Lois Greiman (23 page)

“I don’t,” she admitted, then forced a smile. “But judging by your actions, I have little to worry about.”

He caught her arm. “What the devil does that mean?”

“Peter.” She glanced up. Will released her arm with a hard effort. “Set out the crockery. We shall dine shortly.”

Peter bumbled noisily through the kitchen, but if he had noticed anything untoward, he made no comment. Instead, he whistled between his teeth, balancing an ungainly load of dishes on his way to the dining area.

Will watched Shandria, aching to loose his questions, to hear the answers, but Jack’s reappearance distracted her, then she checked the puffs and removed the fat crock from the pot with a rag and hustled Peter off to fetch the cider, until finally the meal was placed on the table and the “family” was gathered around. She surveyed the steaming dishes as she took her own seat.

Jack reached for the basket of puffs, but Shandria cleared her throat, and the boy drew his hand slowly back. A glimmer of amusement passed between them. “We have a guest,” she said, and glanced at the Scotsman, who’d just eased himself into a chair. Gem had found him a clean shirt, but the sleeves had been made for a lesser man and ended several inches short of his broad-boned wrists. His knuckles were scraped, and his face was still swollen and distorted.

But the lady of the house seemed oblivious to every dis
concerting element, as if she’d carved out this precious moment and would not let it be ruined. “What shall we call you, sir?” she asked.

The giant turned to her, his eyes as steady as the earth. “The lad called me Uncle,” he said finally.

“Uncle it is then.” She nodded, still meeting his gaze full on. “Jack, pass the eggs, if you please.”

And so the breakfast began. There were no threats, no bullying. Indeed, there was not so much as belligerent silence or poor manners.

Peter sighed as he opened the potbellied crock and spread warmed honey onto his steaming puff. He tasted the first bite, closed his eyes ecstatically, and said, “Thank you, Gemini.”

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

“And that’s why I’m thankin’ ya,” he admitted, and took another blissful bite.

“I can cook if I ’ave to,” she said, skimmed her eyes restlessly to the Scot, then tasted her buttered eggs and brightened. “Just thank God I didn’t ’ave to.”

There were snickers and sighs. Will watched Jack dig into his eggs. The boy felt his gaze and lifted his eyes, then fell back to his meal.

Will thoughtfully tasted the puffy biscuit. It melted dreamily in his mouth as he skimmed those who surrounded the table. A gray-bandaged stranger who was not what he seemed. A fox-faced girl with quicksilver hands. A lad he himself had tried and failed to tame. A young thief who provoked trouble but protected all. And himself—perhaps the biggest fraud of all. He shifted his attention to the woman at the head of the table and felt his breath bind in his chest.

The princess thief. She was leaning toward Peter,
speaking softly. The young man laughed and glanced at Gemini.

“I asked her to see to it,” he said. “but she seemed mightily distracted this morn.”

The girl pulled her gaze from the Scot and scowled. “I weren’t distracted.” But her face was flushed again. “I ’ad a busy morning is all.”

“And it would have been busier still if she’d a had her way,” Peter murmured, and twitched his brows at his own lascivious meaning.

“What’s that?” Gem asked.

“Nothing. ’Tis naught.” He grinned as he helped himself to another biscuit. “I just never seen you so…busy,” he said, and shifted his gaze from one person to the next. Jack’s eyes gleamed, and Shandria almost smiled, but the Highlander glowered, his head slightly bent, his huge hands curled like mallets upon the table.

Peter’s visual trip around the table came to a jolting halt. “No offense, Uncle,” he said.

The narrow eyes held Peter like a vise. “I’m not forgetting what you’ve done for me with the Ox, laddie. But you’ll be showing the lady your respect, or we’ll be speaking more about it out-of-doors.”

“Lady?” Peter’s brows were hidden somewhere in his hairline. “You mean Gemini?”

The big man’s brows lowered another quarter inch. “I owe her me life.”

Pete flicked his gaze to the girl and back. “Aye aye. That you do,” he agreed, then, keeping a perfectly straight face, added, “and I’m thinking she’s ready to collect your gratitude.”

Jack snickered, but the Scotsman straightened with careful slowness. Peter tensed. Jack’s eyes grew wide, and Shandria spoke.

“Poke’s gone.” Her voice broke the freezing tension. “Ox is otherwise occupied.” She speared Peter with her silvery gaze, then shifted her attention to their guest. “There will be peace at this table.”

Their gazes met and held. The Highlander nodded solemnly, and Peter fell to his meal, happy as a pup.

“Pass round the cider,” Jack requested.

Peter quipped, the others laughed, and Will watched.

So this was it then. This was what it was like to have a family. Squabbles, teasing, friendship, peace. How had she managed it, when, never in his life had he found that same harmony even with his own kin? How was it that she could forget the bad, sift out the evil, and find this little corner of happiness?

He looked across the table at her. If he tried, if he really worked at it, he could almost pretend they were together. She was the lady of the house. He was her husband. Their brood sat between them. And tonight, when all was quiet, they would retire together. He would take her to his bed and touch her skin. Her gown would fall away…

“You look a bit flushed, Slate,” Gem said. “Everything right with you?”

Yanking himself from his dreams, Will twisted his head toward Gem. The table had gone quiet. Every face was turned toward him.

“Aye,” he said, but everything wasn’t right and wouldn’t be so long as Shandria was in danger.

She was light and hope and happiness. And she needed him. His heart ached with the thought. She was his redemption. Aye, she was strong, but so was he. Now. Because of her. And he would take her away, keep her safe, make her smile, for nothing would be right until she was happy. Indeed, nothing would be right until she was
his—in his life, his arms, his bed, with her silvery eyes closed and her ivory breasts—

Someone cleared his throat.

Will glanced about the table. Five pairs of eyes still watched him.

Dammit, he thought. Family life was hell.

T
he house was quiet. William cataloged the occupants in his mind. He knew where each one was. Except Poke. Where the devil had he gone? He hadn’t yet returned to the Den. Had he? It was difficult to be sure, for each thief seemed quieter than the last, and only the foxy ears of Darktowne’s own denizens seemed able to detect the movements of the others. Still, Will was certain Princess was alone in her bedchamber. But of course he couldn’t go there. He would have to be insane. Poke could return at any moment, and there were guards. Though the place seemed quiet, peaceful almost, he knew the house was surrounded. The neighborhood was watched. Indeed all of Darktowne was under close scrutiny. Perhaps the same could be said about the entirety of Skilan.

If Poke’s men heard of Will’s treason, if they even suspected, Poke would soon know, too.

And yet Will found himself in the middle of the hall. He had to talk to her, for he was losing his mind. He could think of nothing else, not his reason for coming, not his own safety. She burned in his thoughts like a beacon of hope, but what did he know of her really? Had he become one of those doe-eyed, passionate fools he had
always detested? Yes, he burned for her, but was there any reason to believe she shared his feelings? Perhaps she was truly in love with Poke. She stayed with him, after all, which could only mean that Will was insane even to consider what he was considering.

Disgusted and grindingly frustrated, Will determined to return to his bed, but he found, with some surprise, that he had already arrived at her door.

A floorboard creaked quietly under his bare feet. Will’s heart thrummed heavy in his chest. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Poke was with her even now, and yet he reached for the latch. His arms felt strangely wooden. The ancient house groaned somewhere far off, bumping up his heart rate. But no one spoke. No ogres materialized from beneath the carpet, no demons slipped from the shadows.

A prayer sighed through Will’s mind as he turned the latch. It ground beneath his hand. He gritted his teeth against the sound and stepped inside. The room was dark. The fire had burned to embers and cast dwarfed, flickering shadows across the foot of the bed, but granted little light upon the mattress. William squinted into the darkness, trying to see. One person or two? It was impossible to tell. The blankets were scattered and pulled over the pillows.

“Amazing,” a voice said.

Will twisted about. An apparition stood beside the door. He almost jerked back, but in that instant he recognized her. Shandria, slim as a reed and absolutely serene as she stepped away from the wall. The stark whiteness of her nightrail seemed to mock him suddenly.

“I didn’t believe you could become more foolish,” she said, “or louder. You’ve surprised me yet again.”

He steadied his heart and forced a shrug. “Life can be
so dull. It’s nice to be surprised from time to time, don’t you agree?”

“No. I don’t,” she said, and crossed the floor to the hearth. He noticed that she held a poker in her hand and prodded the glowing faggots with the sharp, black metal. “Why are you sneaking about the house?”

What the devil
was
he doing there? he wondered wildly, but he kept his tone flippant. “Are you saying you heard me coming?”

“I heard you think about getting out of bed. Why are you here, Dancer?”

A half dozen clever answers zipped through his mind, but in that moment she straightened and with the fire behind her, each irresistible curve was thrown into glowing, breathtaking relief.

“Do you want to lie with him?” he rasped.

She turned with the poker still in her hand and her perfect face set. No uncertainty showed there. No fear. Did she even comprehend that emotion?

“’Tis a bit late for conversation, isn’t it, Dancer?”

He took a step forward, drawn against his will. She raised the poker and canted her head, reminding him of the blood on her hands. She had killed before. But she had cried, too. Who was she? Truly. Inside.

“Isn’t it?” she asked again.

Anger melded with frustration, scorching his insides. “I’ll not hurt you, lass,” he gritted.

“Hurt me?” she repeated, and laughed as she lowered the poker. “No, I daresay you won’t. Sometimes I wonder how you’ve lived this long with the skills you lack.”

“The fact that I cannot walk like a wraith doesn’t mean I’m without skills.”

“No.” She set the poker aside. “Not everyone can be as clever as my protector.”

Acid churned in his gut.

Through the fragile cotton gown, he could see the graceful sweep of her legs and remembered how they had looked bare. How they had felt, long and firm against his own. “Don’t toy with me,” he said, and loosened his fists. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Truly?” She seated herself on the bed and pulled her knees up to her chin. Only her toes were visible now, bare and tiny and ridiculously alluring. They were only toes, after all. It wasn’t as though her breasts were gleaming pale and bare in the firelight. It wasn’t as though she was offering herself to him. But she tilted her head, looking up through the lush forest of her lashes, and he felt himself tighten and swell. “And what are you in the mood for, Mr. Slate?”

He was the lord of Landow. The baron of boring, the king of calm.

She slipped her feet to the floor, baring her legs nearly to the knee. He swallowed hard and did his best to think.

“Mr. Slate?” she repeated.

“I’ll have answers, lass,” he said, snatching his gaze from the graceful strength of her calves.

She took a step toward him. “And what are the questions?”

“Do you want him or nay?”

“I’m not certain what you mean, Dancer. Indeed—”

“Do you want to fuck him?”

She raised her brows the slightest degree. “I dislike that word,” she said. “It’s so crass.”

“Dammit!” he swore, and jerked toward her. She didn’t draw away but raised her chin in defiant challenge.

“Who the devil are you to ask?” she demanded.

“I’m—” he began, but stopped himself short and shook his head as he turned away. “I’m possessed,” he
said, and ran his fingers dismally through his hair. “I’m out of control.”

“Are you certain? For it seemed as if your control was exemplary last night when I asked you…begged you to—”

“Ask me again!” he demanded, swinging back. “I was insane then. But I’m better now.”

She stared at him for several seconds, then laughed and settled back onto the bed. “You’re insane now, Dancer.”

He tried to deny it, but his life was in mortal danger. Just being in this chamber compromised his continued existence, yet he was here, demanding answers to questions he had no right to ask. “But it’s your fault,” he said.

She smiled a little. Her teeth flashed like pearls in the revived firelight. “I don’t think so.”

He blew out a careful breath, searching for solid footing. “I used to be quite sane. Ask anyone.”

“I don’t know anyone.”

He smiled at his own words returned to him and let a fragment of truth slip into the room. “I’m out of my depth, lass.”

“Aye. You’re buggered as a thief,” she agreed. “You breathe like a racehorse, and you’ve the stomach of a milk-fed maid. But I’m told you’re a fine dancer.”

He held out his hands. “Do you wish for a demonstration?”

“I fear I must decline,” she said, and smiled.

His breath caught in his throat. And he had been doing so well. Had gone entire seconds without feeling faint in her presence. “Lass—”

“Don’t say it,” she said, her voice firm and quiet.

And she was right of course. It mustn’t be said. “I think of nothing but you.”

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“I lie awake.”

“Quit it.”

“I can’t bear to think of him in your arms.” He paused, fighting for control where there was none. “In your bed. In your—”

“Stop it!” she hissed.

“You think I want this? Dammit!” He tried to jerk away but found he couldn’t pull his gaze from her face. “This isn’t me. I’m…” He shook his head. “Sane.”

“Prove it,” she whispered, her voice urgent. “Go away. Go home.”

He stared at her. “I have no home. Not anymore. Not without…” He stopped himself just in time, just before the worst of the traitorous words were loosed. Before he remembered how she had looked at the head of the table, with the ragamuffin clan sitting about her, adoring her, obeying her. “I have no home,” he repeated.

“You’ll die here, Dancer. There is no hope in Darktowne.”

“Then leave,” he said.

“I cannot.”

“Because you love him?”

She stared at him point blank for several seconds. “My feelings for him matter not at all.” Her voice was painfully soft in the flickering darkness.

“I just…” His soul ached. He ground his teeth and tried to remain lucid. “I would know. Before I lose what little senses I have left. Please.”

“I am his,” she said simply.

Will drew a careful breath and tightened his fists, holding them hard against his thighs lest he lose control. “Tell me this then.” He gritted his teeth against the agony of his own words. “Has he taken you against your will?”

“My will,” she murmured. Her eyes glowed like quicksilver in a burst of firelight, then faded to misty gray. “’Tis difficult to remember what my will is.”

“Lass—”

“No,” she said. “He has not.”

He exhaled carefully, lest the world explode into a thousand piercing shards. “Then you enjoy—”

“Cease!” she hissed, and suddenly, like magic, like the flick of a thought, there was a blade at his throat. Her gritted teeth gleamed in the firelight. Her breath came hard. “I do not care to discuss this.”

A droplet of blood slipped warm and slow down his throat and into his shirt. He would be a fool to speak, for the ice princess had melted, and he had no idea what the repercussions might be. “I would know,” he said.

“You’ve no right to ask.” She pressed harder. Their eyes held, but her hand trembled, jiggling the blade against his neck. “Leave it be, Dancer.”

Calm her. Compliment her. Agree with her. A dozen soothing rejoinders prodded his mind, but she was so close, her breasts all but pressed to his chest, and he couldn’t think. “Has he taken you, lass?”

She pressed harder. Blood ran in earnest. But in a moment, she yanked the blade from his neck.

His head felt light, but other parts were heavy. “Lass—”

“No,” she said. “He hasn’t.”

He shook his head, unable to comprehend. “Why?”

She watched him, her mercurial eyes narrowed.

He raised a hand. “Surely, he must have tried. He must…” He felt breathless and foolish. “Who would not? And if he’s as powerful as you say…”

“Are you suggesting that I lie?” Her voice was quiet, carefully back under control.

He watched her in silence, then, because he could no longer stop himself, he reached out and touched her face. “I am asking how he can resist.”

“You did.”

He forced a shrug, trying to keep from pulling her into his arms, trying to keep from committing suicide. “Is he…does he prefer men?”

“I believe he prefers power.”

“What?”

She drew a slow breath. He could hear it in the darkness and felt strangely tempted to step closer still just to feel her breath against his skin. “Owning me is power. Keeping me guessing when he will…if he will…” She lifted her chin and turned regally away. But she trembled. He was sure of it, and there was nothing he could do but go to her.

“Lass,” he whispered, and reached out to grasp her arms. He would allow himself this one touch. Just this one. “I can get you out of here. I can keep you safe.”

For a moment she remained absolutely still, then she shook her head. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with, Dancer.”

“Then tell me,” he gritted and turned her in his arms. “What am I dealing with?”

“Powers greater than you can—”

He tightened his grip, shaking her gently. “He is just a man. Not even a man. A—”

“A duke?”

“What?” he hissed.

“Have you never heard of Lord Wheaton?” He stared at her, lost and bemused. “Lord Penworth’s nephew?”

She said nothing.

“The laird of Teleere’s nephew?” he repeated, speaking slower.

“The old laird is dead,” she intoned. “Another took his place, I believe. A bastard son.”

“Cairn MacTavish rules the isle,” he said. Teleere’s turbulent history was well-known to all who befriended Sedonia’s young queen, and he was just beginning to understand Shandria’s meaning. Yet he refused to believe.

“Yes. MacTavish, a pirate bastard rules instead of the old lord’s acknowledged kin.”

“What are you saying?” he whispered, but she didn’t answer. “What do you know of Teleerian politics?”

“MacTavish is the acknowledged laird. The beloved ruler. But Lord Wheaton continues to bedevil him.” Her eyes were wide and bright, her face solemn. “’Tis said ’twas he who killed the laird’s first wife,” she whispered. “Seduced her and killed her.”

Will dropped his hands and stepped abruptly back. “You can’t mean…”

She didn’t speak.

“Poke is not…” He shook his head as if to disavow his very thoughts. She watched him in silence. “But he would need a fortune to fund a campaign against MacTavish, wouldn’t he? He would need…an army. But that’s ridiculous. It’s…How would you know this?”

“It drives him mad. Having MacTavish in his seat of power. Hearing the people sing his praises. Knowing the bastard has wed the celebrated queen of Sedonia. She should have been his. It all should have been his. Had he not been banned from his native land. Had he not been unjustly dishonored, he would have wed the queen himself.”

“He said that?” Will hissed.

“None other will do,” she intoned. “Not until she is his.”

“So he’s impotent? Because of the queen?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps I simply don’t move him.”

He laughed at the thought, but his mind was spinning. “So he holds you but does not take you. Amasses a fortune he does not spend. Builds an army…Holy hell.”

“Absolute power is all,” she said. “Torturing his underlings is merely a diversion.”

Will drew a slow breath and studied her exquisite features. No man could know her and not be moved. Of that he was certain. “His defeat has driven him mad,” he reasoned, “and he blames his inadequacies on Tatiana’s marriage to his enemy.”