Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (7 page)

She glanced quickly up at him. For a moment, he saw something indiscernible in her eyes, but it disappeared quickly, and she laughed.

"I know your kind, Scotsman. Have known a thousand like ya."

"A thousand?" They'd reached her door. He leaned against the jamb, casually hiding the keyhole from her. "'Tis a fair number, when in truth..." He paused and lifted a hand to gently brush her cheek. "I've known none like ye."

She drew a sharp breath between her teeth. But her tone was still casual. "Ya should get around more, Scotsman."

"We could go inside and discuss me lack of experience."

"Give it up, luv."

"Why would I do that now, lass?" he asked, leaning forward.

She scrunched back. "Because ya'll only be disappointed."

"I doubt that," he said, backing her against the wall, and bracing one hand on each side of her body.

"'Tis true," she said, but her voice had dropped to little more than a whisper.

"Why?"

"Because." She licked her lips. Gone was the saucy maid with the hearty laugh and quick wit. "I'm ... I'm spoken for."

He raised a brow. "Yer wed?"

Now she did laugh, though the sound was shaky. "My kind don't marry, Scottie. But I've got me a man. And 'e don't like competition."

"Really?" He watched her eyes carefully. He had heard this same tale from two of the men he'd questioned. But many of the others had vowed to have slept with her, only to cast suspicion on their honesty by things said later in the conversation, just as the Norseman had. "Why didna ye tell me that afore?"

"In truth, 'tis none of your affair."

Her skin looked smooth as a Highland loch.

"I'd like ta make it me affair, lass," he said, and leaned toward her lips.

"I told ya," she said, quickly pressing back against the wall. "'E's very jealous."

Their faces were less than a handsbreadth apart.

"Me too," Roman whispered, leaning closer still.

"And powerful," she added, smacking a palm to his chest.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment then Roman eased her hand from his chest and held it in his. Gently, he turned it up and kissed the center of her palm.

"A bonny hand," he murmured, then kissed her fingers, one at a time and slowly. "With bonny fingers. Slim. Delicate."

"And 'e's wealthy," she said, but her words were barely audible.

"Who?"

"My ..-." she began, but just then he sucked the tip of her pinky into his mouth and raised his gaze to hers. "Lover," she managed somewhat breathlessly.

Releasing her finger, he gently kissed her wrist. A pulse beat there, hot and wild. He held her arm in one hand while sliding his fingers along it with the other. She shivered at his touch then gasped when he kissed the sensitive crease of her elbow.

"What's his name?" Roman whispered the question against her skin. It smelled of a thousand flavors, from cinnamon to sweet wine. It made him think of others places, just as soft, yet even more intoxicating.

"Lass?" he said softly.

"What?" The word was little more than a breathy gasp.

"What's his name?"

"Who?"

He had never played the rogue, but her tone flattered him, and he chuckled. "Yer lover's."

"Oh." She made a halfhearted attempt to pull her hand away, but he held it easily. "That's none of your—"

"I dunna believe there is a lover," he said, and touched his tongue gently to her arm.

"There is," she gasped, trying to pull away.

"Ye lie," he said, and trailed his kisses past her elbow.

"I do not."

"If there were a man, ye'd tell me his name. But since there's not, ye've na reason to bar me from yer—"

"Harry!" She said the name quickly. "'Is name is Harry."

He stared at her. She was breathing fast and deep. "'Tis a most common name," he chided.

"Well, I assure ya, 'e's not a common man," she said, trying again to wrest her arm away. " 'E's a nobleman."

He let her take her arm back but trapped her between his own again as he placed his palms on the wall. "A nobleman's lackey, ye mean."

"A duke," she said, pursing her lips. They were fine lips, lush, full, cherry bright.

"I canna help but wonder," he said then paused to watch her watch him. "Could yer lips be as sweet as they look?"

"Don't you dare try it," she warned.

He leaned closer still. "Why not?"

She pushed her back against the wall even harder. "He'd ... 'e'd be terrible mad."

"Who?"

'The duke."

"Does he scare ye, lass?" he whispered.

"What?" Their gazes met with a jolt.

"Does he hurt ye?"

For a moment she seemed transfixed, but then she shook her head jerkily. "Course not. 'E's sweet and considerate."

"And skilled?" he asked, slipping his hand up her arm and across her shoulder to her neck. It was as smooth and soft as rich velvet. He watched her swallow.

"Skilled?" Did her voice squeak?

"Does he make ye shiver at his touch." He slid his fingers up her slim throat. She trembled as if on command. "Does he make yer blood run hot and wild?" he asked, touching the throbbing pulse in her neck.

Her eyes were as wide as a doe's. "Ahh. Yeah."

"I think ye lie again, lass."

"I don't."

"I've met me share of dukes. They're a boring lot."

"Not... 'arry."

"Do ye love him then?"

He watched her face, sensed her emotions, evaluated her silence.

"Has he tamed the wild vixen of the Red Fox?"

She snorted and straightened somewhat, seeming more like the fiery lass he had met less than four days ago. "Do I look a dolt?" she asked. The sauciness had returned to her tone.
"
I ain't foolish enough ta love 'im. But I ain't stupid enough ta turn down 'is money, either."

"He pays ye well?"

'"E pays for the 'ouse." She nodded toward the humble cottage behind her. "Ya don't think I can pay for this with my wages from the Fox, do ya?"

"It hardly seems like enough for the pleasure of yer company, lass."

She swallowed, but kept up the bold tone. "Well, I got me a bit of a nest feathered when this one don't work out no more."

"Mayhap I could feather it better."

"I know a bird in the hand when I sees one," she said. "And I ain't about ta send it flyin' whilst I chase after one on the wing."

"What if it's a bigger bird?"

Some of her nervousness seemed to fade, and when she chuckled, the tone sounded sincere. "Are ya always so concerned about size, Scotsman?"

"I'm just trying to impress ye. What with thousands of men ta compete with, I figure I'd best pull out me best weaponry."

"Please don't," she said, and to his own surprise, he laughed.

She watched him. Silence settled in, then, "Ya should laugh more, Scotsman. It becomes ya."

"Let me come in, and I'll laugh all night."

She smiled. Someone had lighted the lantern beside'her door again. The light glistened on her teeth and eyes. "No," she said.

"One night," he whispered.

"No."

"Scared I'll spoil ye for the others?" he asked, and leaned closer still.

"Terrified," she said, and pushed at his chest.

"Who's ta know?'

" 'E will. 'E'll know."

"Is he coming tonight?"

"Aye. And ya'd best be gone when 'e does, or there'll be 'ell ta pay."

He sighed and placed a hand over hers where it rested on his chest. "I'm a stranger in a strange land. I suppose it would be unwise to offend a duke."

Her fingers were long and slim and felt warm beneath his.

"Aye, it would, indeed," she said.

"Ye're sure?"

"About..."

"Ye dunna wish for me company."

She scowled. "Ya don't take a hint easy, I'll say that for ya, Scotsman."

He drew her hand to his lips. "There are those who say we're a stubborn lot. Ye'll tell me when ye learn anything about the Shadow?"

"I tell ya 'e's naught but a myth."

"Mayhap yer right." Roman released her hand with a sigh. "But there's a good sum in it for ye if ye find out different. Perhaps ye could ask yer duke regarding him."

She nodded once. "I will," she said, and fished out a key nestled tight and snug between her breasts.

He watched her in awe, and she glanced at him and scowled.

"I couldn't think of a safer place ta keep it."

Roman exhaled slowly. "Strange, I can't think of anywhere more dangerous," he said, and, turning, walked away.

Chapter 5

Harrington House was large and ostentatious. Roman silently studied the anteroom where he was told to wait. It was decorated in bright reds and royal blues, from the brocade on the chairs to the tapestries on the walls. The arched windows were made of stained glass, a far cry from the scraped leather that kept the weather at bay in most of the hovels in Firthport. It was not the first time Roman was made aware of the differences between the English classes. Neither was it the first time he wished to return home.

But again his night watch had been fruitless, for neither Betty nor her clandestine lover had passed the door of her cottage. Before the gray light of morning had seeped up from the east, Roman had left his hiding place in the shadows and stumbled off toward his own rented room.

Four hours of sleep later, he had asked directions and found his way here. Now he sat in silence. Without trying, he could hear two men speaking near the door. He supposed one was the viscount he had come to see.

"I thank you for coming, Lord Dasset."

"'Twas my pleasure, I assure you," said the second man. "You have a lovely daughter."

Harrington sighed. "My apologies for her... reticence."

Dasset laughed. The sound was low. "Nonsense. I do not consider a silent woman undesirable."

Harrington was quiet for a moment, as if thinking. "'Tis glad I am to hear that. And I assure you she will be more herself next time you call."

"I'll look forward to that moment."

They said their good-byes. Roman waited.

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

"So you have finally deigned to show your face, Scotsman, after being in Firthport for more than half a week."

Roman rose to his feet and turned to view Lord Marcus Harrington for the first time. He was of medium height, thin, boasting that peculiar kind of nose that some would call regal and some would simply call large.

"Lord Harrington," Roman said, nodding in deference.

"My son suggested you may have sold the necklace to the highest bidder and were now living off the proceeds." The viscount took a step into the room. Light through the vivid stained glass cast his shadow at a crooked angle. "Perhaps that would have been preferable to having you appear like this..." He waved his hand up and down as he appraised Roman's battered appearance. "Had Lord Dasset seen you, I would have been hard-pressed to explain your presence. There are enough people already who know of my daughter's ... indiscretions. I've no wish for Dasset to know." His eyes were watery, his gait stiff as he crossed the room to prop himself on one of the spindly-legged chairs. "Despite his attitude, he possesses the power and the wealth to keep the gossips quiet if he takes her to wife. And with the necklace added to the dowry I think he will see the wisdom of doing so. I assume your presence here means that you have not sold the necklace but have brought it to me, albeit late. Sit down."

Roman did as commanded. "I am here," he said. For a moment he offered no more. But rarely had delay aided his cause, and he doubted it would do so now. Thus, he continued on. "But I fear I come without the necklace, for it has been stolen."

"Stolen!" Anger showed in the old man's eyes. His face grew red. "Stolen!" He rose abruptly to his feet, but suddenly his hands shook and his breath rattled in his throat. Seating himself again, he lifted a bell from a nearby table. The tone of it was sharp and loud in the close room.

A servant bearing a chalice appeared in less than a heartbeat. Harrington's face remained a vivid red, but he ignored the cupbearer and kept his gaze on Roman. "Dalbert warned me you might come here with such a tale," he said, his voice little more than a croak.

"'Tis na a tale, me lord, 'tis the truth. 'Twas stolen from me as I slept at the Queen's Head."

"While you slept!" Harrington croaked. "Damn you..." His voice wheezed into a cough. The servant rushed over, but he was waved back. "Damn all you Scots!" he raved, pushing himself to his feet again. "You lie!"

Roman sat very still. "Me faults may be many and varied, me lord, but a liar I am na. The necklace was stolen from me as I have said."

The old man began to pace. "And of course you have searched long and hard for it!"

Roman drew a careful breath. Something about this man reminded him of his uncle Dermid. In his mind's eye he saw the upraised fist, heard his own whimper of fear.

"Have you searched?"

Harrington's words echoed in the room. Reality caught Roman in a hard grip. The past was gone. Dermid was dead and rotting in his grave. But memories were strange things, for it seemed they could fly up on the wings of fatigue and frustration and consume him at any time. "Yes, me lord, I have indeed searched long and hard," he said.

The viscounf s wide nostrils flared. "Huh!" he spat, then coughed spasmodically and waved frantically for the servant, who handed him the chalice. Drinking it quickly, he handed the cup back and said, "huh," again, in a voice much reduced in strength.

"Ye should have that cough attended, yer lordship," Roman said. It was the tone that made him a valued diplomat. It was also the tone he had used to soothe a drunken uncle.

"Don't try to soften me with your false concerns!" roared Harrington.
"I
know your thieving Scottish ways. You've sold the necklace after all and plan now to appeal to my sense of goodness. But I tell you..." Harrington began pacing, rapping his cane against the floor as he creaked across it. "I've got no sense of goodness. Not in this. Your bastard countryman raped my daughter." He stopped to turn and stare at Roman, his eyes bloodshot, his breath coming hard. "He raped my Christine," he rasped, but the rage was slipping now, being replaced by a sadness that even his stiff-backed pride could not hide. "MacAulay will die."