Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (11 page)

"I like to think my life is worth something."

Self-doubt galled him, but her beauty soothed the raw, emotional wounds. Still, he did not deserve to be soothed. "As I said lass I did not kill them for ye."

"They had no quarrel with you, Scotsman."

"I ken that but—"

"Why were you there if not to protect me?"

"I..." In the beginning he had come to protect her. But in the inferno of the battle, he had lost control. 'Twas an unforgivable sin. "I didna have ta kill them," he said.

She watched him very closely. "Ahh. So ya think ya could have just asked them nicely to leave me be, I suppose."

Roman said nothing.

"They would have killed me, Scotsman," she said softly. "Without regret, without feeling, they would have killed me, had it not been for you."

Her words gave something back to him—something that had been lost in the alley.

"Why, lass?" he asked softly. "Why would they kill ye?"

She laughed, but the sound was hollow. "Because they were Dagger's men."

Roman shook his head. "Who is this Dagger?"

She remained silent for a moment. "I thought ya knew. Ya told them as much."

"Tonight I saw..." He paused. The memory seemed little more than a black dream. "The night the necklace was stolen, three men broke into my room." He turned away, confusion crowding in. "But the necklace was already gone. I remembered one of the men's faces and followed him to Dag-ger.

"No!" She gasped the word.

Roman turned toward her in surprise. "What's wrong, lass? Is it yer arm?"

"My arm?" She laughed aloud, but her face was pale. "You don't know who you're dealing with, Scotsman."

He relaxed a smidgen. "I've some idea."

"He'll kill you," she whispered. "Or worse."

Taking a few steps, he approached her bed. "Would ye care, lass?"

"Stay away from him. Leave Firthport." Her eyes were bright with emotion.

What did those eyes show? Fear? For him? "I canna."

"Why?"

"Because I made a vow."

"Is it worth your life?"

He paused a moment, then, "Aye, lass. It is."

"Then you're a fool."

He watched her face, alive with a passion he could not understand. "Is there nothing for which ye'd risk yer life, lass?" he asked softly.

"No."

"Ye lie."

Their gazes held a moment longer, but then she turned away. "And you're wrong, Scotsman.There's nothing more valuable than my own skin."

Her profile looked cameo perfect in the light of the flame. He couldn't help but reach out and touch her cheek. "Mayhap yer right, lass," he murmured. " Tis naught more valuable than your skin."

She turned slowly back to him. "I meant to me."

"'Twas my meaning also. Mayhap I would feel that there's nothing more valuable to me than yer skin."

She swallowed. He watched a blush stain her cheeks. "I 'adn't 'eard that Scots were charming."

He paused, as surprised as he was flattered. "And I haven't seen a whore blush."

She turned away.

The room fell sharply quiet.

"I suppose ye'd like ta retract yer last opinion of me," he said softly.

She turned back with a shrug. Her lips, full and bright, were lifted in a small self-deprecating smile, but he wondered if he saw a hint of sadness in her eyes, not quite hidden away. "I think most would agree that saving my life was a rather charming thing to do, Scotsman, whether ya call me 'ore or not."

"Lass..." She seemed very small suddenly. Small and helpless and in need of someone more clever than himself. "'Tis sorry I be."

"That ya saved me life."

Roman made a noise of self-disgust and closed his eyes. "Forgive me, I'm na good at this sort of thing."

"And what sort of thing might that be?"

"Wooing women."

Her mouth fell open. She blinked.

Roman frowned. "'Tis a bad sign that ye couldna even guess what I was attempting ta do."

She laughed. "Scottie, no one woos a 'ore."

He found her gaze with his own. 'Then yer na a whore, lass. Because that be exactly what I'm trying ta do."

"Well..." She sounded breathless and looked the same. "Don't."

"Why?"

"Because I..." She shook her head. "I'm ..."

"Yer a wee, bonny lass," he said. "Soft." He ran a finger gently over her bare shoulder. "And kind, I think, though ye wouldna admit it."

"I am not kind," she said angrily.

"I said ye wouldna admit it. How well I know ye already."

"Ya don't know me at all, Scotsman."

"Then tell me about yerself, lass."

She shook her head sharply.

"And why not?"

"Because I will not waste my time on a dead man."

He raised his brows in surprise. "Do I smell that bad then?"

She snorted. "Make jokes if ya like. But if'n ya dare tangle with Dagger, yer as good as dead."

He watched her eyes. They were beautiful beyond description. "Ye dunna give me much credit, lass, considering the circumstances."

"Which are?"

He shrugged. 'Two of his men are dead. Do ye forget the battle so quickly?"

"I haven't forgotten," she whispered. "But there are more. Scores of them. Ya can't win. Not if ya challenge 'im straight on."

"Then how can I win?"

She opened her mouth then shook her head as if to retract the words. "I didn't say ya could."

"But what were ye thinking?"

"Nothing."

"What do ye know of this Dagger?"

"I know he kills for pleasure. And he has a ring of thieves that do the same. That's enough."

"Who is he?"

"No one knows that," she said. "No one dares even speak his name."

"Mysteries," Roman said. "Firthport seems full of them. No one knows the Shadow. No one knows Dagger."

"The Shadow's not real," Betty said, her tone harsh, her brow bruised and furrowed. "But Dagger is. He's as real as he is deadly. Stay away from him. Even if ya got the necklace, even if ya found it, it'd do ya no good, cause 'e wants it, and 'e won't stop till 'e finds it. It'd only get ya killed the sooner. Go home," she whispered. Her words fell into silence. The candle hissed beside her. "Please," she added softly.

"Ye see," he said, reaching out again to trace his fingers gently down her cheek. "Ye are kind."

"And you're stupid," she said, angrily swiping his hand away. "Why won't ya leave?"

"Me duty lies here. I made a vow."

"To who?"

"Me mother."

She stared at him for a moment then laughed aloud. "And would your mother not rather ya keep yourself alive than fulfill your stupid vow?"

Roman remained silent for a moment. The Highlands were there in his mind suddenly, easing his soul. "'Tis hard to say what me mother would think. She is a ... unique woman."

"Go home, Scotsman, before it's too late."

"It's too late, now, lass."

"No!" she said, grasping his shirt with her left hand. "I will not be responsible for your death. I will not."

He stared into her eyes. "How could ye take that responsibility?"

"Don't ya see?" she asked, shaking with feeling, but just then she realized his gaze had fallen away.

Her blanket had deserted her, it seemed, and his gaze, green and intense, had been snared by her breasts.

She swallowed hard, but she did not draw the blanket up, for perhaps this was her only chance. "What'll it take, Scotsman?" she asked softly. "What'll it take ta convince ya ta leave?"

His gaze lifted to hers. Fire burned in his eyes. She watched him tighten his jaw, watched him clench his fists and hold himself back.

"Dunna tempt me, lass," he murmured hoarsely. "Ye dunna ken what I'm capable of."

Dear God, forgive her! "Then show me," she said, and slipped the blanket from her body.

Chapter 8

As a child, Roman had seen a brooch made of ivory found in a distant land and brought to the Highlands by a thousand twisted trails. He had thought it the most beautiful thing on earth, smooth, precious, lovely.

Her skin was like that. By the light of the single candle, it glowed as if with a fire of its own. She'd lost her coif and half her pins in the melee with Dagger's men. Her golden hair hung in loops, half-upswept, half-down.

It was the hair that he could not resist. Perhaps it was the incongruity of its wild disarray against the neat slimness of her body. Perhaps it was the sheer femininity that drew him. Sitting on the saggy mattress, he dipped his fingers into the wild mass, releasing the surviving pins. The golden strands sighed across his hands, soft as a kitten's fur against his fingers and seeming to caress his very soul. He drew a careful breath, breathing her scent, feeling the very essence of her as he burrowed deeper, sliding his splayed fingers against her scalp.

Her breathing was raspy. Her eyes fell closed. Her head dropped back a bit as she leaned upon one palm.

"Lass." He could not help but lean closer and whisper something to her, for her beauty touched his soul. He slipped his hand onto her neck, caressing, soothing. Her flesh was soft and warm. Her throat was slim, long, elegant. He traced its sharp tendon with one finger then slid lower, over her collarbone and softly, ever so softly along the outside curve of her right breast.

She shivered violently against his touch and breathed hard, fast exhalations that rasped softly against his face.

Roman slid his fingers around her sides until he felt the sharp ridge of her backbone. He skimmed his fingers lower, slowly lower, until she arched away from his hand, pressing her breasts upward.

They were beautiful, firm, capped by taut, rosy-hued nipples. He leaned closer, holding hard to the reins of self-control, making each movement carefully until his lips touched the crest of one breast.

She shrieked softly and jerked beneath him.

"Lass." Roman raised his head, scrutinizing her face. It was taut with intensity and rapt concentration, beautiful beyond words in the glow of the tallow candle. "Lass," he repeated, tightening his arm where it lay about her back. She felt no more substantial than a flower, no more corrupt than a sanctuary. "Who are ye?"

Her eyes snapped open like one who's been slapped. "Betty," she said, her tone raspy.

He could not help but smile, for there was passion as bright as a rose in her face. "Yer more than a simple name, lass. More than..." He shrugged, finding no words. "Who are ye?"

She shook her head, looking disoriented. "I'm..." She exhaled again, sharply, and tentatively lifted her injured arm to touch the leather lace that secured his simple shirt.

"Ye tremble," he said softly. "Why?"

She shifted her eyes to his chest, clumsily loosening his laces as she did so.

"Why?" he whispered again, leaning closer still so that only a breath of distance remained between their faces. "Do ye tremble with fear, or do ye tremble with passion?"

She pursed her lips and finally met his gaze. Her eyes were wide and wild. "I'm not..." She shook her head and paused. "I've not done this ... with any but... Harry for quite some time."

He watched her face, the pain, the honesty, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to protect her from the harsh realities of the world, to hold her in his arms and keep her forever safe. But she was not some virgin to be coddled, and he must keep his head.

"Why do ye do it with me, lass?" he asked, sliding his hand languidly down her back.

She shivered again and closed her eyes. Roman cupped her buttock and she moaned, letting her lips part soundlessly as he caressed her.

He slid his hand lower, feeling the smooth length of her thigh. He lifted her leg, bending it toward him, feeling the velvet strength of it. Her knee was sharp, her calf smooth, her instep high, and her toes, as he slid his fingers down them, were tiny delicate pods.

Her hands gripped his shirt, bunching it in her fists and pulling it up. Its great length scraped upward until it lay in folds about his waist. She slipped her hand underneath to press her palm against his abdomen.

Roman sucked air between his teeth. His muscles were taut with tension and anticipation. Her hand slipped higher, over the rippled tension below his ribs to the trembling breadth of his chest. She brushed his nipple. He trembled more violently then exhaled carefully, trying to remain sane, to think.

"Why me?" he asked again, but her hands were soft and warm, eager and skilled.

"Could I just..." Her breath was a soft fan of air against his cheek. Her eyes were closed. "Could I just... feel you against me?" she whispered.

He had to think, keep his head. But her lips were slightly parted and her breasts pale and hard-tipped.

He all but tore his brooch from his shirt and his shirt from his chest, before sitting silent to watch her.

Betty bit her lip then slowly, tentatively, set her palm to his left pectoral. The flesh was marked with three long scars. The muscle leapt beneath her hand. She swallowed hard and almost drew away. But she must do this. She must. It wasn't that she wanted to. It wasn't that he drew at some part of her that she had long tried to disavow. It wasn't that his kindness wooed her or that his strength weakened her. But...

His shoulder was capped in muscle. His arm, heavy and taut, rippled beneath her fingers, and his chest, when she wandered back in that direction, was as tight as polished stone and adorned in the center with a strange amulet of sorts.

"Teeth," she murmured, lifting it from his chest. "I wondered what it was."

He opened his eyes. "Wondered? When did you see it?"

Sweet Mary! Had she lost her mind? She must be careful—and smart. Now was surely not the time to let down her guard. "At the inn," she said, trying to keep her tone even. "It lay outside your tunic for a time." She dared not look into his eyes. "'Tis a strange charm to wear about your neck."

He drew a deep breath and watched her. "It but reminds me who I am, lass, and where I come from."

She forced herself to relax and finally lifted her gaze to his. His eyes were intense, mesmerizing.

Taking her hand in his, he turned the amulet so that they both viewed it clearly.