Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  “Roman,” she whispered, pulling herself closer until her nipples touched his chest, “please do it again.”

  His skin burned where her bright, erect nipples touched him, but he held himself rigid and waited for the hardest edge of his desire to pass. Then ever so slowly, he lowered her onto his waiting rod. He watched her eyes fall closed, heard her gasp breath through her teeth, felt her shiver of pleasure, and nearly lost control.

  But he managed to stop himself when she was barely impaled on his staff.

  “Yer name!” he rasped.

  Her fingers wrapped in his hair, tugging. Her back arched, her legs squeezed harder as she pushed against him. But he would not give in.

  “Roman!” she pleaded, pushing harder.

  “Ye know me name,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I dunna know yers, and until I do—”

  “Tara,” she said, meeting his gaze from mere inches away. “’Tis Tara O’Flynn.”

  “Tara.” He breathed her name, and with a shiver of relief, lowered her fully onto him.

  She inhaled sharply and pressed into him, her back arched, her eyes closed.

  It was a fast ride, wild, exhilarating. This time there was no time to consider the other’s pleasure, only the pulsing climb toward heaven, and the rapid tumble down into satiety.

  Every muscle in Roman’s body quivered with weakness, but he managed to lower them both to the nearby bed.

  She was soft as butter in his arms now. Sweet and warm and impossible to let go.

  “Tara,” he murmured against her ear.

  She opened her eyes, and for a moment he saw fear there. But he smoothed a few strands of gossamer hair behind her ear and kissed the corner of her mouth.

  “Trust me, Tara,” he whispered.

  “I think mayhap I already have.”

  He stroked her hair again, watching her eyes fall closed and feeling a strange emotion fill him. It was deeper than contentment. In fact, it was deeper than euphoria.

  “Tara?”

  “Aye?” Her tone was very soft now, like the voice of an angelic child.

  She was neither an angel or a child, he reminded himself. But it did no good.

  “How is it that ye saved yerself all these years? Surely ye had a good many offers.”

  “Offers?” She chuckled softly and opened her eyes to stare at him for a moment. “Aye, I had offers. Some kindly, and some not so.” She reached out to gently stroke his face. “I learned much as a barmaid. Noblemen and peasants—it seems they are much alike where lust is concerned.”

  Her fingers were feather soft against his cheek. Too soft, for it brought to mind other parts of her anatomy that were softer still, other parts that might have been mauled by some drunken swine.

  Roman pulled her fingers into his hand and wrapped them tight in his own. They were slim and fragile. He closed his eyes, trying not to think of the men that had lusted for her, had tried to take her, willing or no. “Did they.. .“He tried to stop the question but he could not. “Did they hurt ye, lass?”

  She smiled again. The expression looked sleepy, ethereal, and yet strangely earthy. “Have you not learned that I am tougher than I appear?”

  He tightened his grip. “Aye, but—”

  Bringing his hand to her lips, she kissed his knuckles lightly. “I managed to resist them all, Scotsman,” she said softly. “Until you. But had I known what I was missing…” She shrugged one shoulder. It was pale and bare, half-hidden by her spun-gold hair and so strangely sensual that he could not help but scoop his hand over the smooth curve of it. His fingers looked dark and hard between the silky sheath of her hair and the ivory hillock of her shoulder that she pulled close to her cheek. “If I had known what I was missing, mayhap I would not have resisted so long.” Turning her head, she kissed the back of his hand, then shifted her sapphire eyes to his. “Tell me, Scotsman,” she whispered, “had I chosen another, would I still have felt the earth move?”

  The imp had been set free and shone wild and seductive in her eyes. He knew she was intentionally teasing him, and yet something coiled in his gut. It felt strangely like jealousy. Like an animal instinct so deep he could hear its snarl of rage.

  “Nay,” he said, quite proud of the steady assurance in his tone. “With the rest ye would have been lucky ta remain awake. Only with me will ye feel the earth move.”

  Chapter 18

  Roman awoke slowly. Half-remembered dreams filled his senses with suffusing warmth.

  Tara. Memories of her name, her face, her form, filled him with rejuvenated desire. Still half-asleep, he reached for her, but found nothing. He opened his eyes, scowled, rolled over and—

  “Hello, handsome,” said a husky voice.

  Roman jolted to a sitting position, scrambling for blankets to cover his nudity.

  The woman laughed and took a step closer. Her black hair fell nearly to her waist. In the mirror behind her, he could see it fall in midnight waves down her back. Her hips were broad and swayed as she moved.

  Roman found a blanket, dragged it over his lower body and skimmed the room with his gaze. “Where’s Tara?”

  “Tara?” Her accent was a thick Yiddish, her face nearly hidden with the fire at her back. “Och. She left, looking … satisfied.” She purred the word. “And now I see why.” Her gaze traveled leisurely over him, seeming to sear the blanket as it went.

  But Roman had no time to consider the woman’s blatant sensuality. He was on his feet in an instant. “What the hell did ye do with her?”

  “Her?” The woman tossed back her hair, revealing more bared skin above a jewel-bright drawstring blouse. “Why would you want that skinny wench when you could have … me.” She skimmed her hand down her throat. The movement was slow, sensuous, seductive. The hand was slim, fine-boned . .. and strangely familiar.

  Roman checked himself and settled back onto the mattress. He had managed to draw the blanket about his waist, but it gapped open now, revealing his leg past midthigh.

  “That depends,” he said, making his own tone husky and suggestive. “Who ye are?”

  Her gaze flitted to his thigh, and for a moment he thought he saw her falter. But then she tossed back her head and smiled. Her teeth were tremendously white against the dark skin of her face. “My name is Salina, princess of the Roms.”

  Roman raised his brows. “Ye’ve na need ta lie about yer heritage ta impress me, lass, for yer figure has already done that quite well.”

  “I am a princess,” she said. Her eyes flashed in the uncertain light.

  Roman merely canted his head and grinned, as if the truth was of little importance. “How long will the skinny one be gone?”

  She glanced at the door with a scowl. Beneath the scarlet scarf bound about her head, he saw her brow wrinkle slightly. “She did not say.”

  “Well then,” Roman began, and rising, let the blanket fall to the floor.

  Her gaze snapped to his lower regions, but already Roman had reached her. In an instant she was in his arms and he was crushing her lips with a fierce kiss.

  For a moment she was still, but soon she was struggling wildly against him. He tightened his arms about her, quieting her thrashing until he finally drew away and looked into her eyes. They were as blue and angry as intense flame. She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a finger and placed it over her lips.

  “Did I forget ta tell ye my part, lass? I be Theaelo, the greatest lover in all Romania.”

  He watched Tara’s expression change from anger to bewilderment to doubt and finally removed his finger from her lips.

  For a moment she did nothing but glare at him, but finally she spoke. “You didn’t know who I was.”

  “Did I na?”

  “Nay.” Her anger was evident in her tone, but there was something else that sounded soothingly like jealousy.

  He smiled and kissed her again. “You underestimate me, lass. I knew ye from the first.”

  “You lie.”

  He smiled again. “Us
ually I dunna, lass. But I’m trying to learn. And ‘tis said ‘tis good ta learn from the best.”

  She scowled as if uncertain of his meaning, then backed away. He let her go. “You didn’t know who I was.”

  “Had ye grown an extra nose and dyed yer skin black as sin with yonder walnut stain, I would have known ye still.”

  “How?”

  “’Tis plainly ye.” He shrugged. In truth, he had been fooled for a moment. Even now it was difficult to believe she was the same woman he had made love to just hours before. But the walnut shells on the table and the steaming pot nearby had told him she’d been brewing a dye to color her skin. “Ye couldna fool a simpleton in that costume.”

  She watched him closely for a moment, then shrugged and turned toward the fire. “It better fool simpletons and otherwise, because your friend’s life depends on it.”

  Roman remained very still as he considered her words. So his guess had been right; she planned to use this disguise to regain the necklace. “How so?” he asked.

  She stirred something in the pot, then pushed the metal arm back over the fire. “I need to convince Dagger that I am a thief. But I cannot be merely one of the throng. I will have to stand out. Be different.”

  Roman clenched his fists and stayed as he was. Had he not been so sated, he would have heard her preparing the dye. He would have to be more aware. But it seemed her charms were as effective a drug as her herbs. “Ye will certainly na look like one of the lads in that garb,” he agreed.

  She turned back toward him. Her eyes looked haunted with doubt, but she did not voice it. Instead, she said, “That is exactly the plan. Dressed like this and bearing the golden mermaid, he’ll gladly accept me into the fold.”

  “Why?” Roman asked, keeping his tone steady.

  “Consider your own reaction to my disguise,” she said coolly. “As I told you earlier, noblemen and peasants are much the same where lust is concerned.”

  “And what if they should become … lusty?” he asked, rising slowly to his feet. “How far will ye play this part?”

  She shrugged flippantly, but her mouth was pursed and her eyes very bright. “’Tis hard to say,” she told him, turning away.

  But in an instant, he had grabbed her arm and turned her back toward him. “Ye’d best say, lass. ‘Twould be a foolish thing ta visit Dagger dressed like that.”

  She raised her chin and glared at him, but her eyes were suspiciously bright. “Because you think he might find me desirable?”

  Roman clenched his jaw and tried to control his temper, but it was flaring, threatening. “Exactly,” he said.

  “Ahh.” He felt her relax beneath his hand. “So you can philander where you like. Do as you please. Hell!” she swore, but softly as if she were merely passing the time of day. “Why not bed Salina so long as the skinny wench is gone. Mayhap you’ve never had a gypsy girl in your vast experience.”

  His anger slipped a notch. He relaxed his grip a little. “Ye think me experience vast?”

  “You’re a skillful lover, as you well know, Scotsman. And I do not deny my own …” She turned her face away. “My own ineptitude.”

  He swore softly. He had wounded her, and that knowledge tore at him. “Me own experience consists of three women,” he admitted softly. “Not… Not all at the same time,” he hurried to add. “And none of them…” He shook his head and putting his hand on her chin, turned her face gently back toward him. “None of them mentioned me skill.”

  Her eyes were morning bright against her dyed skin.

  “Ineptitude.” He breathed the word, nearly overcome by the sight of her sadness, the soft feel of her so close to him. “’Tis ye that makes the earth move, lass. Na me.”

  “You did not know me,” she said, but there was doubt now, and he smiled.

  “I cannot tell ye how yer jealousy moves me, lass. But I will tell ye true. I knew ‘twas ye as soon as ye called Tara a skinny wench, for no one…” He paused and slipped his hand down her body. “Na one could call ye skinny, for ye are bonny beyond words.”

  “Truly?” She whispered the word.

  “For just a moment I thought that Salina was indeed a gypsy. I thought she had mayhap harmed ye in some way, and I thought I would kill her if it was necessary ta hold ye safely in me arms again.”

  Sheer relief shown in her eyes, but in an instant she hid it and turned her face away. “Well, you’d best tell me how you discovered it was me, so that I might improve my disguise.”

  He shook his head. “Ye’ve na been listening ta me, lass,” he said softly. “Ye’ll na be risking yer life by visiting the Dagger.”

  She watched him for a second, then slowly reached out to lift the wolf teeth from his chest. “How did you get this, Scotsman?”

  He scowled, but finally answered. “Have I na told ye that tale?”

  “Aye, you have. And I wonder now, were you not in danger when you challenged the beast?” she asked, running her fingers up the leather.

  He nodded. “Aye. There was some danger.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “‘Twas necessary.”

  She nodded. “As is this.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll find another way ta free David.”

  “Nay. You won’t. Time is running short, Scotsman, and you’ll not be able to see him safely back to your homeland without my help. He’ll die, and ‘twill be your fault… and mine.”

  Something in her expression intrigued him. “Why do ye care, lass?” he asked.

  For a moment he thought she would answer. But finally she shrugged. “Even a thief can have feelings. Call it a whim. Mayhap now that I have felt a lover’s flame, I can feel for the lovers, and cannot bear to see one die.”

  “And mayhap ye are a chronic liar that willna let herself trust me.”

  “Mayhap.” She smiled gently.

  The expression stopped his breath. “Lass,” he murmured. “Please dunna risk—”

  “Shh.” She covered his lips with her forefinger. “Think who I am, Scotsman,” she said softly. “I am the Shadow. You said so yourself. Once there was an old man. I called him Cork, for I did not know his true name. His fingers were gnarled and bent, but he taught me sleight of hand, and I like to think he taught me something besides.” She watched him very closely, her bright eyes so blue and intense it was as though he looked straight into heaven. ‘There is little good I can do in this world, Scotsman. Let me do this.”

  “But what if…” Terror gripped him. “What if I lose ye?”

  For a moment she remained motionless, but then she kissed him, very gently. “Then I have tried to do what you would do. What is right.”

  Roman shook his head and drew away. “‘Twas na long ago that I knew right from wrong,” he said. “Murder, theft, lying. They were all wrong. But now …” He shrugged.

  “I wager you are a fine lawyer,” she said softly.

  He would wager that he could not live without her. “Dunna do this,” he said.

  She smiled. “But I am a liar, and I am a thief.”

  “Ye wouldna have ta be. Come back ta the Highlands with me, lass. Be my—”

  She pressed her fingers firmly to his lips. “Things said in passion are oft regretted,” she said.

  Reaching up, Roman pulled her hand away, but she shook her head and smiled.

  “Your friend’s time is fleeting, Scotsman. Will you let me help him?”

  “There have been times I have acted the fool,” he said softly. “And mayhap at times I have even thought meself ta have some power. But I am na longer vain enough or fool enough ta think I can stop ye.”

  “Good.”

  “But this I say, lass. Ye will na go alone. Na so long as the heavens shine above and Hell calls me name.”

  “I will not risk your life by taking you with me, Scotsman,” she said.

  For a fleeting instant, warmth spurred through him. She must be concerned for his well-being, he thought. But perhaps not. Perhaps yet, despite
everything that had passed between them, she was fooling him again and but planned to escape. “I’ll be with ye, lass.”

  She scowled. “I have planned well and carefully,” she said, sweeping a hand sideways to indicate her hair, her costume, the nearby needle and thread that waited to be plied again. “I managed to fool even you in my own house with my disguise only half-complete. I will fool them. But you…”

  “What about me?”

  She shrugged, looking slightly apologetic. “I will go as a Rom,” she said, her accent impeccable, her disguise the same.

  “So shall I be also.”

  She laughed. “Let me hear your speech.”

  He scowled at her. ‘Twas her life they were discussing. ‘Twas her continued survival, and it angered him that she could treat it so casually.

  “Say, I am Theaelo of the proud wild Roms.”

  “I am Theaelo of the proud, wild Roms,” he said, sounding, even to his own ears, like a drunken Swede. He nearly grimaced, but managed to deepen his scowl and add, “and I go with ye if I must tie ye ta me wrist.”

  She shook her head. “You’d never be believed. Rom men are wild, fiery, unpredictable, not noble and loyal…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze skimmed his naked form, then she shrugged. “They wear bands of gold through holes in their ears,” she said and turned abruptly away as if that one fact explained everything. Bending, she began to rummage in her trunk.

  Not far away, her sewing needle winked in the candle’s light. Roman plucked it out of its fabric, then, seeing one Italian shoe on the floor, lifted it up. It was a stupid-looking thing, but it had a solid heel. Putting it behind his left ear, Roman glanced into the mirror, and stabbed his lobe.

  At precisely that moment, Tara straightened and saw him in the mirror. He watched her mouth fall open, then smiled as he pulled the thread through his ear.

  “Have ye a ring ta put through the hole?”

  She slowly lifted a hand toward his ear. A single drop of blood welled up and slid languidly down the black thread. “You stabbed yourself.”

  Roman grasped the bottle of ale from her shelf, pulled out the cork, and took a swig. “I am Theaelo of the proud, wild Roms,” he said. The statement was heavily burred.