Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  Roman shook his head. “The lass’s sire is in na humor to compromise. Tis the necklace or nothing.”

  Betty drew away from him, taking her warmth, his comfort, and rising abruptly to her feet. “He’s fooling. Making ya sweat, is all.”

  “I dunna think so. Mayhap afore he would have been flexible, but it seems his daughter has raised his ire by insisting that she loves the lad.” He raised his brows, watching her closer. “‘Tis said once ye’ve had a Highlander, ye’ll na settle for less.” He said the words to lighten her mood, but her face remained tense and solemn in the fire’s dancing light.

  “‘Tis a tight spot,” Roman said, watching her pace. “But His Lordship has given me a score of days ta see the necklace returned.”

  “A score!” She stopped pacing to stare at him. “Ya’ll not live that long, Scotsman. Not ‘ere in Firthport. Not if Dagger wants ya dead.”

  “I’m flattered by yer faith in me, lass.”

  “Ya jest!” she said. “Because ya don’t know ‘im.”

  Roman remembered the warehouse, the terror, the smell of death. “I think I’ve some idea.”

  “Then leave. Now. Please.”

  “After I retrieve the necklace from Dagger and—”

  “Ya don’t even know Dagger has it!”

  “If na him, then who?” Roman asked, frustration rising. “Surely na the Shadow, for ye say there is na such man.”

  She was silent, pale.

  He watched her closely. “Is that na what ye said, lass?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Nay.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nay,” she whispered. “There is no such man.”

  Roman rose slowly to his feet. “A man’s life hangs in the balance as we speak, lass,” he said softly. “A lie might tip the scale.”

  “There is no such man,” she said again. Her face looked strained and ghostly white, her eyes wide and bright. “But—”

  Footsteps suddenly sounded outside.

  Roman glanced at her, then drew his blade and placed himself between her and the door.

  “Let me in!” someone called from the far side of the door. “For God’s sake, let me in!”

  “Liam,” she said, turning.

  Roman grabbed her wrist. “I thought ye trusted no one.”

  “‘Tis Liam,” she said, pulling from his grasp. But he caught her wrist before she reached the door.

  “Think, lass. What could he be wanting?”

  ‘They’re comin’! They know!”

  “Sweet Mary!” She threw open the lock. “Liam! How do you…” she began, and screamed.

  Chapter 10

  Something lunged from the darkness. Candlelight gleamed on metal. Liam shrieked in pain and fell. Roman dragged him inside then slammed his shoulder against the door. But someone was on the opposite side, holding it open.

  Blood stained Liam’s sleeve. A man cursed on the far side of the door. Another added his weight to the heavy timbers. Roman’s body jerked as the door bumped open a scant inch farther. Fingers appeared in the crack.

  Panic rose in Betty’s throat. They had come for her! She had to escape! But how? She scanned the room, thinking. The fireplace was near. A log burned there. She reached for it and swung.

  Sparks lit a fiery arc through the night air then spattered outward as the wood thundered against the exposed fingers.

  There was an agonized shriek. The fingers disappeared. Roman heaved at the door until it thudded closed. Betty reached for the lock, but already the door was being shoved open again.

  Liam added his weight to the portal, but his arm was bloody and his face pale. “I tried ta warn ya,” he gasped. “I come as soon as I ‘eard.”

  Roman braced his feet against the floor. “Who the hell’s out there?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “Daggermen. They’re Daggermen. They know!”

  Betty stumbled backward, her face white.

  The door inched open. A blade slashed through the crack.

  Betty shrieked and crashed her weight against the portal again. It moved only a bit.

  “How?” she gasped.

  “James. They got old James.”

  “Dear God.”

  “What?” Roman said, shoving at the door.

  “Ya gotta go, Tara,” Liam whispered “Ya gotta get out. Now! I’ll hold ‘em as long as I can.”

  “I can’t leave you here.”

  The door bumped again. Roman grunted. Liam groaned.

  “We can hold them,” she said.

  Men cursed and shouted on the far side of the door. Roman shook his head. “You got a plan?” he asked Liam.

  The boy nodded to the far side of the house. “Another way out.”

  “Go!” Roman whispered.

  “Nay!” Betty shook her head.

  A man yelled. Suddenly, a blade slipped between the planks of the portal, just missing Betty’s midsection. She screamed. Roman swore, and leaning his shoulder against the door, raised his fist and thumped her on the head.

  She dropped like a rock into oblivion. Liam’s jaw fell.

  “Take her,” Roman ordered.

  “But…”

  “Now!” Roman yelled, and, letting the door swing wide, whipped his short blade from his garter.

  The first man died instantly. He dropped his sword. Roman scooped it up with his left hand and swung.

  The second man screamed and fell. The four behind him stumbled back. Roman could only hope now that Liam could handle Betty. He could only pray there was indeed a second exit as he parried and thrust, slashed and ducked.

  Behind him, the bedroom door swung closed. He stood with his back to it. A villain lunged at him. Roman blocked the stroke, sweeping the blade downward, but not soon enough. It slashed across his thigh. He hissed in agony. The man swung again, but Roman whipped his dagger upward. It lodged in the villain’s gut. He staggered backward.

  But three others remained. They came as a group, charging him in a semicircle of death. The first swung. Roman dodged then dodged again. But he’d miscalculated. His back slammed against the door. It sprang open. He stumbled into the room, trying to right his balance.

  The villains rushed in after him.

  Roman swiped with his sword. A long, curved blade spun from one man’s hand. Roman slashed again. Blood spurted from his opponent’s arm. He fell against the wall.

  “Damn it!” he screamed. “Get ‘im!”

  The other two pressed forward. “Where is she?”

  Roman crouched, waiting, holding his sword in his right hand. His left was empty, stretched out to the side for balance. “She doesn’t know anything about the Shadow,” he hissed.

  The nearest thief laughed. “Is that what she told ya, Scotsman?” He advanced slowly, licking his lips. “Did she tell ya she didn’t know nothin’? She musta been a good fuck ta convince ya ta stay and die for ‘er. And now she’s gone, probably humpin’ the Shadow while I kill ya.”

  Where was the exit? Was she safely gone? Roman dared not shift his attention from the advancing men. “She doesn’t know the Shadow,” he repeated, stalling for time.

  “Of course she don’t. The fence was just jestin’ when he said she did. Course he was about to die at the time. Just like you are,” said the thief. Then he sprang forward.

  Roman parried and retreated. There was no time to think, only to thrust and swing. Behind the two that attacked him, the third man tore open one of the wooden trunks. Clothing flew into the air.

  A sword sliced Roman’s biceps. His feet faltered. He stumbled back against the bed. Death screamed his name.

  “Here!” the third man yelled.

  A thief jerked, distracted. Roman stabbed. His sword slid between ribs and deep into flesh.

  The thief’s jaw dropped. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  Roman yanked his blade free and scrambled onto the mattress.

  “Here ya are!” crooned the third man, not noticing his fallen comrade or h
is own injured arm. A necklace spilled between his fingers, alight with white and blue gems. “And what a beauty ya be, stolen back from that bastard Shadow.”

  Roman’s world spun. The necklace! How had it gotten into Betty’s trunk?

  The nearest villain grinned at him. “The Shadow stole it and gave it to his whore. How does it feel to be fucked by them both, Scotsman?” he asked and swung.

  Rage erupted in Roman. With a war cry, he whipped his sword upward, sending the other’s blade sideways. The villain was knocked off-balance. Roman stabbed.

  The thief fell backward, his knees buckling, a snarl on his lips as blood gushed from his chest.

  Roman raised his sword and balanced unsteadily as he searched for the last man. But he had already gone, rushing into the darkness with the necklace. The room was empty except for death and himself. Roman staggered toward the door, but his legs refused to carry him farther. He fell to his knees. The world tilted crazily, and then he crashed to the floor, where blackness descended like the angels of hell.

  Roman didn’t know what woke him. Neither did he care. Once he thought he heard the skitter of nervous feet. But darkness took him again. Time marched on unmarked.

  Pain gnawed at his thigh. Smoky light seeped in through the open door. He realized fuzzily that he was lying on his back. From far away, a woman cackled, or was it in his mind only?

  She’d betrayed him, lied to him and left him to die.

  He turned his head. Death! It was all around him, filled his nostrils and his mind. But it did not disgust him. Instead, he reveled in it. He would find her. And when he did, death would be his ally!

  Pushing himself to his feet, Roman realized that his brooch was gone, as were his sporran and plaid. The scavengers of Firthport had little shame and no mercy, it seemed. But he did not care.

  He found his sgian dubh—his black dagger. It was covered with dried blood. Gripping it in one hand, he staggered through the door dressed in nothing but his knee-length tunic. The sun seemed ungodly bright. The earth moved beneath his feet, pushing him onward. His head spun. People stared and scurried out of his way. He approached the Queen’s Head. Its door opened. Mistress Krahn gasped when she saw him.

  “I need boiling water. Food.” His voice sounded strangely distant to his own ears. The stairs tilted at odd angles beneath his feet.

  Seating himself on the bed he’d rented days before, Roman removed his shirt. Time was irregular. The mistress of the inn appeared with food and water then backed away, her hands clasped before her.

  “I could—” she began.

  Roman raised his face to hers. She froze, quailed beneath his gaze, and rushed from the room.

  He sat alone, tore strips from his shirt, cleaned his wounds. It seemed almost as if the pain belonged to someone else now. Binding his thigh, he reached for the food and ate, though he was unaware what he consumed. In his mind, he formed plan after plan.

  He wrapped himself in the ceremonial tartan he’d set aside and limped to the door.

  Mistress Krahn was just scurrying away when he opened it.

  “I have little enough money,” he said.

  She stopped, staring at him with eyes round as bantam eggs. “I beg yer—”

  “I have na money ta speak of, but if ye’ll find me clothes I’ll give ye me plaid.”

  “Yer—” She blinked, staring at his face then skimming her shocked gaze down his body. He stood in nothing more than a hastily donned tartan. His chest was bare and bleeding.

  “It’s Highland made and bright red.” He canted his head and lifted the thick fabric from his thigh, staring at her. “Like me blood.”

  Her jaw dropped. “I’ll… I’ll find clothes,” she gasped, and rushed away.

  Three days passed. Roman wandered through the back alleys of hell, questioning, searching, sewing together clues like small pieces of a patched blanket. The sun was setting. He sat in a small inn, dressed in black trunk hose. They gripped his thigh wound with aching pressure. The doublet he wore was equally tight. On his head was a hat brimmed in the front. Between his shoulder blades, rested his sgian dubh in a makeshift sheath.

  “I had a cousin named Shamus,” he said, tasting his brew again. It burned his stomach, as his anger burned his soul. He hadn’t eaten since the previous night, for he saved his.few coins for spirits. People gathered at inns, people drank at inns, people would tell him where to find a young man named Liam. And Liam would lead him to the woman.

  Roman almost smiled. He wouldn’t inquire about the wench. Nay, that would only be another exercise in frustration, for he did not know who she was.

  She had called herself Betty. Dagger’s men had called her a whore. Liam had called her Tara, and Roman had called her much, much worse.

  “He’s dead now,” Roman said, continuing his staccato conversation with hardly a thought to what he said. He would find the girl, and when he did, she would pay. “Poor auld Shamus. Was a good lad. He was of the O’Malley clan.”

  “O’Malley?” The bartender paused with his rag to lean on the bar. “Of Shannon lawn?”

  “Aye,” Roman agreed, nodding once. “Don’t ye be tellin’ me ye know them.”

  “I come from Coirce Glen, just over the rise from there.”

  “Ye dunna say.” But of course he did say, for Roman had already learned what he could of the innkeeper. He knew that this man catered to an Irish clientele. But he was only a means to an end.

  “So who was this Shamus O’Malley?”

  “Ahh.” Roman drank again. “He was a friend, he was. A fine friend. But he died after a battle with an Englishman.”

  The innkeeper’s face flushed red. “Damn their hides.”

  “Aye, damn ‘em all,” Roman agreed. “They forever kill the flower of our bonny lads.”

  “Aye, they do that.”

  “But I come nonetheless, cuz I promised Shamus I would deliver a token to his love.”

  “In Firthport?”

  “Aye, she’s an Englishman’s daughter. And so the duel that cost his life,” Roman said.

  “And who is this woman?”

  Roman shook his head. “Shamus wouldna say. He but said that enough blood had been spilled. He wouldna let me die in his defense.” Suddenly, he slammed his mug upon the table and squeezed his eyes tightly closed. “But what I would give if I could.”

  The innkeeper jumped at his abrupt movement, then leaned closer. “Then how will ye deliver the token?”

  Roman exhaled softly and looked at the soot-darkened beams of the ceiling. “I am ta deliver it to a man named Liam. ‘Tis said he knows everyone, even Englishmen’s daughters.”

  “Liam?” the innkeeper said, but his voice was quiet now, and he glanced right and left. “Liam of Backrow?”

  Roman said nothing, but nodded once and drank again. He kept his movements casual, but every fiber in his body was taut.

  Backrow. Liam lived in a section of town called Backrow. And Betty, whom he now called Tara, would not be far away.

  Roman remained perfectly still. Hidden in the shadows of a gray stone house, he watched Liam’s door. The black-haired lad had been in and out of the place a number of times. While he was gone, Roman had slipped into the room.

  It had been dark, small, and devoid of the one person he hungered to find.

  The door opened. The lad stepped out again. It was near evening. Shadows lay long and spidery across the street. Roman didn’t look up, but remained as he was until Liam disappeared around a corner. Then, quiet and solemn, he straightened and followed.

  The sun slipped toward the west. The noise of Market Street was winding down as the vendors’ cries stilled. A boy of nine or ten wheeled a rickety barrow past. From it wafted the heady scent of the remains of his loaves.

  Roman’s stomach churned a complaint, but he ignored it and walked on. Liam stopped. Roman turned, examining a few items still displayed by a vendor.

  But soon he was moving again. From up ahead came the sound of laughter. L
ight shone through the smoky glass of an inn. Scents issued out, confusing in a jumble of haunting aromas.

  Liam bought a bit of smoked fish from the last stall and slowed his pace. Nibbling on the piece, he finally leaned against a wall near the inn and waited.

  Roman slipped into the black shadow of a building and pressed himself up against the stone to watch.

  Time slid uneasily by. Two men exited the inn. They were loud, raucous, inebriated.

  A boy rounded a corner. Dressed in tattered hose and a drooping hat, he looked to be no more than thirteen. He carried a mended net over one shoulder. The dull end of a fishhook was laced through the loose weave of his rough shirt. He whistled as he strolled along with a fluid motion to his step. But in a moment, he stopped, seated himself on a step, and pulled something from his pocket. Was it an apple? Something edible? In the falling darkness, Roman couldn’t be quite certain. Still, his taste buds ached at the thought.

  Roman cleared his mind and hurried his gaze back to Liam. He must not lose his concentration. Eventually, the Irishman would lead him to the lass. He had to be patient.

  A richly garbed man exited the inn. A leather pocket dangled from his belt. His face was flushed, and on his arm was a brightly dressed doxy. She laughed hardily up into his face.

  A hound, drawn by the smell of Liam’s fish, rounded the corner. “Ay,” yelled the Irishman. “Get the ‘ell away from me.”

  The gentleman turned his head. His companion scowled. The fisherboy stretched and sauntered past the pair.

  The dog disappeared down the alley. Liam turned nonchalantly on his heel and walked back in the direction from which he had come.

  No. Not another fruitless night. Not another false lead, Roman thought. But then the fisherboy turned his head. For a fraction of an instant the gentleman’s pouch was visible in the lad’s delicate hand before it disappeared from sight. The boy was a thief—with hands like …

  Something clicked in Roman’s brain. Something .. . But…

  Hell fire! That was no lad. It was Tara.

  Chapter 11

  Exhilaration bloomed in Roman’s chest. He had found her! She would pay!

  But already she was slipping back into the crowd. Jerking from his trance, he followed the ragged figure. She seemed in no hurry, but stopped now and then. With one hand in her pocket, she chatted with a vendor then moved on. Laughter wafted on the evening air.