by Lois Greiman
“I wouldn’t mind being in her clothing.”
They laughed together, then George dropped his arm from her waist. She nearly darted away, but in the same instant, he caught her wrist and began dragging her toward the door.
She dug in her heels, resisting madly, but he glanced back as if barely noticing and yanked her against him. She bounced wildly against his sloppy body, and he chuckled again.
“If you knew what I ’ad in my pants, you’d be beggin’ fer attention,” he said. She shoved the panic back and found the knife in her sleeve. It came away in a shaky fist. She pressed it to his groin, low and steady.
“And if you knew what I had in my hand, you’d be begging for mercy,” she growled.
The color drained from his cheeks like river water as he felt the knife’s tip penetrate his trousers.
“Hey there, missy…” His face contorted. It may have been a smile, but it was difficult to tell for sure. “I didn’t mean no harm.”
“Let me go.” She found that if she gripped the blade firmly enough, it barely shook at all.
“You’re makin’ a mistake, girl.”
“Then you had best depart,” she said, “before I mistakenly kill you.”
His face reddened, but he dropped her arm and stepped back a pace. “Come on, Mug,” he said, not looking at his companion. “The girl ain’t in the mood right now, but I’m bettin’ she will be soon.” He grinned, but the expression was evil and threatening. “Real soon.”
Mug stood up unsteadily, and the two of them left, wending their way between the tables and out.
Tatiana waited breathlessly. It seemed that the world might end, or she might faint, or at the very least, someone would rush to her side with words about her bravery, her boldness. But the world did not stop. No rescuer came.
From the rear of the tavern, a skinny man with a beard yelled for ale, and she stumbled toward the kitchen to fulfill his request.
Her hands shook as she filled two mugs, and when she reentered the common room, she saw that the tall stranger had been joined by another man.
Her stomach coiled hard in her gut and her throat felt dry. They were here then. This was it, a chance to prove herself. A chance to win her freedom, but she must not rush in. She must not appear too eager, so she tended a pair of old men and a sailor before making her way between the patrons to the appointed table.
She wiped her hands on her apron and tried a smile. Although her face felt stiff with panic, they didn’t grimace and draw away, so perhaps the expression wasn’t quite so ghoulish as it felt.
“You gents lost?” she asked, though in truth they did not stick out so drastically as they might. Obviously, they had dressed to fit the occasion, but perhaps they, too, had not realized such wretched places existed.
“No,” said the newest arrival, but the first man smiled.
“Perhaps I am,” he said. “Is this not Westheath Castle?”
She laughed. It sounded crazed, but she swept her straying hair back with a weary hand and tried to hide the tremble. “You’re a bit off the mark,” she said. “This ’ere is ’ell.”
The first man laughed. His hair was fair, his features comely. The second finally smiled. “Ahh,” he said. “I understand. She jests.”
And in that instant she recognized his accent. He was Sedonian. She smiled, though her heart was beating hard and high, making her certain they would see it pounding in her well-exposed chest.
“What can I bring you?” she asked.
“A pint of beer,” said the first man. She almost nodded, then realized suddenly that he hadn’t spoken in Gaelic, but in French with a soft Teleerian accent.
She scowled and shook her head. “Me apologies,” she said. “’Fraid I don’t speak no Italian.”
He smiled and repeated his order in the common tongue. The dark Sedonian asked for Scotch.
She scurried off. Why French? Why would he speak French but to test her linguistic skills? She didn’t rush back to them, but cleared a table and hoped her heart rate would fall back into normalcy. It did not, but she could wait no longer. Finally, she filled a pair of mugs and toted them back to the twosome, taking her time and approaching from the rear, but their conversation was banal, revolving around recent voyages and natural disasters.
She deposited their libations and turned away, but the men at the next table stopped her, wanting meals with their drinks. She shambled into the kitchen, carrying their orders in her head, then returned minutes later with bowls of stew and loaves of bread.
There were complaints all around. Too stale, too cold.
The night wound away interminably. She wandered near the appropriate table whenever possible. The Sedonian watched her, though he spoke to his companion. “You islanders raise your women well.”
The Teleerian laughed as he sipped his beer. “She’s half your age, Martinez.”
“She is that, Douglas, but luckily, she’s just my size.”
They laughed, already well in their cups.
Patrons came and went. Tatiana delivered more drinks to the twosome in question and listened in when she could, but there was little to hear.
She dropped a pitcher of beer, splattering it in every direction. A sailor pinched her buttocks. Two fisherman threatened to brawl, and a trio of laborers called her over, but finally the patrons began to wander out. The place grew quieter, and in the midst of the softening conversations a single word caught her attention.
“The princess?” said the islander in French.
The word rang like a bell in her brain, stopping her cold. She stiffened.
“Girl,” snapped a patron, and she refocused. It seemed to take forever to satisfy him, longer still before she could return to an empty table near the Sedonian. She wiped it down slowly, then bent to clean up an imaginary spill on the floor.
“I’m told your country is quite rich,” said the Teleerian. He was leaning back in his chair, and his French was slurred. “Perhaps such a match would be advantageous for my country.”
“Perhaps,” said the Sedonian. “But it would not be advantegeous for my benefactor. Or for your pocketbook.”
The fair man sat up suddenly. Tatiana flinched, but he took no notice of her. “You’d bribe me?” he asked.
The Sedonian stiffened. “I was told you were sympathetic to our cause.”
“I am not,” said the other brusquely, then laughed as he leaned back again. “I am sympathetic to my own. So tell me, who do you have your princess earmarked for, if not for our bastard lord?”
“’Tis not my place to know or care. But this I will tell you: Those I work for will not allow the princess to dally here.”
“And if she does?”
“Princesses are a frail lot and can fall prey to a host of troubles.” The Sedonian drank with casual disregard, then continued with a shrug. “But she was put on the throne at some risk, and my lord is loath to see her gone just yet. Thus—”
“You’ve waited for me.”
Tatiana glanced rapidly up. George had returned and stood swaying near a table to her left, but he was not alone. Two thugs had come with him.
She stood up slowly, realizing belatedly that the room was nearly empty but for the two she’d been eavesdropping on. She glanced at the Sedonian, her countryman. He shifted his gaze toward the brutes and rose to his feet. “Perhaps we should continue our discussion elsewhere.”
The islander caught her eye, then rose beside his companion. “Aye,” he agreed and dropped a pair of coins on the table. “We’ll leave you to your fun, lass.”
They were gone in a moment. She turned with them.
George smiled. “You ready then, girl?” he asked, and lumbered heavily forward.
She stepped back. “If you leave now, no harm will come to you,” she said.
“I like the way you talk,” he said, and chuckled. “Don’t you like the way she talks, lads?”
They followed their leader, closing in on her. Breath clogged in her throat. She
grappled for the gun beneath her skirts. It came away in her hand, but it was gone before she could bring it to bear, snatched from her fingers.
“Girl!” shouted the cook from the kitchen.
She tried to call for help, but in that instant, George clasped his hand over her mouth and dragged her toward the door. She kicked madly, but it was hard to breathe, impossible to think.
They were outside in a moment, but there was no one in sight, no help to be found. She tried to shriek, but even as he shifted her under his arm, his hand remained over her mouth.
She bit him. He dropped her, and she scrambled wildly, trying to gain her feet, but he was on her in an instant, snatching her up by the hair and ripping her bodice away with one fist.
She cried out in terror, but he slapped his hand across her mouth, thumping her against the wall of the inn and grinding his groin into her.
“Here’s a right fine place for a fuck then if’n yer in a hurry for—” Something swung out of the darkness. George crumpled sideways, spinning her about with his momentum, and when she found her feet, MacTavish was there.
He stepped toward her, as Burr grunted and let the other two fall.
Tatiana tried to be strong, tried to keep her back straight and her head high, but fatigue and the tattered remnants of terror corroded her will. She began to shake. A moment later she realized she was crying. Taking off his doublet, Cairn wrapped it about her shoulders and pulled her into his arms.
In the back of her mind, she told herself she should resist. After all, it was he who had endangered her at the start, but his body felt warm and strong. She was sheltered in the lee of his arm, bundled against the heat of his person.
The journey to Westheath seemed to be gone in an instant, but perhaps she had slept. The carriage jolted to a halt. She sat up blearily as Cairn stepped to the ground and lifted her back into his arms. Tatiana was certain she should make her own way up the stairs, but it was so much easier to remain as she was, listening to his heart beat against her ear, feeling his arms around her. His footfalls seemed far away and muffled. The world seemed strangely quiet. In a moment they were in his chambers. A single candle flickered on a thousand outlandish items, casting shadows and light across the unearthly room like a magical wand.
He closed the door with his shoulder and bore her to the bed, where he sat down. She kept her eyes closed and her face turned into his chest. The scent of pipe smoke lingered on his tunic and through the sheer fabric, she could feel the heat of his body. He held her close and swept his hand slowly down the length of her unbound hair. It felt strangely soothing, but she dared not be soothed. She drew a shaky breath and forced herself to straighten.
“I do not know if you could hear them.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, distinctly at odds with their positions. But it was the only tone she had. “They spoke—”
“I’m sorry.”
She glanced at him. They were close, their faces inches apart, their bodies touching. She was painfully aware of each point of contact. Her arm against his chest, her bottom pressed against the hard strength of his thighs.
She took a deep breath, strengthening her resolve, though not quite enough to force herself from his lap, and ignored his words. “They spoke French.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. His brows lowered. “I didn’t realize they’d come back. When the two left we sent men to follow them. I thought you would be safe. I thought—” He stopped the words. The muscle jumped again. “Did they hurt you?”
She watched him for a moment. “Do you have spies?”
“Besides you?” His tone was serious, his fingers light when he brushed back her hair. She nodded.
“Aye, we have many. But you were as brave as any of them. Barton himself would have been proud.”
She refused to tremble, but could not maintain eye contact. “You lie,” she said. “I fear I was not an exemplary spy. I have—”
“The face of an angel.”
“What?’
He watched her in silence for a moment. “The body of a siren,” he said, “and the spirit of a lion. Who are you, lass?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but found she’d lost her train of thought. “I was…terrified and exhausted and…” He was stroking her hair with a rhythmic cadence. “And I couldn’t help thinking that my people…” She caught herself. “That other people feel those same things with regularity. Every day. Every—” He was watching her intently. She closed her mouth and stared down at her hands, knowing she had said too much.
“And what of you, lass?” he asked. “Don’t you usually get tired? Don’t you get scared?”
“Perhaps I have been more sheltered than I knew.”
He exhaled softly. She felt his breath against her. “There are times when I am sure you’re a thief. There are times I believe you are a duchess. And there are times—”
“I am not a traitor, MacTavish. No matter what else you think of me, I did as you asked.”
The muscle in his jaw tightened again. The movement fascinated her, but she forced herself to think of other things. Not his physical beauty, not on the feel of his hands.
“I believe you were correct,” she said. “The smaller man, the darker man…he was Sedonian.”
“Lass—”
She scowled at him. “I risked my life for this information, MacTavish. I…” She paused. “How do people live like that? And—” She shook her head. “Who were they?”
She thought he might try to shush her again, but he answered instead. “The taller of the two is an ambassador of mine.”
“And the Sedonian?”
“He has ties to man named Lord Paqual.”
Lord Paqual! She felt the shiver of betrayal shake her. Felt the heat of shame warm her. Lord Paqual had been her uncle’s most trusted counselor and the man always eager to offer his advice. He was also instrumental in her coronation. Yet he had connived behind her back, had offered money to make certain she would not make the match she thought best for her country. Had threatened to see her gone if she did not conform to his wishes.
Aye, Lord Paqual had betrayed her. How many others had done the same?
Chapter 25
T atiana’s heart seemed to beat in slow motion. Loneliness hung like a heavy weight between her aching shoulders, but she dared not bend beneath the burden, for MacTavish watched her carefully as if judging her emotions, guessing her thoughts.
“You’ve heard of Paqual?” he asked.
“No,” she said, but her own voice sounded far away, as if spoken by another. “How could I?”
“He’s an important man in Sedonia. The old king’s trusted advisor. Some say he is also the king’s murderer.” He shrugged. “’Tis sure the young princess values him, too, for he was instrumental in gaining her the crown. ’Tis said she is but his puppet. You’ve not heard of him before?”
“No.”
“You’re shaking,” he said, and took her hand in his. She tried to pull from his grasp, but he held her fingers between his palms, and somehow the sight of his hands, large and strong, surrounding hers made her feel just a little less alone.
“You said you lived there once,” he said, and turning her hand over, traced a line in her palm.
“Yes,” she agreed. The simple movement of his fingers against her hand felt disturbing lovely. “But I was young then and…unaware of politics.”
She tried to free her hand. The attempt was unsuccessful, so she tried not to be grateful, though the warmth of his fingers fortified her.
“What else was said?” he asked.
“Apparently the princess of Sedonia hopes to convince you that a marriage would be advantageous to your isle.”
“Really?” His tone was sharp with interest, and with that interest a tangle of uncertain emotions brewed within Tatiana’s breast. Uncertainty, frustration, and some feeling so dark and unfathomable, she could not even guess at its import. Certainly, she could not be jealous. Not of herself. “The princess of Sedonia?” h
e asked.
She lifted her chin slightly, battling the feelings like a bullfighter with a butterfly net. “Yes.”
He smiled. “’Tis said she is quite…” His fingers were gentle against her wrist. “Bonny.”
“Really?” she asked, then forced herself to lower her eyes and concentrate on the matter at hand. The matters of state—so much more important than the feelings his fingers evoked. “The Sedonian wished to make sure there was no match between you and the princess.”
“Why?”
“They did not say.”
“It doesn’t matter.” His eyes softened. “I am not looking for a bride.” He slid his thumb up her wrist, seeming to drive the unsteadiness out of her hand.
She swallowed. “Sedonia is wealthy…or so I hear.”
“And embroiled in intrigue. The old king died.” Lifting her hand, he kissed the veins that throbbed in sharp relief in her wrist. Blood scurried hotly through her, screaming the news of his touch to her heart. She licked her lips and remembered not to breathe through them. “The girl, his niece, was left to man the throne.” His eyes were as warm as his fingers. “There will be a bevy of hot-blooded fools vying for her hand…just as many old bastards after her throat. Nay, Teleere doesn’t need the troubles Sedonia would surely bring.”
She tried not to wince. “Perhaps that is why the princess is considering taking a husband. To still the turmoil.”
A slight frown marred his brow. But he shrugged, concentrating on her hand again and stroking it with careful attention. “Sedonia has nothing to offer us. Teleere has enough problems of her own without adding such instability to its troubles.”
“Instability?” Perhaps she should be insulted, but the sensations caused by his fingers were all-consuming, though she did her best to concentrate on the conversation.
“Sedonia is rich, but her leader is young and untried, her counselors old and mercenary.”
“So you will not consider her suit?”
He glanced up, drawing his attention from her hand. “Would you care?”
