Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (33 page)

"Immoral?" Roman questioned. Tara stared at him. Confidence was to be desired. But defending his countrymen, was not. "Nay. They may be, at times, too fervent, but they are not immoral."

The anger was gone from the old man's eyes. Pain and disillusionment remained. "I speak from some experience," he said.

"I, too," Roman said, ignoring the slight squeeze Tara gave his arm. "And never have I dealt with a more honest people."

"Honest?"

"If a Scotsman says 'tis so, 'tis so."

'There are those that would agree with you," Harrington said, gazing after his daughter. "And there are those who would argue."

"Those who would argue do not know the Scots as I know them," Roman said. Tara squeezed his arm again. Again he ignored her.

"And would you ..." The old man stopped but finally continued. "Would you happen to have some acquaintance with the MacAulays?"

"The MacAulays..." Roman began. Tara gripped his arm harder.
"Non,"
he said finally. "I do not believe I know them."

"I have known them some time," said the old man. "In the past they have been honorable. But..." Again his gaze swept to the door where Christine had disappeared. "She is my only daughter."

This man was her enemy, Tara reminded herself, but there was pain in his eyes, pain she almost wished she could ease.

"Honorable," Roman said with a nod. "The Scots are that, and brave and loyal, and generous and—"

Tara snapped her attention back to the matter at hand and squeezed his arm with all her might. Their lives hung in the balance here, and he was waxing philosophical about his countrymen.

"Of course they can also be barbaric," Roman finished lamely.

"Barbaric," Harrington agreed, though his tone lacked conviction. "But mayhap we have all acted the barbarian at some time.

"Lord Crighton, 'tis glad I am you could come," he said, drawing himself from his reverie as a gentleman approached. "You should speak to Fontaine here. 'Twould seem you share an interest in horses."

Sweet Mary! Tara thought, 'twas Lord Crighton without his mermaid staff. She longed to look at Roman, but he was already bowing toward the man who had once commissioned him to paint ceilings.

"And you, my dear," Harrington said, taking Tara's hand in his. "Ye remind me of someone I knew long ago before I was a fool. Would you honor me with a dance?"

For a moment, Tara quelled, but she could not fail now, for their lives hung in the balance.

Roman tried to relax as he walked through the open door near the banquet table. They had been at Harrington House for several hours, but he had not seen Tara for some time. As for himself, he had fooled Crighton, thus he could fool everyone else there. The worst was over.

"Lord Fontaine," said a man who stood near a shrub shaped like a boar's head, "I'm Dalbert Harrington. 'Tis a pleasure to meet you."

Roman almost swore aloud. He hadn't seen Harrington's son since their first meeting at the Red Fox, and he had no wish to see him now. "The pleasure is mine," he said, stifling an oath.

Dalbert nodded as if he were prone to agree. Light from a high, nearby lantern showed that his lids were strangely lowered over his eyes. It took no scholar to realize he was drunk. "So you're Lady Fontaine's brother."

Roman waited a moment for him to continue, but when he did not, Roman nodded.
"Oui.
She is mine." He had not meant to make that statement sound quite so possessive, but now that the words were out, he felt no desire to reel them back. "'Tis growing late," he added. "Have you perchance seen her?"

It seemed to take a moment for the question to seep into Dalbert's whiskey-soaked brain. "Aye, I've seen her. In fact..." He turned rather clumsily just as Tara rounded the corner of the house. Her hand was placed on a gentleman's arm. She was alluring beyond words. Her laughter was gay, her smile dazzling, her figure hourglass perfect, with her breasts pressed high and her waist cinched to an impossible width. "There she is now."

Just then she looked at Roman. Their gazes met. Roman felt his pulse race with that brief contact. Jealously flared up. She could flirt so easily, entice without effort. She nodded then walked on past.

"Good God," Dalbert murmured, drinking again, "she's got a great pair of . .." He glanced at Roman, chuckled, drank again. "Eyes."

Animal rage spurred through Roman. He had almost forgotten that Dalbert had put his hands on Tara. She had been Betty then, but it mattered naught what she called herself. She was his, and he would not tolerate any man dishonoring her.

"Oui."
Roman forced a smile.
"Oui,
she has our mother's eyes. Very blue. Much like the water in your fountain just yonder. And by the by," Roman said, taking Dalbert's arm. "I had a question about that fountain. Would you be so kind as to accompany me there?"

"Well, I really must relieve myself," said Dalbert, but Roman towed him gently along.

"'Twill only take a moment."

Roman reentered Harrington House feeling considerably better. It seemed Dalbert couldn't swim even in three feet of water, and had decided to take a wee nap beside the fountain after the exertion he'd expended on splashing about.

Roman skimmed the crowd. It was not difficult finding Tara, for she was the center of attention. Not a small percentage of her audience was male. Roman moved closer.

"I do love your gown," said a woman with an outrageous hat and a nose far too long for her face. "What kind of fur is that?"

Roman held his breath.

Tara laughed. "My tailor assures me 'tis a rare kind of golden ermine only found in the northern regions of Finland," she said, drawing her attention back to her audience. "But if the truth be told, I think 'tis naught more than a dead cat."

Her listeners dissolved into laughter.

Only Tara O'Flynn could speak the truth like a lie and a lie like the truth. And only Tara O'Flynn could steal his heart with the dexterity of a magician. That knowledge gave him no peace.

"Cat or golden ermine..." said the man Harrington had referred to as Lord Dasset. He emerged gracefully from the crowd. There was something strangely familiar about that voice. Something strange. But what was it? "You would look royal in either." Roman watched him lift Tara's hand to his lips. "Rather like a gypsy princess I once met."

Realization ripped through Roman like a summer storm. Lord Dasset—Lord Dagger! They were one and the same.

Chapter 23

Every instinct vibrated within Tara. This was Lord Dagger. A noble, a gentleman—a murderer. She knew it. She sensed it. But did he recognize her? And if he did, what would he do about it?

She tilted her head and smiled as he kissed her hand. "A gypsy princess?" she said with her heart hammering wildly. "I know not whether to think that an insult or a compliment."

"Most assuredly a compliment," he said. His gaze was sharp, though there was the suggestion of a smile on his lips. "The princess was quite intriguing."

"Sister mine," said Roman from her right. "Have you recovered from the ache in your head?"

Sweet Mary! For just a moment Tara was tempted almost beyond control to reach for Roman's hand. But now was not the time to show fear, for surely Lord Dagger could smell that emotion the way a hound could smell blood.

"I am much improved," she said, turning her smile on Roman.

Just a glimpse of him calmed her. For he was, as always, strong and stolid, stalwart and steady. But he was also in grave danger, for if Dagger recognized her, he would also recognize Roman.

Dagger turned. Tara's heart beat faster yet, but she held on to her smile with terrible tenacity.

"Lord Dasset, may I introduce
mon frere,
the baron de la Fontaine."

Dagger's gaze locked onto Roman's. But Roman didn't flinch. Instead, his eyes remained absolutely steady until the other finally nodded.

"Lord Fontaine. Tis my pleasure to meet you," said Dagger. "I was hoping to ask your permission to dance with your lovely sister."

No emotion showed on Roman's face. Neither did his gaze turn to hers. "I fear this day has been a long and wearing one. I was just about to take Elise home."

Not now. They couldn't go now, Tara thought. She had not yet captured the bracelet, and even if she had, it would surely seem odd if they scurried away just after their first introduction to Dasset. If he was not suspicious of them yet, that surely would make him so.

"Non.
So soon? The night is yet young," said Tara.

Roman's eyes were exquisitely green and deadly flat. "I hate to risk you to another headache,
ma soeur,"
he said, but in that moment, she knew he worried about a far greater risk. So he, too, had recognized Dasset.

Still, the greatest risk lay in being too hasty. Turning her gaze back to Dasset, she said, "My brother coddles me. I would be delighted to share a dance."

Dasset nodded and turned his gaze to Roman. "If you wish to return to your room, I would be honored to accompany your sister home."

For one panicked moment, Tara feared Roman's stoic expression might crumble. She saw a muscle flex in his jaw, but finally he spoke, his tone as well controlled as before.

"She is my only sister," he said. "And though she is a bit headstrong ..." He turned toward her. His brow was comically arched, but she could feel his anger and worry as clearly as Dasset's hand beneath hers. "I would be loath to leave without her." He nodded shallowly. "I will wait."

Dasset led her away. Fear was like a cold blade against her back, but she would not let it show. Surely, even if he recognized her, he wouldn’t turn them over to the magistrates. 'Twould make no sense. But then, nothing she had ever heard about the Dagger made sense. He killed without reason, it was said—without reason, and without remorse.

Roman watched Tara walk away, her hand held high on Dasset's. A thousand emotions crashed within him. But fear won out. Fear for her. Dear Jesu, he should never have let her convince him to come here. He had to save her, take her away, before it was too late.

He took a step forward, but suddenly a hand caught his arm.

"Lord Fontaine."

He turned with a scowl.

Christine stood beside him. She smiled, but it failed to reach her eyes. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

His attention flickered away. He had to get Tara from Dagger's grasp. "I was just about to leave. If you don't mind

I-"

"I know who you are." Her voice was a tiny whisper, but certainly loud enough to draw his attention back to her. "When I first met you, I thought you were not the kind to give up on my David. I prayed you were not. It took me some time to piece together the puzzle, but I know you now. Where is he?" Her voice was softer yet.

Turning back toward Tara, he convinced himself that she was well before looking at Christine again.

"Please tell me," she whispered. "Please."

"He's in Devil's Port."

For just a moment, Roman thought she might faint. He reached out, catching her wrist.

"Are you well?"

She straightened slightly, but still looked weak. "I need a bit of air is all. Will you assist me?"

He glanced again toward Tara. She was laughing up into Dagger's face. She was a consummate actress, he reminded himself. Or could it be she enjoyed the flirtation. And what if Dagger was only playing a part, too? What if he were only pretending not to recognize her?

"Please," Christine said, drawing his attention away.

He could hardly walk away while she collapsed onto the floor. Thus they made their way through the crowd. The arched entrance welcomed them with the silence of a tomb. But soon they were outside. The air felt cool against his face.

Two men passed, deep in discussion.

"I thought you had left." Christine said when they were past. "I thought..." Christine took a deep breath, steadying herself.

"You should not be out here with me," Roman said.

"'Tis far too late to ruin my reputation," she said.

But that was not Roman's worry. Tara was his worry. He glanced back through the door, but could see nothing of her.

"Is she the Shadow?"

The shock of her words brought him about full face. "What are ye speaking of?"

"Shh," she said, glancing quickly about. "Father will recognize your brogue."

Hell fire!

"I don't care if she is. I don't care if she's the devil incarnate. Just so long as you get David to safety."

For a moment, Roman concentrated on the girl before him. Or rather, he concentrated on the woman. For surely she was one. She was not at all the flighty flirt he had expected, but a woman, true and loyal. "So you cherish him still," he said softly, remembering his French accent.

She said nothing, but looking neither right nor left, she held out her fist. "Take it," she whispered. "I care not what you do with it so long as you see him set free."

Roman's mind returned with a jolt to their plan. Reaching out, he took the bracelet from her.

She stepped back a pace, her head held high. "I shall never have him," she whispered. "And it would not be safe for him to contact me. But if I know he is well..."

"I will get word to you."

She nodded, then drew another steadying breath. "I had best go in. I am on the marriage mart, you know."

Roman let her enter alone. Finally, he could wait no longer. Keeping his strides even and steady, he walked back inside. In a moment he saw her.

She stood by a huge silver bowl filled with wine. Dasset dipped a ladle into the liquid, filled a chalice and handed it to her, but as there hands met, the cup was jostled and a few drops splashed onto Tara's hand.

"My apologies," Dagger said, then leaned closer to her ear and whispered something. Roman couldn’t hear the words, but Tara's giggle was clear as he approached them.

"I'm surprised they let you out in polite public,
monsieur."

"And I do not think you are quite so innocent as you—"

"You'll excuse me," Roman said. Control! Control was a necessity here. "But I must insist we return to our inn."