Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  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.”

  “And I would surely dance on the wind for my crimes.”

  It was an ugly term for an ugly thing. Death by hanging. He said nothing.

  “I have no wish to die,” she said. “And therefore…” She drew a deep breath, watching him. “I will see the necklace returned to you, but only if you do exactly as I say.”

  Chapter 14

  “Exactly as ye say?” Roman asked.

  Tara nodded. The decision had been made and she felt better for it. Dagger was a formidable adversary, but mayhap this Scotsman was just as deadly. In fact… She watched his eyes. There was something there that spoke of her own demise. Mayhap his allure was more dangerous than Dagger’s evil, for he tempted her—tempted her to tell the truth, to share herself. But she must not, for if her true identity was revealed her life would surely be forfeit. Still, she could not let MacAulay die—not if Christine Harrington loved him. There was naught she could do but assist Roman in his mission and hope to send him on his way.

  She rubbed her chin. It itched, as did her scalp where the brass pins dug into her flesh. She yanked them free.

  Tendrils of hair slipped from confinement. She sighed, searched out the last pin, and rubbed her scalp. He watched, seeming strangely distracted for a moment.

  “Mayhap ye have hopes of ordering me ta me own death,” he suggested, but his tone was casual, as if the idea held little interest for him.

  She paused from her chore of rubbing adhesive from her chin to look at him. It was a mistake, for her stomach pitched when she did so. Mayhap it was his eyes, deep and mysterious as the forest beyond Firthport. Or mayhap it was his form, broad and hard, marred by scars taken to protect her. Or maybe it was far more than that, something inexplicable. But whatever his allure, she had to resist it. “If ye fear the risk, Scotsman, ye’d best head for your homeland now,” she said, willing her tone to be casual. “For there is little chance either of us will live through the task.”

  “Then why do ye do it?”

  She fidgeted under his gaze. Not since her childhood had she allowed anyone this close to her person. It made her jittery. And nervousness could kill as easily as overconfidence. “I told ye. ‘Twas your threat. If you turn me over to the magistrate, I will die for certain.”

  “So yer scairt of me threat?”

  “Aye. And why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Ye should be, lass,” he said softly. “But yer na. And so I wonder why ye agree to help me?”

  Their gazes fused. She jerked hers away. “I told ya. I have no wish to die. Thus I am but taking the course that offers the best chance of survival.”

  “Ye lie, lass,” he said quietly. “Ye have other reasons, but I ken na what they be. Hence I will play by yer rules since ye know the opponents far better. I but ask, what course we follow?”

  Tara remained motionless for a moment. A plan had trickled into her mind minutes before. Perhaps she could do this thing. Perhaps she could free MacAulay and exact some revenge on Dagger at the same time. Excitement tingled in her system. Details, sharp and titillating, begged to be honed. Clothing, costumes, contacts, schedules, information.

  “What course?” he repeated.

  She shrugged. “I have but the seed of an idea,” she said, and turned away.

  “Show me the seed.”

  She stopped and turned toward him. “We will offer Dagger something he cannot refuse.”

  Roman’s brows were low over his eyes. He looked formidable and powerful. Perhaps he was right. Maybe she should be afraid of him. But she was not, at least not in the usual sense. “I thought ye didna ken who Dagger was.”

  “I do not,” she admitted.

  “Then how?”

  “Greed,” she said simply. “James is dead.” He was a friend, and the only fence she could trust. She would be a fool to steal again, but the scheme called. “So how will Dagger get rid of his goods?” she mused. Filling a basin with water, she washed her face as ideas flooded her mind. “He must have his own system. A foreigner, perhaps. The necklace is very recognizable, and Harrington is powerful. Dagger will not sell it close to home. Not in Firthport for certain and possibly not in all of England. Thus chances are good he still has the jewels. And if he has them, ‘tis logical to assume he has others, for his thieves are everywhere. All we need is to offer him something that he can sell to the same market. Something comparable. But what?” She scrubbed abs
ently at her face. “‘Twas a fine piece. What would compare? Ear bobs? Fine crockery? Royal—”

  “We’ll na steal.”

  Tara looked at Roman standing in silent disapproval, large and firm and forbidding. And she threw back her head and laughed.

  “What do ye find so amusing?”

  “You.” She stabbed a finger at him. “A simple mention of theft and ya blanch. I have to say, it makes your threats toward me a bit less worrisome.”

  “So if I dunna worry ye, why do ye agree to assist in me search for the necklace?” he asked, taking a step closer.

  She refused to back away. “Mayhap I feel somewhat responsible for your plight.”

  He was very near now, close enough so that she had to raise her chin to look into his eyes. “So …” He lifted one hand to her cheek. She managed not to shiver beneath his touch, even when it slipped down to her throat. “Ye pity me, lass?”

  He could crush the life from her with one hand. But ‘twas not her throat she worried for, but her heart.

  “Mayhap,” she whispered.

  His fingers tightened about her neck as he leaned closer. “And mayhap ye forget the men I have kilt.”

  She held her breath. “I do not forget.” Silence echoed in the tiny room. “But neither do I forget that they were evil.”

  He leaned closer still. His breathing was harsh, his expression strained as his fingers tightened even more around her throat. “There is na difference between them and me,” he rasped. “Na difference atall.”

  Fear flickered through her, but it lasted for only a moment, for through his eyes, she could see into his soul. “You are wrong, Scotsman. There is the difference of night and day.”

  For a moment she thought perhaps it was she who was wrong. She felt his fingers tremble against her neck, felt the war that waged within him. But soon he pulled his hand away and drew a deep breath. “What do we. steal?” he asked.

  She forced out a laugh. It sounded shaky and weak. “We?” She laughed again. The sound was a bit steadier. “We don’t steal anything, Scotsman.”

  He scowled and watched her from beneath lowered brows.

  “Tempers get people killed,” she said. “Tempers and … passion. You’ll steal nothing,” she said. “But I…” She paused, thinking. The necklace flashed through her mind, and then, clear as morning, she saw Lord Harrington’s jeweled crucifix. It was made of silver and rubies. She had been no more than ten when she had first seen it from her hiding place in the holly bushes. She remembered the scratches they had caused her, but she hadn’t noticed at the time, for she’d been enthralled with her first glance of her grandfather. He had worn a richly embroidered doublet with velvet hose and the crucifix. For a moment, hungry envy had consumed her, but then she had glanced at his eyes.

  The sight of them had made her cringe back into the prickly bushes, for never before had she seen such emptiness.

  She had remained in the holly until dark, but finally she had returned to the tiny shack she called home. Even now, she remembered opening the door, remembered Cork looking up from the kettle above the orange glow of the fire. “Ah, lass, so ye finally arrive. I thought mayhap the fairies ‘ad taken ye. Thought perhaps I’d ‘ave all the stew ta meself for a change. But I see I’ll ‘ave ta share again.” He sighed. The worry he’d tried to hide faded from his eyes, replaced by its usual twinkle for the wonders of life. “Well, are ye going ta eat. Or did ye eat at the palace, mayhap?” he asked. She had not answered, but had darted across the dirt floor to throw herself into his welcoming arms.

  Tears collected somewhere in her soul, but long ago they ceased to visit her eyes.

  “What are ye thinking, lass?” Roman asked.

  The sound of his brogue startled her from her reverie.

  ‘The crucifix,” she said. “‘Tis destined to be mine.”

  “Explain.”

  A trickle of excitement coursed through her veins. It had been long indeed since she’d challenged a house such as Harrington’s, and far too long to wait to seek her revenge from him. “Surely the symbol of a lowly shepherd belongs with me rather than with a lord of the realm.”

  “What are ye talking about?”

  She smiled. “Lord Harrington is about to make a contribution to charity.”

  He watched her in silence for a moment, then, “Explain from the beginning.”

  Clasping her hands in front of her body, she paced past him. The trickle of excitement had turned to a steady flow. “‘Tis a simple scheme really. I’ve but to steal the crucifix, let the right people know what I’ve done, tell them I’m looking to become a Daggerman, deliver the crucifix to Dagger, then follow him to where he keeps his other goods.” She shrugged. “And steal the necklace, of course.”

  “What could be simpler?” he asked.

  She paced again, thinking hard. “There might be a few tight spots—making Dagger trust me, making him believe he needs me. He’s got a hundred men in his ring of thieves if he has one. Why would he want me? What would set me apart from them? And then, of course, there is the matter of not letting the Daggermen kill me.” She scowled, deep in thought, pacing in a circle and talking to herself. “They’re a suspicious lot, and likely to—”

  She stopped abruptly when she felt Roman’s hands on her arms and nearly bumped into his chest. “What is it?” she asked. His scowl was dark. “‘Tis too dangerous.”

  She blinked once. The scheme had taken over as it always did. Focus was her forte. “Dangerous?”

  “Yer a conniving little urchin,” he said. “But I’ll na have yer death on me conscience.”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “I thought that was the purpose, Scotsman. To see me pay for my crimes.”

  His grip relaxed a bit. “I but want the necklace returned and MacAulay freed. I’ve na wish ta see ye dead—na at this moment leastways.”

  “Then go away and leave me in peace.”

  He dropped his hands and turned away. “Peace! That is all I desire. But there is na peace for me until I finish what I have begun. I made me vow. And I must stand by it.”

  “Then let me go about my business. The sooner I get the crucifix, the sooner MacAulay goes free.”

  He shook his head and snorted a laugh. “Ye must think me daft indeed if ye think I’ll let ye out of me sight.”

  “In fact, I do think ye daft, Scotsman. But I tell you now, if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll not get the crucifix. And if I don’t get the crucifix, I’ll not get the necklace. And if I don’t get the necklace, your friend dies.”

  Roman shook his head again. “Aye, ye’ll get the necklace,” he said. “But I’ll be there with ye the whole while.”

  She laughed out loud. “You?” She let her gaze skim him from head to toe, and laughed again. “You couldn’t steal a kiss from a whore.”

  “Indeed?” he said and suddenly he was up against her with his body pressed hard and close as his arms encircled her. “Then who did I steal a kiss from when I kissed ye, lass?” His lips were very close, his arms broad and strong.

  Fear mingled with excitement within her. She pushed at his chest, afraid of the feelings.

  “Ye tell me ye are Betty and nothing more,” he murmured. “But how did a simple barmaid learn to mastermind a theft of this caliber?”

  She swallowed. The thrill of the scheme had caused her to forget herself. “Arry…” She remembered to make her voice catch as if on tears. “I knew the Shadow for a long while.”

  For a moment she thought he would call her a liar. Indeed, he raised a brow as if doubting every word, but finally he asked, “And the Shadow shared his plans with ye?”

  She shrugged, trying to look casual. “He trusted me.”

  “Yer generally a fine liar, lass, but now ye go ta far.” The slightest suggestion of a smile tilted his lips.

  “Are ya callin’ me a liar?” Indignance was hard to come by, but she did her best.

  He laughed. “Na, lass, of course na. Go on. Tell me more. The
Shadow—he planned the thefts?”

  She nodded.

  “And executed them?”

  “Of course.”

  “And ye?”

  He pressed closer still, and suddenly she remembered her strange state of undress. Her legs were bare below the knee, and her heart hammered a strange warning.

  “What was yer job, lass?”

  “I would wait,” she said. “And pray for his safe return.”

  “So he valued ye for yer loyalty?” he asked, his breath warm against her face. “And for the beauty I’ve seen revealed beneath this lowly garment?” He slipped a hand down her back.

  She swallowed hard. Her pulse was racing. His hand skimmed upward, sliding beneath her hair until it finally caressed the bare skin at the back of her neck. She shivered against his touch. “I…” She had to keep her head… or lose it. “I have other skills.”

  “Oh?”

  She could sense his amusement, though she could no longer see his face. His breath fanned her ear. His kiss there was butterfly soft against its upper curve.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she tried to pull away, but her effort was weak, and his grasp strong.

  “Dare I ask what he taught ye, lass?” he inquired, and kissed the corner of her mouth.

  Excitement sizzled through her, followed by panic. She thrust away and managed to stumble back. He followed, but she held up a hand to stop him. “To steal.”

  “What?”

  “Where is your amulet?”

  He lifted a hand to his chest. It came away empty—again. Shakily, she pulled the thing from beneath her own tunic where it hung from her neck.

  “How the devil—”

  “He taught me much,” she repeated.

  He nodded, suddenly thoughtful. “And we’ll need every bit of that knowledge to execute yer wild scheme.”

  She shook her head. “Not we, Scotsman. I work alone.”

  “Na this time.”

  “I give you my word to retrieve the necklace and deliver it into your hands.”

  “And I’ll believe ye,” he said, “when I see ye declared a living saint by the bishop of Bradberry.”

  “So my word is not good enough for you?”