The Princess and Her Pirate

by Lois Greiman

  She remained tense, waiting for him to strike, but he did not.

  “It would have been wrong to lie with you,” he said.

  She tried to nod, but wasn’t sure if she did, for her body was still thrumming.

  “Nay.” He shook his head and suddenly he was there, inches in front of her with an arm about her back and a fist wrapped around her knife hand. In a moment she was disarmed. Her head fell back unnoticed. Her breath came hard. “Wheaton’s bride deserves a special seduction,” he said and, kissing her once, took the knife from her hand and left the room.

  She stood like a sun-dazed kitten. Good Lord, what was wrong with her?

  She had kissed him, and grabbed him, had all but begged for his touch. And even now…

  She stopped the thought.

  One thing, and one thing only was clear.

  She had to escape, and it had to be soon.

  Chapter 21

  T atiana paced the bedchamber and glanced out the window now and again. The day was dark and overcast, in sync with her mood. She’d slept poorly on the previous night. She’d tossed and turned. Dreams plagued her. Dreams she shouldn’t be dreaming. She couldn’t tolerate much more. She must leave. Must escape, and she had a plan, but it was a desperate plan, and it must be utilized soon, before it was too late, before she gave in to his pressure. Not that he tempted her. Hardly that, but it was impossible to think, impossible to concentrate when she was kept hostage as she was, when she had no way of knowing when he would appear. When he would speak to her. When he would begin her foolish defense lessons again. When he would touch her.

  Her heart clanked in her chest at the memory. She must not let him kiss her again. She must think, keep her wits, hold firm. Surely that was not so difficult, but just at that moment the door opened.

  An errant ray of sunlight shone through the gray clouds behind her and fell with unerring precision on Cairn MacTavish. He wore a plaid again today, and though he was always ridiculously beautiful, he seemed right in a tartan, at home, himself.

  “Good morning,” he said. His eyes were bright, his smile just below the surface.

  She wrung her hands. Dear God, when had she begun wringing her hands? And was it still morning?

  “Did you sleep well?”

  She watched his mouth move. It seemed that his lips were perpetually quirked, as if he were just about to smile or had just finished smiling.

  “Why are you here, MacTavish?” Her tone was cool.

  “I thought we should start your lesson early today, lass.”

  “My lesson.” She raised one brow the merest amount. Her mother would be impressed. Cold as a north wind.

  “Aye,” he said. “Villains don’t always attack from behind, you know.”

  He wore a fresh tunic. It was an ivory hue, open at the throat and closed down the front with broad wooden buttons. Three of the oaken spheres remained undone.

  She swallowed.

  “…from the front?” he asked.

  She raised her gaze to his face and grappled wildly for lucidity. “What?”

  He scowled a little. The expression made him no less beautiful. “Brigands,” he said. “They could just as easily come at you from the front.” He stepped toward her, hands open, arms bent at shoulder width. “What then?”

  On later inspection, she could only believe that madness took her, because in that instant, in that one wild moment of insanity, she reached out, grabbed him by the front of the tunic—and kissed him.

  For one second he was frozen in shock, but he rose almost instantly to the occasion. Wrapping his arms about her back, he drew her into his embrace. His lips were hot, his arms like iron.

  Need met need and roared like a hurricane in her ears. He kissed her lips, her throat, her chest, all the while pressing her toward the bed. She stumbled backward. The back of her knees struck the mattress with a jolt and at that simple movement, reality rushed in. Her terrible plan came with it.

  “I know where he is!” she rasped.

  “What?” His eyes were glazed, his breathing harsh.

  She shivered violently. “Wheaton!” she gasped.

  The very air seemed sucked from the room.

  “What about Wheaton?” he asked, and drew away an inch.

  Her skin felt hot and cold all at once, burning on contact. “I know…” She scooted sideways, praying hard and putting space between them. “Where ’e might be.” The guttersnipe accent came almost of its own accord, not so strong as Gem’s but a far cry from that of Tatiana Rocheneau.

  She watched his expression, but it showed little. The pirate’s face had been replaced with a politician’s. Devoid of emotion, except perhaps a tenseness. “Where?”

  “I…I cannot tell you.”

  “Ahh,” he breathed, and reached for her again.

  She scrambled away. “But I know…I can show you how to get there.”

  He followed her like a cat. Dangerous, sleek, unpredictable. “Then tell me.”

  “No, I…’e’s very secretive. Even with me.”

  “Then how do you know where to find him?”

  “I’ve been there, but—”

  The world went silent.

  “So you are his mistress?”

  She raised her chin. Her soul trembled like mad. “I don’t think—”

  “Do you sleep with him, Megs?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to believe you, lass, but it seems you’ve lied from the very beginning. Only now you lie with an accent.”

  “I told you I was smart.” The slurred speech came so easily. Dear God in heaven, what had she gotten herself into now? But panic had set in, driving out any logical thought.

  He watched her.

  “And a smart lass don’t give nothing away for free.”

  “So you are innocent because of financial reasons instead of—”

  “Innocent.” She laughed. It sounded hysterical to her own ears. “Don’t be a fool, MacTavish. I’m about as innocent as you. And you ain’t—”

  “Why now?”

  She shut her mouth and watched him for a moment. Her mind was spinning wildly. “What?”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  Her heart was beating fast, but her training as a duchess held her in good stead. She could keep her face absolutely expressionless. Any duchess worth her jewels could. But she let the shadow of a frown show. “Even thieves have their illusions.” She almost winced at her choice of words. Gem would have chosen something more simplistic.

  “Illusions?”

  She shrugged, letting a shade of shame gleam into her expression. “Could be I thought ’e loved me.”

  He took a moment, then, “Wheaton.”

  She nodded.

  “You thought he would come for you?”

  She hunched her shoulders and shrugged.

  “But he won’t?”

  She shook her head, then caught his gaze and raised her chin defensively. “You should be flattered.”

  He raised a brow.

  “Looks like Drake’s fear of you overshadows even the promise of taking me maidenhead. He’ll not be back for me.”

  “Drake?”

  “That’s what I call him.”

  “An endearment?”

  She shrugged, and he nodded. She had no way of knowing if he believed a single word.

  “What of honor among thieves?”

  She laughed. “Was a time I thought you had some wits about you, MacTavish.”

  “I’m thrilled to hear it.”

  “Thieves don’t have no honor. No more honor than the nobility does.” She canted her head slightly. “Question is, is there honor amongst pirates?”

  She could have sworn she could hear her heart beating in the impending silence.

  He crossed her arms against the hard strength of his chest and gave her a sideways glance. “I don’t like to be…obsessive about honesty.”

  Her heart stopped. “Are you going back on your vow?”
<
br />   He smiled. “I can’t decide who I trust less,” he said. “The honest thief or the dishonest lady.”

  She corrected her speech hastily. “You said you’d set me free.”

  “And you said you’d never met Wheaton.”

  “That’s cuz ’e’d kill me if ’e knew.”

  “If he knew what?”

  “That I betrayed ’im.”

  His expression hardened for a moment, then lay flat, without emotion. “Deliver him to me, and I’ll release you.”

  She licked her lips, delayed an instant, and spoke. “And what else?”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Your freedom’s not enough?”

  She shook her head.

  “The rack has been repaired.”

  She didn’t blanch. “You can’t do no worse than Wheaton would.”

  The silence seemed to last for an eternity. “He won’t hurt you.” His voice was low and deadly earnest. “I’ll make sure of that.”

  Anger exuded him like a foul odor, but she forced herself to laugh. “You’ll ’ave te do better than that, MacTavish.”

  “Money?”

  “And fare out of Teleere.”

  “You can trust me not to pursue you, Megs, no matter what you think.”

  She subdued a shiver. Perhaps it was faked, perhaps it was real. She could no longer tell. “It’s not you I’m worryin’ on, MacTavish.”

  “You think I can’t best him?”

  She shrugged. “You’re the laird of the isle. With an army an all, I’m thinkin’. But ’e’s. Well…” She shrugged again. “’E’s Drake.”

  He stared at her for what seemed an eternity, then he nodded slowly, his face absolutely sober. “Where will you go when you are free, Megs?”

  She gathered her senses and kept carefully back from him, lest she reach out, lest she weaken. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Then I’ll give you a horse.”

  She shook her head, though she was tempted to snatch at the opportunity. A steed at her disposal would certainly better her chances, and she’d noticed Westheath’s stock. It was nearly as fine as her own. “Nay.”

  “Why not?”

  She glanced toward the door almost imperceptibly. “Horses is too slow.”

  “Westheath’s stables are renowned, or so I’m told.”

  “You’re told?” He didn’t know. Didn’t care. Her initial assessment was correct. He had a strange aversion to horses. And suddenly she longed to teach him the glory of riding, to help him appreciate the soaring utopia of a fine steed beneath his legs. But that was not to be. Ever! And his aversion was good, for she would use it. Would pretend she shared his feelings and gain that much more chance to escape.

  “I’ve been busy since becoming laird,” he explained. He might not be a conventional lord, but he was a man, with a man’s distaste for admitting weaknesses.

  She shrugged. “It don’t matter ’ow fast the ’orses be. They won’t get me cross the sea, will they? Naw. You’ll ’ave yer Norseman take me to the docks and order ’im ta leave me there with enough coin ta go where I will.”

  He watched her forever, his eyes intense, his face unmoved. “Very well.”

  She exhaled softly, pretending to hide it. “Good then. We ’ave us a deal.”

  “Then we can continue where we left off,” he said, and stepped forward.

  She tripped backward like a startled dairy goat. “Nay!”

  He followed her. “I thought you said you were smart.”

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “You must see the possibilities.”

  She continued to back away. He continued to follow.

  “I’m a very wealthy man. Not to mention me being laird,” he added.

  She came to an abrupt halt, her heart beating hard. “You’d make me a whore?”

  His brows rose and she knew her mistake immediately. “Is that beneath you, Megs?”

  She forced a shrug. “’Ores got their place same as anyone. But I won’t do no ’orin’ lessen I ’ave to.”

  “And you don’t have to now?”

  “I’m already givin’ you what you want most.”

  The world seemed very quiet suddenly.

  “You’re wrong,” he said, and reached for her.

  She jerked away, but her back struck the wall, and she stopped short, breathing hard. “You sure? If’n you ’ad to choose. Which you do…” She raised her chin as if she had some power. “Who would you take? Wheaton or me?”

  “You’re a far sight bonnier,” he said, and, reaching out, stroked her cheek.

  Her mouth went dry. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her hands trembled. But she licked her lips, yanked her eyes open, and clasped her fingers together in fervent supplication. “You ain’t seen Drake by candlelight,” she said.

  He drew his hand slowly away. The fire in his eyes died slowly.

  “Be ready at dusk,” he said, and left.

  “So if’n you weren’t ’ighborn, how’d you ’appen to end up with the laird of the isle?” Gem’s voice was quiet. She sat very upright on the only chair in the room. Her knees were together and her baby’s mouth pursed. Burr sat on the bed and could see her lips from above, ridiculously pink against her winter white skin. It was disturbing. What the hell kind of thief had an infantile mouth like that?

  He pulled his attention from her lips and spoke without thinking. “I found him,” he said. “In a pile of rocks.”

  “Found ’im?” She peeked sideways, but not enough to disturb his brushing.

  “Aye. He was sitting on a boulder with his mother beside him. But she’d been wounded by brigands on her way back to Portshaven.” He remembered in silence for a moment. “She was almost dead already, with barely a word left to say.”

  “So you tended ’im.”

  He shrugged, drawing himself from his reverie. “There was little else to be done. He was a scrawny, bawling brat, with no way to take care of himself.”

  “And you didn’t know ’e was to become the old man’s heir.”

  “He didn’t look like much, though in years to come he had a way with a sword.” He smiled at the memory of the fencing lessons. The lad was an exceptional duelist, though Burr would never admit it to his face. “We spent most of his early years at sea.”

  “So ’ow did you learn ’e was the old lord’s get?”

  “He had a brooch,” Burr said, “that his father gave his mother. I didn’t think it was more than a bauble, but…” He sighed. “The old laird was aging. Mayhap he saw his strength slipping away. And mayhap he saw that same strength in the lad when he first met him. Whatever the reason, he was certain Tav was the one to take his place.”

  “Like a fairy tale, it is,” Gem murmured.

  “Aye, though raising the lad was no treat.” In fact, the boy had been bold and rude and opinionated, not unlike himself, or the girl who sat beneath his hands. “Still, I got Falcon out of the bargain,” he said, and stroked the brush downward.

  “Falcon?” she asked on a sigh.

  “Me stallion. The old laird gave him to me for me troubles. As fine a steed as ever there was in all of Teleere. In all the world, mayhap.”

  “I’ve never been a horseback.”

  Never. He scowled at the thought, for logic told him she never would, even if she lived to reach maturity.

  “When you was young, did you take your sisters ridin’?” she asked, changing the topic suddenly, as she often did.

  But Burr was no longer in the mood for reminiscing and knew he had told her too much already in the hours spent brushing her hair. “Quiet now,” he said, and stroked the brush down her scalp for the hundredth time.

  She sighed, fell silent for a second, and spoke up again. “What was their names?”

  “Were,” he corrected gruffly. “What were their names?”

  “Yeah.”

  “’Tis none of your affair, lass.”

  Silence fell again. Her brows lowered slightly and her mo
uth quirked. “They didn’t…” She paused. “There weren’t nothing bad ’appened to them, were there?”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘were.’ They’re all right, ain’t they? Yer sisters?”

  He should correct her, but there was something in her tone. Something intense and deep and strangely wistful.

  “Viking?” she said, and tilted her head up to look at him. Her throat seemed as fair as a snowy dell and ran down gently to where her breasts, small and firm, lay barely hidden by her tattered gown. He refused to look past her eyes.

  “They’re fine now.”

  She scowled. “Now?”

  He cleared his throat and called himself a fool. “Rosie’s first husband…” He stopped, remembering. Some men deserved to die. And some did, earlier than they planned. He shrugged, pushing away the memories. “He shouldn’t have struck her. It wasn’t wise.”

  She absorbed this news in silence, and he knew that she understood his meaning.

  “But they’re safe now?”

  “Aye, the three of them,” he said. “All wed and fat and happy with roofs over their heads and babies at their breasts.”

  He winced. Damn him. He shouldn’t have said the word “breasts,” but she didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she pursed her mouth again and faced forward, but the hint of a smile lifted her raspberry-sweet lips. The room fell into silence.

  “You found their ’usbands for ’em?”

  “Husbands,” he corrected. “Nay. You put a bonny lass out in the world, and the laddies’ll find them.”

  “But you ’ad to give yer consent since yer father was gone.”

  He shrugged. “I was their closest male kin.”

  She nodded again and sighed softly as he stroked her hair. It gleamed beneath the boar bristle brush like sunset waves and curled like magic down to her too small waist.

  “How many babes do they got?”

  She was a baby herself, and yet it was disturbing, being this close to her. “Didn’t I tell you to pipe down?”

  “Do they got any girls?”

  She’d been afraid of him only days before. He missed that now, for then she was sometimes quiet for whole minutes at a time.