The Princess and Her Pirate

by Lois Greiman

  “Then why waste the words?”

  “Judging from past experience, I would say ‘because I’m laird’ will do me little good.”

  “I do not know Wheaton,” she said.

  “Do you swear it…on your father’s grave?”

  “I do.”

  “Then how did you know of the inn we just visited?”

  “That you will not believe.”

  “Why not take a chance?”

  “A friend told me of its existence.”

  “Maybe you should expand your circle of friends, lass.”

  “I knew you would not believe me.”

  “So you had no reason to think Wheaton would be there.”

  “No.”

  “And you have no…” He paused, searching his memory for a word he had particularly admired. “No animosity against me?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it more slowly. “You have abducted me and held me against my will, MacTavish. I’ve been shot, beaten, and nearly raped. It tends to strain a relationship.”

  He tried not to wince. “You have no animosity against my country?”

  “No.”

  “And you want to be set free.”

  She raised a single brow at him. It was amazing. She could do so without causing a single wrinkle to furrow her forehead.

  “Yes or no?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He stared at her, trying to read her, but there was no hope.

  “Tell me, Megs, would it be worth endangering your life to be set free?”

  “I believe I have already answered that once this day.”

  The memory of Peters’s gun against her temple stormed through his mind, leaving a chill aftermath. “Why?” he asked. “Why now? I’ve not hurt you. In fact, I thought we had come to something of an understanding.”

  “Understanding?” She watched him narrowly.

  “You’re a bonny lass, Megs. And though I admit it may be somewhat suicidal, I have admitted my attraction for you.”

  “Hence you thought…” She paused. “You believed I would sleep with you to atone for my sins against you.”

  He shrugged. “That’s as good a reason as any.”

  “It is not.”

  “What reason would be?”

  “A marriage.”

  He felt his eyebrows rise. “Generally my marriage proposals are channeled through my advisors, lass, but—”

  “I am not proposing, MacTavish.”

  “Ahh.”

  “I’ll not sleep with you.”

  “Not even for your freedom.”

  “No.

  Hoary remained resolutely hard, despite his disappointment. He was like that. Cairn merely nodded. “Then I’ve another proposition.”

  Chapter 23

  “P roposition?” Tatiana asked. Her world spun around her. There was too much, too fast. Too many emotions, fears, desires.

  “Don’t look so skittish,” MacTavish said. “It couldn’t be so horrible as sharing my bed.”

  Tatiana didn’t respond. Couldn’t, in fact.

  “Two men will be meeting at the Seaport.”

  “The Seaport.”

  “It’s an alehouse,” he said. “You haven’t heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “Bert tells me it’s not a place I should frequent. Mostly sailors gather there for drinks and a bit of sport.”

  She stiffened. “No.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll not prostitute myself for my freedom.”

  “You think I would ask you to bed another?”

  “What else?”

  He looked somewhat baffled, but continued on. “I want you to listen in on a conversation.”

  She scowled. “I have heard that men are not good listeners, but surely one could manage—”

  “Barton thinks they won’t be speaking the Gaelic.”

  “Barton?”

  “He gathers information for me.”

  “A spy?”

  “Of sorts. He tells me we’ll need an interpretor.”

  “So I, too, would be a spy?”

  “I have other people who might do the job, but they are occupied elsewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “Trouble brews on many shores. So what say you, Megs? Will you act the spy, or is that beneath you, too?”

  She walked to the window, her mind churning. “Who are these men?”

  “No one you would know.”

  “And what of Lady Linnet? Would she know them?”

  “Nay.”

  She remained silent for a moment.

  “Neither would the little people.”

  She didn’t bother to acknowledge his goading. Perhaps he had reason for his skepticism. “And if I do as requested, what will become of me?”

  “I would tend to believe you are not a traitor.”

  “How will you know I am telling the truth if you do not speak the language?”

  “Maybe you should simply tell the truth this once, Megs, and leave the rest to me.”

  She pursed her lips. “Very well then.”

  He looked surprised. There were times when every emotion showed like lightning on his face. “You’ll do it?”

  “Yes.”

  Perhaps she expected him to be happy, but he scowled instead. “It’s not the kind of place a baroness would frequent.”

  “Lucky I am only a baroness’s daughter then.”

  His scowl deepened. “You’ll need a disguise.”

  “I could be a thief,” she suggested, and glanced askance at him.

  “Did you just make a joke?”

  “I never have before.”

  “Can you pretend to be a barmaid?”

  “If you tell me what it is, I am certain I can be one.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “That was a jest, MacTavish.”

  He looked uncommonly owlish. Strange. He’d seemed ambivalent when she’d tried to escape, impressed when she’d kneed him, and all but giddy when she’d stabbed him. “The innkeeper is a friend. He’ll accept you without question.”

  “Very well.”

  He seemed angrier still. “It’ll never work if you continue to talk like that.”

  She canted her head. “Would this be more to your likin’ then, luv?”

  His scowl deepened. “And what of your costume? You’ll need to be rid of that prudish gown.”

  “This is not prudish.”

  “Not for a sister of the Holy Order of Mary.”

  “What would you have me wear?”

  He paused as if unspoken ideas were skittering through his mind, then, “Something that doesn’t spook the patrons.”

  “They must be a skittish lot.”

  He snorted, then glanced sideways, scowling out the window into the darkness. “Can you handle a pistol?”

  “What?”

  “A gun,” he said, turning back toward her. “Do you know how to use one?”

  “This may surprise you, but neither tailor’s wives nor baroness’s daughters generally find the need to shoot—”

  “And what of thieves?”

  She shrugged. “I know little of thieves, since I am not one.”

  He watched her for a moment, and now, for the first time in some hours, she could not guess his mood. But there was no need to try, for he turned and walked away without another word.

  Burr knocked twice on Gem’s door. There was no answer. He rapped again, then waited. Perhaps she was asleep. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. There was no window in her room. He’d seen her just minutes before when servants had delivered her bathwater. Of course she was still in there. Where else could she be? he asked himself, then barreled through the door when the answer came home to him.

  Gem jerked upright. Water streamed down her red-gold hair. It looked to be as soft as a vixen’s hide. Her eyes were wide, her baby’s mouth circled in surprise.

  He skidded to a halt, tightened his fists, and cleared his throat. />
  “Gem.”

  “What—What is it?” Her voice was breathy, devoid of that brash harshness with which life had imbued it, and without her usual rags, her body looked as genteel and lovely as a princess’s.

  “Me apologies,” he said, and backed toward the door. “I knocked.” He nodded toward the portal as if she might not realize where he had been when he’d knocked. “When you didn’t answer I thought—”

  She’d found a towel and held it in front of her breasts, but it did little good, for truth to tell, every inch of her fascinated him. The hard exterior, the soft interior. Despite the harshness of her formative years, she looked as soft and delicate as an orchid petal.

  “You thought I had escaped,” she said, and grinned. Her crooked teeth winked at him.

  Even that sight entranced him. He scowled. “You may continue your bath,” he said, and turned for the door, which had slammed against the wall and bounced nearly closed after his arrival.

  “Viking.”

  He drew a careful breath, tightened his fists for a moment, and pivoted slowly toward her. His heart was beating far faster than a heart his age should beat, and his cock was equally as foolish. “What is it?”

  And that’s when she did it. She stood up.

  He felt his knees weaken. Like a smooth-faced boy. Like a lovesick calf.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said.

  He kept his gaze steady on her face and felt that his brows were pulled low over his eyes.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” asked Peters, and pushed at the door. “I thought I heard—”

  Burr turned with a start. “If you don’t get your nose out of the door, there sure as hell will be, lad.”

  Peters stepped back, and Burr closed the door. Then he turned, placed his back against the heavy timber, and remembered to breathe. “I’ve things to do,” he said gruffly. “Is there something you need?”

  She stepped from the tub. The towel was wide and plush, but only managed to hide the mid portion of her body. The outside of her thighs, the gentle curve of her hips, and the graceful length of her arms were exposed. He was in trouble.

  “Something wrong?” His tone was as coarse as sea coral. Still, he was surprised he could force out the words at all. It was sad really. He’d eaten cheese older than her, and here he was, all but trembling at her advance.

  “I…” She stepped toward him. “I been wonderin’—”

  “I have been wondering,” he corrected. Poseidon’s frigid ass! He was turning into Bert. A hand-wringing old woman with a lisp.

  “I have been wondering.” She could mimic like a parrot. It made him wonder if she had ever heard correct speech. If she’d ever had a chance. True, his own childhood had been something short of idyllic, but at least he’d had enough to eat. “If maybe I could see Auntie Ned.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. Her shoulders were absolutely white, like the pearlescent swirl of a conch. “No particular reason. Just thought I might talk to ’er. Ain’t much for me to do ’ere.”

  He stared at her.

  Her lips were sunrise red and slightly puckered, tempting beyond all reason and in that moment he almost weakened beyond forgiveness, but her mouth quirked the slightest amount. “Isn’t much,” she corrected, “for me to do here.”

  He scowled. “I told you that as long as you are under my protection you needn’t worry. Not about yourself and not about her.”

  Gem’s gaze spurted to his, her defenses dropping into place like a well-oiled portcullis.

  “I ain’t worried.”

  He said nothing, only watched her. She held his gaze for a good several seconds, then cleared her throat.

  “She ain’t been feelin’ well lately.”

  He said nothing.

  “Not that I care particular, but she—” Gem shrugged and paused.

  “She needs to eat more.”

  “What?”

  “Dr. Leonard.” He paused. “The lad’s physician. He says she’ll be fine so long so she eats proper.”

  “He—” She stopped, her eyes round as marbles, her voice breathy. “The doctor saw ’er.”

  “Aye.”

  The room went absolutely silent.

  She swallowed, licked her lips, darted her gaze to the side, then spoke. “Thank you.” Her voice was very soft, her eyes hopelessly large, like a lost fawn’s. His hand was sweating on the door latch behind him.

  He shook his head. “I ain’t no nursemaid, girl. It wasn’t—”

  “I am not,” she said.

  He scowled.

  “I am not a nursemaid,” she said, and smiled.

  Maybe it was those two damned slanted teeth that captivated him, or maybe she truly had the most entrancing smile in all Christendom. He gripped the door handle harder, holding himself there by sheer force.

  “Can I see ’er?” she asked.

  He shook his head, but truth to tell, he wasn’t sure why. Was he denying her request or insisting that she stay back?

  She stared hopefully up at him. Only a few scant inches separated them. His kneecaps were sweating.

  “It’s the laird’s orders,” he said. “He wants the three of you kept separate.”

  She nodded. Her face had filled out a little in the past few days. “I just thought…” She shrugged again. His heart leapt a little with the movement. “Maybe I could peek in.”

  He shook his head. “Like I said, girl, I ain’t no nursemaid.”

  “Ain’t you?”

  He deepened his scowl.

  “I been thinkin’ ’bout your sister. Milly.”

  He said nothing.

  “How you nursed ’er when she was sick.”

  He should have never told her about his sisters, but when he brushed her hair in the evenings, it seemed wise to fill the silence with some kind of blather. Now he realized his mistake. The last thing he needed was for this scrap of a girl to think him soft.

  “Anna took care of her,” he corrected. “Not me.”

  Her smile brightened and her brows rose. “Are you afraid, Viking?”

  He glowered at her, and she laughed.

  “You can admit you cherished ’er,” she said. “I won’t think you’re weak. Not with them muscles.”

  He glanced at his biceps, almost flexed and caught himself just in time. He stared back at her and realized with a start that she’d advanced. They were all but toe-to-toe now.

  “You’re the biggest fella I ever seen,” she said. “’Ceptin’ for once when the carnival come ta Ports’aven. I was just a wee thing then.”

  “Not like now.” His voice rumbled in the room like a death threat. Heaven help him.

  “What?” she said, and placed a hand on his arm. Warmth spurted off like frightened doves.

  He stiffened. “You aren’t the size of an underfed gnat,” he said, and made sure his tone sounded no more effusive. “Aren’t they feeding you?”

  She nodded, but her gaze remained on his arm for a moment before lifting to his face. “The food is so grand. Sometimes…” She paused, and in that instant he realized there were tears in her eyes. “It’s nice is all. And there be times when I think I could almost be safe with…” She paused again and swallowed. A crystalline tear slipped down her cheek.

  “Lass,” he breathed.

  Behind him, the door opened. He turned with a growl. “What the hell do you—” he began, but Cairn stepped through.

  He glanced at the girl, then at Burr, at the hand on his arm.

  Burroun cleared his throat. “Were you wanting something, lad?”

  Cairn raised his brows only slightly. His mouth quirked the same amount, but he shifted his attention back to the girl.

  “Can you shoot a gun?” he asked.

  She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand and nodded rapidly. “Aye,” she said. “I can if I needs to. Everyone I knows can.”

  Chapter 24

  T atiana sidestepped quickly, avoiding the man at the corner table
. There was a miniature gun shoved under her garter and a knife in her sleeve, but the lush still tried to grab her bottom. Maybe it was because her bodice drooped halfway down her bosom. Maybe it was because her skirt was hiked up between her knees. And maybe it was simply because he was a pig.

  He straightened in his chair and leered at her. “Quick little snippet, ain’t you?” He was drunk and leering and smelled something like a wine vat gone bad. She considered having him executed, but remembered with some disappointment that her army was no longer at her beck and call.

  “Did you want a bit more beer, luv?” she asked instead.

  “Nay.” He was eyeing her breasts. Was there spittle in the corner of his mouth? “I want a bit o’ that.”

  His companion chuckled blearily. “Looks like she got plenty te spare don’t it, George?”

  The first genius grinned. “What do you say, lass. I’ve some coin if’n you have some time.”

  Her feet ached, and her head pounded. She’d been here most of six hours. Fatigue wore at her like the plague.

  “I’d like te and all.” She tried a smile again, but it was entirely possible that she snarled instead. “But then I’d have ta kill—”

  The door opened. She felt the draft and turned, and somehow she knew it was the man she’d been waiting for. He was casually dressed in gray trousers and fawn waistcoat, and yet there was something about his bearing that spoke of importance. He glanced about the room, caught her gaze for a moment, half smiled, and folded his tall frame into a chair near the door.

  An arm curled around her shoulder, and she was jerked to the side.

  “Old George was talkin’ to you, girl.”

  The lush had risen, and, despite his inebriated state, he felt incredibly strong. She was crushed against his side like a rotten pear.

  “And George don’t like to be ignored. Not for a piece o’ shit like that.” He nodded toward the newcomer. “I got twice the tail that’s got.”

  “Let me go.” She tried to push away, but he was far stronger. Panic felt hot in her throat.

  “Let you go where? To my room?” he asked, and chuckled as he pressed his groin up against her hip. Bile rose like high tide.

  “Release me,” she ordered, and realized too late that she’d dropped her Seaport dialect.

  But George was far too intoxicated to give her accent any importance. “Release me,” he mimicked and chuckled. “Did you hear that, Mug? We got us a princess in tart’s clothing.”