Lois Greiman (21 page)

“You would trade your virtue for my disappearance.”

“Virtue.” She laughed, but the sound was not musical. “I fear you overestimate—”

“You would trade your body to see me gone?” he rephrased.

She tilted her bottom against his length. “’Tis no great hardship, Dancer. You are—”

“You would—” He tightened his fingers on her arms and fought for a dozen kinds of control. “You would fuck me to be rid of me?”

She stared at him, her eyes swallowing her face. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you—” She paused, seeming to struggle for control, for words. “You’re trouble,” she whispered, and eased around him again.

He grasped her hips, trying to stop the silken torture. “Trouble for whom?”

“For me! If Poke realizes I’m attracted to you…” She shook her head. Silky strands of gossamer hair danced across his chest.

He squeezed his eyes closed. “So you will fuck me so that Poke doesn’t know you are drawn to me.”

She flicked her eyes away and back. “Yes.”

“You lie,” he said, and watched her in the flickering silence.

“I’ve no reason to lie. Surely you can understand.” She could still move her hips, could still torment him with her lush, wet heat. “I’m only looking out for myself. You can hardly blame—”

He cut her off, afraid if he waited, if he didn’t immediately learn the truth, it would be too late. “Is it because of Jack? Is he the one you hope to protect from my horrid influence?”

She was holding her breath. Even in the darkness, he could tell that much.

“What do you know of him?” she asked.

“Is that why you’re doing this? To get me away from him?”

“You’ll only cause him grief,” she said.

“Am I such a bastard as that?”

“Leave,” she rasped, and pushed herself around him.

It took all his control to remain still beneath her. “You think him safer with Poke than he was at Landow?”

“Landow?”

He had given away more than he’d intended. But who could blame him? She was perched atop him like a vision of heaven, and hell had already broken loose. “Landow,” he growled. “My home.”

“He was there with you?” Her words were raspy, her face pale. “Safe?” The single word was almost a sob. “And you let him go?”

“I didn’t mean to. He—” Guilt crowded in, fogging the issue. He gritted his teeth, trying to focus, to think. “You want him there with me,” he murmured. “It’s not Jack you protect.”

“No. It’s me,” she hissed. “As I said, I’m not safe so long as you—”

But he could tolerate no more. Twisting, he tossed her onto the mattress and knelt beside her. His erection rose like Poseidon between them.

“And you’re sure as hell not trying to protect yourself.”

She gritted a laugh. “You know nothing, Dancer.”

“Why do you want me gone?”

“I already—”

“What’s worth sacrificing your own…” He motioned toward her. She lay on her back, propped on her elbows, her body bare and smooth and so achingly tempting that he felt himself spasm at the sight of her. “What would make you lie with me? Are you so bored? Are you daft? Do you hope to make Poke jealous?”

The sound she made was indiscernible, something between pain and ridicule. Between laughter and lunacy. And suddenly he knew.

“No.” He whispered the word, for suddenly everything was blindingly clear. “No,” he said again, and stumbled onto the floor.

She scrambled to her hands and knees, staring at him with wide, desperate eyes. Her hair swept over her shoulders in silken waves, almost able to hide the beauty of her peaked breasts. He winced at the sight and forced himself back a pace. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered.

“Damn you,” he said, and, snatching a blanket from the bed, whipped it around his waist. “Damn you.”

“So that’s it, is it…William?” she said and stepped closer. He crowded back. “William of Landow. What are you? A viscount? An earl? Or are you really a duke? This entire day were you laughing at me, pretending I was your duchess?” She chuckled, crowding up close. Her breasts jiggled slightly. His mouth felt dry. “All the time knowing you were too good for me. Oh, you’d lie with me, but only if it was on your terms.” She leaned close. “On your—”

He grabbed her shoulders, holding her back. “I may be a cowardly bastard,” he gritted, “but I’m not yet that low.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

He stared at her. “It’s me,” he said. “You’re trading your virtue for my protection.”

She froze. Terror flashed through her eyes, but in a moment she laughed. “You’re mad.”

“Maybe,” he agreed and pushed her away, afraid that if she stayed so close there would be no hope, no refusals, no control. “But I’m not mad enough to make you my shield. To let you…” He motioned wildly, feeling as crazed as she suggested. “To let you lie with me, then march back to Poke and take the consequences while I…Christ!” he swore and grabbing her, shook hard. “Do you think me that weak? That pathetic?”

Her expression was inscrutable, her eyes half-closed. “I wasn’t doing it for you, Dancer.”

“Truly?” he said, and snorted. “Then I must simply be irresistible. I must just make you randy as hell.”

She shrugged, but she felt stiff. “You
did
.”

His body jerked spasmodically, but he managed to
push her back out of his reach as he swore and paced past her, trailing the blanket. “Damn you,” he cursed. “Damn you. I’ll not have your death on my conscience. Not yours too. But I’ve a bargain for
you.
” He stopped abruptly. His heart jumped against his ribs. “I’ll lie with you if
you
leave.” For a moment he actually felt hopeful. Her eyes were gigantic. Her body was tense, then she laughed.

“Why would I wish to leave the most powerful man in Sedonia?” she asked, whisking her clothing from the floor and scraping it over her head.

He watched her narrowly, trying to decipher the mystery, but it was far too deep for his shallow mind. “Why would you want to cuckold him?”

She shrugged as she fastened her gown. “A lass needs a bit of variety.”

Lies. All lies and nothing else. But what had he expected?

“Go back to him then,” he said, “before he suspects something.”

“I told you,” she said, snatching up her shoes, “he already suspects something.”

His stomach pitched violently. “What will he do to you?”

She stared at him, saying nothing, and he could not help but snatch her to him again.

“What’ll he do?” he rasped, but she jerked out of his grasp and yanked the door open.

“Nothing you can prevent,” she said, and stepped into the night.

W
ill rushed through the darkness. His heart rapped like a hammer against his ribs. Once sanity had settled back into his lust-flushed brain, he’d tried to catch her. Tried to stop her. But she was like the shadows, disappearing into the night. Where had she gone? Back to Poke? What would he suspect? What would he do? Questions roared with gale force through him as he raced down the alleys, his lungs straining and his muscles screaming with agony.

He pushed open the Den’s front door. Nothing happened. No hurled accusations. No threats. Perhaps she hadn’t returned. Striding inside, he rushed into the parlor. The Scotsman slept on, but the girl named Gem roused from her chair.

“Where’s Shandria?” Will asked.

She scowled.

“Princess,” he corrected. “Where is she?”

She nodded toward the hallway. “Poke’s chamber, I think.”

He turned like a puppet on wobbly strings, but there was nothing else to do, nothing but to stride down the hall, to lay his hand on the latch, to push the door open.

And she was there. Safe. Whole. She stood before the
fireplace like a princess amongst her countless trinkets. Gone was any sign of passion or emotion. Her face was set like a cameo, but she was well. Will’s knees felt weak at the sight of her, but he kept himself carefully where he was, lest he spurt across the floor and drag her into his arms. Lest he berate her for her carelessness, beg her for her forgiveness. Plead for her touch. Jesus, God. She was safe. Thus far.

“Mr. Slate,” Poke crooned, and for the first time Will noticed the master. He sat in an upholstered chair to the right of the fireplace, his expression almost amused. “How…unusual to find you here…in my private chambers.”

Will was still lucid enough to feel fear, but he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. What had she told Poke? What story should he spew?

“My apologies,” he said, and allowed himself the briefest glance at her regal face. Just to make sure, to be perfectly certain she was well. “But I thought it best to speak with you straightaway.”

“Oh?” Poke sat back slightly. Firelight played across his pretty features. “And what did you wish to speak to me about, Mr. Slate?”

Will turned toward her then, giving himself one quick instant to decipher what he could from her face, but he should have known better. There were no clues there, only cool distance. Unless, perhaps…Was there a spark of anger? And if so, was it honest emotion shining through the perfect mask? But no, she had survived too long, had learned too much to make such a mistake.

He turned back, his mind hammering desperately away.

“You can hardly blame me for trying,” he said, and formed a careful grin.

Poke canted his head and twined his fingers in his lap. “Certainly not,” he agreed.

So had she actually admitted some indiscretion, or was Poke only playing along?

“Ice princess or not,” Will continued, “she’s a fine piece of work.”

“Indeed.”

“But I didn’t force her.”

Death crept about the room on careful feet, peering into corners, searching for the unwary.

“Are you saying my lady lay with you of her own accord, Mr. Slate?”

Is that what she had said? Panic spewed through him, but he steadied his nerves. Poke liked nothing better than toying with people’s minds, unless it was destroying them. So he forced a laugh. “Do you think I’d come back here if I’d lain with her?”

“’Tis difficult to guess what you would do, Mr. Slate,” Poke said, and rose with catlike grace to his feet. “’Tis difficult to guess much about you. So perhaps you’d best tell me in your own charming words.” Pacing to his desk, he skimmed his fingers across the edge of an ornamental letter opener. It had been sharpened to a fine point and glistened lustily in the firelight.

“She didn’t tell you I tried to…” Will paused as if confused. “She didn’t tell you?”

Poke smiled. “My princess can be quite tight-lipped.”

“Your princess,” Will said, allowing a small spark of his own emotion, “is damned deadly.”

True interest shone in the villain’s face. “Do tell.”

“I only asked for a kiss.” He waved an open hand rapidly, as if fending off a blow. “Nothing more.”

Poke turned, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Did I
give you some reason to believe I wished to share her charms?”

Will straightened slightly, meeting the other’s eyes steadily. “You sent us out together.”

Death crept closer, grinning. “And you thought it a perfect opportunity.”

Will tilted his head and rubbed his wounded arm. “I only wanted a kiss.”

Poke watched him, his eyes bright.

Will turned his gaze to Shandria and back. “She keeps that little knife well hidden.”

Crossing the room, Poke brushed a stray tendril from Shandria’s neck. “Until it’s needed,” he said.

Will snorted. “I think it best if I work alone henceforth.”

“No luck then, Mr. Slate?”

“On the contrary,” Will said, and drew forth the black pearls he’d purchased after the sale of Lord Perceval’s steeds. They gleamed with dark elegance in the firelight. “I did quite well…after she left.”

“Ahh.” Poke sighed, and glanced at Shandria. “Pretty baubles.”

“I can get more,” Will assured him. “If left to my own devices.”

They watched each other. “On the contrary,” Poke said. “I think my lady inspires you.”

“She—”

“Indeed…” he interrupted, skimming his fingers down her arm, “I’ve another mission for the two of you.”

“Truly, I’m more effective alone.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But you’re more trustworthy with her. And more entertaining. And, too, this next little test will require a pair of thieves. Clever thieves. Do you think yourself up to the task, Mr. Slate?”

“What task is that?”

“There are documents I have a need for.”

“Documents? Why—”

“Mr. Slate.” Poke’s expression was falsely pleasant. “Do not think that I am always so patient as I have been this day. I only forgive you your transgressions with my bonny lady because I know the effect she has on men. Indeed, ’tis why she is so valuable to me. So I shall excuse you this once. But you might think twice before crossing me again.”

Will nodded. “When do we go for the documents?”

“Soon enough. But for now we’d like to be left alone. We have things to”—He slipped his palm over the curve of her buttocks—“discuss.”

Will tried to move, to exit with some grace, but she was there, alone, with him. He flitted his eyes to hers, but they were as cold as crafted steel. He turned away finally, for he had little choice. Indeed, he had no choice at all. For the decision was hers. He closed the door behind him. His muscles were cramped. He felt sick to his stomach. From the far side of the door, he heard Poke’s voice, heard her soft reply, but he couldn’t make out the words.

It was a private conversation. In their bedchamber. With the fire crackling in the hearth. Memories of her tortured him. Of firelight on her skin, of the soft sigh of her breath against his chest. Turning woodenly, he reached for the door handle, but in that instant he heard the magical sound of her laughter. It sliced through him, cutting him to shreds. He jerked his hand away and pushed himself down the hall.

In the parlor, the Highlander was sitting up. He rumbled something, and Gem answered, but their voices were muted and in that instant the Scot noticed Will. He raised his gaze. Gem followed suit. There was anger in
her face. Anger and secrets. They were everywhere in this house, as thick as cobwebs. But Will wanted none of them. Let her mend her giant, and let Shandria lie with the beast.

Grinding his fists, Will strode from the house.

Behind him, Gem dipped a spoon back into the stew.

“Who is he?” Burroun’s voice was little more than a rumble.

“’Tis none of your concern, Viking,” she said.

She could feel his hard gaze on her face and kept her eyes carefully lowered.

“Is he Poke’s man, then?”

“Truth to tell…” she began and raised the spoon to his mouth. “I don’t know ’oo ’e is. ’E come ’ere some days afore you. Seems like the thing to do this Yuletide, aye? Visit the rubbish down to Darktowne.”

She held the spoon for him, but he remained unmoving, his hard gaze locked on her face until she could no longer avoid it.

“I didn’t come for a visit,” he rumbled.

Dammit all! He drew at her, pulled her in. It wasn’t right. Wasn’t smart, for she did not belong in his world. Could not survive there. She was a thief! He was the pirate lord’s most trusted guard. But there was such intensity in him. Such warrior magnetism. And despite all good sense, it
seemed
that she would be safe so long as she was with him. Safe and cherished. The idea twisted her heart. And he was still watching her with those fierce, unwavering eyes.

“Why did you come then?” she whispered.

A muscle twitched in his granite jaw. “Do ye really need to ask, lass?” His midnight voice quivered like an arrow in her heart, but what was he feeling?

Did they share the same terrifying emotions? Was he
shaking inside and refused to admit it? “Yes!” she said, frustration burgeoning as she studied his battered face. “I do. You’re a fool to come. A fool to risk your life. Why the ’ell are you ’ere?”

“I’m here because ye stole me h—” Anger and passion burned in his eyes, but he stopped his words abruptly, breathing hard and glaring. “You stole me horse,” he said with grinding calmness.

She straightened her back. “You come all this way from Teleere, tracked me down, braved Darktowne…for an animal?”

He shifted his eyes away with a brooding scowl. Was he blushing? “It was me favorite horse.”

His voice was sulky, and she laughed out loud, emotions warring like soldiers in her soul. “Well then, you can just march on back where you come from, old man, cuz I left the beast back on the isle.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw again. “Then you’ll have to return to Teleere. Show me where he is.”

She snorted at the idea. “Listen,” she rasped. “I’m ’ere cuz I want to be ’ere. So you’d best just get your tattered arse gone afore it’s too late.”

He shook his head, stubborn to the grave. “I can’t do that, lass, for I fear your Poke’s a bad influence on ye.”

“What the ’ell you talkin’ about? I was a thief before I met ’im, and I’ll be a thief—”

“Your language,” he said. “You’re cursing again. Thought we’d taught you better at Westheath.”

“Well you didn’t. You didn’t do nothing for me at Westheath. Nothing but make me dream of—” She stopped short, out of breath and panicked, but his eyes had already narrowed.

She had learned long ago not to trust that narrowed stare. She’d outwitted a good many in her years on the
streets, but this was different, still deadly, but not in the usual way.

“Dream of what, lass?” he rasped.

She licked her lips. “Nightmares more like,” she said. “Couldn’t sleep a wink inside them castle walls. Couldn’t breathe neither.”

“So you’re happy to be here then, are ye?”

“’Tis better than being smothered by the likes of you. I make my own rules ’ere. Do what I wish.”

He gritted his teeth. A vein swelled like an angry river in his massive throat. “So you wish to sell yourself to men like Poke?”

She drew in a sharp breath. “I never said I sold myself.”

“You spread your legs for free then?”

“Damn you, Viking,” she swore, and jerked away, but he’d caught her wrist. She turned slowly back. “’Tis none of your affair where I make my bed.”

Anger danced like lightning across his battered face. “I have wounds what say different.”

Her eyes burned suddenly, stung like ashes. “I didn’t ask you to come ’ere.”

“No,” he murmured, “but I’m asking you to leave, lass.”

“Why?” She leaned closer. Her hair, loosed for the night, fell across his arm. He watched it caress his skin and almost seemed to wince, but when he raised his gaze back to hers, it was steady once more. “Why do you care?” she whispered.

“I told you long ago, I don’t like to see lassies hurt. When me own sister—”

“I’m not your sister.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You’re more the age of a daughter to the likes o’ me.”

“And I’m sure as ’ell not your daughter,” she hissed, and leaned closer still, so that her hair brushed his chest.

His breath hitched, and he trembled, but in a moment he raised his attention back to her face.

“Don’t go doing nothing foolish, lass,” he rumbled.

“Foolish?” She shook her head. Her hair danced onto the bulging muscles of his injured arm. She watched him swallow. “I wasn’t the one what broke into the Den. I wasn’t the one what was nearly killed.”

“I’m not easy to kill,” he vowed, but his tone was shaky.

“You’re flesh and blood, ain’t ye?” she asked, and placed a hand against his chest, feeling the rise of his nipple beneath the rough tunic. Through the warmth of his skin, she could feel the battering ram of his heart, but he had once again ceased to breathe. Why? “Bone and muscle.”

“Lass—” His voice sounded tortured.

“Why did you come?” she whispered. “Truly.”

He winced as if tortured. “’Twas me own job to protect you.”

“I was naught but a thief brought in for questioning,” she said, and slid her hand down his ribs. He twitched under her ministrations, muscles bulging. “Why protect me?”

“’Twas me laird’s wish.”

She bumped her fingers over the taut expanse of his abdomen, then onto bare skin, and watched him grit his teeth against the assault. “Did he wish for you to come here?” she asked and slid her hand under his shirt.

His muscles quivered beneath her tingling fingers. She raised her eyes to his.

“Was it his idea?” she asked.

“He’s”—Burr inhaled sharply, flaring his nostrils—“been distracted these days.”

“So you came of your own accord,” she deduced and slipped her hand along the track of his ribs. “You—”

“Lass!” He caught her other arm, though it was obvious he did not mean to keep her from leaving, but to hold her at bay. “This is not right.”

“What isn’t?”

“This…” He glanced down, and in that moment she realized his face was red, with the color running madly down toward his spectacular chest. It made her want to touch it again, to lay her head against the strength of it. To pretend, if just for a moment, that his strength was for her. “I did not mean to give ye a false impression.”