barely the size of his pillow, and like his pillow, she was soft and…

  Triton’s balls! He growled a curse and paced again. She was not defenseless! She was Magical Megs. She had lied, had stolen. That was why he held her here because…

  His thoughts shambled to a halt as his memory burned back to the sight of her asleep on his couch, the feel of her in his arms, her lips soft against his, her body…

  Damn! He paced again. Did he detain her because she was guilty, or did he hold her because he was too weak to let her go? Perhaps he had no right to keep her. Perhaps she had loved ones who awaited her return. Perhaps there was a man. And perhaps that man was Wheaton. The thought scoured his mind. He ground his hands to fists. Aye, maybe she would return to Wheaton, but if she did, she would not go defenseless. Thus the lessons. It all made sense. He winced at his own logic.

  But Burr’s words rang in his head. “An eye for the maids!”

  “To hell with that,” Cairn growled, and marched down the hall once again.

  The door to Gem’s bedchamber was closed, the hallway empty. Cairn scowled as he glanced about. It wasn’t like Burr to leave his post. The man might be a looming barbarian, but you couldn’t say that he was the kind to abandon his duties. He would tear his head off and throw it at a prisoner before he’d let her escape.

  It was then that he heard a moan. It was low and pained and came from inside the nearest chamber. Drawing his dagger, Cairn burst into the room.

  Burr and Gem were near the window. The Norseman stood behind, her before. Her hands were splayed against the stone wall. In profile, with her expression blissful and her eyes closed, she was truly pretty. But Cairn’s intrusion jerked them apart. Gem gasped. Burr growled. They turned in unison. The girl’s expression was somewhat dazed, but Burr stood at the ready, his legs spread, his feet planted, and his huge arms flung wide. In his gargantuan right hand, he held a hairbrush.

  Cairn let his dagger droop down by his side.

  The room went absolutely silent, and Cairn let the silence fall, waiting.

  Burr cleared his throat and lowered the hairbrush, which he’d held like a damned scimitar. “I was just…” He paused, scowled, then pointed the brush toward the girl. “The ladies refused to see to her hair.”

  Cairn said nothing.

  Burroun cleared his throat again. “You said to see her cleaned up proper.”

  “You were…” Cairn tried to wrap his mind around the situation, but it didn’t seem possible that Burr, the pirate, Burr the brigand, Burr the deadliest bodyguard in all of Teleere, had been caught playing nursemaid to some ragamuffin street urchin. “You were brushing her hair?” he asked.

  Gem’s expression, usually as sharp as a highwayman’s blade, was still vague, as if she’d reached utopia and dreaded the return. But even as he watched, her eyes began to focus. “’E’s right ’andy with a ’airbrush,” she said. The words came out on a sigh.

  Cairn couldn’t have stopped the grin if he had tried. He didn’t try. “You were brushing her hair?” he asked again.

  “’Twas in the line of duty,” Burr said. “The ladies were loath to tackle the job so—”

  “So you braved the task.”

  Burr’s expression darkened considerably. “Is there something you needed…me laird?”

  Cairn’s light mood vanished. “Aye,” he said, remembering his mission. “I’ve changed me mind about Lord Remmy.”

  Quiet settled in again. Burr watched him for a moment, then, “Decided your skills be good enough to match the lassie’s, have you, lad?”

  Tension cranked into Cairn’s muscles, but he loosened them with an effort and gave a languid shrug. “I don’t want to keep you from your brave deeds, Burr,” he said, and turned toward the door. “Carry on, man, I think there may yet be a tangle left to conquer.”

  Cairn would have liked to enjoy having the final word, but his mind was atumble, and Megs, the magical thief, was only a short distance down the hall.

  He nodded to Peters as he passed him, then opened his bedchamber door with no prelude.

  Megs sat very upright on an ivory-hued upholstered chair. She was completely clothed, every button holed and every hair in place. Her shoes, though scuffed, were laced tightly and perfectly aligned, the heels together just so. As the door opened, she turned her head slowly, like a princess about to be coronated, not like a prisoner awaiting her sentence, and for a moment he was stunned by her regal beauty.

  He closed the door slowly behind him.

  She set her book aside, and they stared at each other, neither speaking for a moment.

  “Stand up,” he said finally.

  “What?”

  “Stand up,” he repeated.

  “Time for my execution?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  She did as told, but slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, as if her subjects watched every graceful movement.

  He scowled. “Come here.”

  Again, she did as commanded. She was dressed in the gown he’d first seen her in. It was a decent garment made of sturdy brown linen with dark piping at the ends of the sleeves and around the modest bodice. But somehow it didn’t suit her. And he had no idea why that foolish notion should bother him.

  “Turn around,” he said when she was less than a full yard away.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m the laird,” he said, “and I’ve ordered you to do so.”

  She did as told. Her deep sable hair shone in the candlelight, and as he reached out, his fingers brushed it, scattering the gleam, but he ignored the seductive softness as he wrapped his arm around her neck. He took a deep breath and settled his mind. “What would you do if I meant you harm?”

  “You do mean me harm.”

  He gritted his teeth. “If I were a brigand.”

  “You are a brigand.”

  “Listen.” He turned her about rapidly, nearly spinning her off her feet so that she faced him. “I’ll not have you so ill protected.”

  She was staring at him as if he’d lost a good portion of his mind, but he refused to drop
his gaze, though it was a close thing. “Peters is at my door,” she reminded him.

  “Peters can’t chew his own food.”

  “Then why do you keep him about?”

  “Because loyalty deserves—” He stopped himself. She hardly needed to know how he valued loyalty, especially since he’d told her he didn’t believe in it. Drawing a deep breath, he slowed his speech. “If word got out that Teleere’s premiere thief is feeblish, we’d be the laughingstock of all Europe.”

  “Because I can’t protect myself,” she said, as if trying desperately to understand his lunacy.

  He didn’t shuffle his feet. “That’s right.”

  “And you still think me a thief.”

  “Aye.”

  “But you want me to be able to defend myself.”

  Yes, he was as daft as a turnip. “Norway has Rupert,” he said as proof.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He sounded like a blathering idiot in the presence of a princess. “Rupert,” he repeated. “He stole the crown from right off King Charles’s head, then held off fifteen guards with nothing but a staff until he made his escape.”

  She stared at him for a full ten seconds, then turned pointedly and headed toward the door.

  He scowled. “Where are you going?”

  She didn’t respond, but lifted the latch and stepped into the hallway.

  “Lieutenant.” Her voice was absolutely earnest. “I fear your lord is not feeling well.”

  There was a moment of quiet, then Peters burst into the room, his face pale as winter and his eyes bulging. “My liege!” he said, his gaze rushing to Cairn. “You are ill?”

  Cairn eyed him levelly. “Get back to your post, man.”

  The lieutenant looked confused at best. “But—”

  “Our prisoner is amusing herself, Peters.”

  Confusion turned to bafflement.

  “She jests,” Cairn explained.

  Peters scowled. “About your health, my lord?” His tone was beyond shocked. His thoughts were clear; surely no one would joke about Lord MacTavish’s well-being. The idea was bewildering. There had once been a time aboard the Skian Dubh, when, while fishing, Cairn had mistakenly landed a shark. It wasn’t a huge creature, but it was large enough to take a chunk out of its captor’s leg. The entire crew had laughed for a week, and not a single soul had offered to bandage his wounds.