by Lois Greiman
“Nursemaid?” Cairn said, then brightened at the thought. “For Gem?” he asked, and nodded toward the door.
Burr’s scowl only deepened.
Cairn grinned, just a little, letting his tension ease slightly. “Averse to bathing, is she?”
“I believe—” Burr began, but at that precise moment a shriek sounded clear as a bell through the nine-foot wall.
Cairn raised his brows. His day was improving. “Sounds like they could use your help, Burroun.”
“They’ll work it—” Burr began, but his platitude was interrupted by another shriek, a curse, and a bevy of screams.
Burr glanced behind him, hesitated an instant, then whipped the door open and strode into the storm. Cairn followed.
Inside the chamber, women were everywhere, gasping and swooning and shrieking, and in the center of the melee, was Gem. She was spread-eagle atop another maid, who was screaming like a banshee and thrashing like a trout.
Burr waded resolutely into the maelstrom. He grasped Gem by the back of her gown with a deep-throated growl and fished her out of the pile like a hooked mackerel. She came up swinging, limbs pistoning wildly. But he held her at arm’s length until she swung about and landed him a blow on the chest. His expression didn’t change a whit. Not a muscle twitched.
The second blow caught him in the groin.
He grunted softly and doubled slightly, and in that second Gem glanced up.
Her face went white, her arms quit swinging, and the room fell absolutely silent.
“Mr. Burr!” she rasped.
His glare was enough to sour cream. His lips twitched as he forced himself to straighten.
“What the devil’s going on here?”
She was still hanging from his fist by the scruff of her gown, but she lifted her chin and glared at Carolyn, who was scrambling ponderously to her feet.
“That old cow tried to steal me hair.”
Cairn glanced at Burr and back at Gem.
The room went silent again, then, “What the bloody devil are you talking about?” asked the Norseman.
“’Er!” Gem shrieked, and spat in the direction of the rapidly retreating maid. Carolyn did rather resemble a cow. Still, she had been Elizabeth’s favorite. But Elizabeth tended to surround herself with plump plain-faced maids. “She ’ad a scissors in ’er ’and, she did.” And indeed a scissors lay on the floor, alongside a hairbrush, three petticoats, and a bar of scented soap that had been cracked down the middle.
Burr glanced at the girl’s hair. It stood out from her head a good nine inches, like a wasp’s nest gone mad. “My laird gave orders to see you cleaned,” he rumbled.
“Aye, well…” She’d lost a bit of steam, but her hands were still formed to fists and her brows were down. “’E won’t be cuttin’ me hair.”
Cairn glanced happily at Burr and back.
“The lad orders,” said Burr. “I enforce.”
The girl swallowed visibly. Half the women were now hiding behind Burroun. The others were backed prudently against the walls.
Carolyn pointed a shaky finger at Gem. “She’s possessed with the devil. I’ll have nothing to do with her.”
“I ain’t possessed, you old witch!” shrieked Gem, and the room exploded back into chaos.
Burr stood in a sea of women, like a rat drowning in perfume, looking more tense by the second.
Cairn actually chuckled.
Burr glanced in his direction, saw his liege’s happy expression, and straightened his back with a scowl.
“Quiet!” he roared.
The chamber went absolutely silent to the count of five, then burst back into confusion.
“Get out!” His voice was quiet this time, but somehow the word carried above the din.
The women stopped in midsentence, their mouths still open.
“Get out,” he repeated. “All of you.”
Gem swiveled toward the door, but Burr kept his fist tight in the back of her gown, and Cairn took that opportunity to go about his business. In moments, the room was all but empty.
Only Burr and Gem remained. Burroun loosed his hold on the girl’s garments and settled her heels onto the floor with a scowl.
He glared at her. “You are a thief,” he said. “And a liar. Laird MacTavish could see you executed before nightfall if he so wished.” Staring into her eyes, he saw that he’d gained her attention. “But he has vowed to see you fed and clothed and hear you out before he decides your fate.”
The girl swallowed and blinked owlishly. “She ain’t ’avin’ me hair,” she whispered.
Burr ground his teeth. Right this minute he could be back on the high seas, storm tossed and starving. Ahh, the good old days.
“She doesn’t want your hair,” he assured her, skimming the mess atop her head. “But you’ll not be seeing the laird whilst looking like that.”
“I ain’t never asked to talk to his mightyship.”
“No. You simply broke into the castle and took the girl who’s caught his interest.”
Her eyes brightened slightly, but her face was still pale. “Megs?”
He shrugged. “Can you get that rat’s nest out of your hair yourself?”
“My ’air ain’t no rat’s nest.”
He glared. She swallowed.
“Aye. I can take care of it.”
“And get cleaned.”
She nodded, all starch gone from her demeanor.
He lowered his brows. “Try to escape, and I’ll feed you to the pigeons. Do you understand me?”
She dropped her eyes. “You was right, guvner,” she said softly. “Lord MacTavish ’as been decent to me, and I’ve repaid him poorly. I’ll do as ’e asks from here on in.”
He stared at her. She bobbed her gaze up and back down.
“You won’t try to escape?”
She shook her head. “No, guvner. You ’ave me word of honor.”
He stared at her for another moment, then said, “Good, because I’ll be watching you the whole time.”
Her eyes came up with a snap. “What’s that?”
“While you brush your hair, while you bathe, while you dress,” he growled. “I’ll be right here.”
“I gave you me word to stay put.”
“Aye, and I’ll help you keep it.”
She swore at him then. As cursing goes, it was fairly impressive, he thought, and he’d spent most of his life with sailors. He waited for her to finish.
She pursed her lips and glared into his downturned face. “I’ll not ’ave you gawkin’ at me in the altogether, you great leering oaf.”
Bending down, he retrieved a hairbrush from the floor and offered it to her.
“I won’t do it,” she repeated.
He took a step toward her. She backed away. “I know yer sort.”
“I doubt it.”
“Takin’ advantage of a young girl like me. Gettin’ ’er with child then—”
“Hah!”
She stopped in midsentence and narrowed her eyes. “You find somethin’ amusin’?”
“You are a child,” he said. “A scrawny, lying street urchin with diseases that haven’t been named yet.”
“I am not diseased.”
He didn’t reply.
“You’re diseased, you whoremonger.”
He stretched a smile across his teeth and considered drawing her across his knee. “Why don’t you quit your cursing so I won’t feel a need to paddle your behind?”
“Damn you, you—”
“These are the rules,” he growled. “You don’t try to escape. You don’t steal anything, you don’t strike anyone, and you don’t curse.”
She opened her mouth. He lifted a brow. She shut her mouth.
“Abide by those rules,” he added, “and you’ll be treated well and kept safe so long as you’re in my care.”
“Care! Hah! It’s rape you have on your mind, you lecherous old—”
“But break my rules—” he interrupted, “and you’ll mis
s a meal for every violation.”
“So it’s starvation you plan for me.”
“Your life’s your own to decide, lass.”
“And me life was perfectly fine until you came along.”
“Aye.” He looked her up and down. “I can see all was going well for you.”
“F—”
He pointed a warning finger at her.
She raised her chin, but backed off another step. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You can’t be as daft as all that.”
She glared.
“Now, lassie, are you going to get in that tub, or am I going to have to throw you in?”
“Try it, you—”
He cocked his head.
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “I’ll do it meself, but you’ll ’ave ta turn yer back.”
He sighed. “I wish I could.”
Propping her hands on her hips, she sharpened her glare. “And what are you meanin’ by that remark?”
He didn’t reply. He’d have to be a fool to let a scrap of decay like her get his dander up. But there were more than a few who had called him a fool.
“Are you sayin’ you don’t like the look of me?”
He didn’t respond.
“Are you sayin’ I don’t raise yer flag, old man?”
“Watch yer tongue, girl.”
She cocked her head, studying him as if he were a rare reptile. “Are you that ancient then?”
He wasn’t sensitive about his age, of course, but paddling her sounded better by the minute.
“If I’m wanting fleas, I can always bed down with the hounds,” he said.
“I don’t ’ave no fleas.”
“Maybe it’s the stench that keeps them at bay.”
For a moment he thought she would curse him again, but she closed her mouth, straightened her back, and reached for the ties on her gown. The garment slipped rapidly away from her shoulders. Even they were dirty. He shook his head and strode across the room to lean against a nearby wall. When he turned back to her she was scowling. She was also naked to the waist. Her breasts were small and firm and high. Her ribs were prominent, and her gown hung askew about her narrow hips.
He yawned and rubbed his tired eyes. When next he glanced her way, she was stepping into the tub.
Her buttocks were tight and white and as round as twin buckwheat loaves.
And his erection ached.
Damn him. If only he were as old as she thought.
Chapter 17
T atiana sighed in her sleep. She was warm and comfortable and someone was stroking her hair, easing it along the length of her arm. It felt quite lovely, though even in the depths of her dreams, she realized that none was allowed to touch her. The duchess’s daughter was far above such mundane activity as physical contact.
“You’re different. I’ll give you that.”
She opened her eyes with a gasp and a start.
MacTavish was sitting on the slipper-shaped couch beside her. Candlelight gleamed in his honey wheat hair. His chest was bare, his stomach flat, his hip only inches from her thigh. She stiffened but refused to scoot away.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He smiled at her. She’d raised her head to stare at him, but her hair remained draped across the ivory-toned satin of the couch. He curled a stray lock around his wrist, watching the shine shift as he bent it to the light of the candelabra. “It’s my chamber, Megs, remember?”
She sat up. Pain niggled at her shoulder, but the physician had seen to the wound and assured her that all would be well. If only she were a believer.
“You didn’t don the bed gown I sent.”
She pursed her lips and refused to glance away, though if the truth were known she had found a slim, primitive dart amongst his treasures and had pinned it into her underskirt. At some point she would have another chance to escape, and she would need every possible advantage.
“The color would look right on you.”
She said nothing.
“Innocent. Untouched.” He shook his head as if baffled. “If I didn’t know better, I could almost believe that you don’t belong in prison,” he said, and took her hand, turning it over in his. Her hair loosened on his wrist, but remained twined softly against the golden skin of his arm, stroking the taut tendons. “Your hands are soft.” His fingers were gentle against her palm, his eyes thoughtful.
She licked her lips. “The life of a seamstress oft consists of long hours, but rarely entails heavy labor.”
“Entails,” he repeated, and raised his brows slightly. “You’ve an extensive vocabulary for a thief.”
“I am not—”
“Or a seamstress,” he interrupted, and stroked her palm again, skimming his thumb along the smooth line beneath her fingers. “I suppose Walden did all the manly labor?”
She blinked in dismay at her hand. It was not a particularly sensitive area, after all, and yet, sensations kept sprinting wildly up her arm every time he touched her. He caught her gaze, and she swallowed. “William,” she corrected numbly. “And yes, he did.”
He nodded, absorbed by her hand again as he rubbed a slow circle into the center of her palm. “So if I brought in a length of cloth, you could stitch me a doublet?”
Panic struck her like a rock, but she remained as she was, though every instinct told her to wrest her hand from his grasp and run like hell. Aye. Perhaps she should have considered this eventuality, but if she were to worry now about all the things she should have done, she would be paralyzed until her death, which might be in the very near future if she didn’t think hard and fast. So she canted her head slightly and forced a prim smile. “Are your tailors all ill?” she asked.
He held her gaze for another few seconds, then called out, “Come in.”
An elderly servant entered, carrying a bolt of gray fabric. Behind him, another brought a basket filled with scissors and thread and a dozen items she couldn’t name but assumed any seamstress with half a mind would be able to identify.
Tatiana’s heart was thumping in her chest. She glanced at MacTavish, making certain her expression was partly mocking, partly bored. It was the same look that had made the king of Denmark back down in chagrin. “So this is what you meant when you told me to be prepared to defend myself?”
He shrugged.
“And all the while I was desperately trying to choose between the crossbow and the lance.”
“And it looked like you were merely sleeping.”
“’Tis strange how appearances can deceive,” she said pointedly.
He smiled again, but her heart could hardly beat faster than it already was. “A needle’s the only weapon you’ll need, lass,” he said, and, taking the bolt of fabric, sent the men from the room. “I’m told this is linen.”
She glanced at the material, then nodded smoothly. “’Tis good to know your subjects wouldn’t lie to you. About cloth at least.”
The chamber went absolutely silent, then, “Stitch me a doublet fit for a king, lass,” he said. “And I will set you free.”
For a moment her heart ached with hope. Freedom—within reach. Nearly hers. But the truth came hard on the heels of hope. She could no more stitch a doublet than walk on water.
Her mind was spinning and her hands were shaking more dramatically, so she swung her feet to the floor, perhaps to distract him, perhaps to keep herself occupied, lest her brain burst from her skull. But she did so slowly, as taught from birth, “like a princess, not a ragged street urchin,” as Mother had often said.
Her arm brushed his as she slipped from the bed, and her hair trailed along his fingertips like a dancer’s veil. Standing up, she paced to the fabric and spread it upon the coverlet.
She eyed it leisurely as if she were in some fine market with wares spread about for her royal inspection, as if her very next words would not condemn her to death. He watched her from uncomfortable closeness.
“I’m afraid there’s not enough fabr
ic,” she said.
He remained exactly as he was, and yet there was a change, a stiffness, almost as if he waited with bated breath for her next words. Almost as if he were disappointed. “Cy assured me there was,” he said.
“Cy?” She raised one brow, trying to read the nuances. After all, she was a queen. All revered her, few liked her. It was a matter of life and death that she know the difference, that she be able to differentiate between those who were looking for independent gain and those few who had her best interests in mind. She had learned well, for she knew that she could count on one hand those who truly cared.
“Cy was my father’s favored tailor,” he informed her.
“Ahh.” She gave him a small shrug. “Well, I do hate to make Cy feel unneeded. Perhaps he should craft the garment himself.”
“I want you to do it.”
“And if I do…” She flitted her gaze to the fabric and up, feeling an odd catch in her stomach as though it had twisted in on itself. “You’ll set me free?” It was difficult to force the words from her constricted throat, but to her own ears the words sounded almost normal. ’Twas another trick she had learned at a selfish court.
He was watching her like a hunting falcon: his gaze absolutely steady, his mouth immobile. She refused to lower her eyes. After all, raptors followed movement. They liked their prey fresh and frightened. “Why not admit that you aren’t a seamstress, Megs?” he asked. “Things can hardly get worse for you.”
“Not true,” she said, and ran her fingers leisurely along a fold in the fabric. “I am still alive after all.”
“Ahh.” He leaned back to watch her. “So you’re a maid who expects little from life.”
She gave him a single, noncommittal nod. “A humble lass,” she agreed.
He laughed a little. “One would expect humility in a thief,” he admitted, “but one would be disappointed. The dichotomy piques me interest.”
“Dichotomy,” she repeated and tilted her head at him, much as he had done to her. “I’m impressed.”
He shrugged. The movement was strangely boyish. “The good people of Teleere seem to think their laird should be able to say more than, ‘yo me hearties.’”