The Princess and Her Pirate

by Lois Greiman

  “It’s the bastard’s.”

  Bull swiveled around, retraced his steps, and sat again. “This bastard,” he said. “Is he also a pirate?”

  “Aye, some call him that.”

  Bull nodded and almost smiled. “And the victim?’

  “I hope you have no special feelings for women.”

  The other sat, leaned back in his chair and studied the Sedonian narrowly. “They have their uses. Who is she?”

  “No one of great consequence,” said Martinez. “I believe her given name is Tatiana. We’re planning a special event for her Midsummer’s journey to Bartham.”

  Chapter 29

  T atiana walked slowly back to the carriage, Carval at her side. She kept her strides carefully cadenced, her head high. She could feel her heart beating, slow and hard in her chest, keeping time with her footfalls. Her limbs felt strangely heavy, as if she were just waking from a deep dream.

  A hand reached out of the darkness, snatching her arm, but she neither gasped nor spun about. Instead, she turned with slow deliberation, as if nothing held any more terror for her.

  MacTavish stepped out of the darkness, his face shadowed. And in that dearth of light, she could barely recognize him. But really she had never known him.

  “My lord,” Carval said, and with a quick bow, he left them.

  “Megs.” MacTavish’s voice was low. “Are you well?”

  It seemed almost that she could feel the blood pumping steadily through her veins, as if she could track its winding course. It fascinated her, held her entranced inside herself. Perhaps she nodded.

  From the left a couple strolled by. MacTavish glanced toward them, then tightened his grip on her arm and led her toward the carriage.

  It rocked slightly as she mounted the single step. Inside, a small, ornate lantern illumined the scarlet upholstery.

  MacTavish’s face was sober, his blue eyes bright and intense. Gone was the laughter she usually found lurking in their depths. But then he could hardly afford to laugh. Unless he knew what she had just heard. Unless he knew all along, had set up this entire charade to teach her a lesson.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Her mind was rolling placidly away, digesting, ruminating. It wasn’t every day one was granted the opportunity to hear of her own assassination. And less likely still that she would then sit down beside the very man who had ordered her murder. What was the date? When was her Midsummer’s Eve? A week’s time perhaps? She’d lost track.

  “Meg,” he said. His voice was sharp.

  She turned slowly toward him. The hood of her dark cloak shadowed her face from the sharp glare of the lantern.

  “What did you learn?” he asked.

  She studied him in the flickering light. “A good deal,” she admitted quietly.

  He frowned, his brows drawing downward slightly. “What was said?”

  “You were right. There is to be an assassination.”

  “Whose?”

  The carriage lurched into motion. She didn’t respond immediately. “Tell me, MacTavish, what do you know of Princess Tatiana?”

  “Tatiana?” His body was tense, his expression the same. “Of Sedonia? She’s to be assassinated?”

  She almost laughed at the surprise in his voice. “I believe that’s what they said.”

  “Why?”

  Because he had ordered it. The pirate bastard. At least that is what they had implied. But if he had given such an order, there was no need for her to learn of their plans. He would already know them.

  “You did not answer my question,” she said.

  He studied her for a moment, then, “I know very little of her. She is young. Out of her depth, they say.”

  She glanced out the window. The landscape was dark now, rolling by in shades of deepening gray. “Did you order her death?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Didn’t deny nor object, nor speak at all. She turned back.

  If the question shocked him, he didn’t show it. “Do I seem that sort to you, Megs?”

  “In truth…” She kept watching him, trying to see beneath the layers of pirate and lord to the man beyond. “Perhaps I do not know what sort you are.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “All I know with certainty is that you are the kind to hold an innocent against her will.”

  “An innocent?” She could feel his sudden anger. “And who might that be?”

  “I’ve done nothing to harm you, MacTavish.”

  “Then tell me who you are.”

  She laughed, though she found nothing to amuse her. “And why would I do that?”

  “So you admit you’re not the good widow Linnet?”

  For reasons unknown, the sound of that name sent memories swarming through her. The feel of his hands against her skin, the touch of his lips on hers. But she pulled herself back to reality, to the present, to the pain.

  “Did you order her death?” she asked again.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Why?” She rasped the word and bent toward him, so that she leaned out of her seat into the narrow, swaying aisle. “There is to be a murder, and you think I would not care?”

  “People die every day, Megs. Every minute most like. Why would this death concern you?”

  “She is a princess.”

  Silence fell into the coach, accented only by the quick sound of hooves on cobblestones.

  “And because her blood is royal, she is more valued, more important?” he asked.

  She held his gaze for several seconds, then turned abruptly away, straightening as she did so. Where her heart had been slow and steady, it raced in her chest now. “I did not say that.”

  “You imply it, Megs. I but wonder why.”

  “If the princess falls, the entire country may fall.”

  “The country of Sedonia.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sedonia, filled with corruption and ill-gained wealth.”

  “What do you know of Sedonia?” Her tone was deep with passion.

  “Tell me, lass, who sent you here?”

  “Sent me?”

  “Here. To me.”

  “What are you—”

  “Are you a spy?” he asked, and grabbed her wrist.

  “A—”

  “Did they know I would be unable to resist you?” he snarled, and tightened his grip. “An unspoiled beauty with a lady’s demeanor and a whore’s passion.”

  She jerked at her arm, but he did not release it. “Did you order her death?”

  He smiled, but the expression was grim. “Were I to execute someone, lass, it would surely be you.”

  She felt herself pale, for this was the first time the threat seemed real, close to the surface, truly possible.

  He watched her eyes for a moment, then laughed. “And yet I have not. Did you not notice that, Megs? In fact, I have given you a score of opportunities to redeem yourself, to leave.”

  “Then let me go now,” she whispered.

  War raged in his soul. “I can’t,” he rasped.

  It was her turn to laugh.

  “Unless you tell me the truth. Who are you, Megs? Truly?” His grip was no longer tight, and his eyes were haunted, his voice low and deep.

  There seemed to be no air in the coach, no room, nowhere to look.

  “If I tell you…” She paused. Terror squeezed her lungs. He had ordered her death. But if such was the case, why did he need her to spy on his own man? It made no sense. Still, she could not trust him. He meant her harm. Maybe. But perhaps…She stared into his eyes, and for a moment it seemed almost as if she could see his very soul. Perhaps, it would be better to know the truth, better to take the chance of her own death than to live without knowing his heart. “If I share the truth, will you let me go?”

  His expression didn’t change, and yet it seemed for a moment that he fought a battle with himself. “Aye, lass. I will let you go.”

  “Do I have your word of honor. Your word as lord and—”


  “You have me word as a man,” he gritted.

  She drew a deep careful breath, glanced out the window and closed her eyes for a moment. When she glanced back, his face was unchanged, his expression hard, his eyes brittle.

  “I am Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau, princess of Sedonia.”

  He said nothing.

  “I came here to…” She was sitting very straight, as if she were reciting poetry to a roomful of her noble cousins. “I came here on personal business.”

  “Alone.”

  “No. What I told you before was truth. I traveled with a single bodyguard. It was necessary for my disguise.”

  “And why the disguise?”

  “As I said, I was on personal business. Business I did not want my advisors privy to.”

  “Surely there will be a panic at your disappearance.”

  “Nicol…” She paused, realizing the utter foolishness of the ploy she’d planned with the viscount. “I put another in my place.”

  “Another?”

  “Someone who was trained to act the part, to pretend to be me until my return. The sojourn was to last only a few days. I was to arrive, meet an entourage told to await the arrival of an important lady, and conduct my business quickly and privately. But when we reached your shores, the wharves were chaotic. My guard left for a moment, and before he returned to my side my goods were stolen.”

  Hot wax spilled down the candle, hissing at the contact with the cool brass.

  “The thief was young and small,” she said. “Thus I gave chase. I realize the foolishness of that act now, but he had stolen all I had brought here. The crowd was thick and volatile. I was jostled about and finally, when I caught my wits, I was at the gallows.” She was afraid, terrified really, and yet it felt good to spill the truth. At least she would know now, would be sure of his intent toward her.

  “That was when I met you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why did you come here, princess?”

  “I…” It felt almost as if her heart had stopped dead in her chest as she stared at him. His heaven blue eyes, his hard-bodied strength. “My reasons remain private.”

  He nodded, then glanced out the window. His eyes were thoughtful, his expression relaxed, but the cords in his neck stood out in sharp relief against his broad, sun-darkened throat. Finally, he turned back.

  “I like the tale,” he said, and nodded once. “But the story about the widow virgin is still my favorite.”

  Shock sluiced through her system. “You think I lie?”

  He didn’t bother to answer.

  “I am Princess Tatiana,” she said.

  “And I am Father Christmas.”

  “Damn you,” she said evenly.

  “Harsh talk for a baby queen.”

  “Did you order my death?” she demanded, leaning into his space.

  “If I had, lassie, you would already be in the ground.”

  She raised her chin a notch. “I will be leaving Teleere in the morn.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then laughed in her face.

  She waited for him to finish, to look at her again, for the noise to seep from the coach. “You gave me your word.”

  He chuckled again. “I said you could go if you told me the truth, not if you spun yet another ridiculous tale for my entertainment.”

  “Because you choose not to believe does not make my words a lie, MacTavish. I am Princess Tatiana, and I will be returning to my homeland.”

  His face was absolutely sober. “Sedonia may be peopled with murderous diplomats and conniving counselors, but I hardly think they deserve to have you loosed on their hapless population.”

  The world was spinning slowly around her. “So you will not release me willingly?”

  “I will not release you atall—”

  And in that moment she pulled the blade from beneath her skirt. She did not raise it to his throat, but slipped it straight to his groin.

  “I sail for Sedonia,” she gritted, “and you will take me there, with or without your balls.”

  He raised his gaze from the knife to her eyes. His brows lifted slightly. “I know you too well to think you will drive that home, Megs.”

  “I am not Megs,” she ground and pressed the blade easily through the fabric of his kilt. “And you do not know me at all.”

  He didn’t even flinch. In fact, the crooked corner of a smile lifted his lips as he raised his hand slowly. She watched it, expecting him to take the knife from her and wondering madly if she would have the strength to make good her threat. But he only shifted his arm out the open window to rap the landau’s hard veneer.

  “Galen,” he said. “Take us to the Fat Molly.”

  The journey seemed to last forever, but finally the carriage slowed and jarred to a halt. Tatiana’s arm felt stiff, her fingers numb from her hard hold on the knife, so she slipped her other hand into her reticule and drew out the pistol he had supplied.

  He raised his brows at her. “What now, princess?”

  She glanced toward the window and back. “Now we set sail.”

  “Shouldn’t we have a crew of some sort?”

  “I am certain your Fat Molly has a crew.”

  “Mostly ashore and probably drunk.”

  Her heart was racing. “Then you’ll have to use the men we have with us.”

  The smile broadened slightly. “There’s a far cry between a soldier and a sailor. These men couldn’t—”

  She cocked back the pistol’s hammer. “There’s a far cry between a pirate and a lord, too,” she said, “and yet you seem to make do.”

  The door swung open. “Why—” Burr began, but at first glance his eyes widened, and his words paused for a moment.

  “The lass would like to go to Sedonia,” MacTavish intoned, his gaze never leaving hers.

  “Sedonia.” There was a good deal of surprise in the Norseman’s rumbled voice. “Whyever for?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Is that why she’s pointing a pistol at the royal jewels?”

  “I believe so.”

  Burr’s face split into a grin. “I’ve liked her from the start,” he said. “Sedonia it is.”

  Chapter 30

  T he Fat Molly pitched sweetly beneath Cairn’s feet. It felt lovely, like the gentle rocking of a babe’s wee cradle, but not everyone, apparently, appreciated cradles.

  “You look a mite flushed, Megs,” he said.

  Megs…He still called her that, for despite all, he had no more idea of her true identity than he had the day they’d first met. But whoever she was, she tightened her grip on the pistol and pursed her lips. Those bonny, luscious lips. The lips of a liar. The lips of a seductress. Not the lips of a runaway princess. Surely not. But something inside him cranked the screws on his conscience. Was he the liar? Had he been lying the whole time, lying to keep her at his side. But then, he wasn’t the only one to blame. She could have been honest from the first, could have trusted him, instead of spewing outlandish tales of tailors and thieves and princesses. Damn, she made his head ache.

  “Sit down,” she ordered. She was braced against the wall of his quarters, looking too weak to stand against the delicate sway of his favorite vessel. He smiled.

  “If you’re planning to vomit, you’d best get topside, lass.”

  She pulled a sour face. “I am not about to vomit.”

  “Then you might as well relax.” He sat on his berth and lifted a wooden bowl of fruit toward her. “Grapes?”

  She glanced toward the bowl and swallowed once. The muscles in her jaws clenched, but she spoke articulately.

  “Might you think this a lark, MacTavish?”

  “Nay. You’ve a pistol pointed at my…” he began, then noted that her aim had wandered somewhat. “Wall,” he said.

  She rapidly corrected her aim, pointing somewhere between his navel and his left shoulder. And although that destination might be somewhat preferable to her earlier target, a bullet there would still be painf
ul, if not fatal.

  “Do you plan to hold me captive the entire voyage?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, and pursed her lips again. He watched them pucker.

  “’Tis a long journey.”

  She snorted. Her eyes were very wide, showing an immense amount of sclera around her expanded irises. “I thought you were a seaman, MacTavish. Surely a two-day voyage is no great feat for you.”

  He shrugged. “Aye, it might take two days, but it might well take a fortnight if we run off course.”

  Beneath them, the sea swelled merrily. He felt the tension build far before it should have been discernible. But it came, lifting them lovingly upward before letting them fall gently in its wake. Megs bumped against the wall, fumbled with the pistol, and brought it frantically back to bear. Maybe the swell wasn’t quite as loving as it seemed to him.

  “A fortnight!” she exclaimed. The flush on her cheeks had turned a strange shade. Something akin to the color of a Syrian olive.

  He shrugged. “You did not give me time to gather me usual crew, lass.”

  “I cannot wait a fortnight.”

  “Why not?”

  The Molly bucked and quieted again. Cairn waited expectantly, letting the silence grow around them. The girl remained as she was for a fraction of a second before her shoulders hunched and her cheeks swelled. Seeing the inevitable, he dumped the fruit onto the table and thrust the bowl toward her, but she had covered her mouth with her hand. He tore it away and shoved the bowl in its place. She tried to resist, to bring her weapon back to bear, but he grabbed the back of her head and pressed it downward. In a matter of seconds, she had emptied her stomach, shuddered, and vomited again.

  “Sit down,” he ordered.

  “I’ll—” she began, bringing the pistol up again. It wobbled like a cork float in her hand.

  “Shut up and sit down,” he said and shoved her toward the mattress. She struck it and tried to bounce back up. “Stay,” he ordered, then bore the bowl to the door and yelled for Burr.

  He was there in a moment, listened in silence, and strode away a second later, the bowl held in his gigantic hand.

  Cairn turned back toward her. The pistol was trained on him once again. Her eyes were level, but her cheeks were notably paler.