by Lois Greiman
“What are you saying, boy?” he asked, and rumbled a laugh. “That you think Princess Rags is an innocent?”
Cairn came on, feinting with his right and striking with his left. Burr answered with a swing to his belly. He ducked and caught the blow on his chest. It felt like the kick of a loosed mainsail. But he stumbled back and managed to avoid the next blow.
“She was innocent, you harebrained ass.”
Burr laughed. “Innocent my—” he began, then stumbled to a halt and narrowed his eyes. “Was?”
“Come on then,” Cairn said, and motioned wildly toward the other.
“Was?” Burr repeated.
“Scared of me, old man?” he asked, and motioned again, though he felt a bit queasy.
“Aye, terrified,” Burr said. “You’re lying with her?”
Cairn felt the fight drain out of him like river water downhill. Raising his hand to his brow, he kneaded rhythmically. “No. I’m not.”
“Then how do you know she was innocent?”
Cairn glanced toward the darkened window. Why wasn’t he drunk yet? Or beaten senseless? “I’m not bedding her.”
Burr straightened his mammoth back and narrowed his eyes. “But you did.”
“I didn’t know…” He ground his teeth. “How the hell was I to know she was untried?”
Burr’s scowl deepened. He had no qualms about beating the hell out of most any man who walked the streets, but he had a strict policy against abusing women.
“You might have asked,” he suggested, his voice low.
“You think I didn’t ask?” Cairn said, and swore with dark vehemence before pacing to the window and back. “I asked everything. She lies at every turn.”
“And so you thought she lied about this?”
Cairn said nothing, but winced. “She lied about everything else.” He sounded like a mewling child, even to his own ears.
Burr was silent for a moment. And when he spoke, his words were deep and quiet. “Did you force her?”
Cairn’s ire rose in an instant. And in that moment he was almost tempted to lie, to bring the other’s wrath down on him like hell’s brimstone. But in the end the truth was too vexing. “Force her,” he said, and shook his head. “Hell, man, I couldn’t stop her.”
Burr’s brows had lowered all the more. He swiped a hairy wrist across his nose. It came away bloody, but he failed to notice. “I thought I taught you better than to boast, lad.”
“Boast!” He barked a laugh. It sounded a bit hysterical. “I couldn’t hold her off. You think I’m proud of that?”
The other’s brows had risen. “I’ve seen some strides in her ability to defend herself. But it seems unlikely that she forced you, boy.”
Cairn shook his head. “I didn’t plan to…She’s so…” He curled his empty hands like claws, trying to find the words. “She hasn’t been touched.”
“You’re that sure she was innocent.”
“Innocent! Aye. Aye.” He shook his head. “She was that, but more. ’Tis as if she’s never been touched in the entirety of her life. Not the simplest caress, not a stroke on her hair. ’Tis as if she’s dying for the need of it. As if she can’t get enough of it, and yet—”
“She’s accepted none other.”
He shook his head.
“So she gave herself to you because you’re the laird.”
Cairn remained silent for a moment, then, “You’ve talked to her, Burr, what do you think?”
“She doesn’t seem to be overwhelmed by your title.”
Cairn snorted a laugh at the understatement.
Burr shrugged, thinking. “I suspect there are those who find you somewhat appealing.”
“You think she lay with me because of my features?”
The Norseman shrugged again. “As I’ve said a dozen times, I think you’re plain as oatmeal, but the lassies sometimes have differing opinions. She may—”
“So she’s aching for attention, and in all her years of men slavering after her she’s never found a single one to give herself to?”
“You’re sure she was untried?”
Cairn gave him a flat look, and Burroun sighed.
“’Tis a strange thing,” Burr said. “’Tis not as if you can determine the truth when you lie with her again.”
“Again!” Cairn scoffed. “Nay.” He shook his head. “Not again. Not until…” He stopped, but he had already caught Burr’s undivided attention.
“There’s only been the once?”
“It’s none of your concern, Norseman,” Cairn said, and turned away.
“And she’s eager for you?”
MacTavish turned in frustration. The fight had felt better. “She lies,” he said flatly.
Burr’s eyebrows had disappeared completely. “So you’re punishing her by withholding your…favors?”
“Shut the hell up!” Cairn growled, and, grinding his hands to fists, roamed the chamber like a caged mountain cat.
“Is that your plan, lad?”
“She lies,” he repeated, and turned toward Burr. “I don’t know who she is. I don’t know what she—”
But Burr was already laughing.
Cairn ground his teeth. “I’d hate to have to kill you, man.”
“And I’d hate to see you try, lad.” Never had there been more irritating laughter. “’Twould be embarrassing after all me years of training you.” He wiped his eyes. “Are you a complete dolt, MacTavish? How many times do I have to tell you? She’s not Elizabeth.”
“Isn’t she?”
Burr sobered somewhat. “You said yourself she was untried. Elizabeth had more lovers than I have hairs on my arse.”
“Maybe it was a hoax.”
“Her virginity?”
Cairn nodded. If Burr laughed again, Cairn would personally cram the throne down his throat.
“Any idea how she’d manage that, lad?” he asked.
“Not offhand.”
“I think we can assume she was an innocent.”
“Then why did she give herself to me now?”
“Could be she feels the same about you as you do about her.”
The world went silent. Cairn gritted his teeth. “I feel nothing for her.”
Burr grinned. There were few things worse than seeing Burr grin, except to hear him laugh. “’Course not, laddie. You simply decided celibacy was the best course in this case.” He sounded as though he would laugh again. “Cuz you’re not interested anyway, swamped as you are with female companionship. And Princess Rags…she’s not hardly bonny atall. Repulsive, really, if you see her in the right light what with—”
“Shut up, Burr.”
He laughed instead. “Wake up, laddie,” he said, and sobering, thrust his oversized head toward him. “’Tis me you’re talking to, not some scatterbrained nobleman. You say she’s lying, but look at yourself.”
“You’re calling me a liar?” Cairn said, and drew himself up. Apparently their truncated battle had not gotten the bile out of his system.
“Aye, laddie, I am that. A liar and a coward if you can’t even admit your feelings.”
“I have no feelings, Burr. I would think that even someone of your limited intellect would know that.”
“Care to step up closer and say that, boy?”
He took two strides nearer but a rap at the door interrupted his foolish intentions. Which may be for the best, considering he seemed particularly suicidal just then.
“Who is it?” rumbled Burr.
“’Tis Barton,” said Peters from the far side. “Come with news.”
Burr glanced at Cairn who nodded in return. “Let him in.”
The door opened. Thomas Barton bowed, but Cairn had no time for formality.
“What is it?”
“’Tis news regarding Lord Paqual’s man,” he said. “He meets with a fellow called Stephen Bull. And there are rumors of an assassination.”
Chapter 28
“T he choice is the girl’s,” Burr said.
Cairn glowered. They were, once again, alone in the solar. “She’s my prisoner.”
“A prisoner you dare not risk?”
“She is my link to Wheaton.”
“Ahh, so that’s why you will not send her on another mission.”
“Aye!” rasped Cairn, and, jerking to his feet, paced again.
“We are still talking about your prisoner, aye? The one you are certain has plotted against you and Teleere. The one you refuse to set free because of her treason.”
Cairn ground his teeth. “She’s a poor choice for this mission.”
“Because she is coolheaded and bonny and gifted at languages?”
“Because she would just as soon escape as complete her task.”
“Why didn’t she do so last time then?”
“She had no opportunity.”
“And neither will she this time.”
“Can you be so certain?”
“Aye.”
Cairn hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Nay. ’Tis too dangerous.”
“So you would trust me with your life,” Burr mused, “but not with the life of your…prisoner. Interesting.”
“’Tis not her life that worries me but her presence. She is my only link to Wheaton.”
“Wheaton,” Burr scoffed and paced himself now. “Why not admit the truth, boy? You’ve fallen for her.”
Cairn paused by the window, leaned one shoulder up against the wall with careful casualness, and glanced at the Norseman. “How many years have we been together, Burr?”
The big man shrugged but parried the change in conversation with his usual aplomb. “Since you were naught but a bawling brat.”
“And in all that time I’ve not heard you say a more foolish thing.”
“So she means naught to you.”
“You begin to understand.”
“Then there be no reason not to use her for the good of your country, lad,” Burr said.
And though Cairn tried to think of an argument, he could not.
The situation was different now. Megs was not a barmaid. Indeed, she was dressed as a lady, for Martinez was not patronizing a wharfside dump, but a fashionable inn. And they had almost arrived at that destination.
She sat across from Cairn in the carriage. Her hair was up-swept and embellished with striped blue ribbons and a single string of pearls, but it was mostly hidden now under the satin of a sapphire cloak. Beneath her wrap, her gown was of ivory and low enough to keep male patrons from delving too deeply into her personality. She looked entirely changed from her former role. In fact, she looked disturbingly right.
Cairn’s jaw ached. “You’ve got the knife?” he asked.
She turned toward him. Her expression was absolutely serene beneath the shelter of her hood. He found he wanted to tear it off and rip away the subterfuge. But what was subterfuge and what was truth?
“Yes.” The single word was perfectly enunciated.
He stared. Who the devil was she? Why had she lied? Was it too late to take her back to his bed? To hide her away? To take her into his arms and make love to her? She wouldn’t resist. Indeed, she would welcome the contact. He knew it every time she looked at him, every time they inadvertently touched, though she had not mentioned it since he’d left the bedchamber naked and idiotic.
“Burr showed you how to use it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Carval will be there. He is a good man and will not be recognized, for he is rarely at Westheath. There is almost no risk.”
It was true, in fact, and yet the thought of her there with those men…The memory of her at the last mission…
His teeth hurt. The carriage bumped over loose cobblestones. He glanced out the window, his mood as dark as the gathering clouds. “You don’t have to do it.”
“Burr said as much.”
Silence settled in again, but it was not his friend. “And I’ll not set you free,” he said, turning abruptly back. “Not even for your help in this.”
She stared at him. Her face was serene but there was something in her eyes, some fragment of emotion he would give his soul to delve. “Because of Wheaton?” she asked.
And the truth was right there, so close he could taste it. He wouldn’t set her free because he couldn’t bear to have her gone. To know that he would not see her again, would not possess her hot fire, not touch her satin-smooth skin.
“Aye,” he said. “You are my only link to Wheaton.”
She glanced out the window again. The beleaguered sun had nearly set, but an errant ray shone across the rain-washed landscape, illuminating her face. And in that moment she looked like nothing more than a freshly painted oil, a dreamy artist’s rendition of a regal lady far above the concerns of the world. A princess.
“You don’t have to do it,” he repeated.
“Yes. I know.”
Beside his hip, he crunched his hand into a fist. “Then why are you?”
“You said this meeting may adversely affect relations between Teleere and Sedonia. I would do my part to keep the peace.”
Why? he wanted to ask, but just then the carriage jolted to a halt, and they had reached their destination. The footman exited his perch. His boots crunched against the gravel of the drive. From the window, Cairn watched Carval dismount. He wore strapped buff pantaloons and cutaway tails as if he were born to them.
When Cairn wore pantaloons and tails he looked like a painted penguin gone mad. In fact, he looked like a buffoon in anything more ostentatious than a plaid and a horsehair sporran.
But that didn’t mean she was too good for him. He was laird here, sovereign ruler of all Teleere. And perhaps that title alone could win her affection. There was no reason to think she was another Elizabeth. Perhaps if he admitted his feelings for her, she would reveal her own. Perhaps it was time, he thought, but in that instant, the footman opened the door, and she exited without a backward glance.
Tatiana’s heart stuttered in her chest. She laid her hand genteelly on Carval’s arm and strolled toward the inn. Once inside, she nodded with regal disregard to the host and glanced with casual disdain at the patrons.
She saw him immediately. He was the same man as before. Her countryman, Black Martinez.
The host arrived, drawing her attention. He indicated a table with a sweep of her hand, but she declined immediately. Too close to the kitchens, she said. She preferred a spot by the window. She was ushered in. Martinez tried to catch her eye as she was seated, but she pointedly ignored him. It was easy. Simple. Things she had done a million times.
She ordered her meal, exchanged a few words with Carval, and sat quietly. Martinez was still alone, and finally he rose from his chair and made the short trip to her table. Once there, he bowed. The movement made him look even shorter than he was.
“Your pardon,” he said, speaking directly to Carval. “But I believe we have met before. In Paris perhaps?”
He spoke in French. Carval looked at him blankly. Tatiana did the same, keeping her expression absolutely empty. It was so easy.
“I must be mistaken,” Martinez said, now in Gaelic, and turned toward her momentarily to flash a smile. She supposed he was a handsome man. But it was difficult for her to say. “I am Lord Martin.” He bowed again.
She didn’t smile, didn’t, in fact, respond in any way. There was great security in being wealthy and well-bred, and she used that security now.
His self-assurance faltered just a mite. “My apologies,” he said. “You look so familiar. I thought I had met you once.” He scowled slightly. “Perhaps it was in Bath.”
She pursed her lips and watched him for a moment. He fidgeted the slightest amount. “I have never been to Bath, sir.”
“Ahh, and your…” He paused, not one to give up easily and glanced toward Carval. Boldness was in his veins. Or perhaps he had been drinking for some time before she’d arrived. “Father?” he guessed.
“I’ve not left Teleere for some years,” said Car
val. “And neither has my wife.”
“Ahh, I see.” Martin smiled again, but a bit less lustily. “Well, then, I am sorry to disturb your meal.”
“You must be Martinez.” The words were in French again, but came from another man. The Sedonian admitted as much, and in a moment they had taken their seats.
Tatiana’s meal arrived, and she turned her gaze to it, though her attention was still fixed on the men. They sat nearly directly in front of her. She could watch them without raising her eyes.
“You’re Bull?” Martinez asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re late.”
“It looks like you’ve managed to entertain yourself.” The newcomer’s voice was blasé and quiet. He had dark, half-closed eyes, and though he was as short as Martinez, he carried himself as though he were much taller.
“I do what I can,” Martinez admitted, as the server poured his wine.
Bull lifted his glass. “It’s always nice to do so with big-chested women.”
Martinez chuckled. Tatiana kept her gaze on her meal. Was this real life then? Was this how people talked about others? Was this how people talked about her?
She didn’t blush. She never blushed. Except that once in MacTavish’s arms. That once she refused to think about.
Bull ordered his meal, then settled back in his chair and drank. “You wished to meet with me,” he said.
“Yes.” Martinez drank again and fiddled with the stem of his glass. “I need a small task done. I was told you would be able to see it completed.”
Bull shrugged, his demeanor casual. “That depends on the task.”
“Murder.”
Tatiana silently caught her breath, but not a soul turned toward the two.
“Murder is expensive,” said Bull.
“Money is plentiful.”
“Oh? And whose money would I be taking?”
Martinez smiled, drank, then lifted his chalice in a sort of offhand toast. “That is not for you to know just yet.”
The other drank also, then settled his glass back on the table and rose slowly to his feet. “Good day then,” he said and turned away, but he had not reached the next table before the Sedonian spoke again.
