The Princess and Her Pirate

by Lois Greiman

  Burr’s eyes seemed unreasonably bright, as if he were struggling not to laugh, and Cairn sighed.

  “Threats don’t seem to move her a great deal.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t believe you.”

  “That could be,” he said, sarcasm ripe in his tone. “She treats me like a damned indentured servant.”

  Burr chuckled, then sobered at Cairn’s stern glance. “That’s unfortunate,” he said. “I could talk to Graves.”

  Cairn turned back. “What?”

  Burr shrugged heavily. “Aye, he’s a bit rough, but he’s got a gift for getting information when—”

  “If you let that bastard within ten feet of her, I’ll—” Cairn caught himself, recognizing the bait a moment too late.

  Burr’s eyes were dancing now, and his mouth quirked. “You’re not becoming attached to her are you, lad?”

  “Damn you,” he said. His tone sounded tired. Exhausted really.

  “She’s a wee bonny thing.”

  “She’s a liar and a thief.”

  “As was Elizabeth. And a whore to boot. But you married her.”

  For a moment Cairn considered striking out, but he checked himself. Life had changed since the Skian Dubh, where a rousing fight was always welcome. “You think I forgot?” he asked.

  “No, lad.” Burr’s voice was suddenly serious. “I think you remember everything.”

  Cairn paced to the window. In the courtyard below, a host of lanterns were lit and swayed gently in the evening breeze. A woman’s laughter floated to him in the darkness.

  “She’s not Elizabeth,” Burr said.

  “No. She’s Magical Megs, Teleere’s master—”

  “Is she?”

  “Don’t tell me you have doubts just because Gem said she might be wrong.”

  “I’ve heard you threaten her,” Burr said. “Doesn’t it seem strange that she wouldn’t buckle under, give up Wheaton’s location?”

  “She’s loyal.” And didn’t that beat the hell out of everything. He was the laird of the entire damned island, and he’d found no way to gain his wife’s allegiance. And yet Wheaton, the son of an ousted traitor, still held Megs’s loyalty in a tight grip.

  “Perhaps you should try a bribe,” Burr said.

  “Hell!” Cairn turned away again, tormented. “I’ve offered her a dozen chances to be free, and she’s taken each one and thrown it back in me face. She’s made a fool of me a hundred times.”

  Burroun sighed. “All men are fools where women are concerned.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “But I am the laird of fools.”

  “And she’s the princess.”

  Cairn scowled. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  “Think on it, lad, the way she talks, the way she carries herself. She’s a damned sight more elegant than you will ever be. Sir Albert or no Sir Albert.”

  “It’s an act. She says she’s a seamstress. But she doesn’t talk like a seamstress.”

  “And so she’s a thief?”

  “Do you have a better explanation?”

  “Gem says the girl’s different than she remembers.”

  “Gem says!” Cairn glared. “You’re believing a thief about a thief.”

  Burr reddened slightly. “The girl’s seen some rough times.”

  “You’re hard for her!” Cairn accused in amazement.

  Burr snorted. “And some say you’ve got no sense of humor.”

  Cairn grinned, sure of the truth suddenly. “You hope to bed her,” he said.

  “She’s not half my age.”

  Cairn laughed. “No one’s half your age, Burr. In fact—”

  The giant rose suddenly to his feet, looming like an enraged bull in too narrow a space. “Haven’t I taught you to keep your mouth shut regarding things you know nothing about?”

  Cairn bristled, spoiling for a fight. “You’ve tried.”

  “You saying I failed, lad? Cuz I’m willing to make it right now.”

  “My lord.” A servant stood in the doorway, looking tense. Cairn couldn’t remember his name. There were too damned many of them. “A package has been sent for you.”

  Cairn scowled. “Have it delivered to M—to my prisoner.”

  “Gem?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Megs.”

  “Very well, my liege.”

  The room fell silent.

  Burr stared. “What was that?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I made it me own business when I fished you out of that rock pile a score or so years back.”

  Cairn sighed. Tension washed out of him. “Haven’t I ever taught you to keep your nose out of other people’s affairs?”

  Burr snorted. “You giving her gifts now?”

  “Don’t be a lackwit. If you can help it.”

  Burr shook his head. “Don’t know how she’s going to resist your interrogation with you turning the screws like you are. She’ll sure break before dawn. Why—”

  Burr’s voice droned on as a half dozen scenarios flitted through Cairn’s mind. His favorite involved himself hitting the other square on the nose. But the man was as big as a damned whaler, and although the idea of pummeling and getting pummeled was strangely appealing, he had other things to do.

  Tatiana lay awake, curled against the satiny slope of the couch. She had scoured the room a dozen times, had found a score of items that might assist in her next attempt to escape, but just now she merely lay there—trying to rest. But sleep refused to come. Normally, she found solace in slumber. Not now. But who could blame her? She slept in MacTavish’s bedchamber with no guarantee that she would be left unmolested. Hardly that. In fact, he might burst into the chamber at any moment.

  Her heart picked up a beat at the thought. Fear was unbecoming in a highborn lady, she remembered, but in the back of her mind lay a festering question. Was it fear or was it something else? Something more dangerous. He’d touched her. Caressed her, and she’d felt…something. Something she’d not felt before. But then she’d not been a prisoner before. Of course she would be confused.

  A noise sounded at the door. Her heart jumped, but it was a woman who stepped inside.

  “So you’re the thief,” said the stranger.

  Tatiana sat up and raised one brow in question. “And who are you?”

  The servant was plump and pretty. “Ain’t you the uppity one.”

  “Did you have a reason for breaching my quarters?”

  The woman looked as if she planned to retort, but finally she scowled in confusion. “I been told to deliver these to you.” She laid a bundle of clothing on a cluttered chair. “They’re gent’s clothing.” She paused. Tatiana stared. “You’re to put them on.”

  She would not show her surprise. “Very well.”

  “They’re gent’s clothes,” she repeated, as though Tatiana hadn’t heard. As though she weren’t shocked. But “a lady keeps her thoughts to herself,” or so Mother had said.

  “I believe you said that,” Tatiana said dismissively, and the servant turned away.

  The door shut heavily. Tatiana crossed the floor and lifted the garments from the chair. It was a simple cotton tunic and a pair of buff trousers.

  Why? she wondered, but at that moment she heard a noise on the far side of the door. Bringing the tunic to her chest, she held her breath and waited, but the noise died down, and she was left alone.

  There seemed nothing to do but don the garments and see what happened. She had barely slipped into the trousers when MacTavish stepped into the room. He stopped when he saw her, then closed the door behind his back and crossed the floor.

  “Elton and you must be the same size.” His eyes skimmed her. “In some places.”

  “May I ask why?”

  His nostrils seemed to flare slightly before he found her eyes with his again. “Of course.”

  She swore in silence. “A lady does not curse.” “Why?’ she asked.

  “It will be easier for you to learn the art of def
ense.”

  “Ahh. So you are still insane.”

  “Of course,” he said, and pulled a knife from a sheath at his side. Despite his position, it was not an ornamental blade, but a dark, deadly, serviceable weapon. “This is a dagger.”

  She said nothing.

  “I’ll teach you to use it.”

  “You jest.”

  He smiled. God almighty, when he smiled one could almost believe that he was sane. Or that his mental stability didn’t matter either way.

  “You should keep one on your person at all times.”

  “Very well. Hand it over.”

  “I mean you are to keep one on you when you are no longer here at Westheath.”

  “No more plans for the rack?”

  He shrugged. “’Tis late,” he said, hefting the blade. “My master torturer is already abed.”

  “And it would be rude to wake him.”

  He gave her a look. At least she could pretend to fear him. But then he was offering to teach her to defend herself. Maybe it weakened his position. “This blade is not for peeling quince,” he said, shushing his logic.

  “That is not what I had in mind.”

  “What were you planning?”

  She smiled.

  He smiled. “Hoping to have your way with me, Megs?”

  “Hoping to get away from you, MacTavish,” she corrected.

  “When the hospitality here is so fine.”

  “Are you planning to relinquish that knife?”

  He stared at her for a moment, as if considering a dozen possibilities, then, flipping the knife into the air, he caught it by the blade and handed it to her. “Relinquished,” he said. “Now what?”

  She glanced at him, at the blade, at him. “I stab you?”

  “A fine idea.”

  She actually considered it. After all, he seemed to want her to, and he was lord and master here. But even though her mother’s cool tutelage hadn’t covered this ordeal, she was pretty sure ladies didn’t stab sovereigns, no matter how daft they might be.

  “Come ahead,” he said. “Begin.”

  She remained immobile.

  “Do I have to talk about your body again?”

  She raised her chin, possibly in warning. He sighed.

  “First off, you can’t hold it like it’s a damned daffodil.” Reaching out, he wrapped his hand around hers, tightening her grip. Heat radiated from his palm. “And remember what I told you about fighting hand-to-hand. It’s not a costume ball, so don’t be polite. Concentrate on the weak spots.”

  “Weak spots,” she repeated, but she was having a difficult time concentrating at all. His own attire was similar to hers tonight. Simple, comfortable, open at the throat. And, strangely enough, it was his throat that fascinated her. It was so broad and sun-darkened and strong.

  “The eyes, the vitals, the groin.”

  “Of course.” She had no idea what he said.

  “Very well.” He stepped back a pace and motioned to her. “Come ahead.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Stab me.”

  She still stared.

  “Balls, woman, stab me!”

  She lowered the knife. “Would it not be more efficient to simply allow Peters to execute me?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What do you think will happen if I injure you?”

  He stared at her for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. She watched, annoyed.

  “You are amused.”

  “Aye,” he said, wiping his eyes.

  “Because you think I cannot win.”

  “Aye.”

  “So I should add ‘faulty memory’ to your lists of flaws,” she said.

  He raised his brows, then nodded in understanding. “Because you hit me before.”

  “Just so.”

  He was still smiling. “I’m not going to let you stab me, Megs.”

  “Then perhaps you should cease insisting that I do so.”

  The smile faded softly. His eyes became somber. “Where would a seamstress learn to speak like you do?”

  She didn’t drop her gaze. “My mother hoped to see me married well. She insisted that I become a lady in every possible manner.”

  For a moment, she almost thought he believed her, but then he spoke.

  “Draw my blood, Megs, and I’ll let you go.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, lass. One scratch, and you’re free.”

  “Or dead.”

  He watched her for a moment. “Remind me to tell Burr he was wrong.”

  She watched him.

  “He thought you had some backbone,” Cairn explained.

  She pursed her lips.

  “Turns out your spirit is as weak as your body.”

  “I am not weak.”

  He chuckled. “I’ve seen bigger midges,” he said, “and stronger.”

  “I hope your physician is skilled,” she said, and struck.

  One hour later she was flat on her back.

  “That was better,” MacTavish said.

  She was sweaty and tired, and her breath came hard. Of course, he was lying on top of her, constricting her lungs.

  “Let me up.” Her voice sounded strange, like a feral growl. Not resembling a queen regnant in the least.

  “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “And I think I’d like to kill you.”

  He grinned. “Maybe Burr was right after all.”

  “Get off me.”

  “’Tis a strange thing. Most times nothing can touch you. Cool as a highland stream, you are. But at other times…” He pushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. “Might you have a temper, princess?”

  “No. I do not.”

  He laughed and she scowled. “You provoked me.”

  He lay half on his side, watching her face. “Have you never been provoked before?”

  She blinked.

  “Megs?”

  “Of course I have been provoked.”

  He smiled. Something twisted in her gut, low down, near her thighs.

  “Sometimes you seem so worldly-wise, so hardened by life,” he said, “and sometimes you seem like you have just awakened. Like a butterfly breaking free of its cocoon. Cool on the surface but fire underneath. Is that an act, Megs?”

  His voice was soft and when he touched her cheek, she closed her eyes. Emotions rushed in, unwanted, unacceptable. Feelings crowded thought, pushing hard.

  “If we are finished with the instruction, I would like to rise.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Let me go, MacTavish.”

  “I can’t,” he said, and kissed her.

  Her body responded like a parched flower, like a love-starved hound, like a traitor.

  She kissed him back, slipping her hand behind his neck and slanting her lips across his. His erection was hard against her thigh, and between her own legs she felt an unaccustomed need.

  He kissed her throat, then slid his hand up her body to cradle her breast and kiss the high portion. She moaned in frustrated ecstasy, writhing beneath him, and it was in that moment that he kissed her nipple. A swath of cotton lay between his lips and her breast, but her breath stopped just the same, frozen in her throat just as surely as her body froze.

  He suckled it lightly, wetting the fabric. She arched against the feelings. Breath exploded. She wrapped her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, and he gladly came. His cock throbbed against her belly. She found his lips with her own. His hands felt hot against her skin as he tore at her clothes, and she shed them gladly, for she was ablaze, burning like red embers beneath his hands. Her tunic was gone in an instant. Her breasts were free, bare, glorying in his touch. She arched her head back and moaned as he suckled her, but he was sliding lower, kissing her ribs, her belly, pushing her trousers down until his lips touched her hair.

  She froze. Reality rushed into her brain like ice water. She kicked madly, scrambling to her feet. He half fol
lowed, crouched like a snarling animal.

  “Megs!”

  “No!” She could see the outline of his erection through his pantaloons. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t?” He rose slowly to his feet.

  “Stay back.” Her voice wobbled. She was losing control, losing herself.

  He took a step toward her. Bending, she snatched the dagger from the floor. It quivered like a loosed fledgling in her hand, but she remained slightly bent, watching.

  “Do not come closer, MacTavish.”

  He scowled, baffled, and who could blame him. Her own emotions felt raw. “What’s this then?” he asked.

  “This…” She raised the blade slightly. “I am told…” He took a step forward. She took a step back. “Is a dagger.”

  “Why—”

  “You are not my husband.” The words spurted out of their own accord.

  He shook his head once. “Nay.”

  “Nor my betrothed.”

  “A moment ago that didn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters.” He advanced. She retreated. “Don’t push me, MacTavish.”

  “But it didn’t matter with Wheaton.”

  “Stay back.”

  “Or is he—” He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened. “Are you wed…”

  She stared.

  “To Wheaton?” he asked.

  “As I’ve said before, I do not know any man named Wheaton.”

  “Aye. And you have said you’ve known no man. But you lie.”

  She didn’t bother to disagree, for it took all her concentration to think, to remain steady, to stay out of his reach.

  He shook his head. “No untried maid kisses like you do.”

  “And how have you determined that, MacTavish? Have you kissed them all?”

  “You’re Wheaton’s wife,” he said.

  She laughed. “And you are insane.”

  “Then tell me the truth, lass. Tell me who you are.”

  “My name—”

  “Not Linnet Mulgrave, the widowed seamstress,” he said, and shook his head. “Spare me that tale.”

  She swallowed hard. “’Tis not a tale.”

  “Nay, ’tis a lie, lass, and I tire of it.”

  She said nothing. Indeed, she was certain she could not, for his chest was bare and so hopelessly alluring that she felt lost in feral feelings.

  “Wheaton’s wife,” he repeated. His face was expressionless, but his eyes sparked with hot emotion. “Here beneath me own roof.” He nodded and drew a deep breath. “I’ve been thoughtless, Megs.”