by Lois Greiman
“She took the girl into her house.”
“I took her,” she said and swallowed. “I took her into the ’ouse.”
“The duchess let her stay.”
“That’s just ’ow she is. She’ll tek anyone in. She’s daft. Everybody knows it. That’s why folks protect her. That’s why some is scared of ’er. She’s daft in the ’ead. And she can read your mind.”
“She tended Megs’s wound.”
Gem shrugged, but she didn’t continue eating. “It weren’t no terrible injury.”
“Not for Magical Megs.”
“Nah.” She reached for another patty. “It weren’t nothin’ much. ’E only ’ad a little pistol.”
“He?”
“A fellow called Cotton.”
“He shot her?”
She slowed her chewing for a moment. “Yeah. But just in the shoulder. Not in no vitals nor nothin’.”
Cairn turned abruptly.
Burr raised his brows. The corner of an evil grin lifted his lips. “Where you goin’, lad?”
“See to the girl,” he ordered instead of answering, and headed toward the door.
Burr followed.
Cairn turned to glare. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You said to take care of the girl.”
“I meant this girl.”
“Oh.” When the Norseman tried to look surprised, he only managed stupidity. “But what of the other lass? Gem here says she’s been shot.”
Cairn looked into his eyes for a instant. The huge man’s face was almost completely impassive, as if he didn’t know what was going through Cairn’s mind. As if he didn’t realize that his gut was churning. As if he didn’t know Cairn was going to her this very instant.
“Someone should see to her wound,” Burr said, still straight-faced.
“Shut the hell up,” Cairn said, and Burr laughed as the door closed and the laird of the isle disappeared from sight.
“Well, lass,” Burr said, turning back to the girl. “It looks like you’ve been left in me own hands then.”
Her manner changed abruptly. She was not a tiny lass compared to Megs, but she was young, and she was thin. Defiance only made her seem more so. “I’ll tell you somethin’, Viking. If you lay so much as a finger on me, you’ll be feelin’ the pain till the day you die, and you won’t ’ave long to wait.”
He raised his brows. “Are you threatening me, lass?”
She smiled. Her crooked eyeteeth winked in the candlelight. “So yer not so dense as yer size suggests. ’Tis good to know.”
“And yer a mite small to be so mouthy.”
“What you gonna do, Viking? Hit me?” She raised her chin, but her face seemed unusually pale. “It’s been tried afore.”
He paused a moment, watching her. “I bet it has,” he said. “Come along.”
Her eyes changed, though he couldn’t have said how exactly. “Where to?”
“You stink like a privy.”
“Then don’t stand so damned close.”
“You need a bath.”
She snorted a laugh. “Not in this lifetime.”
“You got something against good clean water, lass?”
“Nay.” Her tone was dismissive, though her eyes looked wild. “But I ’as something agin’ oversize brutes loomin’ like trolls whilst I get meself naked.”
He stared at her for an instant, then threw back his head and laughed.
She was scowling at him. “If you’d tell me the jest, I might laugh, too, oaf.”
He glanced at her and chuckled. “You stink, you’ve a mouth like a sailor, and you’re a child to boot. You can believe me in this, lass.” He leaned closer, so that their faces were only inches apart. “I’ve no interest in you whatsoever.”
“Really?” She drew back slightly, scowling at him.
“Aye,” he assured her.
She shrugged and stepped toward the door. “Then I might just as well be on me way.”
He grabbed her arm as she passed, and she jumped, pulling away.
He let her go, but watched her carefully. “As I’ve said, lass, I’ve no interest in you meself, but if the lad says to see to you, I’ll see to you. You can bet on that, wee one.”
Cairn opened the door to his bedchamber and stepped inside. Relief flooded him when he saw her in a chair by the desk, but he shushed it, for of course she was still there. Where else would she be?
She was sitting very straight, her lips slighly pursed, her hair gleaming dark and rich in the candlelight that spilled from the candelabra behind her. A book was in her hands. Animal Husbandry was printed in faded gold along the spine.
He said the title aloud, ridiculously glad that Burr had taught him to read years ago. “Planning on doing some farming, Megs?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The book,” he said, motioning toward it. “It’s about raising livestock.”
“Yes.” She scowled slightly, as if he were daft. “I realize that.”
“So you can read.”
Again, the daftness. “Yes,” she said.
He took a few steps toward her, drawn against his will. “Read me a few lines.”
“To prove myself?”
“Humor me.”
She turned back to the printed word, regal as a princess, and began to read. There was no purpose in letting her go on for long. Animal husbandry wasn’t his first interest, though he had made an attempt to learn a bit. Sheep thrived on the Teleerian hills, and wool was a profitable export.
“Where’d you learn to read?”
“My mother taught me.”
“So you had a mother?” Perhaps she would quit looking at him like that if he would quit spouting lunacy, but his conversation with Gem had done little to clear his mind.
“Does not everyone at some point?” she asked.
“I would have thought so.” He seated himself on the desk beside her and crossed his arms against his chest. “You didn’t tell me you’d been shot.”
She was staring at him, her siren’s lips pursed. “You did not ask,” she said.
He forced himself to relax a little. She was crowding his patience, which had never been outstanding. “Who shot you?”
She drew a deep breath through her nostrils and closed the book, carefully, as if she had no wish to lose her place on such a scintillating subject as swine management. “I did not ask his name,” she said.
“And you didn’t know him?”
“I do not generally associate with such people.”
“Because you’re a seamstress.”
“Yes.”
“From London.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t have a London accent.”
She shrugged. “We lived in Sedonia for some years.”
“You and Wildon.”
“My husband’s name was William,” she said. “And no. I lived there with my parents.”
“Who taught you how to read.”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“In truth, it’s never been my goal to be usual, MacTavish.”
“Then I guess you’ve achieved your goal admirably. A thief who reads like a scholar, speaks like a princess, and lies like a soothsayer. Your parents would be proud.”
She raised her chin slightly. “What do you plan to do with me?”
Damned if he knew. “I plan to take a look at your wound.”
She pursed her lips again. Damned if she didn’t have the most ridiculously seductive mouth he had ever seen.
“Ned tended it,” she said. “’Tis healing well.”
“Take off your gown.”
Her expression didn’t change a whit. Nor did she move to accommodate him.
He sighed. “I know something of injuries,” he said.
She remained silent for a moment, then, “Does it still hurt?” she asked.
He scowled. “What?”
“Your leg.”
He watch
ed her carefully. “What of it?”
“Your physician has not been able to ease the pain?”
“I hate to disappoint you, lass, but I am not in pain.”
She watched him soberly, then spoke. “You are more the lord than I realized.”
He canted his head.
“Unwilling to admit a weakness,” she explained.
He laughed. “I’m flattered you think me so royal, Megs, but I’m afraid piracy discourages weaknesses, too. If I had one, which I don’t, I would have likely had my throat cut long ago.”
“Do you wish you were one still?” Her expression was tense now, as if she were more than casually interested.
He watched her eyes. “A pirate?”
She nodded.
“Pirates are often hungry and tend to die young and bloody.” He shrugged. “Being the sovereign ruler isn’t so bad. People have to do as I say. Such as removing clothing.”
She didn’t blink.
“If I insist that a woman remove her garments, she must do so without question,” he added pointedly.
She didn’t move a muscle, and he sighed.
“You may be the most stubborn maid I have ever met.”
“Because I refuse to disrobe in front of you?”
“There are other reasons.”
“Tell me,” she said. “Do most women simply drop their gowns at a glance from you?”
“That’s my preference.”
Her lips parted the slightest amount, as if she were about to smile. He watched them, then pulled his gaze away with a dogged effort.
“I’ll be seeing the wound, lass,” he warned.
“If you are so worried about my well-being, perhaps you should release me.”
“It irritates me when my prisoners die prematurely.”
“Are you a physician then?”
“No. But I was an excellent pirate.”
“What good would there be in revealing my wounds to a pirate?”
“I’m the lord of the isle, and therefore have indisputable rights.”
“And I am a human being, and I have moral rights.”
“So you would rather die of gangrene than show me the injury?”
“I would rather maintain my morals than bend to your commands. Indeed—”
“Dammit woman, I’m not going to eat you. Just lower your gown.”
“And what if I refuse? Will you stretch me on the rack?”
He refrained from rubbing his eyes in weary frustration. “My favorite rack is out of commission just now.”
“What a pity.”
“Isn’t it? On the other hand, I could just tear the damned gown off you myself.”
“Fitting for a barbarian, but not quite right for a lord.”
He watched her for an instant. “Luckily, I am more one than the other.”
“But which do you want to be?” Her eyes were somber and wide as though she were delving into his very soul. For a thief she had a wide range.
“Well, barbarians tend to lose limbs and attract fleas,” he said. “On the other hand, lords seem to lack power over their subjects.”
“Sometimes I almost believe…” She paused, her expression deadly serious. “If there weren’t this misunderstanding between us. If circumstances were different, you might prove to be a decent human being.”
He laughed. “Triton’s balls. I don’t know if I should thank you or behead you.”
“You should thank me,” she said with utmost sobriety. “It is not something I would say to many even though they are highly bred and gently born.”
Truly? He almost said the word out loud, but he managed to refrain. Magical Megs, after all, was the very mistress of manipulation. But how was it that she knew of his self-doubts? And what of his leg injury? Only his closest advisors were privy to the extent of the damage. Only Burr knew of the intermittent pain.
But of course. Elizabeth had told Wheaton, and Wheaton had in turn told Megs. The humiliation of that knowledge ground into him like salt into an open wound. Who was she to him? he wondered, but he did not ask again, for she would only deny knowing him, and he was so damned tempted to believe her, for she was beautiful and soft and everything a man would want in a woman. But he had learned a hard lesson with Elizabeth, and he was not fool enough to forget it easily.
“Take off your gown, Megs,” he ordered, and perhaps there was something in his tone this time, for he saw her tense.
“I will not,” she said, but there was fear in her eyes.
And that was good. She should fear him. She was his enemy, but her eyes were so large and her lips so seductive.
He kept his tone steady. Damn her eyes and her stupid, pouty lips. “Show me your wound.”
She didn’t move.
“Do as I say,” he ordered. “I don’t wish to hurt you.”
“Then let me go,” she whispered.
He shook his head and reached for her.
She leaned away. “You first!” she rasped.
He drew back. “What?”
“I will…bare my injury if you will do the same.”
“I told you, I don’t have—”
“Then neither do I.” She raised her chin, and in her eyes was such damnable pride that he wanted to weep. Why the hell was he drawn to these haughty women? These women who could tear him to shreds without batting an eye.
“You don’t have an injury?” He kept his tone carefully level. Surely he could manage to play her game.
“No more grievous than yours. But you are too cowardly to admit to the truth.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then, rising to his feet, he rucked up his plaid.
“What are you doing?”
He raised his brows at the panic in her voice. “I am baring all.”
“I just…I only asked to see the wound.”
“It’s on my thigh.”
“No. ’Twas your knee that was injured when thieves broke into the castle.”
Thieves! His knee! It was the story they had loosed to the public. So she had heard that version of the tale and not the truth?
Nay, they had not spilled the truth to Teleere’s populace for none needed to know how close he had come to impotency. Neither did they need to learn of Elizabeth’s betrayal. He had protected her reputation rabidly at the time of her death. No one needed to know she had taken her husband’s nemesis as a lover. No one needed to know that enemy had killed her. Cairn had failed to protect her in life, but he would do so in death. Or so he told himself. Yet in the back of his mind, doubt ate at him. Perhaps he only protected himself.
He pulled up his plaid along with the tunic beneath and Megs’s gaze followed its accent. Her gasp was soft when he bared the wound. It ached even now, more than ever, burning with hot humility. Aye, he had been stabbed, and yes, the cut hurt, but he had also been cheated, surprised, cuckolded.
And Magical Megs, queen of the damned, dared sound surprised at the sight of his humiliation when Wheaton had surely told her the truth of the tale.
He dropped his plaid back into place and stared at her.
“Now yours,” he said.
For a moment he thought she would refuse. For a moment he almost wished she would, for anger had replaced every other emotion, and it felt good, safe. She was Wheaton’s. He knew it, and yet she lied. For him. Just as Elizabeth had.
He waited, then her hands moved, slowly reaching for the ties on her gown.
Her gaze never wavered from his. Her expression was unreadable as she watched him, and he saw, as the gown slipped lower, that her shoulders were perfect, and her breasts…They were phenomenal. Large and round and as bold as her temperament, they bulged outward as if begging for attention, and they were his, legally and otherwise. There was no reason he shouldn’t take her. Revenge, after all, was sweet. It was a documented fact.
But then she slipped the bodice lower and every thought came to a screaming halt. For while the wound was small and healing and did little to distract from her bea
uty, her hands, where they supported her gown, shook. They trembled. Like a child’s. Like an innocent’s.
A myriad of emotions quivered through him. Rage and lust and a dozen other feelings he dare not admit.
“Put it back on,” he ordered.
“What?” Her voice was breathy.
“Put your clothes on,” he said, and pivoted woodenly toward the door. It was strangely difficult to open his fist enough to turn the latch. He managed it with some effort, then turned back toward her.
She hadn’t moved. Her breasts were still partially bare, but in that instant she broke free from her trance and pulled the gown up.
“I am sending in a physician,” he said. “You will let him see to it?”
She nodded. He scowled. So it was just her laird who was not allowed to touch her. The thought scored his mind.
“But I shall accompany him.”
She said nothing, made no objection. He deepened his scowl.
“And be prepared, because afterward there will be a lesson.”
She tipped her chin up a notch, but the haughty attitude lacked something now, for he had seen her trembling hands. “A lesson?”
“Aye.” He clenched his jaw and turned the latch. “You will learn to defend yourself.”
Chapter 16
“T he physician,” Burr said. His tone held no inflection. His face remained unmoved. He stood with his gargantuan legs spread and his back to Gem’s bedchamber door. A scrape issued from inside the room, followed by a soft, muffled dispute.
Cairn scowled but continued on. “Yes,” he said.
From the far side of the door, voices could just be heard, rising in disharmony.
“You want the physician to see to the thief’s wounds,” repeated the Norseman.
Cairn ground his teeth and refused to reiterate his request. “Where is he now?”
Something solid struck the wall inside the bedchamber.
“He’s with the elderly lady, as ordered.”
“What has he learned?”
A feminine voice squealed from the far side of the door.
Burr shrugged as if he heard nothing. His shoulders were slightly hunched as if in battle, despite his careful nonchalance. “’Tis hard to say,” he admitted, his brows lowering the slightest amount, perhaps in concession to the rising noise that issued from the adjacent room. “Since I have been playing nursemaid this whole morning.”