The Princess and Her Pirate

by Lois Greiman

  “No. I mean…of course not. I do not know the princess, after all. Her plight has little to do—”

  “Would you care if I took another to bed?”

  Her jaw dropped slightly. She drew a soft breath between her teeth. “It is hardly my place to decide whom you take to your bed.”

  “But it would get rather crowded if another were here,” he said, and, slipping her off his lap, he kissed her.

  Emotions buzzed like mad hornets, racing through her bloodstream, skittering through her nerves. Fear and relief and uncertainty, all screaming through her system. But it was desire that warmed her blood.

  His tongue touched her lips, sweeping gently across them. His fingers tangled in her hair.

  She pulled back in a panic, and he let her go. But still, he was horribly close. So close she could feel his heat, could feel the brush of his arm against hers. She shivered.

  “You’re still shaking,” he said.

  She tried to calm her breathing, her heart, her newly surfaced emotions. “I think I’ve earned the right. ’Tis not every day I’m accosted by living excrement,” she said. Nor was it every day that she learned of a plot against her. It was difficult to say which was worse, but he smiled, and something inside her mewled like a baby at the sight.

  “You’ve the heart of a bear, lass,” he said, and stroked her cheek. “In truth, I wasn’t sure whether to save you or them.”

  “I believe you made the right choice.” Dear God, she should not let him touch her.

  “Your voice was steady earlier.” He watched her carefully. “Your hands the same. But now you tremble. Why?”

  She wanted him. Desperately. Completely. God help her. “Delayed reaction I suspect.”

  “Or you are more afraid of what lies between us than of the bastards at the inn.”

  “You have offered to execute me.”

  “And you’ve never believed it for a moment.”

  “Are you planning to?”

  “No, lass. But I didn’t intend to make love to you either,” he said, and, kissing her again, pressed her gently into the pillow. His hand was firm against the back of her neck, his chest was hard against hers. She kissed him back, though she knew with absolute certainty that she was a fool to do so.

  His tongue touched her lips, and she opened for him, welcoming him in, slanting across his mouth and searching for more.

  “Lass…” His breathing was just as hard as hers.

  “We mustn’t do this.” She panted the words, but strangely, her fingers were already on his buttons, pulling them open, revealing the smooth, rigid slopes of his chest. Entranced, she brushed her palm across his nipple. He closed his eyes and shivered. The tremble traveled his arm, shaking the beautiful musculature to his fingertips. She watched, her lips slightly parted, fascinated beyond belief. “It would be foolish,” she murmured, and, reaching up, gently suckled that same nipple she had just touched. “Wrong.”

  He jerked against her, arching back, and she drew away slowly, seeing that his teeth were gritted. His eyes opened, though not fully.

  “Lass,” he said, “I admit that I’ve no idea whether you lie or tell the truth, but if you are virginal—”

  “I am,” she said, and, brushing his shirt aside, kissed the other nipple.

  It stood out like a small sentry on a glorious hillock.

  “If you are,” he repeated. He was breathing hard. His tunic was pushed off one shoulder, and every muscle stood rigid and ready beneath the golden sheet of his flesh. “It would be best to do this slowly.”

  “Slowly.” She nodded, though she wasn’t exactly sure what he had said. The muscle across his shoulder stood out in sharp relief, leaving intriguing hills and dells. She reached up to pet them, to feel them shift beneath her hand. He might have the title of lord, but he had the mind-numbing body of a god, or a pirate. She kissed his chest, just in the center, where the hard sinews and muscle drew together in a tight valley. “You do not look like most lords,” she said.

  “Oh.” His tone was breathy. “And have you seen many?”

  She realized her mistake, but somehow it was difficult to care, for he was nearly undressed, and she was wet. Wet and far past ready. “Just hearsay.” Reaching up again, she brushed his shirt from his other shoulder, baring the entirety of his chest. “I have heard they are powerful,” she whispered, “and skilled.” She swept her palm down his abdomen. It rippled like high tide, but he stopped her with a hand on her wrist.

  “Lass.” His eyes were burning, his voice strangely raspy. “I am a man.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Their lips were inches apart. She could feel his desire like the brush of a warm wind. And somehow that desire scorched her. He wanted her. Not for her riches, not for her influence or her title. But for herself. Her body, her spirit, her heart. She was not alone.

  She curled her fingers inward, so that her knuckles brushed his skin. He closed his eyes, but opened them in a moment, finding hers.

  “The fact that I am laird here…” He shook his head. She tried to move her hand, but he tightened his grip, stilling her movement. “It is little more than an accident.”

  She watched him. “And who should be lord, MacTavish? Who deserves the title?”

  He shook his head.

  “Burr? Peters? Me?” She laughed a little, because everything seemed ultimately clear, yet strangely vague. “The more I see, the more I think that everything is an accident. Luck.” She swept her free hand down his arm. The stark white of his sleeve looked strangely incongruous against the golden strength of his fingers. “There are those who would have us believe that royalty is the divine will of God. But what now?” she asked. “The old lord is dead. You are left in his place. Does that mean that his death was also the Lord’s divine will?” She shook her head in mild confusion. “Perhaps the experiences you have had, the hardships you have faced…” She paused, drawing her finger along a scar that crossed his shoulder. “Perhaps they make you a better ruler. A better man.”

  “But not a better lover.”

  “What?” She raised her gaze from the scar to his face.

  “I am a man, like any other man.”

  She skimmed his body again. “I may be naive, MacTavish, but—”

  “If there is a secret, lordly way to satisfy women, the secret stayed with the old man.”

  “What?” she said again, but she realized with sudden, mind-blasting certainty that he was not, at this moment, worried about his ability to rule. He was worried about his ability to satisfy her. And she laughed. “You think that because you are the lord you should also be a phenomenal lover?”

  He watched her askance. “You don’t think so?”

  “I think there may be some sort of mandate to the contrary.”

  “Elizabeth thought…” He stopped his words and bent down to kiss her lips. “You are as beautiful as you are brave,” he said. “And maybe…” He scowled. “Maybe you are just as kind.”

  “What did Elizabeth think?”

  His eyes were warm and deep. “You don’t need to do this, lass, if you choose not to.”

  “What did she think?”

  He drew a careful breath. “She hated me. For a time I thought it was because of who I am, a lowborn bastard set in the place of a lord. Then I thought she simply detested me.” He shrugged. “Now I don’t know.”

  “And it torments you?”

  He shook his head, but she ignored his denial.

  “It torments you because she was the Benelean king’s youngest daughter. A lady of the purest blood. Surely she was all that is good in a woman.”

  “I’ve no desire for ladies,” he said.

  Again she ignored him. She could read him like a book. Cairn MacTavish, laird of the isle of Teleere, felt inadequate. And somehow that almost made her cry.

  “Gem saved my life,” she said.

  He scowled at her.

  “Gem.” She nodded, and realized suddenly that her eyes had indeed filled w
ith tears. “I’m nothing to her,” she said. “But she kept me alive, saved me from…” She was unable to go on for a moment. “Saved me from a man some surely believe is a gentleman. She risked her life to escort me to safety.” She smiled. “Or to relative safety.” She shifted her gaze back to his. “I’ve seen you with your people,” she said. “You are above them, and yet you are one of them. Lieutenant Peters. He could hardly make more mistakes if he put forth a concerted effort, and yet he remains.”

  “’Tis only because—” he began, but she continued on.

  “Most noblemen would not see fit to keep an uncouth Norseman in their households, yet Burr rarely leaves your side.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t seem to be rid of him.”

  “Even Sir Albert, who surely disapproves of your unrefinement, cannot deny your abilities.”

  “Albert,” he said, and winced. “I think he may be in love with me. I try not to be alone with him.”

  She smiled. “You’ve a gift, MacTavish. Do not belittle it.”

  Silence ticked by.

  “Sometimes I can’t decide.” He was watching her care fully, his heavenly eyes narrowed, his mobile face expressionless. “Are you kind or are you clever?”

  “Can I not be both?”

  “Most aren’t, lass.”

  “Then I shall choose to be honest. I’ve nothing to gain from you, MacTavish. You will set me free, or you will not. But while I am here…” She was calm now. Calm and languid, warmly wet, quietly eager. All seemed hopelessly right. She ran her hand slowly up the dramatic curve of his chest and curled it gently around the back of his neck. “I will learn from you,” she said.

  “The more I know of you, lass, the less I think there is anything I can teach you.”

  She smiled. “I am sure you are wrong,” she said, and kissed him.

  Chapter 26

  D esire burned through Cairn, hot as torched pitch. He kissed her in return, passionately, wildly. She tore at his shirt. It came away in her hands. He reached for her bodice, but her arms were in the way, working at his pantaloons.

  Virginity was well overrated. Experience was easier. Passion was everything and so long missed.

  She pushed his trousers over his hips.

  He heard her intake of breath. Her movements slowed, but she didn’t shift her gaze. It remained on his erection, which hugged his belly, tight and hard. He waited breathlessly, and then she touched it. He closed his eyes as she wrapped her hand around his length, stroking him. Desire bucked like a wind-tossed frigate in his veins, but he remained absolutely still, waiting.

  “I did not expect…” She raised her gaze to his. Her cheeks were flushed, the black of her pupils all but swallowing her eyes. “It is large.”

  He was surprised by her words. Hoary was ecstatic and squeezed hard up against his abdomen.

  She stroked it again. He gritted his teeth and shuddered. “Lass, if you hope to wait a bit, you shouldn’t—”

  “Will it…” She licked her lips. She’d lowered her gaze again and just the knowledge that she was staring at it made him all but burst with wanting. “Are you certain it will fit?”

  “Damn!” he groaned. “Don’t tease me, lass.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes were huge, her lips slightly parted, and he could do nothing but kiss her. He crushed his mouth to hers, and she answered like a wild vixen, returning his caresses with mind-numbing desperation. He tried to slow the passion, but her hands were everywhere, stoking the fire until it was out of control.

  He kissed her throat. She moaned and arched into the bed. Drawing her knees up, she cradled him between them and wrapped him in her arms. It was then that he realized she was trembling. Like a babe. Like a child, lost and alone. He calmed himself with a hard effort, drew himself back a few scant inches and kissed the corner of her mouth with gentle, tremulous care.

  She laced her fingers through the hair at the back of his head, wrapped her legs around his waist, and devoured him. Perhaps he tried to fend her off, but Hoary insisted she was too strong for them. Too strong. They had to capitulate. Hoary had a great vocabulary.

  Answering her wild kisses, he gave up his hopeless battle. He could no longer wait, could no longer think. Rearing back, he plunged into her—and felt her tear.

  She gasped and stiffened. He squeezed his eyes shut and swore hotly as he tried to retract. But she was already recouping. Wrapping her legs more tightly about him, she pushed tentatively against him.

  He cursed again, just as heatedly, but if she noticed, she made no response. Instead, she pushed harder, and his body responded with aching need, pumping into her.

  She answered savagely, squeezing him with unbelievable strength, sucking him in, driving him beyond control. He no longer tried to stop, for he couldn’t. He was out of his mind, out of his depth, out of control. He pumped madly against her, and she bucked back, gasping for breath, taking him in, drawing him past release until he burst free and fell with a hard rush into satiation.

  He collapsed atop her. Through the coarse fabric of her gown, he could feel her heart thumping wildly. Against his ear, her breath came hard and fast.

  Guilt was the very next sensation he felt. And guilt made him mean. He was a pirate, for God’s sake. Pirates had no room for guilt.

  “Who the hell are you?” he growled.

  She opened her eyes rather slowly. They were still dark, still wide, still so damned beautiful it made him want to cry like an abandoned babe. To pull her into his arms and beg forgiveness. He’d rather die.

  “Is it…” Her lips, always full, looked swollen now and as red as a blossom. She licked them. He watched the movement and felt his mouth go dry, and his stomach pitch low in his gut. “Does it always feel like that?”

  He swore again and pulled himself away from her. “You were a virgin.”

  She blinked. Her lips quirked. Perhaps it was a smile. Perhaps she was going to cry. He realized suddenly that he had no idea which it might be. How could he know so little of her mind when he knew her body like a glove.

  “I told you I was,” she said.

  He shook his head and pulled his attention from her lips. “You knew I didn’t believe—”

  And then she kissed him, openmouthed, with passion as hot as a burning poker. He leaned into her, then found his mind and jerked to his feet. He was naked. But that seemed the least of his worries. He paced jerkily across the room and back.

  “You knew I didn’t believe you!” he repeated.

  She sat up, but didn’t bother to smooth her skirts. They rode high on her thighs, barely covering her hot core. Her shoes were still on, her stockings in place. But her hair had come loose and stroked her face like wild, darkling waves. Her eyes were wide and slanted, and her lips…

  He tried not to moan, but perhaps he failed, because her lips quirked up again.

  “You knew,” he said.

  Her gaze skimmed him, starting at his eyes and traveling down with languid speed. Her nostrils flared. “You did not answer my question, MacTavish.”

  He felt strangely breathless, as if he’d been battling.

  She kept her gaze well below his waist. “Does it always feel like that?”

  He felt himself swell, felt his balls draw tight against his body, but he shook his head, fending off the hard press of desire renewed. “I’ll be the one asking the questions, lass.”

  She raised her gaze slowly back to his, but that did little good, for her eyes were deathly dark with desire. He crunched his hands to fists and held himself carefully from her. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  “What is it you want to know, MacTavish?” she asked. Her tone was perfectly level, as if they sat in a fine tearoom eating crumpets and discussing the latest antics of the ton.

  Yet her voice was strangely husky. He swallowed. Even in a tearoom he would be hard-pressed to keep himself from her. “Who are you?”

  “I told you—”

  “Aye,” he growled. “But you
lied.”

  “Did I?” she asked, and rose slowly to her feet.

  A nipple had escaped. He realized it with a shock for the first time. The bodice, always low, had been misplaced during their lovemaking, and now the dusky peak of her left breast was peeking over the white gathered cotton. He shut his eyes and found he could see it just as vividly in his imagination.

  “Aye,” he said, and opened his eyes resolutely. “You did. Repeatedly. But I’ll have the truth now.”

  “My name is Linnet,” she said.

  She was lying. Of course she was. But something deep inside of him whispered that he wanted to believe she was lying. Thieves were a problem. But ladies…

  “Widow to the late Lord Waldon,” he said.

  She advanced. He managed to hold his ground, neither retreating, as his brain suggested, nor rushing in, as Hoary vociferously insisted upon. “Yes.”

  “Virgin to the late Lord Waldon,” he corrected, and laughed.

  She stopped and eyed him quizzically. “You find that amusing?”

  “Amusing?” He sounded hysterical. Him. Cairn MacTavish. Pirate. Bastard. Laird. Hysterical. It would have been funny if it weren’t so damned scary. “Nay. It’s not amusing. It’s damned ridiculous.”

  She reached out. He watched her hand draw near and braced himself against the impact. But it was no good, for when her palm brushed his chest every living cell buzzed to attention, yammering insolent suggestions to his battered brain.

  “Ridiculous?” she asked, and glanced up.

  He was breathing too hard. As if he’d battled and lost. What the devil was wrong with him? Burr would laugh his damned ass off if he saw this.

  “This late husband of yours,” Cairn said, teeth gritted. “Was he breathing?”

  She scowled slightly when she nodded.

  “Was he male?”

  “Yes,” she said, and slipped her hand across his nipple.

  His muscles jerked as if yanked by a cruel puppet master but he kept his teeth gritted against the razor-sharp sensations and remained as he was. After all, he could hardly go screaming from the room. It would be unseemly, as Bert would say. “And just idiotic,” Hoary added. He shook his head. “There’s where your story goes wrong, lassie.”