Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  He lowered his mouth. Between their bodies, Betty tipped her knife upward, prepared to strike. But suddenly her wrist was trapped in his hand.

  She gasped, snapped open her eyes, and stared into his face. His gaze had not dropped, but bored into her eyes with the intensity of flame.

  “If ye find me appealing, lass, I’d suggest ye drop the dirk,” he murmured. ‘“Twould surely make me less becoming ta have a blade stuck between me ribs.”

  Before she could speak, the knife was snatched from her hand and flung away. It clattered unseen against the far wall.

  “Yer surprisingly predictable, lass,” he said, still holding her wrist.

  Fear flooded her like the indomitable wash of tide. She wasn’t predictable. Unpredictability was the only reason she had survived so long in this city. Who was this man who could read her thoughts? And what was he reading now? “What do ya want?” she rasped.

  She felt his tension as if it were her own, a bowstring of singing emotion strung between them and reverberating with … With what? He stood very near, close enough for her to smell the faint hint of caraway. But also close enough to catch the illusive scent of man.

  The muscles in his lean jaw flexed again. “I want the necklace back.”

  She released her breath with an effort. “Then why come here?”

  His grip loosened almost imperceptibly. “Because ye can help me.”

  “Help ya?” She forced herself to laugh, hoping it would dispel some of the tautness in her muscles. It did nothing but echo in the room like the eerie chuckle of a ghost. “And why would I do that, Scottie?”

  “Because I’ll pay.”

  So he was offering her money again. “Pay?” she asked, letting her tone bloom with interest.

  “For information,” he said, and loosened his grip a bit more on her wrist.

  “And why me? Why come to me?”

  “I watched ye at the inn.”

  “You and a ‘undred others, Scottie. So?” She laughed again, trying to ignore the intensity of his eyes, the casual strength of his hand on her arm. She could feel the heat of his body and the hard press of his thigh even through the many layers of cloth that separated them.

  “So I ken the truth.”

  ‘Truth? About what?” Her heart was racing as she waited for his response.

  The silence was heavy and seemed to last forever.

  “Ye are na as dense as ye seem, lass. Ye ken things.”

  She didn’t turn away. Didn’t deny his words. Didn’t shift her gaze away from his. “I’m sure I’m very flattered, Scotsman. But I wonder, what things might you be speaking of?”

  “The Shadow.”

  Her stomach pitched at the words. “The Shadow! So that’s it!” she exclaimed, and, jerking her wrist free, stepped away. “Ya think the Shadow took yer precious gems!”

  He neither dropped his gaze nor changed his expression. “What do ye know of him?”

  “Only a thousand or so tales. He’s a lord. He’s a beggar. He’s a saint.”

  “Nay!” Roman took a quick step forward, but she stepped back just as quickly, pulling her arm to her body to keep out of his grasp. “Dunna tell me fairy tales. For ye believe them na more than I.”

  “Nay, I do not. There is no Shadow.”

  He was silent for a moment, then, “Ye are wrong. And I think ye know it.”

  “Truly?” she asked, raising her chin slightly. “Perhaps ya think I have the Shadow here, hidden under my bed.”

  “‘Twould seem a terrible waste of yer bed. Who is he?” Roman asked, advancing.

  She stood her ground and raised her chin to maintain contact with his hawkish eyes. “‘E’s King ‘enry. Only na one knows but me, on account of we’re lovers.”

  “Truly? Ye and auld Henry. He doesn’t seem yer type.” The corner of his lips jerked in irritation, but his tone remained level.

  That control worried her. Wild rage was more easily overcome than deep thought. That had been proven a thousand times. “Certainly,” she said, her tone flippant. ” ‘E says there’s not another that can match my …” She smiled, letting the expression steal slowly across her face and lifting one shoulder so that her left breast was pushed more fully into view.

  He watched the movement, but when his gaze returned to hers, his expression remained the same, remote. “Yer what?” he asked dryly.

  She snorted. “My intellect,” she said, and turned away to pace across the narrow room. It contained little more than a bed and two trunks. Against the far wall, a small table boasted a cracked plate of bare bones and little else. She plopped herself onto the nearer trunk. The bent staves that bound it were unadorned, and the hasp that closed it was dark and pitted with rust. “Isn’t that why ya came? Because of my intellect?” she asked, and lifted a pale shoulder again.

  He watched the movement. “Mayhap ye are trying ta make me forget why I came,” he said softly. “Mayhap that is why ye do that?”

  She straightened her back and scowled. She had little use for thinking men, or men of any sort for that matter. “Do what?”

  “Listen, lass,” he said, pacing across the room to bend down and place his hands beside her hips on the trunk. “I’d like nothing more than ta stay and let ye corrupt me, but…”

  “Corrupt ya!” She jerked to her feet, but he didn’t move. Their faces were only inches apart and his gaze absolutely level. She sat back down with a jolt. “Someone corrupted ya long before ya came ‘ere, I’ll warrant.”

  He grinned. It was not an expression of happiness, but rather, it denoted something else, something deeper—a man’s disillusionment with himself, perhaps. His jaw was covered with a reddish brown beard that contrasted sharply with the straight, white rows of his teeth. “Mayhap yer right, lass. I should have said, I’d love ta let ye seduce me, since ye long ta so.”

  Standing abruptly, she managed to push him away. “Would ya now?” she asked, anger goading her. “Well you’re flat out of luck then, mate, cuz I’ve no wish ta do no seducin’ tonight.”

  “Not even for a stone from the coveted necklace?”

  Anger ripped free from its bonds. “Not if you gave me the entire piece, wrapped in golden cloth and delivered …” she began, but he was watching her very closely. Too closely, like a wolf might study a hare.

  She pursed her lips, shutting off the crisp words. ‘Twas her mother’s voice she used when she was angry, and her mother’s perfect English would do her little good here. She knew better than to lose her temper. Damn it, she knew better.

  “Delivered by who, Betty, King Henry?” he asked, still watching her.

  “That’s right, luv,” she said, making her tone heavy with accent and disdain. “Not if ‘e brought the thing ‘isself and promised me every rock.”

  He let her words fall into the silence. “Yer a strange whore, Betty,” he said softly. Anger swelled up again, but she pushed it quickly back into oblivion. “I got me pride same as you.”

  “What do ye ken of me own pride?” he said softly.

  She scowled, but before she could formulate an answer, he straightened to his full height.

  “I’m na asking ye ta lie with me,” he said. “Just ta give me a wee bit of information.”

  “I told ya, I don’t have no information. I don’t know who the Shadow is.”

  “At the inn, ye seemed ta know everyone,” he said. “Their jobs, their wives, their business.”

  “Them’s just the regulars,” she said, but she wondered if her tone was too breathless, if he saw something in her eyes. He watched her narrowly.

  She forced a laugh. “Ya think maybe Cleat be the Shadow? Or Birley?”

  “I dunna ken. But I think ye do.”

  “Well, I don’t,” she said, and jerked about.

  His gaze followed her. “But ye can find out.”

  She paced across the floor to the dark fireplace. Anger threatened to well up again. She felt it in the tightness of her throat, the stiffness of her body, but she’
d forgotten herself once. She wouldn’t do so again. With a hand on the poker she turned and forced a smile. “What would ya give me?” she asked softly.

  “I’ll give ye one of the stones.”

  “From the necklace?” Her laughter was beautifully harsh. “Ya must think me a bloomin’ idiot. Why would I believe you’re goin’ ta get the necklace back if the Shadow was the one what stole it?

  “No! If’n ya want me help, ya’ll pay me soon as I get ya the name.”

  He nodded once, his gaze not leaving hers. “I’ll give ye four pounds English if ye tell me his identity.”

  She let her mouth go round and soft. “Four pounds?”

  “Four if ye tell me his name. Six if ye know where he lives.”

  “Very well then, guvnur. But if you’re so well off, why do ya need the necklace back so bad?”

  “I owe it to Harrington.”

  She laughed. “A bribe to buy silence? Ya must a killed someone pretty important.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, and she shrugged.

  “Round Firthport, life’s cheap. Ya could kill off ‘alf the town and buy most folks’ silence with only a shillin’ or two.”

  “Ye think I killed someone?”

  She shrugged. “If not that, then what?”

  For a moment she thought he might answer, but instead, he turned and strode to the door. “Get me the name,” he said, and was gone.

  Betty closed her eyes and clasped her shaking hands tightly together. Sweet Mary. She had to get to James, and fast.

  Chapter 4

  Fatigue weighed heavily on Roman. Sleeplessness and frustration had taken their toll, but he dare not rest now. He had planned to return to his rented room to sleep, but something held him in the deepest shadows outside Betty’s door.

  Even he couldn’t say why he was there for certain. After all, she had agreed to try to obtain the true identity of the Shadow, had agreed to give that information to Roman for a price.

  But there was something… something he couldn’t quite explain that kept him from leaving. She had promised to help him, true, but that was after she had denied the possibility of there ever being a Shadow. Of all the people he’d questioned, no one had completely disregarded the notorious thief’s existence. In fact, they had seemed to thrive on the idea of an avenging angel of sorts. A man who would not only take from the rich, but would give to the poor.

  Betty had been the only one who had refused to take comfort in such a concept. Why? Was it because she knew more than she was telling?

  But even if she did believe, would she assist Roman in his search for the thief? For a moment, there had been a spark of something in her eyes. Defiance perhaps?

  “I got me pride same as you,” she’d said. But what did she know of his pride? Mayhap she assumed he possessed the renowned pride of the Highlander, pride to match her own. But if Fiona and Leith Forbes had left him to fend for himself, if he had lived a life as lowly as a Firthport whore’s, would he have pride? Or would he have sunk to the depths he knew himself capable of reaching?

  Who was this maid named Betty? What had he seen in her eyes? Disdain? Hatred?

  Mayhap. But there had been something more. Something that had barely tickled the nerve endings of his awareness.

  He had left her room intent on reaching his own, on finding sleep, but something had stopped him. Perhaps she didn’t plan on identifying the Shadow at all. Perhaps she planned on warning him.

  Thus, Roman waited now in the dark, letting the minutes scrape past. Fatigue smothered him. His eyes fell closed, but he wrested himself from sweet oblivion. Just a little longer. The night dragged by, pulled along by the invisible strings of time.

  Nothing stirred. The city slept.

  He had been wrong. Betty was just what she seemed to be, or at least she was going nowhere tonight. Relief flooded him. He could return to his own bed now and find the sleep his body…

  What was that? A noise? Or had he simply sensed something?

  Despite his fatigue, every nerve awoke with a start as he stared through the darkness toward Betty’s door. It hadn’t opened. And there was no other exit, so surely she was still inside. But perhaps she was preparing to leave. Or perhaps she was at the single window, peering through the scraped and tightly stretched leather that covered it, searching the darkness.

  Roman remained motionless, staring at the window until his eyes watered. He saw nothing, but something had changed. Something had happened.

  From behind the house, a dog growled. It was deep-throated and barely audible. But in a moment it fell silent, as though startled before recognizing a friend. Another hound perhaps.

  Or maybe a nocturnal visitor of another sort. But who would be out at this hour? Was Betty expecting a guest?

  Roman waited. Nothing happened. No other sounds disturbed the night.

  He was a fool. Betty was probably fast asleep.

  But something had disturbed the dog. Perhaps a wild cat had wandered into the city. But wouldn’t he have continued growling then, or begun barking? A familiar person might have quieted him. One of Betty’s regular customers. But if such was the case, he hadn’t reached the door. Why? Had he somehow sensed Roman’s presence? And if so, why would he concern himself with Roman?

  Unless he was the Shadow himself!

  Roman erupted from his hiding place. In his present state, it seemed so logical. Darkness rushed past him. He dashed around the corner of the house and down an alley, listening, trying to determine from where the growl had issued.

  A stone wall rose up in front of him. He vaulted over it, through a garden, and onto the opposite wall. Across the street, a dog barked once in deep protest. Roman found its large, pale shape in the blackness. Beside it a shadow moved and slid away.

  What was it? Or who? Not taking his gaze from the spot where the shadow had been, Roman jumped from the wall and dashed toward it. There it was, rushing away. It was a person. He was sure of that now. And who would be out in this dangerous part of town in the dark of night? If not The Shadow himself, surely it was someone who could shed a ray of light on the underbelly of Firthport.

  Silent and swift, Roman sprinted down the alley, concentrating with every fiber of his body on the figure he followed.

  So intent was he on catching his prey that he barely heard the deep-throated growl. The dark figure had suddenly disappeared around a corner. But if he hurried …

  The dog struck him like a destrier at full gallop. Roman hit the ground with the hound on top. Teeth sank into the bunched wool of his plaid and grazed his chest. Twisting wildly, Roman rolled the dog beneath him. The beast growled, scratching his face with huge, horny paws as it tried to escape.

  With the strength of desperation, Roman pried his heels against the ground and lurched to his feet, but the dog gained his balance and lunged again. Roman raised an arm to shield his face. The hound hit him squarely on the chest. As he fell, Roman thrust his arm hard into the beast’s mouth. It gagged, trying to break free, but in that moment, Roman bent his legs, caught the hound on the balls of his feet, and thrust with all his might.

  The dog flew through the air and hit a nearby stone wall with a thud. Roman leapt to his feet and spun about, crouched and ready for the next attack.

  The hound rose more slowly. Staring through the darkness, he whimpered once, then shook his head and sat with a tentative wag of his tail.

  The night grew silent.

  Roman turned his head, searching the darkness. The Shadow was out there, not far away. His gut told him it was so. And his gut was never wrong.

  A gust of laughter burst forth from the corner of the Red Fox. Roman glanced toward the source of the sound and pushed down his burning frustration.

  Whoever he had seen in the darkness behind Betty’s house had disappeared. Although he had searched, doubled back, and searched again, he’d found nothing.

  Finally, he had returned to his rented room. Once there he had slept for several hours. Still his eyes f
elt scratchy and his nerves raw. The noise and hubbub of the Red Fox irritated him. But not nearly so much as Betty’s bright-eyed demeanor.

  Dressed in a faded green gown that laced neatly up the back, she looked as fresh and sassy as ever. With that characteristic sway of her generous hips and a quip ready for all, she moved amongst the tables. Apparently, nothing had disturbed her sleep, not his own furtive presence, or the absence of a lover.

  Who, then, was the man who had sneaked through the darkness, quieted the immense white hound, and disappeared into the night?

  He might be someone of no significance, of course. Roman had told himself that a thousand times, but instinct told him otherwise. And instinct had brought him back to the Red Fox once more.

  There was something about Betty that made him certain she knew more than she admitted. Perhaps it was the fact that she had denied the Shadow’s very existence. Or perhaps it was the way she moved, or spoke, or laughed, or …

  Hell fire! Perhaps it was her that kept bringing him back and not his quest at all.

  He should be concentrating on recovering the necklace. He had promised Laird MacAulay that he would see his lad safely home. He had promised Fiona. And yet here he was again, watching a buxom maid move about the room like a seductive dancer. Flirting, teasing then hurrying off, a pitcher in each hand, her wide hips….

  Roman stopped in mid-thought. Flirting and teasing. True, she did that in abundance. But nothing else. Strange, wasn’t it?

  Roman had been in his share of taverns and inns, had seen a good many serving wenches. Yet never had he seen one that consistently teased and drew away. A barmaid’s salary was not a large one and was often supplemented by funds she could garner on her back.

  But Betty had not taken any of the men’s proposals. At least not that he had seen. And Betty surely wasn’t the kind of woman to spend all her nights alone. No, she was a hot-blooded one. So who was she sharing that heat with?

  It was a question to which Roman planned to find an answer.