Lois Greiman (27 page)

“Aye, laddie, I am that. A liar and a coward if you can’t even admit your feelings.”

“I have no feelings, Burr. I would think that even someone of your limited intellect would know that.”

“Care to step up closer and say that, boy?”

He took two strides nearer but a rap at the door interrupted his foolish intentions. Which may be for the best, considering he seemed particularly suicidal just then.

“Who is it?” rumbled Burr.

“’Tis Barton,” said Peters from the far side. “Come with news.”

Burr glanced at Cairn who nodded in return. “Let him in.”

The door opened. Thomas Barton bowed, but Cairn had no time for formality.

“What is it?”

“’Tis news regarding Lord Paqual’s man,” he said. “He meets with a fellow called Stephen Bull. And there are rumors of an assassination.”

“T
he choice is the girl’s,” Burr said.

Cairn glowered. They were, once again, alone in the solar. “She’s my prisoner.”

“A prisoner you dare not risk?”

“She is my link to Wheaton.”

“Ahh, so that’s why you will not send her on another mission.”

“Aye!” rasped Cairn, and, jerking to his feet, paced again.

“We are still talking about your prisoner, aye? The one you are certain has plotted against you and Teleere. The one you refuse to set free because of her treason.”

Cairn ground his teeth. “She’s a poor choice for this mission.”

“Because she is coolheaded and bonny and gifted at languages?”

“Because she would just as soon escape as complete her task.”

“Why didn’t she do so last time then?”

“She had no opportunity.”

“And neither will she this time.”

“Can you be so certain?”

“Aye.”

Cairn hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Nay. ’Tis too dangerous.”

“So you would trust me with
your
life,” Burr mused, “but not with the life of your…prisoner. Interesting.”

“’Tis not her life that worries me but her presence. She is my only link to Wheaton.”

“Wheaton,” Burr scoffed and paced himself now. “Why not admit the truth, boy? You’ve fallen for her.”

Cairn paused by the window, leaned one shoulder up against the wall with careful casualness, and glanced at the Norseman. “How many years have we been together, Burr?”

The big man shrugged but parried the change in conversation with his usual aplomb. “Since you were naught but a bawling brat.”

“And in all that time I’ve not heard you say a more foolish thing.”

“So she means naught to you.”

“You begin to understand.”

“Then there be no reason not to use her for the good of your country, lad,” Burr said.

And though Cairn tried to think of an argument, he could not.

The situation was different now. Megs was not a barmaid. Indeed, she was dressed as a lady, for Martinez was not patronizing a wharfside dump, but a fashionable inn. And they had almost arrived at that destination.

She sat across from Cairn in the carriage. Her hair was up-swept and embellished with striped blue ribbons and a single string of pearls, but it was mostly hidden now under the satin of a sapphire cloak. Beneath her wrap, her gown was of ivory
and low enough to keep male patrons from delving too deeply into her personality. She looked entirely changed from her former role. In fact, she looked disturbingly right.

Cairn’s jaw ached. “You’ve got the knife?” he asked.

She turned toward him. Her expression was absolutely serene beneath the shelter of her hood. He found he wanted to tear it off and rip away the subterfuge. But what was subterfuge and what was truth?

“Yes.” The single word was perfectly enunciated.

He stared. Who the devil was she? Why had she lied? Was it too late to take her back to his bed? To hide her away? To take her into his arms and make love to her? She wouldn’t resist. Indeed, she would welcome the contact. He knew it every time she looked at him, every time they inadvertently touched, though she had not mentioned it since he’d left the bedchamber naked and idiotic.

“Burr showed you how to use it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Carval will be there. He is a good man and will not be recognized, for he is rarely at Westheath. There is almost no risk.”

It was true, in fact, and yet the thought of her there with those men…The memory of her at the last mission…

His teeth hurt. The carriage bumped over loose cobblestones. He glanced out the window, his mood as dark as the gathering clouds. “You don’t have to do it.”

“Burr said as much.”

Silence settled in again, but it was not his friend. “And I’ll not set you free,” he said, turning abruptly back. “Not even for your help in this.”

She stared at him. Her face was serene but there was something in her eyes, some fragment of emotion he would give his soul to delve. “Because of Wheaton?” she asked.

And the truth was right there, so close he could taste it. He
wouldn’t set her free because he couldn’t bear to have her gone. To know that he would not see her again, would not possess her hot fire, not touch her satin-smooth skin.

“Aye,” he said. “You are my only link to Wheaton.”

She glanced out the window again. The beleaguered sun had nearly set, but an errant ray shone across the rain-washed landscape, illuminating her face. And in that moment she looked like nothing more than a freshly painted oil, a dreamy artist’s rendition of a regal lady far above the concerns of the world. A princess.

“You don’t have to do it,” he repeated.

“Yes. I know.”

Beside his hip, he crunched his hand into a fist. “Then why are you?”

“You said this meeting may adversely affect relations between Teleere and Sedonia. I would do my part to keep the peace.”

Why? he wanted to ask, but just then the carriage jolted to a halt, and they had reached their destination. The footman exited his perch. His boots crunched against the gravel of the drive. From the window, Cairn watched Carval dismount. He wore strapped buff pantaloons and cutaway tails as if he were born to them.

When Cairn wore pantaloons and tails he looked like a painted penguin gone mad. In fact, he looked like a buffoon in anything more ostentatious than a plaid and a horsehair sporran.

But that didn’t mean she was too good for him. He was laird here, sovereign ruler of all Teleere. And perhaps that title alone could win her affection. There was no reason to think she was another Elizabeth. Perhaps if he admitted his feelings for her, she would reveal her own. Perhaps it was time, he thought, but in that instant, the footman opened the door, and she exited without a backward glance.

Tatiana’s heart stuttered in her chest. She laid her hand genteelly on Carval’s arm and strolled toward the inn. Once inside, she nodded with regal disregard to the host and glanced with casual disdain at the patrons.

She saw him immediately. He was the same man as before. Her countryman, Black Martinez.

The host arrived, drawing her attention. He indicated a table with a sweep of her hand, but she declined immediately. Too close to the kitchens, she said. She preferred a spot by the window. She was ushered in. Martinez tried to catch her eye as she was seated, but she pointedly ignored him. It was easy. Simple. Things she had done a million times.

She ordered her meal, exchanged a few words with Carval, and sat quietly. Martinez was still alone, and finally he rose from his chair and made the short trip to her table. Once there, he bowed. The movement made him look even shorter than he was.

“Your pardon,” he said, speaking directly to Carval. “But I believe we have met before. In Paris perhaps?”

He spoke in French. Carval looked at him blankly. Tatiana did the same, keeping her expression absolutely empty. It was so easy.

“I must be mistaken,” Martinez said, now in Gaelic, and turned toward her momentarily to flash a smile. She supposed he was a handsome man. But it was difficult for her to say. “I am Lord Martin.” He bowed again.

She didn’t smile, didn’t, in fact, respond in any way. There was great security in being wealthy and well-bred, and she used that security now.

His self-assurance faltered just a mite. “My apologies,” he said. “You look so familiar. I thought I had met you once.” He scowled slightly. “Perhaps it was in Bath.”

She pursed her lips and watched him for a moment. He
fidgeted the slightest amount. “I have never been to Bath, sir.”

“Ahh, and your…” He paused, not one to give up easily and glanced toward Carval. Boldness was in his veins. Or perhaps he had been drinking for some time before she’d arrived. “Father?” he guessed.

“I’ve not left Teleere for some years,” said Carval. “And neither has my
wife
.”

“Ahh, I see.” Martin smiled again, but a bit less lustily. “Well, then, I am sorry to disturb your meal.”

“You must be Martinez.” The words were in French again, but came from another man. The Sedonian admitted as much, and in a moment they had taken their seats.

Tatiana’s meal arrived, and she turned her gaze to it, though her attention was still fixed on the men. They sat nearly directly in front of her. She could watch them without raising her eyes.

“You’re Bull?” Martinez asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re late.”

“It looks like you’ve managed to entertain yourself.” The newcomer’s voice was blasé and quiet. He had dark, half-closed eyes, and though he was as short as Martinez, he carried himself as though he were much taller.

“I do what I can,” Martinez admitted, as the server poured his wine.

Bull lifted his glass. “It’s always nice to do so with big-chested women.”

Martinez chuckled. Tatiana kept her gaze on her meal. Was this real life then? Was this how people talked about others? Was this how people talked about her?

She didn’t blush. She never blushed. Except that once in MacTavish’s arms. That once she refused to think about.

Bull ordered his meal, then settled back in his chair and drank. “You wished to meet with me,” he said.

“Yes.” Martinez drank again and fiddled with the stem of his glass. “I need a small task done. I was told you would be able to see it completed.”

Bull shrugged, his demeanor casual. “That depends on the task.”

“Murder.”

Tatiana silently caught her breath, but not a soul turned toward the two.

“Murder is expensive,” said Bull.

“Money is plentiful.”

“Oh? And whose money would I be taking?”

Martinez smiled, drank, then lifted his chalice in a sort of offhand toast. “That is not for you to know just yet.”

The other drank also, then settled his glass back on the table and rose slowly to his feet. “Good day then,” he said and turned away, but he had not reached the next table before the Sedonian spoke again.

“It’s the bastard’s.”

Bull swiveled around, retraced his steps, and sat again. “This bastard,” he said. “Is he also a pirate?”

“Aye, some call him that.”

Bull nodded and almost smiled. “And the victim?’

“I hope you have no special feelings for women.”

The other sat, leaned back in his chair and studied the Sedonian narrowly. “They have their uses. Who is she?”

“No one of great consequence,” said Martinez. “I believe her given name is Tatiana. We’re planning a special event for her Midsummer’s journey to Bartham.”

T
atiana walked slowly back to the carriage, Carval at her side. She kept her strides carefully cadenced, her head high. She could feel her heart beating, slow and hard in her chest, keeping time with her footfalls. Her limbs felt strangely heavy, as if she were just waking from a deep dream.

A hand reached out of the darkness, snatching her arm, but she neither gasped nor spun about. Instead, she turned with slow deliberation, as if nothing held any more terror for her.

MacTavish stepped out of the darkness, his face shadowed. And in that dearth of light, she could barely recognize him. But really she had never known him.

“My lord,” Carval said, and with a quick bow, he left them.

“Megs.” MacTavish’s voice was low. “Are you well?”

It seemed almost that she could feel the blood pumping steadily through her veins, as if she could track its winding course. It fascinated her, held her entranced inside herself. Perhaps she nodded.

From the left a couple strolled by. MacTavish glanced toward them, then tightened his grip on her arm and led her toward the carriage.

It rocked slightly as she mounted the single step. Inside, a small, ornate lantern illumined the scarlet upholstery.

MacTavish’s face was sober, his blue eyes bright and intense. Gone was the laughter she usually found lurking in their depths. But then he could hardly afford to laugh. Unless he knew what she had just heard. Unless he knew all along, had set up this entire charade to teach her a lesson.

“What’s wrong?”

Her mind was rolling placidly away, digesting, ruminating. It wasn’t every day one was granted the opportunity to hear of her own assassination. And less likely still that she would then sit down beside the very man who had ordered her murder. What was the date? When was her Midsummer’s Eve? A week’s time perhaps? She’d lost track.

“Meg,” he said. His voice was sharp.

She turned slowly toward him. The hood of her dark cloak shadowed her face from the sharp glare of the lantern.

“What did you learn?” he asked.

She studied him in the flickering light. “A good deal,” she admitted quietly.

He frowned, his brows drawing downward slightly. “What was said?”

“You were right. There is to be an assassination.”

“Whose?”

The carriage lurched into motion. She didn’t respond immediately. “Tell me, MacTavish, what do you know of Princess Tatiana?”

“Tatiana?” His body was tense, his expression the same. “Of Sedonia? She’s to be assassinated?”

She almost laughed at the surprise in his voice. “I believe that’s what they said.”

“Why?”

Because he had ordered it. The pirate bastard. At least that is what they had implied. But if he had given such an order, there was no need for her to learn of their plans. He would already know them.

“You did not answer my question,” she said.

He studied her for a moment, then, “I know very little of her. She is young. Out of her depth, they say.”

She glanced out the window. The landscape was dark now, rolling by in shades of deepening gray. “Did you order her death?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Didn’t deny nor object, nor speak at all. She turned back.

If the question shocked him, he didn’t show it. “Do I seem that sort to you, Megs?”

“In truth…” She kept watching him, trying to see beneath the layers of pirate and lord to the man beyond. “Perhaps I do not know what sort you are.”

“Don’t you?”

“All I know with certainty is that you are the kind to hold an innocent against her will.”

“An innocent?” She could feel his sudden anger. “And who might that be?”

“I’ve done nothing to harm you, MacTavish.”

“Then tell me who you are.”

She laughed, though she found nothing to amuse her. “And why would I do that?”

“So you admit you’re not the good widow Linnet?”

For reasons unknown, the sound of that name sent memories swarming through her. The feel of his hands against her skin, the touch of his lips on hers. But she pulled herself back to reality, to the present, to the pain.

“Did you order her death?” she asked again.

“Why do you care?”

“Why?” She rasped the word and bent toward him, so that she leaned out of her seat into the narrow, swaying aisle. “There is to be a murder, and you think I would not care?”

“People die every day, Megs. Every minute most like. Why would this death concern you?”

“She is a princess.”

Silence fell into the coach, accented only by the quick sound of hooves on cobblestones.

“And because her blood is royal, she is more valued, more important?” he asked.

She held his gaze for several seconds, then turned abruptly away, straightening as she did so. Where her heart had been slow and steady, it raced in her chest now. “I did not say that.”

“You imply it, Megs. I but wonder why.”

“If the princess falls, the entire country may fall.”

“The country of Sedonia.”

“Yes.”

“Sedonia, filled with corruption and ill-gained wealth.”

“What do you know of Sedonia?” Her tone was deep with passion.

“Tell me, lass, who sent you here?”

“Sent me?”

“Here. To me.”

“What are you—”

“Are you a spy?” he asked, and grabbed her wrist.

“A—”

“Did they know I would be unable to resist you?” he snarled, and tightened his grip. “An unspoiled beauty with a lady’s demeanor and a whore’s passion.”

She jerked at her arm, but he did not release it. “Did you order her death?”

He smiled, but the expression was grim. “Were I to execute someone, lass, it would surely be you.”

She felt herself pale, for this was the first time the threat seemed real, close to the surface, truly possible.

He watched her eyes for a moment, then laughed. “And yet I have not. Did you not notice that, Megs? In fact, I have given you a score of opportunities to redeem yourself, to leave.”

“Then let me go now,” she whispered.

War raged in his soul. “I can’t,” he rasped.

It was her turn to laugh.

“Unless you tell me the truth. Who are you, Megs? Truly?” His grip was no longer tight, and his eyes were haunted, his voice low and deep.

There seemed to be no air in the coach, no room, nowhere to look.

“If I tell you…” She paused. Terror squeezed her lungs. He had ordered her death. But if such was the case, why did he need her to spy on his own man? It made no sense. Still, she could not trust him. He meant her harm. Maybe. But perhaps…She stared into his eyes, and for a moment it seemed almost as if she could see his very soul. Perhaps, it would be better to know the truth, better to take the chance of her own death than to live without knowing his heart. “If I share the truth, will you let me go?”

His expression didn’t change, and yet it seemed for a moment that he fought a battle with himself. “Aye, lass. I will let you go.”

“Do I have your word of honor. Your word as lord and—”

“You have me word as a man,” he gritted.

She drew a deep careful breath, glanced out the window and closed her eyes for a moment. When she glanced back, his face was unchanged, his expression hard, his eyes brittle.

“I am Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau, princess of Sedonia.”

He said nothing.

“I came here to…” She was sitting very straight, as if she were reciting poetry to a roomful of her noble cousins. “I came here on personal business.”

“Alone.”

“No. What I told you before was truth. I traveled with a single bodyguard. It was necessary for my disguise.”

“And why the disguise?”

“As I said, I was on personal business. Business I did not want my advisors privy to.”

“Surely there will be a panic at your disappearance.”

“Nicol…” She paused, realizing the utter foolishness of the ploy she’d planned with the viscount. “I put another in my place.”

“Another?”

“Someone who was trained to act the part, to pretend to be me until my return. The sojourn was to last only a few days. I was to arrive, meet an entourage told to await the arrival of an important lady, and conduct my business quickly and privately. But when we reached your shores, the wharves were chaotic. My guard left for a moment, and before he returned to my side my goods were stolen.”

Hot wax spilled down the candle, hissing at the contact with the cool brass.

“The thief was young and small,” she said. “Thus I gave chase. I realize the foolishness of that act now, but he had stolen all I had brought here. The crowd was thick and volatile. I was jostled about and finally, when I caught my wits, I was at the gallows.” She was afraid, terrified really, and yet it felt good to spill the truth. At least she would know now, would be sure of his intent toward her.

“That was when I met you?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you come here, princess?”

“I…” It felt almost as if her heart had stopped dead in her
chest as she stared at him. His heaven blue eyes, his hard-bodied strength. “My reasons remain private.”

He nodded, then glanced out the window. His eyes were thoughtful, his expression relaxed, but the cords in his neck stood out in sharp relief against his broad, sun-darkened throat. Finally, he turned back.

“I like the tale,” he said, and nodded once. “But the story about the widow virgin is still my favorite.”

Shock sluiced through her system. “You think I lie?”

He didn’t bother to answer.

“I am Princess Tatiana,” she said.

“And I am Father Christmas.”

“Damn you,” she said evenly.

“Harsh talk for a baby queen.”

“Did you order my death?” she demanded, leaning into his space.

“If I had, lassie, you would already be in the ground.”

She raised her chin a notch. “I will be leaving Teleere in the morn.”

He stared at her for a moment, then laughed in her face.

She waited for him to finish, to look at her again, for the noise to seep from the coach. “You gave me your word.”

He chuckled again. “I said you could go if you told me the truth, not if you spun yet another ridiculous tale for my entertainment.”

“Because you choose not to believe does not make my words a lie, MacTavish. I am Princess Tatiana, and I will be returning to my homeland.”

His face was absolutely sober. “Sedonia may be peopled with murderous diplomats and conniving counselors, but I hardly think they deserve to have you loosed on their hapless population.”

The world was spinning slowly around her. “So you will not release me willingly?”

“I will not release you atall—”

And in that moment she pulled the blade from beneath her skirt. She did not raise it to his throat, but slipped it straight to his groin.

“I sail for Sedonia,” she gritted, “and you will take me there, with or without your balls.”

He raised his gaze from the knife to her eyes. His brows lifted slightly. “I know you too well to think you will drive that home, Megs.”

“I am not Megs,” she ground and pressed the blade easily through the fabric of his kilt. “And you do not know me at all.”

He didn’t even flinch. In fact, the crooked corner of a smile lifted his lips as he raised his hand slowly. She watched it, expecting him to take the knife from her and wondering madly if she would have the strength to make good her threat. But he only shifted his arm out the open window to rap the landau’s hard veneer.

“Galen,” he said. “Take us to the
Fat Molly
.”

The journey seemed to last forever, but finally the carriage slowed and jarred to a halt. Tatiana’s arm felt stiff, her fingers numb from her hard hold on the knife, so she slipped her other hand into her reticule and drew out the pistol he had supplied.

He raised his brows at her. “What now, princess?”

She glanced toward the window and back. “Now we set sail.”

“Shouldn’t we have a crew of some sort?”

“I am certain your
Fat Molly
has a crew.”

“Mostly ashore and probably drunk.”

Her heart was racing. “Then you’ll have to use the men we have with us.”

The smile broadened slightly. “There’s a far cry between a soldier and a sailor. These men couldn’t—”

She cocked back the pistol’s hammer. “There’s a far cry between a pirate and a lord, too,” she said, “and yet you seem to make do.”

The door swung open. “Why—” Burr began, but at first glance his eyes widened, and his words paused for a moment.

“The lass would like to go to Sedonia,” MacTavish intoned, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Sedonia.” There was a good deal of surprise in the Norseman’s rumbled voice. “Whyever for?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Is that why she’s pointing a pistol at the royal jewels?”

“I believe so.”

Burr’s face split into a grin. “I’ve liked her from the start,” he said. “Sedonia it is.”