Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  He laughed aloud. “Nay, lass, it is na. Now ye waste me time, and I’ve little ta spare, for David’s days dwindle. But why steal from Harrington?”

  “There is a beautiful simplicity in this,” Tara said. “To steal from the very person that will gain from the act in the end.”

  “And how do ye plan to break into Harrington House in the midst of the night without anyone seeing?”

  “I’ll not break in,” she said. “Nay. I’ll use the light of day to have a look about.”

  He shook his head. “Then ye’ll have ta choose another victim, for I canna go to Harrington House without being recognized.”

  “‘Tis fine, for I’ll not take ya with me,” she repeated.

  “Aye, lass, ye will, for I willna leave yer side until the necklace is once again in me own possession. That I promise ye.”

  His expression brooked no argument. His eyes were steady, and his chest, where his doublet parted, showed the scars he had already gained because of her.

  She had no wish to see him dead. Neither did she wish to be killed because of him. But stealth and cunning were not always the only skills needed. She could not forget his strength in battle. Neither could she forget that he had guarded the door while she had escaped from Dagger’s men.

  “‘Twould be safer without you,” she said.

  “Safer for whom?”

  She wasn’t certain if it was an accusation or not. But it was clear that he had no intention of changing his mind. “You canna go like that.”

  He scowled a question.

  “The beard,” she said, motioning to his face.

  “What about me beard.”

  “It’ll be shaved if you’re to accompany me.”

  “Nay.”

  “Do you forget that you killed several of Dagger’s men? He’s a black-hearted devil and kills for no reason, but he’s likely to frown on the death of his own men. Would you rather be bearded and dead or live and smoothfaced?”

  “Let me think,” Roman said, stroking his beard as if it were his beloved.

  She laughed, letting her tension dissipate. “You made a jest, Scotsman. I did not believe ya knew how. Sit down, I’ll sharpen a blade. Unless you’d rather I use pumice to remove your whiskers.”

  “Now ye jest, if ye think I would trust ye ta do either,” he said, glaring at her as she moved toward the fire.

  She turned, knife in hand. “You think I will cut your throat?”

  “The idea had occurred to me.”

  She smiled. “And to me. Sit.”

  He eyed the trunk she’d indicated. “I’ve worn this beard since I left childhood behind.”

  She approached, sharpening the knife as she did so. “Do I threaten your manhood, Scotsman?”

  He eyed the blade. “‘Tis possible,” he said.

  “Do I frighten you?”

  “Aye, lass, ye do.”

  She laughed, then sobered, watching his face. She did not scare him, and it was possible, she thought, that nothing would. “Think what you will about my lies and deceptions, Scotsman, but I’ll tell you this, I am alive today because of them. If you hope to return to your homeland the same, you’ll heed my advice and welcome the blade.”

  “I doubt if merely shaving me will fool our adversaries.”

  “I said nothing of merely shaving you,” she said, urging him onto the trunk. Testing the blade with her thumb, she moved behind him, but before she touched his beard, he caught her wrist.

  “What do ye mean by that?”

  “I see ye as …” She shrugged and narrowed her eyes in thought. “A jester, I think.”

  Chapter 15

  “What are ye jabbering about?” Roman asked, still holding her wrist.

  She lifted the blade in a casual motion. “If you insist on accompanying me, you’ll need a disguise. I think you’d make a fine jester.”

  He snorted and released her wrist. “Not in this lifetime, lass.”

  She glanced at the freshly sharpened blade. “That may not be too long.”

  “As I said, we canna go to Harrington’s, so there is na need for me ta disguise meself,” Roman reminded her.

  “Lord Crighton!” she said, abruptly stopping her knife a quarter of an inch from his throat.

  “What?” He didn’t dare turn his head, but tilted his eyes up in an attempt to see her face.

  “‘Tis time for Lord Crighton to pay.”

  “For what?”

  “His crimes.”

  “Which are?”

  “Too numerous to mention, I’m sure,” she said, touching the blade to his neck.

  “Can I ask ye to elaborate without having me throat cut?”

  She paused again, staring at the wall and remembering. “There was once a small boy. His mother was Crighton’s maid. But the mother died, and the boy stayed on, doing what work he could. ‘Twas down at the dock I first saw him. A narrow lad he was with black hair and sparkling eyes. He was carrying Crighton’s trunk when I spied him. But the trunk was larger than he, and he dropped it.”

  Her stomach pitched slightly. “I remember seeing Crighton turn. On his face was the expression of a ghoul. No corpse could have looked colder. He carried a walking stick topped by a mermaid of gold. When he swung the stick across the boy’s back, I thought surely the lad would die.”

  “We steal the mermaid,” said Roman quietly.

  Their gazes met. She nodded slowly.

  “Tell me, Mistress Tara, did ye save the wee lad?”

  There was something in his eyes. Understanding. Empathy that bordered on pain. She opened her mouth to speak, to ease his mind. But good sense rushed back. “‘Arry did,” she said quickly. The moment was broken.

  He watched her in silent for a time, then; “There are times, whole moments sometimes, when ye almost tell the truth.”

  She snorted. “Don’t hold your breath, Scotsman.”

  “How can I do aught when ye have a knife poised at me throat?”

  “Ya still don’t trust me? Even after that touching tale?”

  He scowled, looking tense. “What makes ye think ye know how ta shave a man?”

  “I’ve done it many times.”

  “Any survivors?”

  She laughed quietly and scraped the blade one quick, seemingly careless stroke up his throat. “One.”

  He winced but didn’t move his head. “Scarred?”

  “Aye. Quite badly.”

  “’Tis probably why the Shadow never showed his face in the light of day.”

  “Nay. I never shaved ‘Arry.”

  “A wise man, I see.”

  “The Shadow had a very light beard,” she said, scraping again. Dark, coarse hair tripped over the blade and fell unheeded to the floor. “Yours resembles Cork’s.” She had already finished his neck and moved to his right cheek.

  “Cork?” he asked.

  Memories flared. An old man’s gnarled fingers on hers, guiding, teaching. Repetition. Unorthodox lessons held by a fire’s orange glow. Cork’s knotty sense of humor. Laughter.

  “Who is Cork?” he asked again.

  “He was a good man,” she said. “But he is gone.”

  “‘Tis sorry I be.”

  It had been long indeed since she had performed this task. It felt right somehow and soothing. “As am I,” she said. “But I was lucky to know him as long as I did.”

  “He was an old man?”

  “‘Tis good you are at guessing.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  For a moment, her hand shook. The blade wobbled.

  “Careful, lass. I’ve grown fond of me nose.”

  She seemed stiff suddenly. Roman remained silent for a moment, letting her relax and enjoying the warmth of her free hand on his opposite cheek.

  “Cork was na yer grandfather?”

  For a moment, he thought she would refuse to answer. “Nay. My grandfather outlives my sire.”

  “Again I am sorry.”

  “‘Tis said the good oft die af
ore the evil.”

  He watched her carefully, searching for clues to who she was. Though he knew it shouldn’t matter, thoughts of her consumed him. “Yer grandfather is evil?”

  “Voila,” she said, drawing back as she examined his face. “’Tis finished. Ya look quite charming.”

  Roman put his hand to his jaw. It felt oddly smooth. “And barely a scar to show for it,” he said.

  “Ya wound me,” she said mockingly, but in her eyes, Roman thought he saw pain.

  He rose to his feet. “Tell me yer tale, lass.”

  “Which one?” she asked, her tone flippant.

  “The true one.”

  “‘Twould bore you unto death. Fiction is much more intriguing,” she said, turning away.

  He caught her hand. “What could it hurt to dabble in the truth?”

  Her gaze lifted to his face. There was emotion there, deep and dark, but soft somehow. “How did you break your nose?” she asked quietly.

  “Were we na speaking of ye?”

  “‘Tis a tiresome topic. While you …” She raised her hand. It was soft and warm against his cheek. “You have a good face, Roman of the Forbes. I admit it intrigues me. How did ya break your nose?”

  “There was a lad at Glen Creag,” he said. “Two years older than I, he was. He delighted in calling me Dermid.”

  “Your uncle’s name,” she said quietly.

  Roman nodded. “I didna care ta be reminded that he was me kinsman.”

  “Who initiated the battle?”

  “I have a fierce temper,” he said.

  She smiled. “Do ya?”

  “Aye.”

  “And was your hair as red as your temper?”

  “How did ye guess?”

  “There are streaks of auburn amidst the dark.”

  She smoothed her fingers into his hairline. “I bet ya were a bonny lad.”

  Intimacy hung between them, begging to be acknowledged.

  “Who are ye?” Roman whispered.

  The room was silent, but suddenly, Tara drew away. “I am the one who will steal back your necklace, but only if we plan well and carefully.”

  Roman scowled at her secrecy. “I was told once that women enjoy speaking of themselves. There will be some satisfaction in telling Roderic that for once he was wrong about the fairer sex.”

  She smiled. “Where were you educated, Scotsman?”

  “Will this shed any light on yer past?”

  “Nay. But it may well help assure your future.”

  “I schooled in Naples.”

  “Truly?” She looked as if he had just enlightened her with the secret of the universe. “Might you speak Italian?”

  He spoke quickly.

  “That’s quite lovely. What does it mean?”

  Roman watched her. Her eyes shone as blue as a Highland lochan. Her smile sparkled like a thousand moonlit waves. “Had I known Italian would cause such excitement, I might have tried it long ago.”

  She laughed. “What does it mean?”

  “It means, ye speak Italian like a pig. I heard that a good deal while I was there.”

  She laughed again, then repeated the foreign phrase word for word.

  Roman drew back slightly and scowled for her diction was somewhat better than his. “Ye’ve lived in Italy, lass.”

  “Nay,” she laughed again, looking flushed and flattered. “I but have … an interest in language.”

  “A gift for language,” he corrected.

  She shrugged, then quickly bent over the truck he’d recently abandoned. In a moment, she had raised the lid and was rummaging inside. “How would I say, yes, my lord.”

  He stared at her backside. Her tunic was pulled taut over her derriere. It was a sweet, soft curve. And her legs, bare now to midthigh, made it surprisingly difficult to breath.

  “Si, Sua Eccelenza,” he said.

  She repeated it perfectly, then tried it faster. Nearly folded in half, she rummaged about in fabric of every color and texture.

  “How would I say, your wish is my command?”

  He told her.

  There was a hiss of impatience from the interior of the trunk. He caught a glimpse of rich velvet, sheer silk, and for a moment, he thought he saw the poor sailor’s shirt with the fishhook that she’d worn not long before. But soon she straightened, pulling up several garments with her.

  He tugged his gaze from her legs with an effort. “What’s that?”

  “Hose, jerkin, shirt, hat, shoes.” She held up each piece in turn. “An Italian’s costume. Is it not a thing of beauty?”

  He grimaced. “It is not.”

  She scowled, first at him, then at the slandered clothing. “What’s wrong with them?”

  Roman glanced at the hose first. They were particolored, mustard yellow and white set in a diagonal design. The shirt was lavishly embroidered in black thread, and the hat was embellished with a white ostrich plume that thrust away from the huge headgear at an arrogant angle. But it was the codpiece that held his attention. It was black, padded to outlandish proportions, and studded with seed pearls that did nothing but emphasize its size.

  “Where …” he asked, “did ye get such a thing?”

  “I stole it from an Italian lord. It will be the perfect costume for you to wear.”

  “I preferred the jester idea.”

  She deepened her scowl, then shrugged. “’Tis the best of fashion and good taste. Put them on,” she said, handing him the clothes.

  He shook his head.

  She laughed. “You are being childish.”

  “Better than being…” He eyed the garments distastefully. “A swaggering exhibitionist.”

  She propped her fists on her hips to glare at him. “Mayhap you think I wish to be your servant, following you about like a hound on a leash. ‘Yes, my lord. Your wish is my command, my lord.’ “

  Her propped fists showed the steep curve of her waist despite the ridiculous tunic she wore.

  “Ye’ll be saying that to me?” he asked, pulling his gaze from her waist to her face.

  “If ya wear the costume.”

  For just a moment he let his gaze slip back down the trim beauty of her form. “Time is fleeting. Let us dress,” he said.

  Tara knew the way to Crighton Hall, just as she seemed to know everything about Firthport. While they walked, she told him bits about the baron they would visit. His tastes, his habits, his friends, his enemies.

  She spoke rapidly, pausing now and then to make suggestions on Roman’s costume or ask how to say a word in Italian. She would repeat each one, roll it around on her tongue, use it in a sentence with other spare words he had given her, and finally spew out a phrase that sounded more Italian than an Italian’s.

  “We are nearly there,” she said. Slowing her walk and slouching her shoulders, she looked for all the world like a young serving boy. Her hose were baggy, gray, and slightly worn, her tunic long, nondescript. It was an ugly outfit, but Roman thought it a thing of rare beauty next to his own ensemble.

  “There is Crighton Hall just ahead. You know what you are to say, my lord?”

  He looked at her askance, for her voice matched her appearance perfectly, that of a young, clumsy lad. She ducked her head shyly, and he saw now that she walked in a strange, duck-footed manner, the scuffed toes of her shoes pointed out. In her left hand, she carried a cloth bag, supposedly filled with their belongings. On her head was a droopy brown hat.

  “Aye,” he said. “I ken what ta say.”

  “‘Tis good. You are clever, my lord,” she said, scratching at her hip, “for ‘twill be mere moments until the baron arrives from Lord Bledham’s.”

  “How do ye ken all this?” he asked.

  “My lord?” she said, stopping suddenly and blinking up at him. Her mouth was round with bewilderment, her brow furrowed. Roman realized suddenly that she was not pretending to be Fletcher, his lowly servant. She was Fletcher.

  “How is it that you know all this?” he asked, fin
ding his poor Italian accent with an effort.

  “Why, my lord …” She grinned at him in a lopsided manner. The wig beneath her homely cap was the color of dirty straw. “‘Tis me job ta know these things. Someday ya’ll be as famous as Michelangelo, and I’ll be your assistant.”

  She was fascinating to watch, spritely, genuine.

  “Look, my lord,” she said, turning her gamine face away and pointing a grubby finger at an approaching horseman. “A gentleman. P’raps he can help us on our way.”

  Roman pulled himself from his thoughts. David MacAulay’s life and his own honor depended on how well he played this role. “Sir,” he called out as the horseman drew near. “Might you be able to give us assist?”

  The rider stopped his mount a short distance from them. The bay gelding he rode fidgeted, pulling at the reins and snorting his discontent as he shook his hirsute head. The horse’s nasal discharge sprayed onto Roman’s tunic. He grimaced, pulled a lacy handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped at the slime.

  When he looked up, he wondered if he saw humor on the old baron’s face. He was a homely man, bulbous-nosed, portly, with skinny legs that gripped the proud gelding’s sides like pincers.

  “And what kind of assistance might you be needing of me?” he asked, staring at Roman.

  “I fear we’ve gone astray.” Roman wrinkled his brow and cocked a knee and a wrist in unison, letting the handkerchief droop from his fingertips. He’d seen the Italian dandies do it a thousand times—and had wanted to punch them on each occasion. “My boy here assured me he knew the way to Lord Bledham’s holdings.” He sneered at the lad. “But curse him, he’s gotten us waylaid yet again.”

  Fletcher kicked at a clump of dirt with the toe of his shoe and barely dared peek up through his bangs at his master. “The signorina at the inn assured me ‘twas this way,” he mumbled.

  “Well the signorina at the inn was a twit. Anyone could see that from—”

  “Why did you wish to find Bledham’s?” interrupted Crighton.

  “What?” asked Roman, pulling his attention from his impromptu servant.

  The gelding pranced. “Why did you wish to reach Lord Bledham’s estate?”

  Roman lifted one corner of his mouth in unison with a limp wrist. “I’m Giorgio Merici.”

  The baron scowled. “And I’m Lord Crighton. What do you want with Bledham?”