Authors Note: Most of the characters have a hint of Scottish accent. I’m also attempting to write a little French accent for Remy, so pardon the mistakes.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the following story.
Chapter 4:
Awkward Moments
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Pain sliced Logan’s chest. He swore at his own stupidity and reached for the brass compass, but she had already snatched it out and dropped it to the floor. Her gasp was one of utter horror “ as if it was she who had been stabbed, and her eyes were tremendously wide, blue as a cloudless sky and filled with terror. Behind him the door slammed open, and footsteps thundered into the room.
‘That would be Lieutenant Summers and his entourage, nosey as always and too bored to keep to themselves.’ He thought grimly.
She obviously noticed their arrival too, for she was staring past his shoulder, her eyes wider than ever, her plump lips parted. He turned slowly, careful to step directly in front of her, covering her nudity.
Five men stood in an arc before him. Summers was the closest. His sword was drawn, and his right hand held a pistol. The others were armed similarly.
“My Lord!” Scotts tone was breathless his expression tense. “You are wounded.”
“Logan glanced down at his chest. Blood had seeped onto his tunic “Aye, so I am.”
“By her hand,” added Scott.
“True.” Reaching toward a Grecian statuette Logan pulled the silken scarf from its shoulders and handed it to the girl behind him.
“Cover yourself,” he ordered.
The sheer fabric shook as she took it and he almost smiled. So she was finally scared.
“My Lord,” said Summers, “if you’ll just step aside I’ll see to her punishment.
He should step aside of course. She was a thief, a liar, and most probably a murderer’s accomplice if not a murderer herself, but even now it seemed he could see it was not true in her eyes “ deep pools of blue with her snow- white hair wild and unbound about her splendid breast.
Of course it was neither her breast nor her terrified eyes that kept her from punishment. A bastard had no time for foolish sentiment. It was merely that he was certain he could convince her to reveal her lover’s whereabouts. She was young, scared, and alone.
“Go to supper summers!” he ordered, his mind elsewhere. “I have use for the girl here.”
“My Lord…”
“And take your men with you.”
“But…”
“What’s afoot?” LeBleau appeared in the doorway like a looming bad omen. Logan scowled, the Cajun had no doubt heard the commotion a while ago.
“Good for you to join us,” said Logan through gritted teeth. “The men were just about to take their supper.”
Remy nodded and studied Logan. “Did she stab you?”
“Yes…” growled Logan.
Remy nodded once again, his expression something between admiration and boredom, before he turned to the guards. “Well monsieur’s there is a fine bite of lamb at the table. How’s about we test it before it’s gone?”
“My Lord…” Summers began again, ignoring Remy, but Logan silenced him with a glare.
“All is well Scott,” Logan assured him. “You needn’t worry.”
“She is dangerous my Lord!”
“What you thinkin’ monsieur?” exclaimed Remy obviously tired of Scott’s over-eagerness. “You wanna chew his food too, no?”
“Tis my job to protect the Lord of the Isle! And protect him I will!” shouted Scott, his face beet red.
“Yes, Yes” Remy mumbled. “ But if the Lord cannot save himself from this lil petite,” he jerked his head toward Ororo…
“Just get out!” barked Logan after losing patience with them all.
For a moment Logan thought Scott might actually venture a second objection, but apparently he wasn’t completely daft, because he finally left with his men. The room was nearly empty besides Remy who remained.
“Stabbed you,” he mumbled to himself and chuckling he shambled towards the door. “Good for the cher’e.”
Now they were completely alone. Logan turned slowly toward the girl. The numbing shock of the blow had warn off his chest and was beginning to throb rhythmically, but one glance at the diminutive thief drove all thoughts of pain from his mind. In truth it drove all thoughts of any kind from his mind, sending his blood pumping to lower regions.
She stood perfectly still, her brown skinned body unmoving, the sheer fabric he had given to her earlier now draped down to her knees. He hadn’t realized what an erotic picture she would make.
‘Perhaps she was the reason Summers refused to leave…I’ll kill that…Whoa! Why was he getting jealous?’ he questioned himself.
He continued to stare at her and felt his blood pressure rise with his cock.
Perhaps his thoughts showed in his eyes, because she bunched up the cloth more tightly between her breasts and took a step back. The sheer fabric seemed to do little more than magnify her bounteous charms.
He began to harden and grow. Sometimes his dick forgot the greater good, preferring to embark on its own endeavors. It began to stir restlessly as Logan’s eyes flickered downward then up.
He waited in taut anticipation for her reaction but she did nothing but raise her chin and tighten her grip on the scarf.
“So you truly are Lord Howlett.”
“Yes,” he simply agreed. “I am Logan Howlett and who are you?”
“My name is Mrs. Mulgrave.”
“Mrs. Mulgrave?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“And your husband?”
“He is dead.”
“Really, did you kill him?” he said with a smirk.
“What! No! How…?” she began, but he gestured toward the hole in his chest. “Of course I did not kill him! And I would not have stabbed you if you had ceased…”
Her words stopped. Her gazed remained frozen on his chest.
“What are you doing?” she demanded
“I’ve known you less than a full day and already you’ve ruined more garments than I did during my entire voyage to Jamaica.”
She swallowed and he scowled as he tugged his shirt tail from beneath his breeches.
“How then?” he asked.
She ripped her gaze from his torso to his face. “What?” she asked.
“Your husband, how did he die?”
“Oh, he drowned.”
“What was his name?”
“William.”
“When did it happen?
“Last May. He was boating on the Thomas.”
“Tragic.”
“Quite.”
“What was his occupation?”
“He was a tailor.”
Logan smiled, ‘Damn she was good.’
“And where did you and your beloved live, Mrs. Mulgrave?”
“In London.”
“Where in London?”
“On Craven Road, just across from the gardens.”
He paused for a moment, and she pursed her lips with regal disdain. “Might I have my clothes back now?”
“No,” he said without thinking. True there had been no weapon found in her garments. Neither had there been any stashed away in the white bundle of hair she’d piled atop her head, but it had been a good excuse to see her unclothed.
“Whyever not?”
“Because...” he thought for a moment and realized he needed no reason. “You’re my prisoner! You’ll have your clothes when I see fit “ Miss Megs!!!!”
“I am not Megs…”
“My apologies Mrs. Mulgrave…” he corrected politely with a bow. Old Hank had taught him a lot of things- from judging wine to tying a cravat, but bowing was what he excelled at. God knew that Logan was never meant to be Lord. But his mother had been young and bonny, and the King had taken a liking to her. The old man had no idea of knowing that is only heir would be a ragged “ assed ruffian. “…But you see I have a problem.”
She stared at him for a full five seconds before speaking. “The lowest of men can change his temperament if he so wished.”
It took him a moment to understand her meaning, and when he did he didn’t try to contain his grin. “You think my temperament is a problem?” he asked and circled her slightly. His intention was to reach the caneback chair that accompanied his desk, but he did mind a view of her profile from the rear if the opportunity presented itself.
“You did threaten to hang me,” she reminded him.
“And of course you don’t deserve to be hanged,” he admitted.
“No, I most certainly do not.”
“And of course neither did Creed.” He tried to continue his casual tone, but the very thought of Creed twisted his stomach. ‘Months ago he had vowed to get revenge. He was Lord of this isle! How hard could it be to execute one man! One brigand! One Murderer!’
“As I have told you…”
“Yes, you have told me,” he growled and lifting the chair in one fist, slammed it back down on the hardwood floor beneath. Her gasp filled the room. He gritted his teeth and watched her, calming his nerves, easing his tension.
“Tell me the truth Megs, or I swear your bonny looks will not save you from the consequences.”
“My name is not Megs.” Her words were no more than a whisper.
“You lie.” Easing his hand from the chair he approached her slowly. “But damned if you don’t do it well.”
“It’s not gentlemanly to accuse a lady of an untruth.”
“Gentlemanly,” he said and laughed. “I could almost believe you are from abroad with such foolish talk.”
She stared at him with confused eyes.
“No one has ever accused me of being a gentleman,” he said and touched her cheek. The skin was soft as the heather blossom of his homeland. “Tell me where to find him.”
She shook her head. Her gaze never leaving his face.
“What has he done to gain such loyalty?” he mused, then thought of a new idea. “Or is it fear? Do you think he will harm you if you spill the truth?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he slipped his fingers over the plump rise of her lips, shushing her. They were ungodly soft and unusually full. His lower region stirred, and he scowled, remember to concentrate.
“Don’t speak,” he ordered. “But listen. Creed is dangerous. I don’t know what he’s told you…what he’s promised you…but you can’t trust him. Tell me where he is, and I will make certain he never harms you.”
The stared into each others eyes. She shook her head.
“I cannot.”
He stopped the curse before it reached his lips. “Then I’ll have little choice but to imprison you, Darlin’,”
“For refusing to say what I cannot?” Her voice was hushed, but he discerned no desperation, no panic.
He forced a smile. “For withholding information from your sovereign Lord.”
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