by Lois Greiman
She licked her lips. Hoary took note of the quick dart of her tongue, and despite that appendage’s distraction, Cairn managed to notice that she hesitated yet again. But finally she spoke.
“My name is Mrs. Mulgrave.”
He felt his brows rise. He hadn’t expected her to tell the truth at this late juncture of course, but somehow he hadn’t thought she would portray herself as someone’s wife. Perhaps because she looked so very young. Hoary tightened hard against his belly, so maybe his reasons tended to run more toward wishful thinking.
“Mrs. Mulgrave,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And your husband?”
She raised her chin again as if challenging the devil himself, which wasn’t a bad comparison. “He is dead.”
“Really?” Cairn said. “Did you kill him?”
“What! No! How—” she began, but he gestured toward the hole in his chest. It was seeping sedately into the fine fabric of his favorite tunic, widening a pinkish stain on the French linen. “Of course I did not kill him.” Her fingers tightened perceptibly in the scarf. They were slim and smooth and long for her small size. “And I would not have stabbed you if you had ceased—”
Her words stopped. Her gaze remained frozen on his chest.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“I’ve known you less than a full day and already you’ve ruined more garments than I did during my entire voyage to Patagonia, including the capture of the Maiden.”
She swallowed and he scowled as he tugged his shirttail from beneath his belted tartan. Strange how nervous she seemed around him. True, she was naked, and he had threatened to have her hanged, but from what he had heard of Magical Megs, she had been in tighter spots. It was said she once had the hangman’s noose tight around her neck and had still managed to escape without a trace. Like a shadow. Like a cloud of dust. Like magic. But she would not be so fortunate this time. Nay, Cairn the bastard had a tendency to get what he wanted, and this would be no different. Tossing the spent shirt onto his desk, he scowled down at his latest wound. It was small, but Bert had assured him that a sovereign laird should be able to go a full week without losing blood. Thus far, that theory had yet to be proven.
“How then?” he asked, glancing up.
She ripped her gaze from his torso to his face. Was it his chest that fascinated her or the wound? It was really Hoary that wanted to know. He had an insatiable curiosity.
“What?” she asked.
“Your husband,” he said, and, crossing his arms against his chest, settled himself upon the edge of the desk. “How’d he die?”
“Oh. He drowned.”
“Drowned.”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
“William.”
“When did it happen?”
“Last May. He was boating on the Thames.”
“Tragic.”
“Quite.”
“What was his occupation?”
“He was a tailor.”
Cairn smiled. Damn, she was good. “And where did you and your beloved live, Mrs. Mulgrave?”
“In London.”
Clever. London. A sea voyage and a long journey afoot unless one were foolish enough to challenge one of those damnable carriages—not somewhere accessible where he might travel easily and thereby prove her lies.
“Where in London?”
“On Craven Road, just across from the gardens.”
He paused for a moment, and she pursed her lips with regal disdain. “Might I have my clothes back now?”
“No.” He said it without thinking. True, there had been no weapons hidden in her garments. Neither had there been any stashed away in that dark bundle of hair she’d had piled atop her head, but it had been a good excuse to see her unclothed.
“Whyever not?”
“Because…” He thought for a moment and realized that he needed no reason. “You’re my prisoner. I am the laird of Teleere. You’ll have your clothes when I see fit—Miss Megs.”
“I am not Megs.” She could state the denial with absolutely no inflection of her voice.
He bowed again. Old Bert had endeavored to teach him a host of things—from judging wines to tying a cravat, but bowing was what he excelled at. God knew, Cairn was never meant to be a laird. But his mother had been young and bonny, and the king had taken a shine to her. The old wick had no way of knowing that his only remaining heir would turn out to be a ragged-assed Scot with no decent name but the one garnered from the pile of rocks where he’d been found.
“My apologies, Mrs. Mulgrave,” he corrected and shushed the old bitterness. What did he have to be bitter about, anyway? He was the acknowledged laird of the isle of Teleere. So what if he’d spent a few years amidst a bevy of sailors who were as likely to slit his throat as look at him? It had taught him the art of sleeping light. “But you see, I have a problem.”
She stared at him for a full five seconds before speaking. “The lowest of men can change his temperament if he so wishes.”
It took a moment for him to understand her meaning, and when he did he didn’t try to contain his grin. Little Megs had a smart mouth—and mind-numbing lips, Hoary added with a nod. Great, now he was starting a dialogue.
“You think my temperament a problem?” he asked, and circled her slightly. His intention was to reach the caneback chair that accompanied his desk, but he would not mind a view of her in profile—or from the rear if that opportunity presented itself.
“You did threaten to hang me,” she reminded him.
“And, of course, you don’t deserve to be hanged.” He admitted that he said the words with some sarcasm as he placed a hand on the top of the chair. She kept her chin up and turned to face him. It denied him a view of her profile. But full frontal gave him nothing to complain about.
“Nay, I most certainly do not,” she said.
“And, of course, neither did Wheaton.” He tried to continue with his causal tone, but the very thought of Wheaton twisted his stomach. Months ago he had vowed to obtain revenge. He was laird of this isle. How hard could it be to execute one man? One brigand! One murderer!
“As I have told you—”
“Aye. You told me,” he growled, and, lifting the chair in one fist, slammed it back down against the hardwood floor beneath.
Her gasp spilled into the room. He gritted his teeth and watched her, calming his nerves, easing his tension.
“Tell me the truth, Megs, or I swear your bonny looks will not save you from the consequences.”
“My name is not Megs.” Her words were no more than a whisper.
“You lie.” Easing his hand from the chair, he approached her slowly. “But damned if you don’t do it well.”
He watched her swallow. Watched her lift her chin so as to keep her gaze on his face as he neared her.
“’Tis not gentlemanly to accuse a lady of untruth,” she said.
“Gentlemanly,” he said, and laughed. “I could almost believe you are from abroad,” he said. “With such foolish talk. Except that you speak the Gaelic so perfectly.”
She stared at him with eyes as wide as the heavens, or as infinite as hell.
“No one has ever accused me of being a gentleman,” he said, and touched her cheek. The skin was as soft as the heather blossoms of his homeland. “Tell me where to find him.”
She shook her head, her gaze never leaving his face.
“What has he done to gain such loyalty?” he mused, then thought of a new idea. “Or is it fear? Do you think he will harm you if you spill the truth, lass? Is that it?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he slipped his fingers over the plump rise of her lips, shushing her. They were ungodly soft and unusually full. Hoary stirred, and he scowled, remembering to concentrate.
“Don’t speak,” he ordered. “But listen. Wheaton is dangerous. I don’t know what he’s told you—what he’s promised you, but you can’t trust him. Tell me where he is, and I will m
ake certain he never harms you.”
They stared into each other’s eyes. She shook her head.
“I cannot.”
He stopped the curse before it reached his lips. “Then I have little choice but to imprison you, lass.”
“For refusing to say what I cannot?” Her voice was hushed, but he discerned no desperation, no panic.
He forced a smile. “For withholding information from your sovereign laird.”
“I told you, I do not know where he is. I am not this Megs you speak of. I am Lady Linnet Mulgrave of—”
“Of London, on Craven Road, where you made your home with your dearly departed husband, Wilton.”
“Yes.”
The room went absolutely silent.
“William!” she corrected. “His name was William.”
Cairn smiled and slipped his palm behind her neck. Her hair felt warm and soft against his knuckles, suggesting other places that would surely be warmer and softer still. “It’s cold in the dungeon, Megs. Dank and dark. And lonely. If you’re lucky enough to have a cell to yourself.”
She raised her chin a fraction of an inch. It was small and peaked beneath a delicately squared jaw. “I just arrived on your isle. Check the captain’s log if you do not believe me.”
Her hair was heavy and dark. Shiny as the North Star, it swept over her shoulders and around her well curved hips. Bonny hair, murmured Hoary.
“There will be a record of my passage.”
“What’s that?” Cairn asked, speaking over his nether parts.
“The ship,” she said. “It was called the Melody. Its captain was named Mr. Beuren. He will remember me.”
“I am certain he would,” he said and skimmed his thumb along her throat. Damn, it was soft. “And I suspect you called yourself Mrs. Mulgrave, aye?”
“I called myself that because that is my name.”
“And you came all the way from London alone?”
“No. I had…a companion.”
He raised his brows. Companion? Hoary said. “Companion?” Cairn repeated.
“I asked Ralph to accompany me. I had never been to Teleere before.”
“Ralph?” he asked. He had no particular reason for his interest, of course, but he was curious as to the relationship she had with this companion.
She blinked. Her eyes were enormously wide. She must not have seen more than eight and ten years. Barely old enough to dress herself. I’ll help her, Hoary volunteered
“I commissioned him to accompany me here,” she said.
Running his hand down her back, Cairn felt her shiver at the descent. “You hired a man to accompany you?”
Her gaze shifted slightly. Perhaps it was the first true sign of weakness he had seen in her story. True, she had mis-stepped when he’d said Wilton instead of William, but that could have been an honest mistake. Now though, he saw the first signs of uncertainty.
“Yes,” she said, and gathered her composure like a miller might gather bits of chaff. “I had heard the wharves of Teleere could be dangerous, so I opted for a…bodyguard of sorts.”
“I can’t imagine you had to pay him much,” he said, and drew his hand away. Hoary complained vociferously.
“I am not a thief,” she said. “Regardless what you think of me, I am an honest citizen with a goodly income. I paid him quite handsomely. In fact I could—”
“I meant I doubt you’d have to pay any man a great deal to guard your body so long as his treasures are safely hidden elsewhere.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it suddenly. “I will pay you.” Her tone was crisp and ultimately self-assured.
He raised a brow. Some had called him a pirate, some a privateer. He tried not to take offense to either. Piracy, after all, was as honest as most enterprises. “Pay me?”
“For my release,” she explained.
He canted his head. “Perhaps we can come to an agreement. What can you offer?”
He noticed that she had stopped breathing. Perhaps he was watching her bosom a bit more closely than caution necessitated, but it seemed that she was hanging on his every word.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Wheaton’s whereabouts.”
“Damn you!” she swore, and swung her hand up to slap him.
He caught it easily, inches from his cheek. Passion. It shone in her eyes. Did Wheaton always evoke such passion in women? Even women like this small, cool thief? Had Elizabeth been passionate in his arms?
“I know no one named Wheaton,” she hissed.
He held his temper, but not so easily as he held her wrist. She was not a strong woman, not even in proportion to her size.
“Then how will he pay your ransom?” he asked.
“Ransom?” Her face went absolutely white, and her knees buckled.
He scooped an arm about her back, pressing her up against his chest and scowling into her eyes.
“Ransom?” Her voice was weak.
“For your safe return to London,” he said.
“Oh, yes.” She nodded and straightened with an obvious effort, but he didn’t let her go, for she felt wonderfully soft against the bare skin of his chest, beautifully right against his belly. “I…” She cleared her throat and tried to move away. He tightened his embrace a mite. “My…family…Will you please…” Her face was no longer pale, but flushed a bonny pink, and her breathing came hard and fast. “Let me go.”
“But you will not give me what I want.” He realized that what he wanted had just changed. Hoary’s back-alley morals seemed to have taken over. “Therefore, I think I should take what I need.” Leaning forward, he kissed the corner of her mouth and drew slowly back.
She stared at him for a full second, then, “Do not do that,” she whispered.
“This?” he asked, and, pressing his mouth to hers, swiped his tongue gently along the crease.
She pushed against his chest. “Don’t!” she insisted, but he barely noticed, for she’d lost her scarf, and they stood chest to chest. Skin against wounded skin.
“You don’t like it?” he asked. He might not have Wheaton’s heritage. After all, Lord Wheaton was the old laird’s legitimate nephew, and even though his father and all his immediate family had been exiled for treason, the blood was still true. Still, Cairn was the laird of the isle, and even without that distinction his face had opened a few doors for him, though most of them were back doors to places not meant for nobility.
“I…” She was breathing hard. “’Tis not right.”
“But better than the dungeon.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“A man might take offense to having his proposition called a threat, Megs.”
“Proposition?”
He could feel her ribs against his fingertips, curved and firm and perfect.
“I admit Teleere’s prisoners might miss your company should you choose to stay here with me.”
He watched the blood drain from her face, and perhaps a niggle of guilt seeped into his consciousness. Aye, he was threatening her, compromising her. But he was not doing it for his own passion’s sake. Hardly that. He was no ugly ogre she must choose, and if she spent a night or so in his arms, she would surely leave her loyalty to Wheaton behind, bettering her life. Perhaps saving her life.
“I…” She shook her head. “I cannot,” she said, but she was weakening.
“Cannot what?” he asked, and bent to kiss her throat. It was long and smooth and lovely, framed by her mink-soft hair.
She caught her breath on a strangely high note.
He pressed his kisses lower, traveling down the smooth slide of her glossy body. He could feel her heart beat in her chest. Could feel her breasts rise and fall.
Succulent breasts!
“Quit!” she ordered, and thumped her palms against his chest.
Pain shivered through him, and he released her with a grimace. She stumbled out of his embrace, breathing hard.
Cairn watched her, felt the pain
subside and the desire roar back to life.
“I would not hurt you,” he said. His voice was damnably low, pushed down by the hard edge of his desire.
“I cannot,” she said.
“Why?”
“Why? Surely ’tis obvious, even to you.”
“Even to me?”
“It would be wrong.”
He ground his teeth. “How did Wheaton win such loyalty?”
“Wheaton again! Are you mad?”
“Aye. Perhaps. Which do you choose, Megs?” Anger felt hot in his gut. Hotter even than Hoary’s burning interest. He took a step toward her.
“Leave me be.” She backed away. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
He laughed as he followed her. “I seem to have a hole in my chest, bonny Megs. That alone surely warrants hanging.”
“Hanging!”
“I gave you a choice.”
“Choice.” She choked a laugh. “A choice between the impossible and—”
“So ’tis impossible for you to share my bed.”
“’Tis impossible for me to tell you that which I do not know.”
He had cornered her again. Perhaps she had yet another impromptu weapon behind her back, but he found it difficult to care, for rage had spilled over his good sense. Damn her for choosing Wheaton!
“So you would rather die than cuckold him?”
“Who?”
He managed a smile. “Your lover.”
“I have no lover.”
“So you are untried?”
“Y—No. Of course not. I was…” Her breath was coming hard. She was pressed back against the desk, her spine bent as she tried to avoid him. “I was married.”
“Of course.” His gut twisted. “And yet you choose the dungeon to a night with me. Not very flattering, love,” he said, and slipped his palm across her cheek.
“Let me go.” The words were stuttered. “Please.”
Let her go. Now there was an unexpected eventuality. Who would have expected Hoary to be a softy? Generally, he was pretty hard-edged.
“Tell me where he is, Megs. Tell me and no harm will come to you. I promise you.”
“I cannot,” she insisted.
He remained as he was for a moment then straightened with an effort and nodded once. “Good luck to you then.