Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  “What happened?”

  “Ya been ‘it over the ‘ead.”

  Memories bloomed in painful colors. “The Shadow,” he whispered. “I had just caught him when someone hit me from behind.”

  ‘The Shadow, ‘ell,” Betty snorted. “Ya attacked poor old George. Near scared him into ‘is grave. ‘E and Birley was just ‘eading ‘ome. Lucky for George, Birl ‘eard ‘im ‘ollerin; otherwise, who knows what ya would ‘ave done ta ‘im?”

  “George?” Roman tried to shake his head, but the cacophony of pain discouraged such a bold idea.

  “What the ‘ell were ya doing, Scottie?”

  “The Shadow,” Roman murmured. Reality was a slippery thing. Exhaustion and pain seemed more real, unconsciousness far more tempting. “He was there, just outside yer house.”

  “The Shadow?” Betty opened her eyes wide. Roman could see her face clearly, which was of some comfort to him considering the resounding clatter in his head. “Outside me own ‘ouse?” she said as if dazzled, then laughed. “Mayhap ‘e was coming ta see me. I suspect I should be fair put out that ya scared ‘im off. Could be ‘e wanted ta take me away from it all. Come and live with ‘im in comfort, aye?”

  She laughed again. Roman scowled, realizing where he was. “How the hell did I get ta yer house?”

  “George and Birley brought ya. And lucky they did, too. Cause Backrow ain’t no place ta be takin’ a nap.”

  “Backrow?” Roman fingered his aching skull, and found, to his surprise, that there were no gaping holes. “Where’s that?”

  “‘Tis where foolish Scotsmen go when they’re tired of livin’,” Betty said, pushing his hand away. “What the devil were ya thinkin’?”

  “I told ye …” Roman began, but his own frustration increased the pain in his head, and things were far too blurry to understand, much less try to explain. “Why did they bring me here?”

  She shrugged. “Ol’ George ain’t too bright, but ‘e’s got a good ‘eart. Seems ‘e didn’t want ta see ya killed in your sleep. Despite the fact that ya’d just scared the livin’ soul out of ‘im. Once Birley knocked ya cold, they recognized ya from the Red Fox and figured I’d see ta ya.

  “Guess there’s some advantage ta dressing in that little gown of yours, Scotsman. It makes ya stand out in a crowd.”

  “It’s a plaid,” Roman said. It seemed as good a thing to argue about as any. Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing was simple.

  “Why do ya wear it?”

  He opened one eye to peer at her. Dressed in a voluminous white nightgown, she looked different, younger, innocent. Her hair was the color of spun gold, falling in static waves about her shoulders.

  “Why do ye wear that?” he asked.

  “I was sleepin’ afore I was so rudely awakened.”

  “Ye see,” he said, turning his gaze to the ceiling. It was pitched in shadow, as was so much of this strange world he’d fallen into. “With a plaid, ye dunna need separate clothes ta sleep in and wake in. Ye simply unbelt the thing and use it for a blanket. ‘Tis a practical tool, as is everything Scots.”

  “Truly?” He could hear the laughter in her voice. “Is that what ya are then, Scotsman? A practical tool?”

  He turned toward her. In the irregular, flickering light of the candle, she no longer looked merely bonny, but breathtakingly beautiful, with a regal innocence that stunned him. “Who are ye?” he murmured.

  “Who am I?” Her face became immediately somber. Taking a damp cloth from a nearby bowl, she touched it to the bump on his head. He realized now that he was in her bed while she knelt on the floor beside him. “Are there other things you’ve forgotten, Scotsman?”

  Taking her wrist in his hand, he pulled it to his chest. Their gazes met. “I didna mean it like that, lass. In fact…” He paused, thinking. “I remember everything I’ve learned about ye. The way ye look as ye sway between the tables at the inn. How yer eyes darken when yer angry. The sound of yer laughter when yer teased. But I wonder, who are ye truly, lass?”

  Their faces were mere inches apart. “I’m Betty.” Her breath was a soft fan of air against his skin. “No one else.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  She shook her head in confusion.

  “Ye didn’t need ta take me in, lass. Ye could have turned me away. Why would ye care if I live or die?”

  “Do ya think I got no ‘eart just because I’m a ‘ore?” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it firmly.

  “On the contrary, lass. I think ye have the heart of an angel. And I wonder how.”

  “How what?”

  “How ye remain untouched?”

  For just a moment—for one frail, fleeting second, he could see all the way to her soul. But in an instant, it was locked carefully away, and she laughed. “Ya must a ‘urt yer ‘ead real bad if ya think I’m untouched, luv.”

  “I wonder,” he murmured.

  “Well don’t. I could teach ya things to make your mama shudder.”

  He canted his head. Surprisingly, it felt better. “Consider me yer eager student then, lass.”

  She rose with a snort and pulled her hand from his. The vixen from the Red Fox had returned, but she seemed smaller somehow, more fragile. “Ain’t I told ya about ‘arry?”

  “Ahh, aye,” Roman said. “Yer duke.”

  She almost seemed to wince, but rallied speedily, and said, “Yeah. ‘E won’t like ya bein’ ‘ere.”

  Roman was silent for a moment. Perhaps he would be unwise to tell her what he’d learned, but it seemed he’d been unwise ever since coming to Firthport. Why change now?

  “There seems to be a limited number of dukes in these parts,” he said softly. “I asked around. There is na one named Harry.”

  For a moment she remained expressionless and motionless. But then he noticed the brightness of her eyes and the tremble of her bottom lip. “Are ya sayin’ ‘e lied ta me about ‘is name?”

  Roman scowled. She’d said she was too smart to be in love with this man, but he knew now that she’d lied. He saw it in her face. Whoever the lucky bastard was, she was not only faithful, but infatuated. “I mean he’s not a duke,” he said softly. “There are na dukes in Firthport.”

  She laughed shakily. “Not a duke? That’s … ridiculous. ‘E told me ‘e was, but that I couldn’t tell no one about ‘im. Told me ‘e loved me, that ‘e wanted ta make me ‘is wife, only ‘e couldn’t on account of ‘e was already married.”

  “Betty …” Roman stood up and stepped toward her. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re lyin’,” she said, but her tone was high-pitched, and she backed away. “You’re lyin’ cause ya want me ta betray ‘im.”

  Roman stopped. “I’m not lying, Betty. I talked ta people who would know. They said there’s no duke in Firthport or anywhere near.”

  “You’re just sayin’ that cuz ya think ya can toss me on me back then.”

  Roman shook his head. “I wouldna do that, lass. And I wouldna lie.”

  “Yes, ya would. I know ya would. I know ‘e loves me, and…” Her words faltered, and her face fell into her upraised hands. “Sweet Mary, I knew this would ‘appen. I knew it would,” she sobbed.

  Roman stepped awkwardly forward. She melted into his arms like snow in sunshine.

  “‘E said ‘e loved me. ‘E said ‘e did. But ‘e ‘adn’t been ‘ere for months. Every day… every night, I told myself, ‘e’ll come. And then last night…” She shook her head and sniffed against his shoulder. Her arms were tight and strong against his back. “Tonight, ‘e did. It was so sweet. So fine. But then ‘e ups and says, it’s over. All over! ‘E didn’t ‘ave no feelings for me at all. ‘E was only usin’ me,” she sobbed.

  “There now, lass,” Roman soothed, stroking her hair. It felt as smooth and soft as kitten fur. “There now. Na man could be a man and na have feelings for ye.”

  “Yes ‘e could. I’m just… nothin’, nothin’ at all.”

  “Yer a woman, Betty.” He stroked h
er hair again. “Soft and kind and giving. And that’s the best this world has ta offer a man.”

  She sniffed again. He stroked again.

  “A beautiful woman with softness and fire and laughter. Na man could wish for more.”

  “‘E said someday ‘e’d take me away. ‘E said ‘is wife would never ‘ave ta know. But ‘e’s been lyin’ all along.”

  “He’s the Shadow, isn’t he, Betty? That’s why ye said there was na such man?”

  “The Shadow?” She chuckled, but the sound was dull and muffled against his shoulder. “Oh, ‘e’d laugh if’n ‘e ‘eard ya say that. ‘E’d laugh, ‘e would. ‘E liked ta think ‘imself a brave adventurer, but ‘e barely ‘ad enough nerve ta venture out alone in the midst of the night. The littlest thing scared ‘im. In fact, if ‘e ‘eard a noise, ‘e’d up and run.”

  Roman scowled over her shoulder. So the man he saw last night was not the Shadow at all, but only some frightened little weasel of a man who would use Betty’s lovely body then break her tender heart.

  “Is that…” Betty drew away slightly. Her face was filled with anguish. “Ya thought the Shadow was my lover. That’s why ya walked me ‘ome that night. That’s why ya’ve been ‘angin’ about. Ya was ‘opin’ ta catch the Shadow.”

  “Nay. I…” Roman began, but she backed abruptly out of his arms.

  “Ya were ‘iding out there in the dark, just waitin’ like a spider when ‘arry left ‘ere. Then ya chased ‘im down. Ya weren’t interested in me at all. Ya were tryin’ ta use me just like ‘e did.”

  “Nay, Betty, I…”

  “Well!” She laughed. The sound was harsh. “Ain’t ya the bloomin’ idiot! All this time believin’ in the Shadow when Dagger’s men probably took the jewels in the first place. And ‘ere ‘arry fooled ya just like ‘e fooled me. ‘E led ya a merry chase all the way to Backrow, and there Birley clonked ya on yer foolish ‘ead.”

  “Betty, I didna mean ta—”

  “Get out,” she said. Her tone was low, but it was steady. “And don’t come around again.”

  “Listen—”

  “Out!” she shrieked, and, picking up the nearby bowl, flung it at his head.

  Roman ducked, managing to escape the flying crockery. “If ye’d but listen, lass—”

  “Out!” she screamed again. Searching wildly, she closed her hand over the flaming candlestick.

  Roman liked to think he knew when he was beaten. Yanking the door open, he stepped outside and swung the portal closed behind him.

  It had been one hell of a night. A wild chase. A concussion. A raving woman. And the realization that every clue he had about the Shadow was false. But she had said something…

  Dagger probably took it anyway, she’d said. But Dagger who? That’s what he had to find out.

  Inside the house, Betty held her breath and listened to Roman’s retreating footsteps.

  Sweet Mary, it had been one hell of a night, and the best performance of her life.

  Chapter 6

  The building where Roman sat might loosely be called an inn. It was dark and dank, with a low, sooty ceiling and a peculiar stench.

  Customers were scattered about the place, men with furtive, evil eyes. Hard, half-dressed women groped their current companions with poorly concealed boredom.

  Disgust rose in Roman, but there were other emotions—darker, more sinister ones. Ones he dare not admit to lest he find himself pulled below that black undertow.

  He thought he had dredged the bottom of the human pool before now, but Firthport’s hideous underbelly had proven far more fetid than he could have imagined.

  It had taken him three days to find this place, three days of searching, questions, threats.

  But here he was, sitting in a dark corner, watching a man he had met only once before. The man who had tried, but failed, to steal the necklace.

  Perhaps he had once been given a name. Perhaps by a mother who had loved him. But now he was known only as Scar, a name initiated by the line that ran diagonally through his right eyebrow and across his cheek. Endless investigating had told Roman that Scar was one of Dagger’s men. Had the scum lied to him on that night at the inn, then? Had he somehow stolen the necklace and pretended he had not? Could he have been that good an actor?

  It was possible, but was it not more likely that another of the ring of thieves had taken it beforehand?

  It didn’t truly matter. For tonight Roman’s search would come to an end. He quieted his impatience and waited. Scar looked nervous, edgy, and loud. Some hours ago he had teetered over the brink of intoxication. Now he was cantankerous and garrulous.

  At frequent intervals, Roman could hear fragments of the boasts he threw toward his companions, a motley group of unimpressed, vapid-faced villains.

  “Called me in personal,” Scar said now. ‘Ta thank me for all my ‘ard work, I’m thinkin’. I done ‘im a good turn in Eddenberry that—”

  “I ‘eard ya botched up a job last week. Let the goods slip right through your fingers.” A sallow-faced man took a deep swig from his mug and stared into his companion’s eyes. “Maybe ‘e’s meanin’ ta … thank ye for that.”

  Leaning across the table, Scar grabbed the other’s shirtfront and rose with a jerk. ‘That weren’t my fault. Ya ‘ear me. It weren’t.”

  The man hung limply from Scar’s fist and smiled with dark teeth. “Ya gonna tell ‘im that?”

  Even from a distance, Roman could see Scar’s hand tremble. It fell away from the other’s shirt. He glanced wildly about as if he saw wolves circling for the kill. “It weren’t my fault.”

  “Then ya’d best go tell ‘is Lordship that.”

  Scar licked his thin lips. “I’m tellin’ ya, that ain’t why ‘e called me in.”

  “Sure of that, are ya?”

  Scar nodded, but the movement was jerky and erratic.

  “‘urry on yer way so as ta collect that big reward ‘e’s waitin’ ta give ya.”

  “I’ll do that.” Scar straightened. “I’ll do that right now.” He stumbled over his chair as he backed away, righted himself, and glanced back at his peers. “Don’t be plannin’ on seein’ me round ‘ere no more,” he said, and disappeared through the door.

  The sallow-faced man chuckled and drank again. “Oh, I won’t,” he said into his mug.

  Rising noiselessly to his feet, Roman, too, exited.

  The air outside was ripe with rotting fish and fetid urine. Windblown, tattered clouds skittered past a pale, half-moon. In a moment, Roman saw a dark figure hurrying away.

  He followed at a distance until the light of the moon was completely quelled and darkness lay like a blanket about him. Then he hastened his step.

  Ahead, Scar was muttering to himself as he stumbled along.

  “Always done right by ‘im. Always.”

  The alley down which they passed gave Roman little cover, still he had no choice but to follow. Tonight, he would meet Lord Dagger. Tonight he would learn the whereabouts of the necklace, no matter what it took.

  “Snuffed that lad in Eddenberry with ‘is own knife.” His pace slowed and he chuckled. “Pretty thing. Even cleaned the blade ‘fore givin’ it over. But did ‘e give me so much as a farthing for my trouble? No. ‘E owes me, ‘e does.” He slowed even more.

  The smell of the sea was sharp here. From a nearby building, light spilled from a window and a woman laughed, the sound high-pitched and eerie.

  Scar turned toward the noise with a start, but kept stumbling along.

  When he finally stopped, Roman pressed his back against a nearby wall and watched as Scar rapped his knuckles against the door of a long, low building made of stone. A warehouse of sorts, he would guess.

  In the darkness, Scar shuffled his feet and knocked again, a bit louder. Finally, the door opened. No light seeped from the interior of the place.

  “What do ya want?” The voice from inside the building was as deep as the night.

  “I’m … I’m ‘ere,” said Scar,
his own tone high-pitched.

  There was a moment’s delay then Scar disappeared inside.

  Roman remained still for a moment, then, when nothing moved, he crept around the far side of the building. There he found another door. It was boarded up, but there was a chink in the crooked wooden boards. Squatting near the building, he peered inside.

  A single candle had been placed upon a crate. But its light seemed to cower in the darkness.

  “So…” The person who spoke was unseen, but his voice was clear, and strange in some indefinable way. “Ya’ve come.”

  “Yeah, I… I came. Like you asked.” Scar’s voice seemed loud. Standing near the candle, he’d removed his cap, which he twisted in his hands. The light, pale and feeble, illuminated little more than his face, setting off his scar in harsh relief.

  Roman could see little by the exclusive light of the single candle. But he thought he could makeout five other people, four standing, one seated on something high.

  The silence was as dark as the room, heavy with tension.

  “Ahh, Pete, Pete didn’t say what ya wanted me for,” Scar said, squirming slightly.

  Silence again. Oppressive, long.

  In the blackness, the seated man shifted slightly. Roman squinted, trying to discern a face.

  “What do I want?” the seated man asked. “I wanted to thank ya, o’ course.”

  “Yeah?” The relief in Scar’s tone was nearly a tangible thing. “That’s what I told ‘em at the wharf. That’s what I told ‘em.”

  “Ya mentioned my name?”

  “No! No!” Scar said. “I just said I’d done a good job, and I was in for a reward, is all.”

  “A reward. Aye. Ya’ll get your reward. And do you know why?”

  Scar licked his lips again and smiled, a ghoulish expression. “Cuz of the jeweled knife I got from the lad in Eddenberry?”

  The shadowed man rose to his feet. Roman held his breath, waiting. It must be Dagger himself, but since he didn’t enter the light, illumination was not shed on his identity.

  “The jewels were paste,” he said. “No, Scar, it’s not the knife. ‘Tis the fact that ya taught me somethin’.”

  “Me?” Scar was still smiling. “What could I have taught you?”