Lois Greiman (22 page)

“And what impression is that?”

“That I came because I could not forget how you felt in me…” He paused, breathing hard and scowling. “That I had feelings for ye.”

She watched him. He was a warrior of the old world, stubborn to the bone, loyal to the marrow. But he had standards, limits.

“So you don’t care for me, Viking?”

His cheek twitched. “I’ve no wish to see any wee lass hurt. ’Tis me duty to—”

“So you would have risked your life to find any maid who left your care?”

He tightened his lips and glared at her. “Don’t make this something ’tis not.”

“And what is it?” she whispered.

He stared at her lips, then tightened his jaw and closed his eyes for a moment. “’Tis naught but duty,” he said.

“Duty.”

“Aye. I’ve come to see you safely back to Teleere.”

“And if I agree? What then, Viking?”

His scowl darkened, though she would have doubted that it could. “Then you’ll be safe.”

“And I’ll live as what? Your laird’s servant? I’m a thief. You think ’e’ll trust me?”

“The lad’ll trust whom I tell him to trust.”

She almost laughed. “The lad,” she said, “being the lord of the isle.”

He nodded.

“The sovereign ruler of Teleere.”

“Aye.”

“And the ’usband of the queen of Sedonia.”

“The lad’s getting a wee bit big for his britches, granted,” he said. “But if I say you stay, you stay.”

Despite everything, his offer was almost irresistible. Almost, but not quite. She forced a laugh. “I go where I will, Viking.”

His face was absolutely somber, and when he next spoke, his words were little more than a rasped whisper. “Even if I wish for you to stay?”

Her throat closed up tight. “Why would you?” she murmured.

His eyes were as intense as a hawk’s, as deep and impenetrable as forever. “Ye’re not safe here, lass,” he rumbled.

“Neither are you.”

He shrugged. His heavy shoulders lifted and fell. “’Tis not for you to worry on.”

“No, of course not,” she said. “After all, you’re the man, the warrior.”

“Aye, lass,” he agreed. “I am that.”

“You’ve lived your life.”

He drew a deep breath, flaring his nostrils. “Long and hard,” he said. “And I’d have it no other way.”

“So why not sacrifice it for me?”

He stared at her. “’Tis me own task,” he said, “as a warrior, and a man.”

Tears stung her eyes, but she shook her head and blinked them back. “I don’t need your ’elp, Viking.”

He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip. “Course not,” he rasped. “You’re doing grand here, ye are. But I tell ye this, you’ll die young if ye stay. You’ll die young, and you’ll die bloody.”

“And I tell you this,” she hissed, and leaned down so that her face was inches from his. “’Tis not yours to say how I die.”

Worry skittered across his face. “Get out, lass,” he rasped. “Get out while I can assist ye.”

She let silence settle in. Let his hands tighten on her arms.

“Please,” he said, and the word seemed to grate against his very being.

But she shook her head, and because she could no longer resist, because she was far too weak, she leaned down and kissed him.

Sanity settled into her soul, and for a moment, for a brief flicker of time, all was right, safe, proper.

She drew slowly away. His eyes were tortured, and his hands trembled on her wrists.

“Leave,” he whispered, but she shook her head and drew slowly away.

“Not without you, old man. Never without you.”

W
ill’s dreams were dark and confusing that night, shadowy half memories of Elli. But the images shifted, and in the end it was Shandria who lay still and broken beside a fiery carriage.

He woke in a cold sweat, swung his feet to the floor, and wandered silently about the Den. Every aching instinct insisted that he go to her, take her in his arms, protect her. But despite pretenses, he was not Slate. Nay, he was only William Enton. And she had chosen another.

Padding restlessly past the parlor, he saw that the giant was resting peacefully. Both Oxford and Gem seemed to be gone. Peter was in the kitchen, eating a loaf of bread and drinking from a battered clay cup. He glanced up as Will wandered past.

Not a sound issued from Poke’s bedchamber. Will gritted his teeth and strode into the parlor.

The Highlander opened his eyes. “She’s alone,” he said, his voice as dark and deep as the night just passing.

Will turned. “What?”

“The lass you look for is alone.”

A noise sounded in the doorway. William turned, muscles tensed.

“What’s this then?” Oxford shifted, skimming the
room restlessly. “The corpse speaks.” He grinned and stepped inside. “But not much longer, aye?”

The Scot said nothing, but lifted his gaze with slow deliberation to his adversary. Sandy-colored stubble covered his anvil jaw, and his eyes were as steady as a stone as he watched the other approach.

“What you lookin’ at?” Oxford asked.

“Tobhair mu marc-shluagh.”

“What’s that?” Ox rasped, surprised by the ancient Gaelic, but in that moment Peter strode into the room, effectively separating them.

“You’re talkin’ gibberish again, old man,” he said. His tone was casual, but Ox was not so easily mollified.

“What’d ’e say?”

Peter shrugged and handed over half his loaf. The Highlander raised an arm the size of an oaken bough. Muscles rippled through his shoulders in bunched waves. “He don’t make no sense.”

Ox grinned. “Not since ’e crossed my path leastways.”

“Aye,” Peter agreed. “You’re fierce indeed. You and Black.” He took a bite of his simple fare. “And Dag…and the bloke what got to him afore he reached the Den.”

Ox narrowed his eyes. “You tryin’ to say something, lad?”

“Me? No. Too bad he was already wounded though, aye, Ox, elseways you coulda showed your mettle?”

“It wouldn’t a made no difference.”

“Not against you,” Peter agreed, and waved his bread mildly. “Your…skills…is known far and abroad.”

“And don’t you forget it, laddie.”

“Couldn’t. Not even if I wanted to. After all, you brought the giant here down.”

“And I’ll fuckin’ well do it again if ’e gets mouthy.”

“I’m certain you will,” agreed Pete, and passed over his
cup. The Scotsman took it without shifting his gaze from the Ox. “I just hope I’m here to see it, is all.”

Ox slipped a long curved blade from his trousers. “Well, you’re ’ere now.”

“What’s ’appenin’?” Jack appeared in the doorway like a wraith. His eyes were as round as agates, his skinny body tense as a bowstring.

Will swore in silence, but Peter smiled, though there was something flinty in his eyes.

“Nim,” he said, sounding jovial. “Go tell the others Ox is plannin’ to finish off the old man.”

The boy shifted his eyes from Peter to Oxford.

“Only they might not care to watch,” Pete added, “seein’s as how the old fellow there can’t hardly lift his head yet.”

Jack skipped his gaze from Pete to the giant and loosened his fists cautiously. “You need ’elp gettin’ to the privy again, Uncle?”

“Uncle?” Peter said, as jolly as ever.

Jack crossed the floor, passing Oxford’s wicked blade without a glance. Will held his breath, muscles cranked tight. “Used ta know a daft cripple down ta Berrywood,” the lad said. “Everyone knowed ’im as Uncle.”

Peter retrieved the battered cup and handed it to Jack, who raised it to his lips, but didn’t quite seem to drink. Their gazes met and caught.

“’Ow do we know ’e’s a cripple?” Ox said. “Could be ’e’s fakin’ it. ’iding under little Gemini’s skirts.” He stepped forward, knife raised. Evil wafted with him, thick and cloying.

The giant raised his eyes, gray as the northern sea in the somber light of the morning. Not a flicker of emotion showed in his face. Not a breath of fear. Just steely steadiness. Holy hell, who was this man?

Tension rode the room like an Irish horseman.

“What else you doin’ under ’er skirts, old man?” Ox asked, and stepped forward. “Nothing I ain’t done long afore you got ’ere, I’ll warrant.”

A muscle twisted in the big man’s jaw.

It almost sounded as if Peter swore, but he was already smiling as he yanked a flask from his waistcoat and offered it to the other. “Heard you had a big haul last night, Oxford.”

Ox straightened and took the proffered whisky. He drank, wiped his mouth, and squinted over top his grubby hand. “Fuckin’ coachman never knew what ’it ’im.”

“No one like you for out-and-out brutality,” Peter agreed.

Ox narrowed his eyes. “Nothin’ like me for nothin’,” he said, and lowered his gaze back to the Scotsman, but Jack had inadvertently stepped between them, showing the Irishman his back.

“Go ahead and sleep, gaffer,” he said, but from his vantage point, Will could see the boy’s eyes. There was pleading there. Pleading and abject desperation.

The Highlander drew his attention deliberately from Ox to hold the boy in a steady stare. Their gazes held and melded, new steel on battered iron, then, like a kindly bear, the Scotsman closed his eyes.

Jack eased back a step. “Well, guess it’s my turn to make breakfast, then.”

Peter delayed only a breathless second before he groaned. “God’s balls, I’d rather eat dirt. What say you, Ox? Shall we step out and see what we can scare up at the market?”

Oxford stared at the slumbering giant for a moment
longer, then snorted and finished off the flask before shoving it back into Peter’s hands.

“I ’ad me a full night’s work,” he said, “and there ain’t nothing like a little blood to get me dicker up. I’m off to find me a bit of company.”

The room echoed with Oxford’s jaunty footfalls.

“You do that, then,” Peter said, all congeniality as he wiped off the mouthpiece of the flask with a grimace.

The front door opened and closed.

Peter’s exhalation was audible. “God’s nuts!” he said, not turning toward the Scot behind him. “You want to live out the day, old man, you’d damned well better be smarter than the Ox.”

A soft snort issued from the giant. “Me wick is smarter than the Ox.”

Peter glanced toward him in some surprise, then laughed out loud.

“What’s wrong?” Gem rasped, sprinting breathlessly into the doorway. “What ’appened?”

“Ox was ’ere,” Jack said.

“’E was walking jaunty.” Her face was as pale as death, her voice breathless. “What’d ’e do?”

“’E robbed a coachman,” Jack said. “Last night afore—”

“What’d ’e do to the Viking?”

Jack scowled and stepped aside. The Highlander’s gaze lifted to the girl’s, and there was a difference in his eyes, a fierce emotion so potent not a soul dared speak.

Gem’s knees seemed to buckle. For a moment she rested her shoulder against the rough timber of the doorjamb. Every man there watched her with bated breath, but she found her balance soon enough. Clearing her throat, she shifted from the doorway before skimming
the faces around her. “I was afeared all my tender ministration ’ad gone to ’ell, is all,” she explained.

No one spoke.

“I invested a good deal of time into that big bloke.”

So little Gem was in love. Something twisted in Will’s chest. It might have been his heart.

“Don’t want it goin’ to waste.” She crossed the floor with careful steps, as if just managing to keep from dashing to him. “I figure ’e could pull down a castle bare ’anded, once ’e’s mended. Fella like that could be worth somethin’.” For a moment, Will thought she would reach out to touch her patient’s face, but she curled her fingers into his blanket instead, holding fast, as if she would topple over without the support. Their gazes met and held, green and gray. Hillock and sea.

Peter cleared his throat. “Well, Gemini, since you’re up and about, maybe you could see to breakfast. Save us from Nim here.”

No one spoke.

Peter flicked his gaze nervously toward the door. “Saint’s stones, Gem, come out of it.”

She didn’t even manage to shift her gaze, but the giant pulled his from hers with an effort.

“He’s gone,” he said, his voice as low as ever.

“What?”

All eyes turned to him.

“The man you call Poke,” he intoned. “He left some hours ago.”

“Yeah?” Peter grinned, then nodded toward the Scotsman. “Well then hell, Gemini, you might as well have at him.”

She was still transfixed, staring at the massive Highlander as if he might disappear at any moment.

“Gem?” Peter said, still grinning.

She came to with a jerk. “What?”

“I was wonderin’ if you’d make breakfast, but I see you got other things to do.”

She turned with wooden slowness, putting her back regretfully to her patient. Her cheeks had flushed a sunrise pink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Peter laughed, the Viking glowered, and Jack shifted his gaze carefully from one to the other as if silently searching for clues.

“I’ll prepare breakfast.”

Will jerked his attention to the doorway, and she was there, as silent as a wraith, as beautiful as a winter blossom.

Her face was pale, but she appeared to be unharmed. He remained perfectly still by dint of control he was certain he didn’t possess. She shifted her gaze from Peter to Gem, seeming completely unaware of him, as if she hadn’t moaned in his arms, as if she hadn’t offered herself. As if she hadn’t begged him to take her.

“Is your patient well enough for a meal, Gemini?”

The girl didn’t turn, but kept her back perfectly aligned as she faced away from the mattress. “Aye, I think ’e could take a bit.”

“Good then. Nim, fetch a bucket of water, will you, lad? Peter, we’ve only one egg left. If you’ll give me the ones you filched yesterday, we’ll have us a feast.”

He grinned. “I didn’t tell you I filched eggs, Princess.”

“No. You didn’t,” she said, and smiled before disappearing into the hallway.

The young men hurried from the room. Gem cleared her throat, half-turning but not quite meeting the Scotsman’s eyes. “I’ll bring your meal as soon as it’s ready. Rest until—”

“Nay.” His refusal was almost inaudible in its deep response. “I’ll dine at table.”

Will left them to their argument. He wondered who this man was. He wondered why he was there, but another mystery intrigued him more. He found her in the kitchen. She’d tied a folded towel about her waist and was already mixing ingredients in a wooden bowl. The picture was strangely domestic and curled dizzily into his mind like a forbidden herb.

She cracked a brown egg and whisked it into a froth with a bundle of tightly tied twigs.

He crossed the room. Floorboards creaked beneath his feet as they did for none other in this den of thieves. “What would you have
me
do?” he asked.

She glanced up, her eyes sparking. “I believe I made that clear last night.”

Memories smote him like hot embers, burning his mind—her breasts, pale and luscious in the firelight, her legs entwining his own, pulling him into the heat of her body. He fought the sharp edge of desire and curled his hand around nothing.

“Why did you want me to leave?”

“I believe I made that clear also,” she said, and brushed past him to scoop flour from a cloth bag.

“And what would Poke have done? If he’d found me gone?” Will rasped, grabbing her arm.

Their gazes fused. “That’s none of your concern.”

Anger sprinted through him. “So you will protect me,” he hissed. “Coddle me like a damned child, while I—”

“Nim,” she said, freeing her arm and pushing past him to address the lad who stood sloshing water over the side of a wooden bucket. “Place half of it over the fire, if you will, and use the rest for washing up.”

“Washing up?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of it,” she said. “’Tis when you use water to cleanse yourself.”

He made his eyes go round. “You put the actual water on your skin?”

“Aye,” she said, giving him a wry glance, and he grinned impishly.

“Could be I ’ave ’eard of such a thing,” he said, and shifted his gaze rapidly to Will. “Though it was sometime ago.”

“Try to remember,” she said, and shooed him out of the kitchen before pulling a small, potbellied crock out of the pantry. Removing the cover, she peered inside, then slipped the dish into the pot of water that hung above the fire.

Peter entered with a rag bulging with eggs the color of dark onions. “I’d planned to hoard them for myself.”

“Then you should have been more clever,” she informed him. “Put them in the water straightaway,” she ordered, and he did, then grinned as he straightened and glanced toward the wooden bowl.

“Puffs?” he asked hopefully.

“Aye, if you get yourself cleaned up.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, and hurried from the room.

William watched her. A new side, another facet, but he should hardly be surprised, for he knew so little about her. Nothing really, except what she let him see, what she trotted out for bumblers like him to witness.

“How did you learn to cook?”

She didn’t glance up but kept her attention focused on the batter she spooned onto a black, metal pan. “Even Rom eat,” she said.

“Your mother taught you?”

Her clever fingers fumbled, but in an instant, she was back on track. “Had I had my current skills, we could have eaten better.”

“What skills are those?”

“Thievery,” she said, turning away and slipping the pan into the squat, black oven.

“And what of your other skills?”

She turned to stare at him, her face expressionless. “If you’ve something to say, Dancer, say it and have done.”

He stepped up close, unable to bear the strain any longer. “How do you know he’ll not force you?”