Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  Unconsciousness had grabbed him like a dark troll on the previous night. He had tried to follow her, had grappled with the black demon, trying to break free. But her drug was strong.

  He curled his hand into a fist. She had betrayed him, tricked him, stolen from him. First the precious necklace, and now … He curled his fingers over his chest. Damn her hide, she had taken his amulet.

  She was the mistress of lies, and he had played her fool. But no more. Henceforth neither scruples nor her compelling charm would forestall his revenge. She owed him. She would pay. ‘Twas as simple as that.

  Thus he waited in absolute immobile silence, watching the door of a gray hovel from the anonymity of a black shadow.

  She would come, he told himself. For though she had spewed a thousand lies, she had not lied about the sickly babe. That one bit of her dialogue had stayed with him like a tick, refusing to be forgotten, for when she’d spoken of the lass named Sineag, she had been another person, an innocent herself, it had seemed, lost in memories. Sineag! ‘Twas a Scottish name. Or so Roman had first thought. But nay. ‘Twas a Gaelic name. And Gaelic meant Irish as well as Scottish. Once he had realized that, doors had opened to him. It had been simple enough to ask about a newborn child with a cough. All it took were a few well-placed lies—lies that came easier now.

  Now he would wait and watch, for she would come. Something in his gut told him that much.

  The night dragged toward morning. But the door of the hovel remained closed. Even from this distance, Roman could hear a child’s labored coughing. The sound wore on his nerves.

  Where was Tara? Why hadn’t she arrived? Had he misjudged her yet again? Had she fabricated the whole story, after all?

  He could wait no longer, for the shadows were fading. He would need to find better hiding for daylight watch.

  Across the street was a broken cart. It had only one wheel, and the wood was rotting through in many places, but ‘twas big enough for Roman to hide in. Glancing carefully about him, he hurried to it and placed himself uncomfortably inside.

  In order to remain out of sight, he had to bend his legs. They cramped. He swore silently and tried to rub the ache from them.

  Dawn arrived. A chaffinch perched on the edge of the cart and cocked his head at Roman, as if sizing him up. Then, seeming to decide the human was harmless, the small finch burst into song.

  Roman scowled, thinking the bird correct in his assessment of the damage he might cause. If Tara appeared at the end of the cart, he doubted his ability to unfold, much less give chase. Nevertheless, he stayed, entertained by the little songster’s music and marveling at the fact that despite it all, life continued, the sun rose, birds sang.

  The cart had a small hole from where a knot of wood had fallen. If Roman craned his neck just so, he was able to watch the door.

  The neighborhood began waking. He smelled the aroma of cook fires, heard a farewell as someone left a cottage. A child carrying a basket passed the door he watched. Roman’s attention perked up. A child! Tara had pretended to be a child before. She could surely do so again.

  But this one was less than ten years old, and no more than four feet tall. ‘Twould be a difficult disguise even for a black-hearted conniver like her.

  He settled back onto the floor of the cart again. The wood had long ago been eroded by wind and weather. The softer lumber had worn away, causing sharp ridges to rise, seemingly for the express purpose of tormenting his back.

  Hoofbeats clopped down the street, softly muffled by the muddy road. A flea-bitten cob trotted up, slowed to a walk, and finally stopped. From his hellish position, Roman watched the aged animal mouth its bit, then hang his head and rest, cocking one bony hip.

  The driver was an old man, grizzled, bearded. He wore a slouch hat, a long, gray doublet that may have fit him years ago when he had yet borne the muscle of youth. Now it hung on his thin frame, reaching well past his thighs. When he eased himself from the cart, Roman saw that the freedom of youth had indeed left him. He was dressed in baggy hose that matched the doublet, but one leg ended at the knee.

  Leaning against the cart, the old man reached inside and drew out a pottery jar. He cradled it against his chest, then turned with agonizing slowness and took a gnarled crutch from its resting place beneath the seat. Placing it under his right arm, he limped toward the hovel.

  It seemed to take forever for the old man to reach his destination. Mayhap in another time and another place Roman might have seen fit to help the old gaffer. But not today. He shifted his gaze from the stooped back to the street, waiting, impatience gnawing him. But finally the old fellow reached his destination and knocked at the portal.

  It opened in a moment. A woman stood in the doorway. She was young, but there were lines of worry on her face and shadows of terror in her eyes. Words were spoken. Roman knew that much, though he couldn’t make out exactly what was said.

  The old man nodded and handed the jug over to the woman. There were tears in her eyes and when she spoke Roman could just make out her shaky words of thanks and blessings.

  The mother reached out for a moment and touched the old man’s cheek. Though Roman had no way of knowing what was in the jug, it was obviously something of utmost importance. This, he knew, was a singular moment. A sterling act of kindness.

  He watched the mother draw back, watched the door close.

  So Tara had been right. God saw fit to help wee Sineag without the Shadow’s intervention. Even in the bowels of Firthport, kindness lived.

  Memories of the Highlands flooded Roman. All was not dark. All was not evil.

  The old man turned. His face was hidden beneath the limp brim of his hat. His gnarled hands clutched…

  But wait…

  The hands weren’t gnarled. They were slim and delicate and…

  Roman launched from his hiding place with a snarl. He sprang over the side of the cart, and, even as he catapulted from cover, he saw the old man jerk to a halt, eyes wide.

  Less than ten rods separated them. The old man stood paralyzed for a moment. Then, with the suddenness of a doe, he erupted into action. But instead of running, he began clawing at his clothes. The baggy hose fell away. The wooden crutch clattered to the ground. And suddenly he was barelegged and running like the devil was behind him.

  Tara! It was Tara. Roman knew it. He was gaining on her. She was near. So near. He reached for her. Her doublet skimmed past his fingers. He swore. She spurted ahead. Roman’s thigh throbbed and threatened to spill him to the ground, but he would not lose her this time. Not if the hounds of hell rose up and devoured him.

  Sheer rage drove him on. He reached again, snagged her coat, and reeled her back. She shrieked as cloth ripped from her body. But suddenly the doublet hung limply in his hand, and she was sprinting away.

  Roman tossed the garment aside with a curse and leapt after her. But she had already turned a corner. He careened around it and skidded to a halt. She was nowhere in sight. A stone fence stretched off to the right and left. Surely she was behind it. Back in motion, he leapt over it and stopped again. His breath came in hard gasps, and his thigh pulsed with weakening pain.

  Hell fire! Where …

  It was then that he saw the holly bush move. It was small, no higher than his knees, and surely not big enough to hide her and yet. .. Neither could she be a lad or an old man.

  Heart still thumping, he turned in a circle as if searching for her, then, with a curse, he ran along the fence to the left.

  Once past the house, he leapt over the stone and hedge, circled the hovel at a gallop, and slid to a halt at the corner.

  She was there, crouched like a frightened hare half-inside the bush and glancing furtively about as she rose cautiously to her feet.

  He saw it all as if in a dream. She rose. He neared. She turned, but it was far too late. His fingers curled into her shirtfront. He dragged her against him. Her gasp was loud and satisfying to his ears.

  She fought like a wildcat, twisting and thras
hing. His leg burned with her pummeling. His chest ached from her claws, but nothing could diminish the glory of crushing her against him.

  It was not an easy task to drag her to the cart in the street. But Roman did so, barely noticing that his arm throttled her throat while his opposite hand gripped the back of her tunic near her bottom.

  He tossed her into the cart, then jumped in after to weigh her down and click the horse into motion. The cob could move with surprising speed when turned toward home. It sped through the mud and over the cobbles until Roman pulled it to a halt in front of Tara’s door.

  There was no one about. Roman dragged the bearded girl from the cart, sent the horse on his way, and pushed Tara into her own house. He closed the door and leaned against it.

  They stared at each other. She was breathing hard. Her flattened chest rose and fell beneath the simple shirt. Her hose were gone, showing her slim, bare legs below the lengthy tunic. But her hat was miraculously still in place, as was the stringy gray hair that hung beneath it. Her thinning beard was several inches long and snowy white.

  The sight of her thus sent a fresh wave of rage through Roman, for she was the embodiment of his own foolishness. He took a step forward. She retreated.

  “What do ya want from me?” Her tone was pitched high with fear. He wanted revenge, and he was not above obtaining it at the expense of her little siren’s body. Roman smiled. “Last time we were here together, we were interrupted a bit prematurely. I thought ye might wish to make up for that.” He advanced again.

  She retreated. “Stay away from me.”

  Roman canted his head. “Ye’ve changed, lass, for I remember ye moaning in me arms in this very room.”

  He had her backed nearly to the wall. They were mere inches apart.

  “Indeed,” he murmured. “Ye’ve changed.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I but want to give ye what ye wished from me. The pleasure of our bodies united,” he said, leaning closer, lifting a hand to slide it around her waist. He would have his revenge. She shivered at his touch. “‘Tis what ye wanted, isn’t it? Could I but feel ye against me,” he mimicked. “Ye wanted me. Surely ‘twas na a lie.” He smoothed his hand sideways, down her hip, over her buttock. She shivered again, and her breath came faster.

  “I…” She placed a hand to his chest and pushed, but with little strength. “I’m sorry about the drug,” she whispered.

  “Drug?” Roman gritted his teeth, but continued to stroke her backside. “Ye mean ta say ye drugged me? And here I thought ‘twas but yer charm that made me lose me senses.” He slipped his hand lower, down her thigh, letting his fingers run along the inside of her leg until they skimmed past her tunic and onto bare skin.

  She jerked against him, breathing hard and fast.

  “I thought ‘twas surely me attraction ta ye that made the world seem ta tilt,” he said. “And I thought surely ‘twas the same for ye.”

  “I’m sorry!” She rasped the words. Her bound chest rose and fell. “I’m sorry for everything. Please…”

  They stared at each other, both breathing hard.

  “What do you want from me?”

  He wanted her. Body and soul, writhing with ecstasy beneath his hands. He stared at her, enraged at himself, at his weaknesses, and lost in the horrible knowledge that no matter what, beard and all, he still wanted her and could not hurt her.

  “Damn ye!” he swore through his teeth.

  “I’m sorry, Scotsman,” she whispered. “Sorry for everything. But the necklace is gone now. Out of our reach.”

  “Nay.” He shook his head. Revenge. ‘Twas revenge he wanted, he reminded himself. But she was soft and alluring, and though he vowed vengeance, one glimpse of her made him forget what he had suffered because of her, made him forget everything but how she felt in his arms, how her eyes danced when she laughed. He crossed his arms against his chest, hoping his gaze was as hard as his desire and praying she couldn’t read the need in his eyes. “Tis na out of yer reach, lass. I begin to think that nothing be past yer grasp.”

  She said nothing.

  “Where’s me amulet?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Me patience has been stretched ta the limit, lass. If the truth be told, I have vowed to kill ye.”

  He watched her throat convulse as she swallowed and felt a bit better, despite his own inability to make her pay.

  “I didn’t—”

  He raised a hand. “Dunna lie.”

  She paused, blinked, then dipped her hand into her baggy tunic and pulled the amulet over her head.

  He took it in his fist before slipping the leather strip about his neck. “Why?”

  She pursed her lips and raised her chin. Now that he was close and cognizant, her lips seemed strangely smooth nestled between the frizzled white facial hair. “I believe in sharing.”

  “Strange how ‘tis always my possessions that are shared,” he said.

  She clasped her hands like a shield between them then turned to pace the floor stiffly. “Some of us have less to share than others.” Betty the barmaid was back, or at least she was making a valiant effort to return. He could almost see the mask fall into place. “‘Arry is gone,” she whispered. “I am but trying to survive, doin’ me best to make it alone in the evil of this city.” She rasped out a single sob and lifted a hand to cover her face. “You’ve no idea what I’ve been through, what with ‘Arry’s death and Dagger’s men, and …”

  Roman couldn’t stop the laughter that welled up in him. It began as a rumble of disbelief then spewed forth in a roar of tension-relieving mirth. Before him paced an old man with curvaceous legs, a seductress’s sexy voice, and the delicate hands of a musician—or a thief. A thief who could no more tell the truth than he could make her pay for her crimes. What a pathetic pair they made.

  He continued to laugh, letting the noise fill the room until he was sated and the sound turned to small rumblings of humor. When his eyes cleared of tears, he found her glaring at him.

  “You don’t know what I’ve endured,” she repeated as if trying to draw back the proper mood. But her cheeks were red and her eyes narrowed. “You don’t know—”

  “And neither do I care!” he said, sweeping forward to yank the hat from her head. Tough, white horsehairs snapped in two. The hat came free, scraggly bits of gray hair clinging to it. The beard, to which it had been attached, drooped away from her ears like tattered cobwebs.

  He glared into her eyes. “I dunna wish ta hear yer sad lies, for ye have abused me sympathy far too long.

  “Hell fire! Get rid of that thing,” he said, yanking the beard free.

  It came away in his hand. She squawked, grabbing her jaw in pain and stumbling back.

  “How the hell did ye keep that on?”

  “It’s none of your affair,” she said. “And neither is anything I do. I’ve done you no harm. So get out of my house.”

  “No harm?” he growled, circling her, feeling a need to move, to pace off his frustration. She turned with him, watching his face. “If such is how ye think, let us review the past. I had but met ye once when ye drugged me the first time.”

  She opened her mouth as if to deny his words, but he shook his head and went on.

  “I have been the fool,” he said, “But I see the truth plain enough now. Ye drugged me that first night, and I had done ye na harm.”

  She licked her lips. Was that honey stuck to her chin?

  “Ye insulted me,” she said.

  “Insulted … Ahh,” he said, nodding. “By offering ta bed ye.”

  She returned the nod. Her face looked haughty, or as haughty as a face could with wisps of frizzled white hair stuck to it with honey and God knew what. Her own hair, once pinned securely to her scalp, was coming loose and dangled down at strange angles.

  “Ya treated me like a whore,” she said.

  “‘Twas me understanding that ye were a whore. Now I am na even sure yer a woman. But I know you’re a thief. An
d ye stole me necklace.”

  She seemed almost to pale. But she shook her head. “I did not.”

  “But ‘twas ye that made it possible to be stolen by drugging me.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “Do you think the Shadow needed my help?” She shook her head. “Hardly that. ‘Twould have made no difference if you had been wide-awake and clutching the gems in your fist. He would have taken them just the same.”

  Roman didn’t argue, but cocked his head slightly and circled her again. “Ye lied to me. Lied to me from the first.”

  “Lies leave no scars.”

  “Scars!” he snarled, jerking to a halt and yanking his doublet open. There was no shirt beneath it, for he had taken no time to obtain a new one. “Ye want to see scars?”

  Her gaze shifted to his chest. She grimaced, but refused to turn her face away. “I did not cause them.”

  “I saved yer life.” Anger was roiling up again, anger at himself, his weaknesses, her ungodly appeal.

  “I did not ask you to. I told you to leave me be, to get gone.”

  He let his hands fall away from his doublet. It closed partway. “But I didna,” he said. “And I willna. Na until the necklace is returned into me own hands.”

  “The necklace!” she shouted. “Damn the necklace. It is beyond your reach. Are you so daft that you cannot see that? Dagger has it. There is no way to get it back.”

  He stepped closer. “Aye. There is a way. And ye will find it.”

  She shook her head and stumbled back a step. “Nay. Never, for I have no wish to die.”

  “And neither does David MacAulay.”

  “I know no David MacAulay,” she said. “And I do not wish to know him.”

  “That is good,” Roman said, “for ye’ll have precious little opportunity. He’ll soon be dead—unless ye help me.”

  She pursed her lips, keeping her chin high and her hands clasped.

  “Aye, he will die. And do ye ken why?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Na because he stole, lass,” he said, circling her again. “Na because he lied. Or even because he left someone to die in his stead. He will die because he dared love.”