Lois Greiman (6 page)

Her body jerked at the unaccustomed contact. “Cease,” she commanded.

He raised his gaze to hers as if worried. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She sharpened her scowl. Her heart was beating overtime, and her breath was coming fast. Faster even than when he had threatened her. “Unhand me or you shall surely rue the day.”

“Rue the day.” He smiled at that. “You speak very well, for a murderous thief,” he said, and kissed the bend of her elbow.

“Desist, MacTavish, or you shall regret your actions.”

“I have many regrets,” he said, and when he raised his gaze to hers, it seemed almost that she could see them there, shadowed by a veil of bravado, but still visible. “I doubt if touching you will be amongst the worst of them.”

She stared into his eyes, trying to read his thoughts, trying to discern the regrets, but in that moment he grinned, laughing at her attempts. She yanked at her hand, but it was an exercise in futility, for he held it fast.

“Release me,” she breathed.

He smiled. “I only wish to make certain you are unhurt.”

“Then mayhap you should not have thrown me into prison with a pair of degenerate rapists.”

Something snapped in his eyes again. “Surely you’ve been in worse places.”

His hand was easing up her arm toward her shoulder.

“Let go of me.”

“Does that hurt?” He squeezed her upper arm gently. She scowled.

“You are making a horrible mistake.”

He skimmed his hand over her shoulder. “All is well here?”

“You do not know who you are dealing with, MacTavish.”

Turning his hand slightly, he brushed his knuckles along her collarbone. “I believe you said your name was Linnet Mulrooney.”

“Mulgrave,” she corrected, but his knuckles were inching downward, sapping her strength. They skimmed as slow as sunrise over her bodice, not detouring an inch as they slipped over her nipple.

“Nothing amiss there?”

She stilled a shiver. “Let me go now, and I’ll not seek retribution.”

He smiled. Something knotted in her gut. “Tell me, lass, who would do the retributing?” he asked and laying his hand flat, pressed it gently down her ribs.

“
Retributing
is not a proper word.”

His smile remained. No, she did not care about a man’s
looks, but his smile did unfathomable things to her insides.

“How would you seek revenge, wee Megs?”

“I have friends.”

“Any not wanted for murder and rape?”

“You are not the one to speak of rape,” she said.

His eyes darkened, but finally he nodded. “You’re right. I am surely not above a little rape. Still, I should have known better than to send such a fragile thing into a den of…” He paused. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “…miscreants.”

“
Miscreants
. ’Tis a pitiably weak word for the beasts I endured.” His hand skimmed over her hip and onto her thigh.

“He who wastes not, wants not. I’m saving my best words.”

He was tugging at her skirts, lifting them up her leg, baring her shins, her knees. She stared at the progress, then raised an imperious brow. She could do so, she knew, without a single wrinkle showing in her forehead. Nicol had dubbed it the ice princess glare. “If you hope to frighten me, MacTavish, you will be sorely disappointed, for I fear I’ve endured far worse than you.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, and, wrapping his hands around her ankle, eased them up her leg. “But nay, sweet Megs, I don’t mean to frighten you.”

She held her breath as his fingers squeezed up her knee.

“Any pain there?”

“What is your intent?”

He smiled. “You may be a murderous thief, Megs, but you are a bonny murderous thief, and I am currently without a mistress.”

She felt her body go momentarily numb, and though she ordered herself to remain still, to withstand his ministrations, she could not. Instead, she jerked her knees up to her chest, slapping her skirts down below her feet as she did so.

“I will never lie with you!” she hissed.

He watched her in silence, like a spider might watch its slowly suffocating prey. “To me or with me?” he asked.

She glared, and he laughed.

“It will not be so hideous,” he assured her. “You may even enjoy it.” He reached for her again, but she scrunched against the rowan wood head of the garish bed, trying to control her breathing, to keep her expression impassive.

“This I can promise you.” She raised her chin. “I shall never enjoy it. Not with you, MacTavish.”

“Not like you did with Wheaton.”

She stared, her mind churning madly in her head.

A muscle ticked near his mouth. “Tell me what magic Wheaton possesses then, lass. Perhaps I can learn from his expertise and pleasure you against all odds.”

She sat frozen in place. His eyes smoldered with anger, but when he lowered his gaze to her breasts, there was a new light in their depths.

“Tell me, Megs, do you cherish him so very much? Or do you give him all because of fear?”

“Let me go.” Her voice sounded deceptively calm, though her heart was thundering like wild horses in her chest, and her breath came hard.

“So that you can return to him?” He shook his head. “I think I’ll keep you here, and maybe, if he cares half so much for you as you for him…” Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to her throat. Feelings sparked like summer lightning, branching away on frayed electrical currents. “Maybe he will come for you.”

“MacTavish.” Her voice wavered now. “Do not be a fool.” He kissed her again, in the hollow of her throat. She swallowed hard. Did a man’s touch always elicit such feelings? “Save yourself.”

“From Wheaton?”

“From me.”

He straightened slightly. They were inches apart, his gaze absolutely steady on hers. Her limbs felt weak, but she was in a tight spot. It couldn’t be the effects of his nearness.

“There are many things I should save myself from, wee lass,” he breathed, and skimmed a finger along the edge of her collarbone. “But I don’t think I care to save myself from you,” he said, and bent to kiss her neck.

She jerked away and skittered off the bed. “Then you are a fool.”

He descended the mattress and stalked after her, his strides smooth. He resembled nothing more than a tawny cat, sleek, confident, undeterred.

“Tell me, Megs, are you worried what Wheaton will do if he learns you’ve been in my bed?”

She was nearing the door. Perhaps if she could make it through, Burr would be there and maybe…

But in that moment MacTavish leapt. She shrieked and darted, but he caught her by the arm and spun her about. They were chest to chest, thigh to thigh. She could feel the tight expanse of his body against hers, and there, in the middle of his being, the hard evidence of his desire was impossible to mistake. Even the highest-born lady knew something of men.

Fear choked her. She pushed on his chest. “Nay.” The word was weak, pathetic, her strength the same.

“You must pay your debts,” he said. “Here or in the dungeon. Surely one night in my bed would be preferable to a lifetime in Pikeshead.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Hoary disagrees,” he said, and, bending his head, kissed the high flesh of her breast.

She gasped. He smiled. The door flew open.

“My lord!”

Her gaze darted across the room. A stranger stood there. He was immaculately dressed in dark waistcoat and tight pantaloons. He was as thin as a spindle and as small as an elf.

MacTavish didn’t turn, didn’t loosen his grip, but he spoke, nevertheless. “Sir Albert,” he said. His tone was weary.

“My lord,” he said again, his tone tight with disapproval, “tell me ’tis not so.”

She felt his grip loosen the slightest degree. He turned with a scowl. “I thought you were in Paris.”

“I have returned, and just in the nick of time, it seems.” He lisped slightly, and his lined face was pinched.

“That’d be yer opinion.”

“That
would
be
your
opinion,” Albert corrected, tight-lipped. “If it cannot be said correctly, it should not be said at all.”

“What do you want, Bert?”

The little man drew himself even straighter. His height barely exceeded her own. “You cannot keep this”—his gaze skimmed her—“woman…” She had felt a host of emotions emanating toward her throughout the years—jealousy, avarice, hope. But never had she felt such utter disdain. “…in your chambers.”

“Aye,” MacTavish disagreed, but he had released her entirely now. “I can.”

She wouldn’t have thought the little man’s back could possibly get straighter. “Then pray, what is my purpose here?”

“I’ve wondered that meself.” MacTavish’s language was deteriorating by the minute. A strange thing.

“How will it look if word of this becomes loosed?”

She could almost feel MacTavish sigh. “How will what look?”

“The mighty lord of Teleere with…” He indicated her
with a sweep of a soft, long-fingered hand. “Her!” He couldn’t have sounded more disapproving if his master had been found abed with two sheep and a handful of snails. “Really, my lord!”

MacTavish rubbed his eyes, but perhaps there was the hint of humor quirking his lips now. “So you’ve heard of her, Bert?”

“Yes.” He didn’t sniff, but he might have just as well. “Lieutenant Peters informed me of her presence.”

“Did he say he put her in Pikeshead?” There was something in his tone she could not quite decipher.

“My lord…” The little man’s voice had lowered to little more than a whisper, as though he barely dared to say the words. “You should not have gone there yourself.”

“To Pikeshead.”

“You must think about your reputation. Your safety.”

He smiled. “Aye, I’ll have to do that.”

“You think I jest.”

“No. I’m sure you don’t.”

“Your father—”

“Was a true gentleman,” MacTavish finished.

The little man nodded. “And not one to take in…” He paused as if he had no wish to offend her, but his expression did that for him. “If one has…” He paused again as if searching for the perfect words. “If one has
needs
one should keep himself to himself.”

MacTavish’s smile widened. “I’m sure you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

The little man actually blushed.

“This is not a matter lightly taken.”

“I’ve rarely taken sex lightly.”

Sir Albert drew himself even straighter. He had a beard, neatly trimmed. Even that seemed affronted. “If you hope to shock me, you will be sorely disappointed, my lord.”

MacTavish laughed out loud. “And if you hope to discourage me from bedding who I will, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“She’s not the proper sort.”

“I’ve always liked the improper sort, Bert.”

He pursed his lips. “So you’ve no wish for an heir, my lord?”

MacTavish scowled. “I doubt that bedding the girl will make a difference on that front.”

“You think a proper heiress will want you after you’ve soiled yourself on her.”

“Aye. I think a proper heiress will want my money regardless.”

“So jaded, my lord.” He sniffed sadly. “It pains me to hear it.”

“Damn.” He sounded immensely tired suddenly. “Have you come here for a reason, Bert?”

“What of disease?”

“What?”

“Look at her. The wastrel of the streets. Might you believe that she’s kept herself pure?”

MacTavish glanced at her. She stared back. “I hope not.”

“’Tis not a laughing matter, my lord. Aye, she may be comely enough to look at if you’ve a weakness for that sort…” Again she imagined a sniff. “But is she worth the loss of an heir?”

MacTavish opened his mouth, but Albert hurried on.

“’Tis said it falls off.”

“What?”

Sir Albert’s face was beyond red now, beaming like the inner core of a blacksmith’s fire. “Your…” He cleared his throat. “Your most private parts.”

“They can fall off?”

He pulled back his shoulders. “I have heard it said. Surely, you do not wish for that.”

“No.” MacTavish shook his head slowly. “No I don’t.”

“Then think long and hard, my lord. Think what you’ve accomplished since coming to this isle. How much more might you achieve if you keep your head.”

Perhaps there was something of a pun there, for MacTavish smiled ruefully.

“Aye, I’d like to keep my head.”

“Then send her back to the dungeon. ’Tis surely where she belongs. Forget this foolishness with Lord Wheaton. It can only cause you grief.”

Burr stepped into the doorway. “Bert,” he said, toasting the other with a spiced custard he held in his gigantic hand. Part of it toppled down his vest and rolled to the floor. “You’re back from old Parree, aye?”

Sir Albert turned slowly. Rarely had she seen more disdain on a man’s face, not even when he’d looked at her. “Aye.” He bowed his head slightly. “I have returned from Paris.”

“The lads there are a lively lot, I hear.”

The tiny man’s thin lips pursed. “Was it your idea to bring the chit here?” he asked.

“The chit?” asked Burr, then nodded. “You mean Magical Megs, here? Nay. It wasn’t me own idea. She swooned all pretty at Cairn’s feet. The lad thought of it himself. You can hardly blame him for taking her to his bed.” He paused, looking Sir Albert up and down. “Or maybe you can.”

The room fell silent.

“She should be returned to Pikeshead.”

“Pikeshead? The lass be too clever to stay there for long.” Something flashed in Burr’s eyes. “Besides, the place is crawling with murderers and sodomizers. Surely you wouldn’t
wish that on your worst enemy.” His gaze sharpened. “Maybe your best friend, but—”

“You go too far!” Albert’s voice shook.

“Leave the lass alone. She’s done you no harm.”

“If she harms my lord MacTavish, she harms—”

“What do you think she’s likely to do, the wee slip of a thing? Wrestle him to the ground and have her way with him?”

“I know her type.”

“I rather doubt it.”

“She deserves to be hanged.”

“Have you nothing better to worry on, Bert? Napoleon invades Russia. England’s regent is a fool, and trouble brews in Sedonia, threatening to bubble over on Teleere itself. But you are worried that the lad here might find himself a bonny lass, dashing your hopes for—”