Lois Greiman (11 page)

“Is there no one you trust, Megan?” he asked, but before she could answer, a knock sounded at the door.

Setting the book aside, Nicol rose to his feet and disappeared into the next room. There was a murmur of voices and he reappeared, bearing an overloaded tray. Tantalizing scents drifted in Megan’s direction. She licked her lips and scooted up an inch.

His gaze dipped to her chest, and her heart seemed to stop beneath the sodden fabric, but she forced herself to think, to be smart.

“Turn your back so I can get out,” she ordered, but he shook his head.

“Relax,” he said. “I’ll feed you there.”

She was about to refuse, but Deirdre had brought more stewed pears, and he had already dipped a spoon into them. Steam curled up, spilling the scent of hot cloves and rich port into the room.

She licked her lips and felt herself weaken. “I thought ladies of quality was supposed to eat dessert last.”

“That’s true except in the case of near-fatal experiences.” Sitting with the tray in his lap, he offered her the treat.

Somewhere in her foggy brain, she was certain she should refuse. After all, what she’d said about trust was true. But he was just sitting there waiting with the spoon in his workingman’s hand, and there seemed no harm in accepting a few bites. Her mouth closed over the spoon, drawing off the sweetened fruit. He watched her lips move, watched her tongue peek out, and though she supposed she should feel self-conscious, she did not. Instead, she felt strangely flushed.

Exhaling softly, Nicol leaned back, then scowled as he opened a bottle of wine. Pouring a healthy draught into a glass, he touched it to her lips.

She drank. A droplet slipped over the rise of her lower lip, but she caught it on her tongue.

The viscount’s nostrils flared slightly as he watched her, and there was something about that expression that made her stomach feel strangely tight.

“I can feed myself.”

“Relax,” he said, and offered her more wine.

But she dared not relax any more, not when his chest was
bare and so sinfully close. Close enough to lean over and kiss. She cleared her throat and hauled her mind roughly back under control. “It ain’t like I’m chopping wood.”

“Ladies of quality generally don’t,” he said, and spooned up more pears and fed them to her. The remainder of the dessert followed, then collared eel, potato pudding, and crusty rye bread. Finally, Nicol settled back in his chair. “Have you had enough?”

Her attention strayed to his chest, but she shifted her gaze sternly away. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Is the water getting cold?”

“A bit.”

Setting the tray aside, Nicol rose to his feet, retrieved a pair of towels, and disappeared into the bedchamber.

“Come along,” he said, reappearing in the doorway. “We’d best get you out of there.”

That narrow band of bare chest winked at her again. It had been bad enough being lifted half-naked into the tub, but with his shirt open, exposing his dark skin, sprinkled as it was with a line of black hair…Her heart did something funny in her chest. “The water did the trick,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound breathless. Hoping, in fact, that she sounded perfectly normal. “I feel limber as a kitten. You can go. I’ll get out and dry meself off.”

“I’ll help you,” he said, and bent forward. The shirt gaped away from the hard hillocks of his chest. Something like panic twisted in her stomach.

“You’re going to get your shirt wet again.”

Seeming to see the logic in that, he drew back, then pulled off the garment and tossed it aside.

As sleek as stallions, muscles danced across his torso and down his belly. She pulled her gaze away with an effort, but there seemed nothing she could do to resist as he pulled her back into his arms. Water rushed from her as he raised her
from the tub, and there he held her for a moment, letting the stream turn to a rivulet and the rivulet to droplets.

“Ready?”

She nodded, and he carried her through the doorway, past the little table where the chess pieces stood at attention, and on to the stool he’d set on towels before the fire. Leaving her there, he returned to the bathing chamber, then reappeared with more towels.

“How do you feel?”

Flushed and fidgety and strangely…heavy. “Good,” she said.

“Does your head hurt?” he asked, and stroked a droplet of water from her brow.

“No.”

Running the towel over her shoulders, he watched her eyes. Beneath the towel, her strap was dragged downward. She pulled it back up as he dried her arms. “Do you feel light-headed? Dizzy?”

Yes. “No. I’m fine.”

“Any tingling in your extremities? Your fingers, toes—”

“No,” she said, and refused to mention the butterflies in her belly, the unaccustomed softness between her legs.

“Dry your torso,” he said, and handed her the towel. She stared at him.

He smiled the slightest amount. “Your breasts,” he explained.

She refused to blush, but industriously dabbed at her chest as he knelt by her feet. Retrieving another towel, he dropped it over her thighs before gently blotting them dry.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, feeling numb.

He moved lower, past the edge of her drawers and onto her left knee. Once there, he wrapped both hands around the towel and massaged his way downward. The muscles in her
calf seemed to sigh like love-smitten puppies beneath his touch.

“Does that hurt?” he asked.

“Not hardly,” she said, then realized her mistake and straightened slightly. “No,” she corrected. “You needn’t worry about me overmuch.” He was watching her with embarrassing scrutiny, as if he thought she might faint…or spontaneously combust. “I am certain I can finish the task myself.”

“You’re going to have to get over being embarrassed when people attend you,” he said.

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“You’re blushing.”

It was true. She could feel the heat in her cheeks. “’Tis naught but the warmth of the fire.”

“Very good, lass,” he said, and chuckled. She immediately bristled, but his hands drifted down her leg, easing any frayed nerves as they went. “A lady need never admit the truth.”

“Then—” she began, but at that moment he raised her foot onto his knee and massaged her toes with the towel. Indescribable pleasure surged up from her bare digits. Her jaw dropped a mite.

“Feel good?” he asked.

For one foolish moment she almost admitted the truth. Almost told him that in the entirety of her life she had never felt so blissfully pampered. But she had not survived this long by being a fool. “I fear I’m dripping on the floor.”

“Others will clean it up. You needn’t worry about such things any longer,” he said, and moved the towel to her right leg. His progress there was even slower, even more thorough, even more magical as he massaged and eased his way down to her toes. Once again he propped her foot onto the hard muscles of his leg, and once again she felt the heat of his
flesh permeate her sole and radiate upward. Every toe was dried individually, as if each digit were precious, as if she indeed were someone to be pampered and nurtured. As if he adored her.

“Time to get out of those clothes,” he said.

His sable hair shone in the flickering firelight, and his teeth gleamed against the dark hue of his skin.

“Megan?”

She snapped out of her reverie, trying not to jump. “What?”

“You’d best don your nightgown now, before you catch a chill.”

A chill. She felt dangerously warm, as if the fire were inside her very body, but she nodded. Rising to his knees, he put his hands to the laces of her drawers.

Her mind jerked into action just as her fingers caught his wrist. “Nay!” The word was a bit sharper than she’d intended, so she cleared her throat and did her best to calm her jumping nerves. “I’ll do that.”

His expression was somber, but he drew his hands away, holding her fingers in his own. “I’ll not take advantage of you, lass, if that is your fear.”

She watched his lips move and wondered with horrific longing what it would feel like to press her mouth to his.

“Lass?”

She swallowed hard and pressed a towel to her chest. “Ladies should surely not allow themselves to be…” It was strangely difficult to breathe. “Handled.”

“On the contrary,” he said, and gently massaged her palm with his thumb. The simple movement felt idiotically wonderful. “Ladies are as pampered and curried as prize steeds.” Retrieving a teardrop-shaped bottle from a small table nearby, he poured a few drops of oil onto her palm and smoothed it up her fingers. Pleasure oozed onto her wrist as
he massaged circles over her skin. She felt as limp and foolish as a doll of rags, but in a moment he released her hand. She tried to straighten, to regain her senses, but he had already captured her other wrist.

The oil felt cool against her palm, his hands large and strong against her fingers. She shivered.

“Here now,” he said, and rose with fluid grace to his feet. “We must get you out of those drawers before you catch your death.” His hands were on her laces again, but there was nothing she could do to stop him. Even when he tugged the cotton down over her breasts, she did naught but raise her gaze to his. Their eyes met and for one prolonged moment, all was almost lost, but he rose abruptly to his feet.

“Can you stand?”

She did so without conscious thought, and he peeled the damp fabric downward.

They stood so close it seemed she could feel heat radiating from his bare chest, could feel the very thoughts in his head. His hands stilled on her hips, his eyes seemed to dilate. Tension was wound like a clock in her belly, and there was nothing she could do. Nothing, but close her eyes as he leaned toward her.

But in a moment he drew away. Warmth went with him. Pleasure vanished like hot steam. His footsteps rapped against the hardwood floor. She opened her eyes, blinking like an owlet as she turned to watch him. But in a moment, he turned back to her, nightgown in hand. Scrunching the garment in his fists, he tugged it unceremoniously over her head. She remained unmoving, staring at him.

“Lift your arms.”

She only blinked.

“Megan,” he said, but there was a strange note in his voice. “For God’s sake lift your arms.”

She raised her arms like one in a trance, and he drew the garment down over her body.

For a moment he remained where he was, then he stepped abruptly backward. “Get into bed,” he said, and turned toward the bathing chamber. “I’ll return in a moment.”

He closed the door behind him. The lock dropped into place, and with that noise, her mind clicked into gear.

She had fallen into his trap, had fallen under his spell. Aye, she wanted him, longed for his touch, and he knew it. Indeed, he had most certainly planned it. After all, she was naught but a poor barmaid, unaccustomed to the attentions of the highborn. Surely she would be swept off her feet by his charms. Surely she would do his bidding.

But he was wrong. Regardless of the promised coins, she could not remain here. The cost was too dear, for when one lost her heart one lost everything.

Pulling a hank of horsehair from the pocket of her gown, she gazed at the flaxen locks. It wasn’t too late. Indeed, it was just the right time.

N
icol stepped back into the bedchamber. The fire had died down to naught but embers, casting the room into near darkness. But it was no darker than his mood. He’d wanted to saddle Croft and ride, to feel the bite of the wind against his skin and drive away his own idiotic desires, but that was out of the question, for he had work to do. So he had remained in the hallway, pacing silently, willing the urgency to ebb from his system as he waited for her to fall asleep, waited for the return of his own self-control. He thought he had recaptured that control, but already he felt tense and awkward, as fidgety as an untried lad as he glanced at the bed.

Lying on her side, facing the opposite wall, she barely made a bulge beneath the covers. But the fact that he could not see her made little difference, for he could remember each delicate curve, had memorized every inch of satiny skin. Now, however, there was nothing to see but a lock of golden hair that curled across the pillow. Perhaps he should tuck it in with its gleaming mates. Perhaps he should make
certain she was well. Perhaps he should kiss her…He fisted his hands and strode to the opposite side of the room.

It took him only a moment to make certain the bathing chamber remained locked, only a second more to move his chair into its nocturnal position in front of the door.

Settling himself into it, he closed his eyes and refused to see the girl in his mind. Refused to see her ready smile. Refused to recognize her charming awe as she read aloud. Refused to feel her skin, soft as moonlight beneath his hands.

Damnation, he thought, and closed his eyes. Since he’d met her he’d spent every night in purgatory, but tonight he’d reside in hell.

When dawn came after an eternity or so, Nicol rose to his feet. He felt stiff and old and out of sorts, but things were clearer this morning. Time was fleeting. Regardless of the girl’s injuries, they would have to accelerate her lessons. She had a quick mind and a clever tongue, but proper speech was hardly ingrained. After only a few mild drinks she had been talking like a fishwife. Anna could drink her weight in hard whisky and not slur a single syllable. And she would never become tongue-tied as Megan had. Never would she allow a man to touch her as he had, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers. Never would she gaze at him with those lush field-green eyes or let him think there was nothing she wanted more than to kiss him.

Well-worn memories of the night before stormed through his mind. Her parted lips, her velvet skin, her—

Dammit! He stormed around the bed to awaken her.

But he knew the moment he touched the coverlet. She was gone. He threw back the blankets, but found nothing more than flaxen locks of horse tails stretched across her pillow. Throwing them aside, he wildly searched the room. But nothing was out of place. Nothing…except the rough-
hewn chess pieces. He skimmed the board. And sure enough—she’d taken his queen—and won the match.

Megan slipped off the horse’s back in the predawn darkness. The gray gelding stood placidly as she dragged her bag of goodies down with her. She would have liked to take one of the viscount’s mounts, but after the episode with the hastily cropped tail and the bruised leg, she’d decided to concentrate on a quieter animal. Still, horseback riding had turned out to be quite elemental. Her style might not have been masterful, but once she’d clambered aboard, she had found a means of steering the animal down the snow-covered road and into the nearest village.

She’d forgotten her gloves inside the house and had been far too nervous to go back for them, but what she lacked in handwear she more than made up for in other garments. In fact, she wore so many layers that she had been certain she would never be able to mount the stolid gray. But once that she’d reached her destination, the next order of business was clear. She’d sell the extra garments, make certain the gelding was returned to the kindly inhabitants of Woodlea, and return posthaste to Somershire. Not that she could remain there. No. That city was no longer safe for her, but she must remove her hidden cache before she made herself a new persona and put the viscount of Newburn behind her forever.

The winds had been favorable and the captain kind. Megan told him there was distressing news from her sister in Portshaven and with her elegant, newfound speech and costly cape, he had believed her to be a fair lady in distress. The journey to Teleere had cost her little either in time or in money. She had even managed to tuck a bit of brown bread into her reticule, but as she left the docks, the sun was already setting. She could afford to rent a carriage to take her to the
Lion’s Share, but she would not. She would not even take the longer route around the edge of the city. Instead, she would cut straight through. Though the route was more dangerous, she knew how to step light, where to be cautious and where to be bold. This night called for boldness, for she did not know the viscount’s whereabouts.

Perhaps he had already forgotten about her. Perhaps he had moved on. But something told her he was searching for her. A shiver ran up her spine. She increased her pace and glanced over her shoulder, but all was well. The inn where she’d worked was just ahead. Most probably old Fig had hired someone new. Perhaps he had even lent out the tiny cubicle she had called home. But it didn’t matter. She would find a way in, and she would retrieve her money. It was entirely possible Fig had already sold her clothes, but they were of little value. Only the coins mattered.

The inn was dark when she arrived there, but that was just as well. She could easily find the tiny window of her undersized room, could just as easily slip inside. It was one of the reasons she had insisted on having it for her own. She could fit and few others could.

Pressing her back up against the rough plaster of the inn, she waited, listening to the darkness. Somewhere far off a dog barked, ending in a plaintive howl, but when the noise died down no other sound could be heard. Dropping to her knees, she slunk forward and peered through the window. The moon was bright and shone helpfully through the narrow pane. By the silvery light she could see that the bed was unmade. The blankets were thrown back, revealing the stark white of her bedsheets.

She breathed a sigh of relief and set to work. It only took her a few minutes to pry the window open, less time still to slip, silent as a wraith, into the room. Her feet made barely a whisper when they touched the floor. Even in the darkness it
was simple enough for her to slip under the bed to the loose floorboard. Easing it up, she groped breathlessly inside the hole. Her fingers touched cold earth, rough wood, empty air.

She patted more rapidly, her heart rate bumping up. No. It couldn’t be gone. It couldn’t!

Scrambling backward, she rose to her feet and prepared to push the bed aside, but in that moment a shadow rose from the darkness.

“Magical Megs,” said the viscount.

She croaked something, her throat too constricted to manage more, and in the darkness she saw him grin.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“What the ’ell are ye doing ’ere?” she rasped, and his smile brightened.

“I’ve come to retrieve my queen.”

Although they traveled on a different ship, the journey seemed much the same as the first one they’d shared. Megan faced the viscount across the narrow cabin. He had barely spoken a word up to this point, and she hadn’t missed the dialogue. Judging by the dark silence, she guessed his mood to be less than jovial.

“We made a bargain, Megan,” he said.

She said nothing. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. His manner was still refined, his clothing still elegant, but there was something dangerous in his expression.

She shrugged, remembering he’d told her not to do so. Remembering exactly how he’d told her to speak. It gave her a glowing satisfaction to do the opposite. “Could be I didn’t like the terms none.”

“The terms!” He tightened a fist, then loosened it and took a deep breath. “You didn’t like being treated like a princess? Didn’t like—”

“I didn’t like being…” She searched rather frantically for
the right words. His hands had felt like magic against her skin. Like bewitching, bewildering magic and she knew far better than to trust to such sleight of hand. “Abused!” she said, but he scoffed.

“I am the one who has been abused.”

“You—”

“Lied to. Stolen from, wounded,” he said, snarling the words into her face.

She licked her lips. He watched the movement, then leaned back, seeming to fight his own emotions.

“The chimney.”

“What?”

“You went up the chimney, didn’t you?”

She said nothing.

Reaching out, he grabbed her wrist. She tried to yank it away, but he held tight, then turned it over to glare at the palm. “You burned your hands.”

“Just a bit.”

He stared at her for several seconds, then dropped her hand and turned away with a curse. She watched his back, her own emotions tumbling like storm clouds.

“And the hair on your pillow—it was from Croft’s tail. You
stole
Croft’s tail.”

Again, she kept silent, and in the stillness she heard him draw another slow breath.

“Did I hurt you, Megan?” he asked, not quite looking over his shoulder.

A shock of dark hair fell across his brow, making him look strangely vulnerable. For just a moment she was almost tempted to smooth it aside, to apologize, to take him in her arms, but she was not so foolish as she been some nights ago. Nor so drunk.

“Did I?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Did I starve you?”

“Nay.”

“Nay,” he repeated and turned toward her. “I kept you carefully and fed you well. I trained you…” He paused for a moment as if unable to go on. “I taught you to read and—”

“Why?” Her own voice was low, her emotions wild, making her forget her rough accent. “Why did you do those things? So that I could become like your precious Anna? So that you could look at me and pretend I was she. So I could be a poor substitute?”

He had opened his mouth to speak, but now he closed it. Rarely had she seen surprise on his face, but there was surprise there now.

“Is that what you believe?”

She stared at him, speechless for a moment before throwing up her hands. “How the hell would I know what to believe? You tell me nothing. You abduct me. You threaten me. You—”

“I need you to impersonate the princess of Sedonia.”

The world went absolutely silent. She blinked, tried to formulate a question, and blinked again. “What?”

“Princess Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau.”

She waited for more as her mind stormed along at breakneck speed. “The princess,” she breathed. The irony of the situation was not lost on her. The princess of Sedonia needed a nameless thief’s help. The old king’s rightful heiress needed…Megan almost laughed. “She’s your Anna?”

He nodded once. “Yes. She needs to leave the country, but she cannot abandon her throne.”

Megan drew a deep breath, thoughts racing wildly. “Because of Paqual.”

He cocked one brow at her, as if in concession to her quick realization, but didn’t respond.

“Where’s she going?” she asked.

“That is none of your concern.”

She scowled, her mind racing. “You expect me to leave my homeland, to endure your tutelage, to risk my very life, and you think ’tis none of me own concern!”

The world went quiet again, then, “She will be sailing for Teleere.”

“Here? Why?”

“She wishes to speak to the laird of the isle.”

“Laird MacTavish?” she asked, but he shook his head.

“I’ve told you too much al—”

“For a husband,” she said, understanding dawning with clarity. “She wants him to be her husband.”

“What makes you think so?” he asked.

She grinned. “Because he’s the man I’d marry.”

His eyebrow jerked abruptly. “Really?”

“He’s not some pampered lord afraid to get his hands dirty.” He gave her a look that seemed to assume she was referring to him. “They say he was a pirate before he became laird.” She hadn’t known that when she’d stolen his brooch. She had thought, in fact, that he was simply another spoiled nobleman. The truth had caused her some consternation. Enough, in fact, that she had kept the brooch hidden away until she decided what to do about it. She didn’t normally steal from commoners. “They say he’s a bastard.” Perhaps it was that bond between Teleere’s laird and herself that had kept her from fencing the brooch. But perhaps there were other reasons. She had seen the man’s face, after all.

“You think the fact that he’s a bastard makes it likely that the princess would wish to wed him?”

There was a strange intensity to his expression. An intensity she could not understand. So she shrugged.

“That,” she said, “and the fact that he’s the handsomest man in all Christendom.”

He was silent for a moment as he settled his shoulder against the cabin wall. “So you’ve seen them all?”

She cocked a brow at his odd tone. “I’ve seen enough to know the good from the bad.”

“I hate to disappoint you,” he said, “but Princess Tatiana puts little stock in physical appearances.

“Then maybe she’s interested in him because she thinks he’s the one who can stand up to Paqual and his friends. Though there are some who aren’t thrilled that he rules Teleere,” she said.

“Such as?”

“I’m told the old laird had a nephew that resents him.”

Nicol drew a careful breath through his nostrils, and in that moment Megan was certain this was not news to the viscount. “I wouldn’t have thought you the type to follow politics, lass.”

Maybe she had said too much, had given too much away, but she shrugged, hoping to look nonchalant. “Just because I don’t have a grand title doesn’t mean I’m ignorant.”

“’Tis good to know,” he said, and that cool expression was back. She scowled a little, wondering what was brewing in his head.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” she asked. “She hopes to marry MacTavish and form a bond between her country and his.”

His eyes were half-closed. “If I say yes, will you help her?”