Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (19 page)

Hell fire! Where ...

It was then that he saw the holly bush move. It was small, no higher than his knees, and surely not big enough to hide her and yet. .. Neither could she be a lad or an old man.

Heart still thumping, he turned in a circle as if searching for her, then, with a curse, he ran along the fence to the left.

Once past the house, he leapt over the stone and hedge, circled the hovel at a gallop, and slid to a halt at the corner.

She was there, crouched like a frightened hare half-inside the bush and glancing furtively about as she rose cautiously to her feet.

He saw it all as if in a dream. She rose. He neared. She turned, but it was far too late. His fingers curled into her shirtfront. He dragged her against him. Her gasp was loud and satisfying to his ears.

She fought like a wildcat, twisting and thrashing. His leg burned with her pummeling. His chest ached from her claws, but nothing could diminish the glory of crushing her against him.

It was not an easy task to drag her to the cart in the street. But Roman did so, barely noticing that his arm throttled her throat while his opposite hand gripped the back of her tunic near her bottom.

He tossed her into the cart, then jumped in after to weigh her down and click the horse into motion. The cob could move with surprising speed when turned toward home. It sped through the mud and over the cobbles until Roman pulled it to a halt in front of Tara's door.

There was no one about. Roman dragged the bearded girl from the cart, sent the horse on his way, and pushed Tara into her own house. He closed the door and leaned against it.

They stared at each other. She was breathing hard. Her flattened chest rose and fell beneath the simple shirt. Her hose were gone, showing her slim, bare legs below the lengthy tunic. But her hat was miraculously still in place, as was the stringy gray hair that hung beneath it. Her thinning beard was several inches long and snowy white.

The sight of her thus sent a fresh wave of rage through Roman, for she was the embodiment of his own foolishness. He took a step forward. She retreated.

"What do ya want from me?" Her tone was pitched high with fear. He wanted revenge, and he was not above obtaining it at the expense of her little siren's body. Roman smiled. "Last time we were here together, we were interrupted a bit prematurely. I thought ye might wish to make up for that." He advanced again.

She retreated. "Stay away from me."

Roman canted his head. "Ye've changed, lass, for I remember ye moaning in me arms in this very room."

He had her backed nearly to the wall. They were mere inches apart.

"Indeed," he murmured. "Ye've changed."

"Why are you here?"

"I but want to give ye what ye wished from me. The pleasure of our bodies united," he said, leaning closer, lifting a hand to slide it around her waist. He would have his revenge. She shivered at his touch. "'Tis what ye wanted, isn't it? Could I but feel ye against me," he mimicked. "Ye wanted me. Surely 'twas na a lie." He smoothed his hand sideways, down her hip, over her buttock. She shivered again, and her breath came faster.

"I..." She placed a hand to his chest and pushed, but with little strength. "I'm sorry about the drug," she whispered.

"Drug?" Roman gritted his teeth, but continued to stroke her backside. "Ye mean ta say ye drugged me? And here I thought 'twas but yer charm that made me lose me senses." He slipped his hand lower, down her thigh, letting his fingers run along the inside of her leg until they skimmed past her tunic and onto bare skin.

She jerked against him, breathing hard and fast.

"I thought 'twas surely me attraction ta ye that made the world seem ta tilt," he said. "And I thought surely 'twas the same for ye."

"I'm sorry!" She rasped the words. Her bound chest rose and fell. "I'm sorry for everything. Please..."

They stared at each other, both breathing hard.

"What do you want from me?"

He wanted
her.
Body and soul, writhing with ecstasy beneath his hands. He stared at her, enraged at himself, at his weaknesses, and lost in the horrible knowledge that no matter what, beard and all, he still wanted her and could not hurt her.

"Damn ye!" he swore through his teeth.

"I'm sorry, Scotsman," she whispered. "Sorry for everything. But the necklace is gone now. Out of our reach."

"Nay." He shook his head. Revenge. 'Twas revenge he wanted, he reminded himself. But she was soft and alluring, and though he vowed vengeance, one glimpse of her made him forget what he had suffered because of her, made him forget everything but how she felt in his arms, how her eyes danced when she laughed. He crossed his arms against his chest, hoping his gaze was as hard as his desire and praying she couldn't read the need in his eyes. "Tis na out of
yer
reach, lass. I begin to think that nothing be past yer grasp."

She said nothing.

"Where's me amulet?"

"I didn't—"

"Me patience has been stretched ta the limit, lass. If the truth be told, I have vowed to kill ye."

He watched her throat convulse as she swallowed and felt a bit better, despite his own inability to make her pay.

"I didn't—"

He raised a hand. "Dunna lie."

She paused, blinked, then dipped her hand into her baggy tunic and pulled the amulet over her head.

He took it in his fist before slipping the leather strip about his neck. "Why?"

She pursed her lips and raised her chin. Now that he was close and cognizant, her lips seemed strangely smooth nestled between the frizzled white facial hair. "I believe in sharing."

"Strange how 'tis always
my
possessions that are shared," he said.

She clasped her hands like a shield between them then turned to pace the floor stiffly. "Some of us have less to share than others." Betty the barmaid was back, or at least she was making a valiant effort to return. He could almost see the mask fall into place. "'Arry is gone," she whispered. "I am but trying to survive, doin' me best to make it alone in the evil of this city." She rasped out a single sob and lifted a hand to cover her face. "You've no idea what I've been through, what with 'Arry's death and Dagger's men, and ..."

Roman couldn't stop the laughter that welled up in him. It began as a rumble of disbelief then spewed forth in a roar of tension-relieving mirth. Before him paced an old man with curvaceous legs, a seductress's sexy voice, and the delicate hands of a musician—or a thief. A thief who could no more tell the truth than he could make her pay for her crimes. What a pathetic pair they made.

He continued to laugh, letting the noise fill the room until he was sated and the sound turned to small rumblings of humor. When his eyes cleared of tears, he found her glaring at him.

"You don't know what I've endured," she repeated as if trying to draw back the proper mood. But her cheeks were red and her eyes narrowed. "You don't know—"

"And neither do I care!" he said, sweeping forward to yank the hat from her head. Tough, white horsehairs snapped in two. The hat came free, scraggly bits of gray hair clinging to it. The beard, to which it had been attached, drooped away from her ears like tattered cobwebs.

He glared into her eyes. "I dunna wish ta hear yer sad lies, for ye have abused me sympathy far too long.

"Hell fire! Get rid of that thing," he said, yanking the beard free.

It came away in his hand. She squawked, grabbing her jaw in pain and stumbling back.

"How the hell did ye keep that on?"

"It's none of your affair," she said. "And neither is anything I do. I've done you no harm. So get out of my house."

"No harm?" he growled, circling her, feeling a need to move, to pace off his frustration. She turned with him, watching his face. "If such is how ye think, let us review the past. I had but met ye once when ye drugged me the first time."

She opened her mouth as if to deny his words, but he shook his head and went on.

"I have been the fool," he said, "But I see the truth plain enough now. Ye drugged me that first night, and I had done ye na harm."

She licked her lips. Was that honey stuck to her chin?

"Ye insulted me," she said.

"Insulted ... Ahh," he said, nodding. "By offering ta bed ye."

She returned the nod. Her face looked haughty, or as haughty as a face could with wisps of frizzled white hair stuck to it with honey and God knew what. Her own hair, once pinned securely to her scalp, was coming loose and dangled down at strange angles.

"Ya treated me like a whore," she said.

"'Twas me understanding that ye were a whore. Now I am na even sure yer a woman. But I know you're a thief. And ye stole me necklace."

She seemed almost to pale. But she shook her head. "I did not."

"But 'twas ye that made it possible to be stolen by drugging me."

It was her turn to laugh. "Do you think the Shadow needed
my
help?" She shook her head. "Hardly that. 'Twould have made no difference if you had been wide-awake and clutching the gems in your fist. He would have taken them just the same."

Roman didn't argue, but cocked his head slightly and circled her again. "Ye lied to me. Lied to me from the first."

"Lies leave no scars."

"Scars!" he snarled, jerking to a halt and yanking his doublet open. There was no shirt beneath it, for he had taken no time to obtain a new one. "Ye want to see scars?"

Her gaze shifted to his chest. She grimaced, but refused to turn her face away. "I did not cause them."

"I saved yer life." Anger was roiling up again, anger at himself, his weaknesses, her ungodly appeal.

"I did not ask you to. I told you to leave me be, to get gone."

He let his hands fall away from his doublet. It closed partway. "But I didna," he said. "And I willna. Na until the necklace is returned into me own hands."

"The necklace!" she shouted. "Damn the necklace. It is beyond your reach. Are you so daft that you cannot see that? Dagger has it. There is no way to get it back."

He stepped closer. "Aye. There is a way. And ye will find it."

She shook her head and stumbled back a step. "Nay. Never, for I have no wish to die."

"And neither does David MacAulay."

"I know no David MacAulay," she said. "And I do not wish to know him."

"That is good," Roman said, "for ye'll have precious little opportunity. He'll soon be dead—unless ye help me."

She pursed her lips, keeping her chin high and her hands clasped.

"Aye, he will die. And do ye ken why?"

She didn't answer.

"Na because he stole, lass," he said, circling her again. "Na because he lied. Or even because he left someone to die in his stead. He will die because he dared love."

She clasped her hands more tightly together. Beneath the glue and errant strands of beard, her face looked pale. "I care not for love."

He grabbed her arms and shook her. "But I care for vows made by me own lips. And I vowed to see him safely ta his father."

"Then you have a problem, don't you, Scotsman?"

"Nay, lass. Ye have a problem. For if ye dunna help me find the necklace, I swear before God I will send ye to the magistrate for yer crimes. David will na be the only one ta suffer. For surely loving a noblewoman is na so grievous a crime as theft."

"A noblewoman?"

He watched her. Her back was straight, her slim fingers clasped. "Aye. It seems he had the bad sense to become infatuated with Harrington's daughter."

The room seemed deathly quiet suddenly, and when she spoke her voice was weak.
"Lord
Harrington—of Harrington House?"

"Aye. She is a bonny lass. Fair-haired and fiery-spirited. Christine she is called. She reminds me a wee bit of ye, but lacks the beard."

"Ye said love. What makes ye think he loves her?"

"What difference is it ta ye?" Roman asked.

"No difference. I but wonder. What makes ya think he cherishes her and has not but used her for his own depraved desires?"

"I know the lad; he is young and full of himself. But he would not bed a woman against her will. And if I judge the lady rightly, she wouldna bed atall unless she had planned ta marry."

Her face looked strained. 'They bedded?"

"Aye." He nodded in some confusion. "They bedded. And thus Harrington's rage. He says he willna lose another daughter to a ... How did he say it? A barbarian, I believe was the term used."

"A barbarian." For a moment pain crossed her face. It was stark and clear and strangely honest. If honesty was an expression known to her. "So there might be ... There might be a child?" she asked.

Roman scowled. "I suppose there is that possibility, though I am na privy to the lass's private state."

"And if MacAulay dies, what will happen to the babe?"

"Harrington says his daughter will wed a peer of the realm. I suspect the bairn would be raised as his own."

"Nay. A nobleman would not take the child as his own. At least not in his heart. And what of Harrington's daughter?" Her voice was very soft again, far away.

"What?" Roman asked.

"This MacAulay that she loves—tell me of him."

Roman scowled and shook his head. "I dunna see what difference—"

"Please," she said softly. "Tell me of him."

"He has seen but two and twenty years. No more. But he has been raised to be honorable."

"And he is of... peasant stock?"

"Peasant? We in the Highlands dunna divide our peoples into peasants and noblemen. We be but one family. Though if the truth be known, David is the son of the laird of the MacAulays. The middle son," he added.

"And far beneath the Harrington name," Tara said softly.

Roman drew a deep breath. "The lad will soon die," he said, "unless the necklace is delivered."

She turned stiffly away. "It shall be delivered…for Christine Harrington and her love," she murmured.

"What say ye?"

She faced him. "You said you would turn me over to the magistrate if I did not cooperate, did you not?"

He nodded, feeling strangely disoriented. But he should be becoming accustomed to those feelings, for she forever tilted him off-balance. "Aye. I did that."