Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  “You don’t know?” Roman glanced irritably at Fletcher, then elapsed into a round of sound, Italian cursing. Somehow, though Roman would never know how, Tara knew enough to blush. “I have been commissioned to paint the ceilings at Holyhead,” he said finally, making certain he retained a peeved expression. “I assumed my name would proceed me.”

  “Edgar commissioned you?” Crighton asked.

  “Lord Bledham,” Roman corrected.

  “The bastard,” Crighton murmured under his breath. “Looking to outdo me again. What has he agreed to pay you?”

  Roman assumed an expression of surprise. “I should think that should stay between the baron and me.”

  “I’ll double it,” Crighton said.

  “I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Triple!” Crighton said, “and I’ll let the entire country know of your work.”

  “Well.. .” Roman gasped, glancing at Fletcher, whose jaw had dropped open in surprise. “I… Still, I couldn’t—”

  “Come along. I’ll show you Crighton Hall. ‘Tis twice the size of Holyhead and much more masterfully planned.”

  “Well I—”

  “Do it!” Fletcher whispered, nearly jumping up and down. “Do it, my lord. And we’ll show these English some culture.”

  “Well I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see my canvas,” said Roman. “Lead on.”

  *

  Crighton Hall was big and square, built of gray stone and towering over the smaller homes beyond its gates.

  Roman walked leisurely up the road to the door. Beside him, Fletcher was taut with excitement. His head turned with every step as he absorbed each detail around him.

  In a moment, Crighton dismounted. Handing the reins to a boy who appeared from nowhere, he led the way up stone steps.

  The door was wide and arched. It opened with a squeal of protest. Beside it was a settle of sorts. The back was formed from the antlers of deer and the seat was red brocade. Roman promptly seated himself upon it with a sigh.

  Crighton frowned down at him. “Don’t you wish to see the rooms?”

  “It has been a dreadfully wearying journey.” Roman sniffed into his handkerchief.

  “Come along. You can rest later.”

  Roman rose languidly to his feet. “Mayhap I could quench my thirst at the least. Fletcher could fetch something from your kitchen.”

  Crighton scowled, apparently impatient to steal this painter from his friend and rival. “Very well. Follow the steps down and around then, boy. Tell Frances to send up spirits for two,” he ordered, and turned away. But in a moment, he pivoted back. “And mind you don’t pinch anything on the way, or it wi11 be your ears.”

  Fletcher puffed out her tightly bound chest. Affront was written across his face. “I’ve never stole nothing.”

  “And make certain you don’t start now,” Crighton said.

  Roman allowed himself one glance at Tara. She was there, somewhere, under the thick facade ofthe serving boy. Her eyes were just as bright and alive as ever and if he looked hard he could see the merest suggestion of a smile touch her lips. But now was not the time to let her allure distract him. He followed the baron upstairs.

  Tara watched them go. Life was good.

  Setting the bag by the door, she hurried down the hall. Stairways led off in every direction. She ignored them all, focusing on her mission.

  Where would she be if she were a golden mermaid forever captured on the end of a walking stick, Tara wondered, silently passing rooms on her right and left. Up ahead, she saw a door set with a simple, square window. Through that smoky glass, she vaguely made out the bright colors of the garden beyond.

  The answer was so simple.

  If she were a golden mermaid, she would reside in the anteroom that adjoined the garden. Tara set her hand to the latch.

  The locked anteroom, she corrected, and nearly laughed out loud.

  Less than ten minutes later, she was hurrying up the stairs, carrying two chalices of ale. Whistling, she stopped long enough to sip from one cup and continue on.

  On the landing, a gilt-framed picture shone down at her. It was a lascivious piece, showing a man with five women in various stages of undress.

  Tara stopped, stared. Then, lifting the chalice in her right hand, she spat into the brew and hurried on, whistling again.

  “What took you so long?” asked Crighton, scowling from a doorway.

  “‘Tis sorry I am, your lordship. I fear I was delayed—admiring your artwork.”

  Crighton grunted, took the chalice from Tara’s right hand, and turned his back to pace across the room toward Roman.

  “So what do you think, Merici?”

  “’Tis a lovely room.” Roman sighed dramatically and waved vaguely at the endless white ceiling. “The grand sweep of the arches. The gentle curve of the plaster. The bold strength of the pillars.”

  Crighton smiled and took a sip from his chalice.

  Tara smiled, too, first at Crighton, and then at Roman, with a tiny, significant nod.

  “And there are other rooms just as grand,” said Crighton, smirking at Roman. “If you’re not too busy with Bledham’s little house, that is.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Roman breathlessly.

  Crighton chuckled and drank again. “I thought you would.”

  “Come along, Fletcher. We’ll hurry back to the inn and fetch our supplies.”

  “So soon?” Crighton said. “Before you so much as finish your ale.” He examined his own brew bemusedly. “It’s particularly good today.”

  Chapter 16

  Roman closed the door of Tara’s small dwelling and barred it behind him. “I think I’ve waited long enough, lass.”

  She stared up into his face, her eyes alive, her dirty cheeks aglow. “You did wonderfully well… my lord.”

  “I look the fool.”

  “You look …” She paused as if there was much she would say, but dared not. Was that admiration in her eyes? “I doubt you could ever look the fool, Scotsman.”

  He could not help but smile. Theft was wrong. He knew theft was wrong. But theft with her…

  “Are you certain you are not truly an Italian painter by profession?” she asked.

  She had removed her homely hat. The straw-colored wig followed.

  “Quite certain,” he said.

  “An actor?” she asked, turning away to carefully pack the wig in the trunk.

  “A lawyer,” he said, sitting down on the straw pallet to watch her. “And quite a boring one.”

  She turned to him. “I doubt it.”

  How had he survived before this moment—before he had seen her eyes aglow, had heard her laughter? What had happened to his thoughts of revenge? What kind of magic did she work on him?

  “I’m assuming I didn’t risk me life for nothing,” he said, hoping she didn’t realize how she affected him. “Ye did get it, didn’t ye?”

  “Oh, aye.” She said it with a laugh. Pulling her tunic loose from her belt, she fished out a leather bag that hung nearly to her waist.

  She tipped it onto the mattress beside Roman. Five items rolled onto the bed: the gold mermaid, a silver spoon, a spool of gold thread, and a stylish ornamental belt.

  Roman glanced at each item, then raised his gaze to hers.

  She cleared her throat. “I believe—”

  “In sharing,” he said. “But yer sharing could get us both kilt.”

  Her grin broadened. ‘That’s half the fun of it, Scotsman,” she said, and reaching beneath her tunic, pulled away the belt that had held the pouch securely to her body.

  “And what’s the other half?” he asked.

  She sobered, gently fingering the mermaid’s wild gilt hair. “Revenge.”

  “Revenge for the lad that felt the weight of the mermaid across his back, or revenge for yerself?” he asked quietly.

  “Mayhap a wee bit of both,” she answered just as softly.

  “Who are ye, lass?” he whispered.

  S
he pulled her gaze away, but not without effort. “I’m the one who will retrieve your necklace, Scotsman. Nothing more.”

  He snared her hand. “’Tis a lie, lass,” he said, tugging her back. “Ye are a woman of depth and compassion. But ye dunna let people see that side of ye.”

  She laughed. “That is because it is not there to see,” she argued. “I but take care of myself as best I can.”

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “There is much ye dunna say. But there are things I ken.”

  She tugged at her fingers, and he set her free. “Such as?”

  “Ye could steal the night without disturbing the dawn. This piece…” He hefted the mermaid. The figure showed only her head and bared torso, but still it exceeded the length of his hand and weighed more than half a stone. “‘Tis worth a fair bit,” he said, not taking his gaze from hers. “Enough ta keep ye well for a year in this humble abode I would think.”

  “’Arry was the thief,” she corrected, but her slim hands were clasped. “True, he was generous and would share, but—”

  “There was no Harry.”

  Her jaw dropped. She mouthed something, then drew a breath, and said, “I’ll not have ya slandering his name.” Her voice shook when she said it, but Roman was far past believing her.

  “He’s na more real than Fletcher, or Betty, or the old man with the severed leg. In fact, he is far less real.”

  “How dare you?” she gasped, going pale.

  He was on his feet in an instant, gripping her arms in a hard clasp. “I dare because me own life depends on it. You are the Shadow!”

  “You’re daft!” she hissed.

  “Admit it.”

  “Nay! I will not. You’re insane!”

  “Mayhap,” he said, leaning closer. “But I am also right.”

  “’Arry was the Shadow. ‘Tis horribly cruel of ya to deny his existence,” she said. There were tears in her eyes.

  Roman tightened his grip on her arms. “Dunna waste yer false tears, lass, for I doubt ye ken how ta cry in earnest. There was na Harry and ye are the Shadow.”

  “Nay,” she said again, but her voice was weaker, her tears gone. “He was my love, my life.”

  “He was a figment of yer imagination. He was ye. Admit it!”

  “Nay!”

  “Admit it!” he growled, shaking her.

  Tense silence hung between them.

  “How long have you known?” she whispered.

  He had known the truth. Truly he had. But still, hearing her admit it made his soul sing. There was no Harry, no lover who still owned her affections. “In me heart I have known for some while, I think,” he said softly. “But me mind has taken far too long ta see the light.”

  “And what will you do with this knowledge?”

  He held her gaze, reminding himself that though she held no affection for a man he could not compete with, neither did she hold any affection for him. “We’ve made an agreement, lass,” he said, keeping his tone flat, and refusing to admit why he could not harm her. “I’ll stand by it ta the end. Help me retrieve the necklace, and I’ll guard yer secret with me verra life.”

  She nodded once, then pulled away, her narrow hands tightly clasped.

  “Ye can trust me, lass,” he said. He read her tension, understood her doubts. Yet he could not help the happiness that suffused him. She was the Shadow. Therefore, she was free to love another.

  She turned, a scowl marring her brow. “I don’t know how to trust, Scotsman.”

  “’Tis a slippery thing, true enough,” he said softly. “But ‘tis na unmanagable once ye get a grip on it.”

  She shook her head, but her fine lips lifted slightly into a smile. “I don’t think so. Not for me.”

  “Who are ye?” It seemed he had asked that question a hundred times. But it had never intrigued him more than now.

  “Who would you like me to be?”

  “Yerself.”

  “There is no myself, Scotsman,” she whispered, and in her eyes he saw sorrow, deep and earnest.

  He crossed the distance between them and took her into his arms. And from there, there was nothing he could do but kiss her.

  She was warm and soft and kissing him in return. He felt her desperate need like a tangible thing and hugged her more tightly against him.

  “If there is no ye, lass, then who am I kissing?”

  “Someone truly terrified,” she whispered.

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “Nothing frightens a shadow.”

  “But things frighten me,” she said, and shivered.

  “Hence the disguises?”

  “When I am Betty I can match any man quip for quip. When I’m a lad I have a youth’s speed and daring. And when I am the Shadow, I fear nothing.”

  “What do you fear now, lass?”

  “You.”

  “I will na harm ye,” he said, gently touching her face.

  She closed her eyes. “’Tis not true. You look to find the person who I once was.”

  “Is that an evil thing, lass?”

  “Find her, and what happens to the others, Scotsman?”

  “What others?”

  She motioned to her chest. “The others that I have become. They have kept me alive. When I am no longer them, I will die.”

  Roman tightened his arms about her, understanding. “When I was but a lad, me parents were taken from me. I lived then with me uncle. But me uncle could na be trusted, nor could the parents who had abandoned me, I reasoned. Thus I thought that none could be trusted. I must fend for meself, stay apart from the world, lest someone steal me verra life.”

  “But you were wrong?”

  “In later years, after I had been touched by kindness, I thought mayhap it would be better to die than to live without that.”

  “And now? What do you think now?”

  “That I must take the risk. If I dare.”

  She watched him breathlessly for a moment, and then she kissed him, softly, tentatively. The sensations were sweet beyond measure, yet searing, stunning. He let her lead the way, let her fingers slip beneath his jerkin. Even through the linen of the embroidered shirt, he could feel the warmth of her hands. They slid sensuously around his body, pulling him closer. She deepened the kiss. He calmed his breathing, touched her lips with his tongue, felt her shiver with desire against him.

  The knowledge of her arousal heated his already warmed system. His manhood rose, nearly matching the outlandish size of the codpiece that stood like a stiff guard between them. No longer could he be content to allow her to lead the way. He slid his hands under her baggy tunic and about her back. Her skin was warm and soft. He pressed his palms up her spine, and she arched against him with a shudder of pleasure.

  It was that simple movement that made her irresistible. Beneath the tunic, he could feel the strips of cloth that bound her breasts. He found the knots against her back and loosened them until they fell away. He slid his hands downward to find the laces that kept her ill-fitting hose upon her body. He untied them without stopping the kiss, and then smoothed the coarse fabric down her buttocks. She pressed her hips forward, and he gripped her bottom and pulled her upward.

  She straddled his waist.

  Roman splayed his fingers, running his hands up her torso, bunching her tunic and binding clothes above them. The clothes slipped away. She drew her arms out of the sleeves eagerly, and he tugged the tunic over her head.

  Her breasts were free, bare, high and firm and so lovely that he caught his breath. Ever so gently, he cupped one in his hand, weighing it in his palm before he closed his eyes and slipped it over the fullness of the curve. She gasped and arched toward him, breathing hard.

  Roman opened his eyes to find her watching him. There was longing there, but there was also fear.

  Desire, hard as flint and just as sharp, spurred him. His gaze slipped down her body. She gripped him with her slim, endless legs, her torso leaning away from him. Her nipples were hard and erect, pink blossoms that called for
his kiss. Below that, her ribs slanted down to a belly that was flat and firm. Her waist was tiny and tight, her hips flared.

  He shivered with excitement, but held himself still. “Lass…” His voice was husky. “Do I go ta fast for ye?”

  She exhaled sharply, and he realized suddenly that she had been holding her breath. “This trust is …” She paused. Her eyes were wide and blue. “‘Tis indeed a slippery thing. It comes and goes, and there are times when I do not care if I trust at all.”

  “Trust can indeed make fools of us,” he whispered. “But ‘tis said that caring can make us whole.”

  “Caring kills,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Mayhap ‘tis worth the price,” he whispered, and, bearing her to the bed, eased her down upon it.

  He settled slowly down beside her and touched her face with careful fingertips. She closed her eyes and tilted her head into his touch. Roman skimmed his hand along the fine bone of her jaw, down her delicate throat and into the silky mass of her hair. It remained confined on the top of her head. His fingers slipped into the soft nest and found a pin. He tugged it free, then trailed it gently down her throat, her shoulder, over her breast, and down to the hollow of her abdomen. Back up, his fingers went, retrieving another pin before slipping downward. But now he followed its path with kisses, light, careful, mere whispered caresses to her shoulder, her arm, the sweet, firm curve of her breast. Until finally all the pins were placed in a pile on her flat belly.

  Roman spread his fingers in her hair now. It was as soft as a dream, gold as a morning ray of light. He spread it forward until it spilled over her, covering her shoulders, brushing her breasts, spreading gossamer sheer over her rose-petal nipples.

  “Tara.” He breathed her name softly. “But ye are bonny, lass, beautiful beyond all I imagined.” He touched her breast again, but did not allow his hand to stay. Instead, he smoothed it lower, over her curves, downward.

  Her legs were long and pale as a lily. They were bent at the knee and pressed together, covering most of the golden triangle of hair that adorned the apex between them. Roman ran his fingers slowly down one thigh, stroking, caressing. Her lips parted and her eyes fell closed as she absorbed his touch. He could feel her muscles relax beneath his hands and soon her knees had fallen open, exposing the core of her womanhood. He slipped his hand along her inner thigh. The skin there was as smooth as finest silk, and when he reached her center, she was moist, warm, soft.