by Lois Greiman
“If you endeavor to take me back to Teleere, you have my vow to shoot you,” she said.
He wondered if she would even manage to stand up. Still, he remained where he was, though he was tempted to push her back onto the mattress and feel her heat beneath him. He took a step toward her.
“You have my solemn vow,” she said. The gun wobbled.
“And at this range, I or the door latch would surely be dead.”
She corrected her aim shakily. “I’ll not go back, MacTavish.” Her tone was steady, her huge eyes the same, but her baby lips quivered. His stomach twisted at the sight, but he pushed any asinine emotions to the rear and took another step toward her.
“Was it so terrible there, lass?”
“Do not come any closer,” she warned. “Tell Burroun to maintain a course for Sedonia.”
“Why?”
Her eyes were ungodly bright. She swallowed hard and raised her left hand to assist her right. “There’s trouble there.”
“What kind of trouble, lassie? Surely the princess cannot be shot if you are she and you are here.”
He stepped toward her.
“Stay where you are.” For the first time since their meeting, her voice sounded panicked.
“If you shoot me, Burr’ll have no reason to obey your orders, lass. You’d be a fool to wound me. And though you may be many things, a fool you are not.”
“Do not come any closer.” She rose shakily to her feet, and in that moment he lunged.
The pistol fired. He grabbed it from sheer instinct, imprisoning her and the weapon in one swift movement.
“What’s this then?” Burr asked from the doorway. His brows were raised, his hand wrapped about a wooden mug. He eyed Cairn up and down, apparently checking for blood in his nether regions, then raised his gaze to note their respective positions, inches apart with her hair wound about them like silken threads.
“Shall we keep hoping for a royal heir then, lad?” he asked.
“Not today, Burr.”
The giant chuckled and set the mug on the table. “I brought the lassie’s tonic.”
Cairn nodded.
“So…” Burr drew himself up. “Where do we point our prow, laddie?”
Cairn felt the girl shiver against him, felt the heat of her body seep into his soul, felt her fear like a tangible force.
“She says there’s trouble in Sedonia.”
“Then Sedonia it is,” rumbled the Norseman, and left the room.
Cairn tossed the pistol away and eased the girl onto the bed before retrieving the mug Burr had left.
“Drink this.”
She stared at him. “You believe me?”
“That you’re the princess of Sedonia?”
She nodded.
“Nay,” he said, and tilted the smooth vessel up to her lips. “But whether you’re royalty or riffraff, I don’t want you soiling on me shoes. Drink this.”
She did so finally, then made a face and pushed the mug aside. He pushed it back until she had finished it.
He settled onto the mattress and stared at her. Color had begun to return to her cheeks and her irises had returned to their normal size. “Better?” he asked.
She nodded once, then, “What are your plans for me?”
Her lips were calling to him. He didn’t answer, but tightened his fist against the blankets and shored up his willpower, though his traitorous left hand seemed to have crept up to smooth a lost tendril of hair behind her ear. “The same as ever,” he said. “To find out who you are.”
She closed her eyes at his touch then opened them slowly. They were as round and soft as a doe’s. “Wouldn’t it be easier simply to believe me?”
His knuckles had strayed down her throat. Her skin was ridiculously soft, at least for a thief’s. Doubt cranked up in his stomach. He ignored it as best he could. “What did you hear in the meeting?”
Her expression was ungodly sober, making it all but impossible to resist leaning forward to kiss the corners of her plump mouth.
“That you had hired another to kill me.”
His hand paused for a moment, before he slipped it behind her neck, feeling the incredible softness of her hair against his knuckles. “Me.”
“Aye. But it will not work.”
He nodded once. “Because there is another in your place.”
“Yes.”
He ceased kneading her neck and found her eyes. “Then you have nothing to fear.”
She drew a deep breath. “Did you order my death, MacTavish?”
He pressed the great weight of her hair over her far shoulder and caressed the kitten soft underside. “As I said before—”
“Martinez said the orders were yours.” Her voice was a whisper.
“Martinez lied,” he said.
Her lips trembled.
“Why did you come here, lass?” he asked, and leaned forward against his better judgment.
“I cannot tell you.” Her words were a soft breath against his lips. “But I must return. I must.”
“You are safe with me. You needn’t worry.”
“Needn’t worry? Is that how I seem to you, MacTavish? As if I would put another in my place and not care if she died? Do I seem so cold?”
He watched her carefully. “Aye,” he said softly, “sometimes you do.”
Her cheeks went pale again, but it was not the Molly’s tossing now, but her own fractious thoughts. “Maybe I was,” she whispered. “Maybe at one time, but no more. She will not die.” Bringing her hand up, she crushed her lapel in her fist. “She must not die because of me. Do you hear me, MacTavish?”
He tried to hold firm to his jaded illusions. But her eyes were too large, her skin too soft, her lips too full. “When is the assassination to take place?”
“On Midsummer’s Eve. Every year at that time the royal family rides to Bartham.”
“Where is that?”
“It is a village. My people bring their best steeds there, and from that herd I choose the best. It is a great honor.” He watched her throat convulse as she swallowed. “I am to be killed en route.”
“You will not be.”
“But the girl who sits on my throne—”
“She will not die either.”
She raised her chin slightly. “Truly?”
“You have me word,” he said. “As a man and a laird.”
Her lips twitched. It was a rare visual of some internal turmoil. “And what then, MacTavish?”
“Then, when I save the princess, you will tell me the truth.”
She nodded slowly.
“Swear it,” he said, “on your immortal soul.”
“I swear,” she whispered. “You shall know all.” There was a sadness in her face suddenly. A loneliness. Fear curled in his stomach, tightening his senses. He skimmed his thumb across her cheek.
“And tell me, princess, after I know the truth, shall I see you again?”
She stared at him for an eternity, her eyes liquid and haunted. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
He told himself he shouldn’t. That it was a bad idea, that one kiss would never be enough, but there was no chance of him resisting. She opened her mouth to his, and he moaned as he pressed into her. Her hands were on his chest, pulling away his tunic and there was nothing he could do, no way to stop her. He was weak, after all. Only a man. Only a laird.
They were naked in a matter of seconds. She lay upon the mattress like a goddess, like a princess, awaiting him, welcoming him. There were no barriers, no words. He smoothed his palm down her breast and over her belly. She was beautiful, he thought. Beautiful and clever and none of the things she claimed to be. Most probably a spy, a spy for the very princess she was trying to save. But just now she was his. He slipped his hand lower. She moaned and arched up to meet him, rocking with the movement of the waves, and there were no more thoughts, not until she lay limp and sated in his arms, not until she was lulled by the sweet rhythm of the water.
He smoothed his han
d down the length of her hair and wondered if he had lied. Perhaps he did not have the strength to let her go. Perhaps, even when he knew the truth, he would fail, but in that moment he felt a droplet of warmth against his arm. A tear had trickled from her eye and onto his biceps, and with that tiny tear, he knew that while it would be difficult to let her go, it was no longer possible to hold her against her will.
The wharves were busy. Tatiana stood at the prow, her heart leaping in her chest. The winds had not been favorable. The sea had been rough, the voyage long. She should have resented the delay, but she had been in MacTavish’s arms, wrapped in his security. She closed her eyes, and fortified her strength. She could not turn back. It was over. They had arrived, and despite all Burr had done to hasten the trip, it was the day of her birth.
MacTavish strode up beside her. She didn’t look up, but she could feel his presence.
“When will the princess make her ride?”
“After the noon feast.”
“We have a few hours then.”
“I hope so.”
“You will remain on board,” he said.
She skimmed the crowds. “No.”
He scowled down at her. “Burr knows your country well. We will find our way to Bartham.”
She didn’t glance up. “Yes, we will.”
He glared at her a moment, then cursed softly and called for Burr.
The Norseman appeared in a moment.
“Do you know what to do?” MacTavish asked.
“Keep the princess alive?”
“More specifically.”
“I’ll secure horses. We’ll ride for the palace and warn her entourage.”
MacTavish nodded, and in a moment they were off. But it was difficult to find enough horses. They hired a carriage instead and as many mounts as they could, piled inside, and galloped toward Skilan, the city of her birth, but once they reached the outskirts, the streets were flooded with people. Music played everywhere. Acrobats and jugglers plied their trade, and the smell of roasting foods permeated the air.
Their driver cracked his whip above the team’s sweating croups, but their passage was jammed. And then they saw it—up ahead, a river of royalty moved down the streets like a slow-moving barge.
They’d left early. Tatiana pushed the door of the carriage open and jumped to the ground, trying to break through the crowd. They were almost there, but not close enough. She could not see Burr or the men who were mounted with him. And then she saw her impostor, perched like a deity upon her favorite gray mare. For a moment she was stunned, caught in a strange netherworld where she was not who she was. Where she could be who she wanted. Not held by the bonds of blood, but free to love and be loved. To touch and be touched. But it was not to be. Duty was strong. She would do what she must. And yet she was trapped, blocked away from the royal entourage.
Nicol rode beside the impostor. His dark hair glistened in the sunlight. She screamed his name, but he didn’t hear her. Soldiers crushed back the mob, and in that moment MacTavish stepped from the carriage and onto the shoulders of the crowd. It was as if he were running on waves, skimming over heads and backs, coming ever closer to the winding stream of royalty. He was almost there. Almost—
A shot rang out. Tatiana screamed. The soldiers turned. The crowd shrieked, and MacTavish leapt. The gray mare bolted, and the girl fell. Another shot echoed in the milling streets. The crowd shrieked and scattered like chaff in the wind, trying to break free of the terror. But Tatiana raced ahead, pressing her way through the mob, straining to see what she could.
And then Nicol fell.
“No!” she screamed, and scrambled forward on her hands and knees. The viscount lay on the cobblestones, holding his arm. His face was pale, but he was alive. She breathed his name and he opened his eyes and smiled.
“Anna?” he said, seeing past her disheveled hair and shabby gown.
“Get off me!” a woman ordered.
Tatiana turned to the side. MacTavish lay sprawled across Birgit. She wriggled beneath him, and he rose slowly, pulling her up with him, still shielding her from the crowd behind.
Soldiers rushed in, better late than never perhaps, and the girl bent to retrieve her crown from the rough cobbles.
“Arrest him!” she said, pointing to MacTavish, but Tatiana found Nicol’s eyes again.
“Hold,” he said, and rising to his feet, bent to whisper in the girl’s ear.
She turned her gaze toward Tatiana and raised one brow. Not a wrinkle showed on her forehead.
“We’ll return to the castle,” Nicol said, and hurried the girl toward the ornate coach. Tatiana and MacTavish followed.
Birgit ascended first. Nicol winced as he reached for the door.
“You’re injured,” Tatiana said, and touched his arm.
“Aye.” His eyes were intense. “But you are not.”
“I am well.”
MacTavish stepped closer. “We’d best get out of sight,” he rumbled.
Nicol mounted the carriage, but just as he stepped up, he cursed and leapt for the opposite door. It stood open to the dissipating crowds beyond. He stared at the backs of the surrounding guards, then scanned the mob for several seconds and fell into the seat, holding his arm. “She’s gone.”
“The princess?” MacTavish said, and scanned the crowds wildly.
Nicol seemed to notice MacTavish for the first time and raised his brows in question.
Tatiana remained silent, feeling breathless and chilled. She shivered once. A silken cape lay upon the seat. Nicol drew it carefully about her shoulders. The carriage lurched into motion.
MacTavish’s gaze felt heavy and hard on her face. She avoided his eyes. Steadying her nerves, she spoke around the lump in her throat.
“Nicol,” she said, “this is Cairn MacTavish, lord of Teleere. And this…” she began, turning her gaze to the Scotsman with an effort. “This is Viscount Nicol, my most trusted advisor.”
Silence fell like the final note of a dirge into the carriage.
“And you?” MacTavish asked.
She dropped her gaze to her hands, then lifted it to the window. The crowds looked strangely blurry. Hoofbeats clattered along beside the carriage.
“Your Majesty!” Sir Combs leaned down from his galloping mount. She pulled the hood of the cape up to hide her wild hair. “You are well?”
She raised her head and caught his eye with an imperial stare. “Yes,” she said. “I am safe.”
She never heard his response, and though MacTavish said nothing, it seemed as if his silence drowned the chaotic noise of the entire universe.
“Stop the carriage,” he said, his gaze hard on hers.
“What?” Nicol asked.
“What?” she breathed.
But he had already opened the carriage door. The ground whirred below his feet.
She lurched up beside him, grappling for his arm.
“Wait!” she demanded, but he did not.
Jerking from her grasp, he stepped out of the rumbling coach, caught his balance on the rushing street below, and disappeared.
There was nothing Tatiana could do. She was returned posthaste to Malkan Palace, where she was rushed to her chambers to be surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting.
Once there, explanations were simple. Birgit had remained isolated, and lies had become as much a part of Tatiana as her title. They accepted her explanations of a temporary impostor to replace her when she’d learned of an assassination attempt. What else could they do but accept? She was Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau. The princess.
Once in the bathing room, she was washed in scented waters, dressed in yards of silk and fussed over, but even before they’d laced on her slippers, Lady Evelyn rushed breathlessly into her sitting room.
“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing low. She was no longer a young woman, but her face looked flushed with excitement. “Lord Paqual begs an audience.”
Tatiana was weary. Weary as she’d never been weary before. So Paqual wis
hed to speak to her. Was he a traitor? And what was she to do about it? Yes, she was the crown princess, but hardly did she have autocracity. Paqual had powerful friends. She wished she could say the same.
“Show him in,” she said. Lady Mary rushed forward with her slippers, but she waved them aside. Being barefoot in the presence of her eldest counselor no longer seemed such a heinous crime.
The high, arched doors of the chamber opened. Paqual hurried forward and fell to his knees. Taking her hand in his, he kissed her knuckles.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “I was so very worried. When I heard of the attack on your person, my heart stopped in my chest. I—”
“It stopped?” she asked. The world seemed strangely vague.
He paused in his soliloquy to glance up at her. “Nearly so, Your Majesty. I was that worried when—”
“But it did not stop.”
He looked momentarily confused. “Mayhap for a moment, but all is well now that I see you are whole.”
She stared at him. “Yes, all is well. Did you wish to speak to me about something of import?”
A frown momentarily marred his aged features, but he rallied. “The assassin is dead, Your Majesty.”
Tatiana sat very still. Someone had died. The news affected her strangely, as if she were somehow far removed from this entire mess, far away from the horror of being royalty. And yet, because of her someone would never draw another breath. Would never laugh, would never cry. Her people believed he had almost killed her, but it was all a lie. All an outlandish twisted falsehood. “Who was he?” she asked, and felt that she cried inside, for him, for the unfairness, and maybe for herself.
“His name was Fitzgerald of Milton.”
She watched him carefully. “You know already?”
“Your spies are many and range far, Your Majesty.”
“Why did he do it?”
“He was a hired assassin. Of that much we are certain.”
“Who hired him?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if immensely tired. “Sir Combs interrogated him before he died.”
“And?”
“He was paid by MacTavish of Teleere, my lady.”
