The Princess and Her Pirate

by Lois Greiman

  “Return to your post,” he repeated.

  “Yes, my lord.” One quick glance at Megs, and Peters left with floor-rapping precision, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Cairn exhaled and scowled. “You are my link to Wheaton.”

  She continued to stare. No expression shown on her face. As if she were above simple emotion.

  “You were right when you said not everyone has my opportunities to learn to fight,” he said, and shrugged. If he couldn’t do stoic, he’d settle for nonchalant. “Burr thrashed me regularly until I learned to defend meself.”

  Her face was solemn. “Thrashed you.”

  “Well,”—another oh-so-casual shrug; damn, she was beautiful—“he challenged me. It turned out to be pretty much a thrashing. I’m guessing you didn’t have that advantage.”

  “No,” she admitted. “Nary a Norseman to pit myself against.”

  “Did you have a father?”

  “Most do.”

  “Didn’t he worry? You being so…” He avoided the word frail. She didn’t seem to like it. In fact, his balls ached at the thought. “Delicate,” he said instead. “Didn’t he teach you any sort of self-defense?”

  “I fear not,” she said, and offered no more.

  It frustrated the hell out of him that he had no idea what kind of past she had experienced. He kept the thought to himself. “If you’re killed, Wheaton will have no reason to return here,” he explained.

  “And you’re afraid I might be accosted surrounded by a dozen guards…and the walls of Westheath Castle.”

  “If I remember correctly, you already left our kindly protection once.”

  She nodded in mild concession. “That is because you threatened to hang me.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if there were no hard feelings, as if, in fact, there was nothing he could do to pierce her cool calm. And perhaps there was not. Not again, though he remembered her losing her refined demeanor on a few occasions. Aye, he remembered her heated words, her hot caresses, and he would not soon forget, for he enjoyed a little honest fire. Since Elizabeth he saw a good deal of value in fishmongers’ aromatic wives and giggling goosegirls. And yes, in thieves. But not in thieves who acted like duchesses. Hell, if they were going to act like duchesses, they might just as well have the funds to match. As it was, he would not marry again, not to deepen Teleere’s coffers, not to form an alliance, not if the entire continent threatened to explode like black powder around his ears.

  “Do I have your word that you will not try to escape again?” he asked.

  She paused, blinked, remained perfectly still, and said, “No.”

  “Then I have little choice but to help you defend yourself.”

  “Lest I escape.”

  “Aye. So that you are safe until I find you again.”

  “Tell me,” she said, “was your mother closely related to your father? A sister perhaps.”

  He gave her a sardonic grin. “My mother was the daughter of a Scottish wagonwright and a Welsh milkmaid,” he said. “My father was Anthony Penworth, laird of this isle.”

  “Still—”

  “I’m not daft,” he said, though he wished he could believe his own words. “I’m merely cautious.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she said. “I—”

  “Did you know he murdered my wife?”

  The blood drained from her face. “What?”

  “Wheaton,” he explained, and found that his tone was admirably steady. “He killed my wife.”

  “No.” The word was little more than a whisper.

  “Aye,” he said, and the story spilled out. “They were lovers. He was exciting, I suppose. The son of a banished, aging earl. Still, some thought he should be next in line for the throne. Elizabeth thrived on excitement, and on my humiliation.” He shrugged. “But she’d cheated so often in those first two years. By the time I learned of Wheaton, her infidelity no longer mattered.”

  “I am sorry.”

  He watched her carefully for a moment, then continued on. “When I failed to care…” He paused for a moment. “She meant to put a stop to their trysts, I think. Or perhaps that’s just what I wish to believe. But Wheaton is not one to be set aside. He killed her, in her own bed, in my bed, here at Westheath.

  “Making it look as though you did it.”

  He said nothing.

  “And you think that could happen to me. Hence the lessons.”

  His gut hurt, and his throat felt damnably tight, but he shrugged with casual disregard.

  She walked toward him, never losing eye contact. “MacTavish, I am so—”

  But he could not bear her sympathy, so he stopped her. “I will tutor you,” he said, “and you will remain safe.”

  She said nothing, but in a moment she nodded and turned about.

  He shoved aside a dozen distractions and wrapped his arm about her neck, but her scent penetrated his barriers, and that was strange, for he had given her no perfume. Nothing to make her smell so tantalizing, and yet she did.

  “Are you ready?” she said.

  He brought himself back to the business at hand and tightened his arm. “What would you do if I came at you from behind like this?” he asked.

  “I am unsure,” she said. “What should I do?”

  He focused hard, shoving old memories behind him. “Anything you can.”

  “What?”

  “What do your instincts tell you to do?”

  “I would surely feel the urge to grab your arm and try to wrestle myself free.” She raised her hands to his forearm, holding it with both hands.

  “Good. Then what?”

  “I would pull.”

  “Don’t pull. I’m stronger.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Faint,” he said.

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “Granted, you’re no bigger than a mite, but if I have to support your weight…” he paused. “Lift up your feet.”

  “What?”

  “Make me bear your weight,” he said. “It’ll surely pull me off-balance. Then you’ll have the advantage.”

  She lifted one foot tentatively.

  “No. Fast. Jerk them up. Catch me unawares.”

  “I’m afraid that is impossible since you are the one giving me the instructions.”

  “Pretend.”

  She rose to her tiptoes, then settled back onto her feet. “I am not a very accomplished pretender, my lord.”

  Frustration born of a thousand troubles swamped him. “What the hell kind of thief are you?”

  “Apparently I am not your renowned Rupert!” Her temper was rising, and somehow that knowledge comforted him.

  He drew a deep breath. Glancing over her shoulder, he skimmed her body. From this vantage point, he could see a good deal of her cleavage, the soft mounds of her breasts rising invitingly above her gown. “Tell me, Megs, how did you survive so long? Distraction?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He glanced down again. “I think you know.”

  “No. I do not.” She turned slightly, brushing her bottom against his growing erection.

  “You’d make a whoremaster wet himself.”

  She straightened her spine with a jolt. “I beg your pardon!”

  He laughed. Damn, it felt good to get a reaction out of her again. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “I fear I do not.”

  “You’ve got great tits,” he said.

  There was a second’s delay, then she slammed her heel down on his instep.

  He stumbled back, pain burning his foot as she twisted about.

  She stood perfectly still, staring at him with flames snapping from her eyes.

  He winced once and glared at her as he settled his abused foot to the floor. “Well, what the hell are you waiting for?”

  She simply glared.

  “Come on!” he commanded. “You’ve injured me. ’Tis not the time for shyness.”

  She scowled.

  “Hit me!�
�� he ordered. “Or stab me or something. Don’t just stand there and look daft.”

  He waited in silence with his arms slightly spread. Nothing happened. He shook his head, relaxed, and scowled.

  “You’ve got to take advantage of my weakness, lass, or you’ll find yourself hanging upside down on the mizzenmast before you know what hit you.”

  She raised one brow. “It seems unlikely.”

  He motioned her over. She stepped closer, looking uncertain. But she finally turned around, and he captured her with his arm again.

  “Are you ready now?”

  “For what?”

  “To defend yourself.”

  “This is foolishness.”

  He stiffed a groan, then, “You’ve got great tits,” he repeated, and tensed.

  From his vantage point, he could see her scowl, but she refused to turn toward him. In fact, she tilted her head away slightly, so that all he could see was the firm angle of her jaw.

  The room went silent, then, “What is it about them you find…exemplary?”

  He raised his brows, scowled, and relaxed his stance. “What’s that?”

  She cleared her throat. “Were you…” The pause was painfully tense. “Were you jesting?”

  Here was an interesting development. He turned her around so he could examine her face. “You’ve got a stunning body, Megs. I’m sure you know that.”

  She snapped her gaze to his and away just as quickly. “I’ve always been healthy.”

  “Healthy.” He laughed and skimmed her stiff form. “Hell, lass, you’d put Cari to shame.”

  She lifted her chin and found his gaze again. “Cari?”

  “The mermaid on the Skian Dubh’s prow.”

  “Your ship.”

  “Aye.”

  She nodded and said nothing.

  “You don’t have to pretend modesty, Megs. A maid like you would have to be a fool to be unaware of your…” He considered his choice of words, remembered his throbbing instep, and said, “Your charms.”

  She still didn’t speak. Why? Curiosity had always been his weakness. Hence the time he’d inadvertently spent on the mizzenmast.

  “Men must have been crowding you for a long time,” he added.

  Her lips moved slightly, then she stilled and finally spoke. “In my…formative years…” She paused again. “There were other things to consider. More important things than…” She glanced toward the door. “I had much to occupy my mind.”

  “I suppose your childhood wasn’t easy.”

  She said nothing for a moment, then, “No, not easy, I suppose.”

  “So you learned to make your own way in the world.”

  “I had assistance.”

  He nodded. If not for Burr, he himself would not have survived childhood much less have grown to manhood aboard the Skian Dubh.

  “Someone must have taken you in,” he said. “Taught you the fancies.”

  “Fancies?”

  He shrugged, feeling suddenly foolish, like a ragged lad in the presence of royalty. “The way you talk. The way you stand. Your hair.” What the hell was wrong with him, he wondered, and reached out to brush a few wayward strands back amongst their mates. His fingers brushed her ear. She shivered, and her eyes fell closed, but she opened them in an instant and took a cautious step back, putting distance between them. He watched her—her feline eyes, her flawless skin. “You know,” he said.

  There was tension around her tempting lips, but she canted her head slightly. “Know?”

  “That you’re beautiful beyond words.”

  For an instant, for just a fraction of a fragmented second, he thought he saw honest surprise on her face, but before he could analyze it, her expression had returned to its usual coolness. Still, she couldn’t seem to hold his gaze. Very strange.

  “Men must have been telling you so for years.”

  She turned back toward him briefly. “No,” she said. “You are the first.”

  He knew he couldn’t hide his surprise as well as she. “You lie,” he said.

  “Generally, I do not.”

  “Wheaton never told you how beautiful you are?”

  She cleared her throat and lowered her gaze to her hands. They were clasped neatly together. “As I have told you, I do not know—”

  Cairn stepped forward and brushed his knuckles across her cheek. The bones there were high and regal. “He never told you he couldn’t keep himself from touching you.”

  “No.”

  “And the others?”

  “What others?”

  A stab of inexplicable anger flitted through him. “The other men in your life, Megs.”

  “Oh. No.” She didn’t turn her gaze away this time, but kept it pinned to his. “’Tis not something one says to a…” She paused. “A person like myself.”

  What did that mean? Men didn’t find her worthy of praise? Had they thought her so lowly that they would take her against her will without a word of kindness or comfort? He ran his fingers down her throat. She didn’t close her eyes this time, but swallowed, as if there were some great battle going on within her. Perhaps she was not used to tenderness. Perhaps she had only known brutal copulation. Only…But no. What the hell was wrong with him? She was lying again.

  “There’s no need for you to pretend, Megs. I set little stock in innocence.”

  She said nothing.

  “And there is no need to fish for compliments.”

  He skimmed her collarbone with his knuckles. She inhaled a long, careful breath.

  “I’ll give them freely.” He brushed over the rounded tops of her phenomenal breasts and felt her shiver mirror his own. “You are amazing to look at. Better still to touch.”

  Her lips trembled, and though he gave it his best effort, there was nothing he could do but kiss her.

  “So who won the first bout?”

  Megs jerked around at the words. Cairn turned more slowly.

  Burr stood at the door, his barbaric face impassive, his expression innocent.

  “Remind me to have Bert teach you to knock,” Cairn said.

  Burr laughed. “I’ll do that, lad. And what of you, lass?” he asked. “You look a mite flushed. I hope my lord hasn’t been working you too hard.”

  “No.” She studied her clasped hands for an instant. “He was simply…” She cleared her throat. “…teaching me to defend myself.”

  The Norseman nodded. “And not a moment too soon.”

  “Did you want something, Burroun?” Cairn asked.

  “Did he teach you how to knee a man yet?” Burr asked. “’Tis well worth learning. Of course, half of Teleere is fretting over the lack of an heir. So if you decide to kick him, don’t make it too hard.”

  She glanced at Cairn. Was there panic in her eyes? It was impossible to tell, and yet something welled up inside him, some sort of misplaced protectiveness mixed with overt frustration.

  “Get out, Burr.”

  The big man’s brows lifted, then he grinned broadly and bowed. “As you wish, my laird.”

  The door closed firmly behind him.

  Cairn wasn’t sure, but it looked as if Megs was holding her breath.

  “Well, you’ve probably had your fill for today.”

  She cleared her throat and raised her chin to regal heights, but her eyes still seemed strangely dilated. “Thank you for the…” He could see a tiny vein throbbing in her throat. “…the tutelage.”

  Cairn dropped his gaze to her bosom. Why not take her? He was the laird. She was a thief. But one glance at her eyes, and he turned on his heel, leaving the room without another word.

  Chapter 20

  “I t’s what the girl said.” Burr’s voice seemed to echo against the solar’s stone walls. The room was all but barren since Elizabeth’s death, and it made Cairn uncomfortable. He liked to be surrounded by tangible things, things he’d collected, things he’d purchased. Perhaps being a penniless bastard did that to a man. Or perhaps he was just an oddment.

&n
bsp; “And you believe her?” he asked now.

  Burr shrugged. “Could be Gem’s telling the truth. Maybe she was mistaken when she claimed the lass was Magical Megs.”

  “And the old woman—what does she say?”

  “She says we should think hard before we judge the lady too harshly.”

  “Lady?” Cairn rose abruptly to his feet and paced once across the floor. “What the devil does that mean?”

  “I can’t say for certain. Lady Nedra’s an uncanny one. From what I hear there are more than a few who think she can read minds. That’s why she gave up her duchy. She thought the poor were better folk than the rich. They deserved her funds more than the people she usually dealt with.”

  Cairn snorted. “Well, she pegged Megs all wrong. I’ve seen her myself, you know.”

  “Stole your brooch, I think you’ve said.”

  “Aye.”

  “So where is it?”

  Cairn scowled. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “What do you think, man, that she’d keep the damned thing on her?”

  The giant shrugged as he puffed on his pipe. Silvery smoke curled from his lips and up over his head, looking like an unlikely halo in the soft candlelight.

  “Nay,” Cairn answered himself. “She’d be rid of it. If she’s half as smart as she seems, me brooch would be gone at the first opportunity. Hell. She stole it from the laird of the isle. She’d have to be an imbecile to keep it about.”

  “She stole it from the laird,” Burr repeated. “Maybe that’s the reason she would keep it. Maybe she’s an admirer.”

  Cairn snorted then scowled. “Even if she did keep it, she wouldn’t have it on her person. She’d have it hidden away somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “How would I know?” Frustration was mounting.

  “I thought you might ask.”

  “You think I haven’t asked?” He felt like strangling someone. But strangulation was frowned upon, even for the laird of the isle.

  “Could be if you could find the brooch, you could find Wheaton. Or the other way about.”

  Cairn gave him a wry look. “The thought crossed my mind.”

  Burr shrugged. “Maybe a well-placed threat might—”

  “I’ve threatened everything but her damned dog.”