A Pirate's Wife for Me (6 page)

But he had known she wouldn't listen. Stubborn as sin, was his Caitlin, and he'd doubted the passage of time could change that. He'd been right, of course. Cate had gotten a mulish expression on her face, an expression with which he was too familiar, and she had declared she would stay.

"Let me get this straight. Ye saw she had a gun. She pointed it at ye and threatened to shoot ye. But ye didn't believe she'd go through with it?"

"It sounds stupid when you say it that way."

"Say it so it doesn't sound stupid," Blowfish challenged.

The door opened. Taran twisted his head to see who it was — and realized that tonight was most definitely not his night.

Sibeol came in and shut the door behind her.

Blowfish bowed deeply, his awe of the queen not lessened by knowing her son.

Always gracious, she said, "Mr. Blowfish, it is a pleasure to see you." Then, without waiting for a greeting, she asked, "Taran? She says she's a MacLean. You seduced a MacLean and promised to come back for her?"

"Ye seduced her?" Blowfish asked in amazement.

"Years ago," Taran said.

Sibeol tapped her foot. "And afterward disappeared without a trace."

"I thought I would keep that promise." Taran didn't know why he bothered to defend himself. He couldn't win this argument. "You know why I didn't return."

"Did you truly intend to?"

"Aye, I intended to."

"For what purpose?" Queen Sibeol demanded. "To have her as your mistress? You know who you are. You understand your duties. That girl is noble, but you can't marry her!"

Taran would accomplish nothing by alienating his mother now. So he only shook his head, as if he didn't know what had possessed him so long ago.

"Wait a minute." Blowfish lifted his hand away from his task. "That woman up there, the woman who shot you — she's a MacLean?" His voice rose. "That is Caitlin MacLean?"

Taran started to answer.

Blowfish didn't wait. "Of course she is. I shoulda recognized her. She has the look of all those wenches you —"

Taran glared at him.

Blowfish swallowed his words.

It would not do to speak of Taran's dockside loves in front of his mother.

"She looks like the type of lady you favor," Blowfish said sedately. Then, as if he were puzzled, which he certainly was not, he scratched at the gray stubble on his chin. "So ye're telling me that years ago, ye seduced the young miss upstairs and left 'er alone to deal with the consequences."

In profound irritation, Taran snapped, "I was kidnapped and sent off to be murdered!"

His mother gave him no reprieve. "This is no excuse! You should never have taken her in the first place. As for the present state of affairs — her bed was rumpled. Tonight you tried to seduce her … 
again."

And he got caught by his
mother
. Taran had lived through every man's worst nightmare —
his mother
had caught him bedding a woman. No, worse — trying to bed a woman and failing.

"I want Cate to go away, and I thought the best way to frighten her was to … to …" To threaten her … with himself. Taran had thought if he took her in his arms, held her struggling body against his, and forced his kisses on her, she would recall the disgrace their liaison had brought her, and run away.

Instead, he was the one who had remembered. Remembered her silky skin against his, the scent of her hair, the passion and the fire of her body.

Blowfish helped Taran to roll over and started on the exit wound.

In a voice that was worse than severe – in a voice that was saddened – his dear, darling mother who had undergone so much, said, "I am disappointed in you."

"Ma'am, truly, no more disappointed than I am in myself. The first time, I was …" He turned his head to the wall. "I was angry at myself for being such a coward, for not returning to Cenorina and doing my duty."

"And ye were seventeen," Blowfish said. "The selfsame definition of stupid."

"Yes, thank you, Blowfish," Taran said in profound irritation. "We have established that I was and am stupid!"

Blowfish applied such pressure to the wound Taran's eyes rolled back in his head. "Ye
are
stupid to give grief to the man cleaning this pitiful little hole in yer arm."

When Taran had ceased writhing, Sibeol asked, "Your father and I tried to impress on you your noble obligations."

"You did," Taran admitted. "I knew right from wrong. I have no excuse except … that last year in Cenorina, Father was sick and you were busy with him, and Mr. Davies was my tutor. He … he encouraged me in every foolish endeavor, in every dissipation and careless emotion."

Sibeol took a wavering breath.

Cautiously Taran reached out to her to touch her hand. "But between the pain at losing my father and knowing you were imprisoned, and the MacLeans and their good teaching, I swear to you I thought I could make things right with Cate … somehow. And Cate … she was sixteen and so beautiful, and she loved me. Truly loved me for myself. She saw no blemish, no corruption, no
stupidity
. She soothed me, pleased me, gave me happiness where all was a desert…"

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Isle of Mull, Scotland, 1834

Sweat dripped off of Taran's forehead as he slashed with the claymore, using the heavy steel blade with the skill Kiernan had taught him and an aggression all his own. He drove Graeme MacQuarrie back toward the fence, and it took Kiernan's shout before he would back away.

Kiernan removed the handle from Taran's sweaty fingers. "Damn, lad, you've got no enemies here. If you've got a fire in the gut, save it for true battle."

Taran nodded, his chest heaving. But he didn't really listen. It had been three years since his father, the king, had died. Three years since his mother, the queen, had sent him away from Cenorina, and since then he'd heard not one word about his kingdom, not one word of his mother. His heart ached to see her, to hold her in his arms and comfort her in her grief and loneliness. But he didn't even know if she was alive; he only knew that she wouldn't leave the country she had adopted with her marriage. When she saw him onto the ship, she had sworn to stay and lead the fighting, and to bring him back as soon as she could.

But he had heard no word. So probably … probably …they held her in prison.

Or… or she was dead. He never dared think much about it, but at night he dreamed, and his dreams were horrible. He wanted to cry. But men never cried.

Caitlin's strong voice shouted, "'Twas a good battle, lads! I could watch you both all day."

Unhurriedly, Taran turned his head.

Caitlin was sitting on the fence, her skirt tucked around her, grinning at him like a brownie bent on mischief.

As she was. Kiernan's gangly, graceless sister had grown into an exquisite young woman of sixteen, and she knew it. Knew it, and used every one of her feminine wiles to trap him.

He couldn't allow himself to be trapped. He was a man who had no future, because he was a man too cowardly to do what should be done – to return to Cenorina and face the villain who had stolen his home and sent him into exile. Aye, he should go to Cenorina, march up to Maddox Davies, and demand the return of his kingdom. Although Davies claimed to have noble English blood, he was nothing but a common tutor, and a coward. Davies would not dare harm Taran … his student. Although Taran half-hoped he would try, for then Taran would fight him as he had found Graeme, and no one would stop him when he delivered the final blow.

Kiernan was talking to Graeme, demonstrating how to parry those slashing blows.

Caitlin jumped off the fence and sauntered toward Taran. Her long, auburn hair was tied back in a bow, and the wind ruffled the wisps that came loose around her face. Her complexion glowed with a touch of the sun, and her rosy lips smiled at him as if he were the only man on earth.

She had a way of making him feel like that.

Gripping his shoulder with her gloved hand, she whispered, "Take me to Granny Aileen's hut in the mountains across the water. We could meet there and you could teach me everything about making love." Her green eyes glowed with excitement, and she caressed his flesh with a subtle touch.

Instantaneously, his cock stood up and crowed.

How could she do this to him, every time, everywhere, no matter who was watching?

To hide his condition, he turned his back on Kiernan.

Aye, Caitlin was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he wanted her more than any other woman in the world. But he knew in his mind she was the one willing woman in Scotland he couldn't carelessly bed.

If only he could convince his body!

Caitlin didn't seem to notice. She stared at his face in adoration.

And he loved it. He had become addicted to her saucy wit, her husky voice, her swaying hips and glorious, long body. But he couldn't allow that to continue. He had duties to fulfill … someday. Surely someday he would have duties once more.

When he danced with Caitlin at parties, or conversed with her after horse races, or played cards with her on long winter evenings, he forgot his guilt, his rage, his frustration, and for one moment in time was no more than a young man fascinated by a stunning young woman. If things were different, he would wed her. He would make her his princess, and she would charm everyone on the four islands. But that wasn't possible. He couldn't wed her. The future king had a duty to advance his country's wealth and position, and he could not do that by marrying a Scottish laird's sister, regardless of how attractive she was.

But did it matter, when he didn't even have the stomach to demand the return of his kingdom?

Other lasses came to him, offering themselves, exclaiming over his brooding gray eyes and his braw body. He took them. He learned what they had to teach him. He was seventeen. Ruefully he admitted his weakness. He could turn down no offer.

Except Caitlin's. She wanted him, and tormented him until he couldn't sleep at night, until the other women lost their savor and he pretended it was Caitlin's thighs he caressed, Caitlin's lips he kissed, Caitlin's who he rode.

Now he was a victim of his own disgraceful fantasies. Stripping off his leather gloves, he wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

Then, at last, she removed her hand from his shoulder.

Taran said, "Kiernan MacLean has provided me with shelter, food, clothing. He's taught me and protected me. If I seduced his sister, I would be the worst kind of man …" If he brought disgrace upon Caitlin, Kiernan would flay him and chase him away like a mangy dog, and then … then Taran would be forced to return to Cenorina and act as a crown prince should, with bravery and daring.

He stared straight ahead.

He couldn't lie to himself. Dishonoring his benefactor's sister to force himself into action would be the worst kind of cowardice.

She tugged at Taran’s arm until he looked back at her. "Taran, you mustn't vex yourself." She gnawed on her lower lip as if she were shy.

He knew very well she was not. But he watched, fascinated beyond wisdom.

If only there was a way to have what he wanted and what Caitlin wanted, too.

In a soft voice, she said, "When we came together, it would not be a seduction. You see, Taran … I love you."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Cate hesitated in the doorway of the taproom.

Gray sunlight, softened by the liberal application of fog, seeped through the windows. The two dozen men who had been so boisterous the night before sat eating in morose silence about a long plank table. The odor of kippers and bacon mingled with the stale scent of last night's ale.

The pirates were an unkempt bunch. Grimy scarves kept their lanky hair out of their eyes. One man wore an eye patch. One man had a hook where his arm should be. She recognized Maccus, the tow-headed Scot who last night had offered his services. For the first time in her life, she saw a man whose complexion was sooty black. He must be from Africa — a Negro. She wanted to stare, but these men — they were rough. They belched and scratched body parts she preferred not to notice. They spoke in growls and ate with their fingers except when they wanted to fillet a fish, then eight-inch long knives flashed out of their belt to be used with a skill that brought her heart to her throat.

These were Taran's men. He'd lived and fought and robbed with these fellows, and as she gazed at them, she could see into his past. If she used the proper approach, if she asked the right man, she might discover information necessary to handle Taran in the days ahead. The more she thought about the events of last night — and as the hours had ticked away and sleep remained elusive, she had thought long and hard — the more she became convinced Taran had deliberately planned each move on her.

If, at the first sight of him, she had turned tail and run, he wouldn't have given chase. He would have considered her flight a job well done.

He had already caused her one sleepless night. That would not do. She was a sensible woman on a mission. She needed her slumber.