Free Lois Greiman by The Princess, Her Pirate

as she did so.
    “I will never lie with you!” she hissed.
    He watched her in silence, like a spider might watch its slowly suffocating prey. “To me or with me?” he asked.
    She glared, and he laughed.
    “It will not be so hideous,” he assured her. “You may even enjoy it.” He reached for her again, but she scrunched against the rowan wood head of the garish bed, trying to control her breathing, to keep her expression impassive.
    “This I can promise you.” She raised her chin. “I shall never enjoy it. Not with you, MacTavish.”
    “Not like you did with Wheaton.”
    She stared, her mind churning madly in her head.
    A muscle ticked near his mouth. “Tell me what magic Wheaton possesses then, lass. Perhaps I can learn from his expertise and pleasure you against all odds.”
    She sat frozen in place. His eyes smoldered with anger, but when he lowered his gaze to her breasts, there was a new light in their depths.
    “Tell me, Megs, do you cherish him so very much? Or do you give him all because of fear?”
    “Let me go.” Her voice sounded deceptively calm, though her heart was thundering like wild horses in her chest, and her breath came hard.
    “So that you can return to him?” He shook his head. “I think I’ll keep you here, and maybe, if he cares half so much for you as you for him…” Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to her throat. Feelings sparked like summer lightning, branching away on frayed electrical currents. “Maybe he will come for you.”
    “MacTavish.” Her voice wavered now. “Do not be a fool.” He kissed her again, in the hollow of her throat. She swallowed hard. Did a man’s touch always elicit such feelings? “Save yourself.”
    “From Wheaton?”
    “From me.”
    He straightened slightly. They were inches apart, his gaze absolutely steady on hers. Her limbs felt weak, but she was in a tight spot. It couldn’t be the effects of his nearness.
    “There are many things I should save myself from, wee lass,” he breathed, and skimmed a finger along the edge of her collarbone. “But I don’t think I care to save myself from you,” he said, and bent to kiss her neck.
    She jerked away and skittered off the bed. “Then you are a fool.”
    He descended the mattress and stalked after her, his strides smooth. He resembled nothing more than a tawny cat, sleek, confident, undeterred.
    “Tell me, Megs, are you worried what Wheaton will do if he learns you’ve been in my bed?”
    She was nearing the door. Perhaps if she could make it through, Burr would be there and maybe…
    But in that moment MacTavish leapt. She shrieked and darted, but he caught her by the arm and spun her about. They were chest to chest, thigh to thigh. She could feel the tight expanse of his body against hers, and there, in the middle of his being, the hard evidence of his desire was impossible to mistake. Even the highest-born lady knew something of men.
    Fear choked her. She pushed on his chest. “Nay.” The word was weak, pathetic, her strength the same.
    “You must pay your debts,” he said. “Here or in the dungeon. Surely one night in my bed would be preferable to a lifetime in Pikeshead.”
    “You’re making a mistake.”
    “Hoary disagrees,” he said, and, bending his head, kissed the high flesh of her breast.
    She gasped. He smiled. The door flew open.
    “My lord!”
    Her gaze darted across the room. A stranger stood there. He was immaculately dressed in dark waistcoat and tight pantaloons. He was as thin as a spindle and as small as an elf.
    MacTavish didn’t turn, didn’t loosen his grip, but he spoke, nevertheless. “Sir Albert,” he said. His tone was weary.
    “My lord,” he said again, his tone tight with disapproval, “tell me ’tis not so.”
    She felt his grip loosen the slightest degree. He turned with a scowl. “I thought you were in Paris.”
    “I have returned, and just in the nick of time, it seems.” He lisped slightly, and his lined face was pinched.
    “That’d