Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  Glancing about the inn, Roman studied faces. There was no lack of variety here. The Red Fox’s patrons varied from toothless gaffers to smoothfaced lads.

  But what kind of man would most appeal to a barmaid? Roman wondered.

  A man with wealth. That narrowed down the field considerably. A man young enough to appreciate her charms. The field narrowed still more. A man not too hideous to look at. That eliminated even more.

  With these new criteria in mind, Roman scanned the crowd, noticing everyone’s expression. There was not a man there who didn’t occasionally cast an appreciative eye at Betty, but there were only a few whose gazes rarely strayed to anything else.

  Not far from the kitchen door sat just such a man. He was large and fair-haired with finely tailored clothes and a slightly sloppy expression stamped across his sharp, Scandinavian features. More than once, Betty had stopped by his table to exchange a few words. He was a handsome man, young and intoxicated enough to guarantee a loosened tongue.

  It didn’t take long for Roman to order two more drinks and work his way over to the man’s table.

  “I weary of drinkin’ alone,” he said, his own voice slightly slurred as if he, too, had imbibed too much. “Thought we might share a mug if ye have na objections ta drinkin’ with a Scotsman.”

  The young man raised his gaze to Roman’s. “Nay.” His Norwegian accent seemed as heavy as his lids, which were half-mast over ice-blue eyes. “We be two fish in a foreign sea, aye?” he said, motioning limply toward Roman’s plaid. His eyes scanned Roman’s height and he smiled. “Or do you think we are more like two bulls in the sheep’s pen, Scotsman?”

  Roman pulled a stool from under the table and sat heavily. “I wouldna mind being in her pen,” he said, nodding toward Betty, who laughed with a trio of men across the room.

  “Ahh,” said the other with a sigh. “The softest lamb of them all.”

  Roman nodded, making certain the movement was casual. “Ye’ve tamed the wild ewe and found the tender lambkin within, then, have ye?”

  “Ahh.” The large Norseman sighed again. “That I have. She bleats for only me, now. Has ever since I first come to Firthport some months past.”

  Could this man be the Shadow? Betty had spoken to him at some length. Roman drank again, calming his nerves.

  “Ye’re a lucky man indeed, sir …”

  “Call me Larnes.”

  “Yer a lucky man, Larnes, for she be a bonny lass, and na mistake.”

  “Aye, she is that, and soft as rose petals in my hand.”

  Roman forced a sigh himself, though he’d felt nothing of that rose but her thorny tongue. Still, he couldn’t deny that there was softness there that begged to be touched. “I was hopin’ ye could suggest a good inn at which ta stay, but…” He chuckled. “I’m guessin’ now that ye haven’t had a need ta pay for a bed. Not with Betty sleepin’ just upstairs as she does.”

  For just a moment, Larnes looked sheepish, but then he chuckled and drank again. “It do make it convenient.”

  Roman drank, too, hiding his scowl behind the rim of his mug. It seemed Larnes, like most men, had few objections to lying about his sexual exploits. Betty’s room was some blocks away, and if the Norseman was indeed her lover, he would surely know as much.

  “Ahh, well, ye’ve saved me from wasting my desire on her, then, Larnes, since she’s yers and is na likely ta stray. I might as well question another about renting a room. Cheers,” Roman said, and, leaving the Norwegian an extra drink, rose to question the next man.

  ‘Tangle with the wrong woman, Scottie?”

  Betty stood only a few inches from Roman’s table and looked down at him with a smile. Apparently, his visit on the previous night hadn’t made her bitter toward him.

  Perhaps men accosting her at her door was a regular event. One that came with the job.

  Or perhaps not.

  “Every woman but ye is the wrong one, Betty,” Roman said. He borrowed the line from his uncle Roderic’s repertoire, for he had seen Roderic the Rogue charm queens and peasants alike. And if ever Roman had needed a dose of that charm, it was now.

  “She must be part cat,” Betty said, nodding toward the scratches on his cheek. “Else she hasn’t yet figured out where a knife will do the most good when a man won’t take no for an answer.”

  The dog’s claws had been as vicious as a wolf’s. But she didn’t need to know the source of his wounds. “Strange how some women react in the final throes of passion,” he said, and rubbed his chest as if remembering those moments with fondness.

  Betty snorted. “Aye, and it’s even stranger how men lie about their escapades.”

  Despite everything, Roman could not help but smile. Beneath Betty’s floppy white cap there was a brain as sharp as a Highlander’s dirk. Had circumstances been different, he would like to learn who she truly was—Betty the woman, the real person. But fate had laid its torturous course. So for now he would play this game. “Surely ye dunna suggest that I have fabricated me bonny companion of last night.”

  “‘Tis either that or ye sit ‘ere all night ‘cause ya’d rather swill ale than spend another minute in ‘er arms. Though I couldn’t blame ya. Looks like one more time might well do ya in.”

  “I’m tougher than I look.” Though Betty’s face looked round beneath her homely cap, it was a pretty face, thin compared to the plumpness of her body. But even if she had the face of a warthog and the form of a goat, her eyes would have fascinated him. They were large and expressive, and though their color was hidden in the poor light of the room, they seemed to speak of things hidden in her soul. She canted her head, letting her gaze skim him. He knew what she saw—not a pretty boy, but a big man with too little charm and too much history. “I doubt a stallion in full armor would look tougher than you, Scotsman,” she answered, her lids slightly lowered over mesmerizing eyes.

  “Should I be flattered?” he asked.

  The moment hung suspended between them. But finally, she pulled herself from his gaze with a jerk and glanced toward the kitchen, “Listen, it’s time ta go so—”

  “Should I be flattered?” he repeated.

  But she wouldn’t be drawn in again. “Go ahead if’n it makes ya feel better, Scotsman,” she said. “But ya’re gonna ‘ave to be flattered someplace-else, cause we’re closing …”

  “I’ve been thinking,” he interrupted, letting his voice slur just a little. He’d spent the past five hours in that inn, had spoken to a dozen patrons and ordered nearly as many drinks, only two of which he had tasted himself. “It canna be safe for a bonny lass such as yerself ta walk home in the wee hours of the morning.”

  “So you’re worried for my safety, are ya?” she asked, then leaned down to grant him a view of her splendid cleavage as she looked into his face. “Or are ya plannin’ ta give me somethin’ ta worry about, Scottie?”

  “Me?” He motioned toward his chest with a wobbly hand. There were only two other patrons in the place. One was the young Norseman who claimed to have tamed her. He had passed out with his head on the table. The other man wasn’t quite so lucky, and lay sprawled on the floor at an unlikely angle. “Ye surely mistake me for someone else.”

  “Aye,” she said. “For a moment I thought ya was the bloke what barged into me house last night.”

  “Nay. I assure ye I would do na such thing ta a lady.”

  “But what would ya do ta me?” she asked.

  “Ye surely misunderstand me intentions,” Roman said, sounding offended.

  “Do I now?”

  “Aye.”

  “‘Twould be the first time, then, luv. Usually I understand men’s intentions perfectly well.”

  “Is yer experience so vast, then?”

  She nodded. “I’ve had my share.”

  Leaning closer, he narrowed his eyes and caught her gaze. “I dunna deny that ye draw at something in me, lass.”

  “And I can guess what that something is,” she said, dipping her gaze to the tabletop, as
though she could see through its surface and beneath his plaid.

  She turned to go, but he caught her wrist and rose to his feet. “Ye belittle me affections,” he said.

  “Watch out, Scottie.” She shifted her gaze down to where his plaid was slightly misplaced. “Your belittled affection is showing.”

  He grimaced. “Ye do know how ta wound a man.”

  “A girl’s gotta protect ‘erself somehow.”

  “Let me walk with ye ta yer home, and I’ll do the protecting.”

  “Go away, Scot.”

  “As soon as we reach yer door.”

  She paused. He didn’t miss the opportunity her silence afforded.

  “I’ll worry the night through if ye dunna let me accompany ye.”

  “Ye’ll pass out and not think about me again,” she argued.

  “Na,” he said, and found that his denial was strangely honest.

  She drew a heavy breath. Her breasts rose and fell prettily with the inhalation. “Ya promise ta leave once we get there.”

  “Me vow is me blood,” he said solemnly.

  “Aye, luv, and it’ll be all over the ground with various body parts if ya don’t keep your word.” She turned away. “I’ll fetch my things.”

  The opportunity seemed too perfect to pass up. Taking one step forward, Roman patted her behind.

  ‘Twas amazing how quickly she could spin back toward him. Grabbing his hand, she raised it between them. “This will be one of the first body parts to go,” she vowed.

  “Ye’ve a way with words, lass,” he said, and, lifting her hand in his, lightly kissed her knuckles.

  Something sparked between them. Stark surprise showed on her face, but in a moment, she regained her composure. Yanking her hand from his, she turned quickly away and hurried toward the kitchen.

  Roman expelled air through his teeth and watched her exit. He’d felt no hint of her true figure through the gown that covered her hips. How many layers did she wear under that faded garment? he wondered. And why would she wear more than necessary in the heat of the inn? Was her figure padded? And if so, why? Some men liked plump females, he knew. But was that her reason, or was there something more?

  Every time he saw her it seemed she but added to the mystery. Roman sat in silent thought until suddenly he realized how much time had elapsed since she’d left the common room. The conniving little scamp! She’d gone out the back way without him. He’d bet his life on it.

  Roman hurried through the front door. Once outside, he scanned the darkness until he saw a figure flitting through the night.

  With a smug smile, he trotted down a side street, turned a corner, turned again, hurried on, and finally stopped to listen. For a moment no noise met his. ears. But a soft breeze blew from the south, finally carrying the sound of footsteps, light and quick as a vixen on the prowl.

  He waited a moment longer then stepped away from the building.

  “Betty,” he said.

  “Sweet Mary!” she gasped, stumbling backward. “What the devil are you doing ‘ere?”

  “Walking ye home? Ye agreed ta allow me, ye ken.”

  “I ‘ad no wish to wound your feelings with a refusal, Scotsman. But you’re beginning to irritate me.”

  “I told ye I would worry.”

  “I’m a big girl, now. Ye needn’t fret on my account.”

  “But I do.”

  “Then go fret somewhere else.”

  He watched her carefully. In the light of the inn, her cap hid her features. Or did her cleavage draw the eye to such an extent that her face was hidden? Whatever the case, here in the dark, he found that he saw her with his imagination. And he imagined her naked—slim, supple, and in his arms.

  For a moment he forgot to breathe. Electricity sparked between them. “Betty.” Her name was a breath on his lips.

  But suddenly she backed away, her eyes wide and liquid in the darkness.

  He didn’t approach her, though holding back was difficult. “What be ye afraid of, lass?”

  “Afraid?” She laughed, but the sound was nervous. “You’re thinking of someone else, surely. There’s not a man I fear.”

  “Then mayhap ye can protect me,” he said.

  She tilted her head and stared up into his face. “Somehow, I think ya can ‘andle yourself, Scotsman.”

  “Nay.” He tightened one fist in sudden irritation. How was it that her presence distracted him from his quest? “I lost the necklace,” he reminded them both.

  Shrugging, she stepped around him. “The Shadow is but a wild myth concocted to give hope ta them that’s got none. I’ve learned nothin’ ta make me think different, if that’ s why you’re ‘ere.”

  He fell in beside her. She was a good-sized woman. How did she move with such quiet grace?

  “Mayhap I’m here just ta be near ye,” he said quietly.

  “Because you’re attracted ta me … brains?”

  He knew sarcasm when he heard it. “Mayhap,” he said seriously.

  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 h
is 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.