Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  “Distract him!” Emotion welled up in Roman’s chest. It was hot and angry, and he didn’t like it, for emotion got people killed. “Ye could have found a thousand ways ta distract him. Ye did na have ta flaunt yer—”

  “You’re jealous.” She looked up at him from where she leaned over the table. Her breasts were pressed high and full against her meager blouse. Her tone was soft, and yet her words cut through his bluster like hot steel through snow.

  “Nay.” He meant to say the word with force, but only managed to push it out on a husky breath.

  “Why?”

  So absurd was his denial that it was as if he had never spoken. ‘There are men of the world, lass,” he said, clenching his fists once. “But I am na one of them. I canna hold ye in me arms, feel yer passion beneath me, then watch ye flaunt yerself to another.”

  She squeezed a lemon. Her fingers looked as smooth as lily stems against the yellow rind, but her gaze didn’t leave his. “So you are not a man of the world?” Her tone was husky, sensual, awakening some primitive need in him.

  He clenched his fists. “Nay, I am na.”

  “Are you certain?” She stood slowly.

  He watched her. There was a sensuality that robed her. “I am a man of the earth, solid …” She rounded the table, approaching him. Her blouse had slipped off one shoulder and threatened to reveal more. He cleared his throat. “Boring,” he said.

  “I don’t find you boring,” she whispered. Her hair was like golden, gossamer wings, her eyes as deep as eternity. “In truth, I have never dreamt I could feel what you make me feel. When you touched me …” She paused. Roman could see the steady thrum of a pulse in her fine throat. She let her eyes fall closed for a moment. “I felt like I was truly alive for the first time. When I felt your flesh against mine …”

  Desire roared to wakefulness in him.

  “Your heart against my heart,” she said, reaching out for a moment before drawing her hand back to curl her fingers against her breast.

  It was full and dark-skinned, and he knew if he touched it, he would be lost to all thought. And he must think.

  “Roman,” she murmured, breathing hard, “touch me.”

  The hell with thinking! With a growl, Roman drew her into his arms. Their lips clashed.

  Raw, hungry desire consumed him. Her hands were like quicksilver, everywhere, hot, enticing. He wasn’t sure whether he freed her breasts or whether she had, but suddenly her blouse slipped below her nipples. Soft and intoxicating she was.

  He drew one pink nipple into his mouth, suckling, licking, feverish with excitement.

  She gasped and bucked against him. In a moment her legs encircled his waist and his erection was straining out between the unlaced plackets of his hose. He tried to slow down, to take her gently, but she was not gentle. Indeed she was as hot as flame in his hands, moaning, begging, demanding. When she entrapped him hot and throbbing in her hand, he could wait no longer. With a groan of aching impatience, he yanked her skirt up and drove into her.

  Desire met desire on even ground, each striving for fulfillment. She arched against him, her head thrown back, her breasts bare and pushed toward his mouth.

  He reached out, flicking his tongue over her nipple. She caught his hair in her hands and a primal cry of lust rose from her. With that, Roman erupted in a volcanic explosion.

  He pumped hard and fast. She matched his pace, pressing against him with all her strength until their movements finally slowed to a shuddering halt.

  He felt her grow lax against him, felt her legs unclasp as her feet slipped to the floor.

  But he couldn’t bear to let her go. Though he felt limp with weakness, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  The pallet rustled as he joined her there. When he leaned over to kiss her, her lips felt feathery soft, though they looked bruised by the passion he had expended on her.

  He lifted his gaze to hers, searching for resentment, anger. “Did I hurt ye, lass?” he asked.

  “Nay, Scotsman. Did I hurt you?”

  He couldn’t help but smile and kiss her again. When he drew back her expression had gone sober.

  “Why are you not married?” she asked.

  He watched her eyes. “I waited for an advantageous match.”

  “Advantageous,” she said. “What does that mean?”

  Never, not if he lived to see a thousand years would he know anyone as desirable as she. He knew that suddenly, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

  “I have known hunger, lass,” he said.

  He had not meant to be cryptic. The words had simply come, but somehow she understood.

  “And so ye would marry for wealth,” she said. There was no condemnation in her voice, but perhaps there was sadness. “‘Tis what is expected, I’m certain.”

  “Expected?” He looked into her eyes. There were riches there. “Amongst the Forbes, there is naught to be expected but the unexpected.”

  While one of her hands toyed with his hair, the other remained softly curled against her breast, which was dark-skinned nearly to the nipple, where it faded to delicate ivory. The image fascinated him, drew him. He kissed the hand, the fingers, the breast.

  “In truth, lass, I believe I have been expected to marry… conservatively, to a prominent family. A diplomatic union.”

  “It is your family’s custom to choose your wives such?”

  He pondered that. “The women of the Forbes are…” He shook his head, trying to find the proper words, but it seemed all diplomacy had fled. “Well, they are dangerous. But I think me family expects me ta find someone more … staid.” She would fit in admirably among the Forbes women, he thought, but he didn’t say it, for emotions and sensation were coming at him too fast to sort them out one from another.

  “Staid?” she asked softly.

  “Ta suit me own disposition.”

  “Staid.” She nodded. Four pink welts marked the path where her nails had raked his chest. She followed that course with a gentle finger. “Mayhap they misjudged you.”

  “And mayhap ye bring the animal from me own soul. But in truth, lass…’ he said softly, “I dunna think the Forbeses choose their wives atall.” He let his fingers slide down her back as his mind slipped away to the far distant hills of the Highlands. “Sometimes when I was a lad, in the midst of the night I would believe I was yet with Dermid. I would forget Fiona’s tender touch, or mayhap I would dream that I couldna quite reach her.” Even now he felt that aching terror coil within him. He clenched his fist and drew a deep breath. “I would creep down the hall and sit at Fiona’s door. Sometimes there was na sound, but sometimes I would hear her voice, or her laughter. Then there would be Leith’s tone, deep and contented, filled with laughter and thought. ‘Twas Leith that told me the truth,” he said softly. “Fiona was na chosen, he said, she was sent from heaven above.”

  Tara lay very still, her eyes wide, her expression tense. “And your brothers’ wives, were they heavensent also?”

  “I have na brothers auld enough to wed, but me foster uncles, Roderic and Colin, have married.”

  “And were their wives gifts from heaven?”

  He smiled at his own thoughts. “Mayhap the Flame was sent from somewhere else,” he murmured. “Somewhere that would foster a good hot fire. But aye, lass, she has been a gift ta the Rogue.”

  Her fingers had slipped from his hair and now stroked his neck. The feather-soft feeling was tantalizingly sweet. “But you did not think you deserved such a gift,” she whispered. “And thus you sat alone by the door in the dark, listening for Fiona’s voice?”

  Memories crowded in. “They wouldna allow me to sit there for long, lass.”

  “I am sorry.”

  Roman shook his head and drew himself back to the present. “‘Twas na like that. ‘Twas me own decision ta be alone. She always knew when I was there. Somehow…” He shrugged. “She always knew, and she would come. Finally, there seemed na point in running away. Her touch didna seem
so terrible. Her kindness did not seem so frightening, though mayhap …”

  “What?”

  “Mayhap ye are right; I never believed I deserved it.”

  “You deserve every gift there is,” she said softly.

  “Why do ye say this?”

  “Because I know you, Scotsman. You have seen the depths of depravity, yet you have remained unstained.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but she placed her fingers on his lips and smiled. “I am a fair judge of people, Scottie, and I am a skeptic. If I say you are good, you are good.

  He was lost in her eyes, in the kindness of her words. “Love is a frightening thing,” he whispered.

  He had not meant to say those words and wished now to reel them back, but the damage was done.

  He could see the terror in her eyes, and though she didn’t move, it seemed he could feel her draw away. “I know little of love,” she said.

  She was wrong, but mayhap she didn’t realize it. He held her tightly. “Don’t ye?”

  Her gaze lifted again, haunted, ethereally blue. She shook her head, but the motion was stiff and jerky. “Love kills, Scotsman. That’s what I know. And no matter what you think, I do not wish to die.”

  “Love can heal,” he said quietly.

  She shook her head again, but the movement was no more certain than before. “I have no proof of that.”

  “I am proof,” he said. “For I surely wouldna have lived had na Fiona saved me. And ye, lass … I have heard ye speak of Cork. There is something in yer voice when ye speak of him.”

  Her eyes fell closed. “He died because of me.” Her words were hushed. Roman remained very still. “I was young and I was full of myself. I had stolen a buckle from a passing lord. Cork …” She shook her head. “He had taught me to study my victims before I stole. He said that if I got caught, I would hang and I would hang alone. He would not risk his life for me.”

  Roman stroked her hair back, wanting to take her pain.

  “They suspected me of the theft. I was naught but the little urchin that lived with Cork. They came to his room, accusing me. But he laughed and said I was not clever enough to make such a theft. ‘Twas he that had taken it, he said.”

  ‘They hung him?” Roman asked.

  She would not look at him. “Cork had always said he would not dance that dance. He was killed trying to escape. Bertram saw it all.”

  The fire crackled behind her.

  Her lips trembled. He kissed them. Her mouth was sweet and eager. She held him tightly to her, as though she clung to life with that embrace. Their kiss lingered, but finally it ended.

  “‘Tis sorry I am, lass.”

  “‘Tis how he said he wished to go. I mourned his death. I mourned him,” she whispered. “But now I wonder if even in that I was selfish. ‘Twas myself I felt pity for.”

  “‘Tis what we do, lass. We dunna fret for those gone ahead, but those left behind. Still, dunna ye see how Cork’s love healed ye, lass?”

  “I see how it killed,” she said, “and yet…” She touched his cheek so gently that he felt a need to press into her caress and close his eyes to the sharp need it caused. “What we’ve done. It feels …” She smoothed her palm along his cheek and he took her hand and kissed it gently.

  “Like love?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” she murmured. “But I long for it again.”

  What kind of magic did she possess that all she need do was touch his face or speak his name and he quivered to have her again?

  Their lovemaking was slow this time. Ever so slowly, he eased the blouse from her body, and ever so slowly, his kisses fell where they would, her arms, her breasts, the delicate hollow below her sternum.

  Her abdomen was trim and flat, her hips softly flared, and her legs endless and shapely. He kissed every inch of them, smoothing his hands along them, lifting her knees, and finally, when she trembled for him, he slid easily into the warm, tight sheath of her body.

  Where before a tempest had blown, now soft waves rocked them. They were slowly lapped closer and closer to the shore of contentment, until finally, sated and languid, they drifted onto the warm sand of fulfillment.

  Sleep was a cozy blanket wrapped about them. Roman pulled it around him and fell into the darkness.

  Warm dreams caressed him. He was basking in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Her name was Tara O’Flynn, and whether she knew it or not, she was his, and his alone. He had been a fool to think he could settle for less than this. A fool to believe he could be satisfied with a diplomatic union. He had been reared in an atmosphere of fierce love and fiery passion. ‘Twas not a legacy to be forgotten. True, he was not worthy, but suddenly he knew that Tara had been sent for him just as Fiona had been sent for Leith, and Flame had been sent for the Rogue.

  Roman reached across the bed now, needing to feel her against him. His hand touched her empty pillow.

  So, she had left the bed. He smiled to himself. Who would she be this time? A fine lady? A bawdy barmaid? Or perhaps, herself, a golden-haired nymph with hands that could take him to heaven. He opened his eyes, searched the room, then sat up … and swore.

  Hell fire! She was gone!

  Chapter 21

  Tara hurried down the dark streets toward Harrington House.

  Roman would sleep. Of course he would sleep. Jewel, the old whore of Backrow, had told Tara more than once that sex was the strongest sleep tonic a man could consume. And they had had sex. Quick and hard, and long and slow. She had planned the first time, and it had been shamefully simple, for Salina had taken over, had seduced him, had seduced her. But the second time …

  Tara’s breath came faster at the memory of his hands, strong and gentle against her skin. His chest was as hard as …

  A dark shape bounded into view. She started back with a gasp, but it was nothing more terrifying than a dog chasing a rat.

  Sweet Mary! What was wrong with her? This was no time to daydream. She was the Shadow, resurrected from the dead. But she would be dead in earnest if she didn’t concentrate. Her ability to focus had kept her alive all these many years. She must focus now.

  She was the Shadow. Wrapping her thoughts about her, she hurried along until finally, dark and looming, Harrington House appeared. She sat in the darkness, watching, becoming one with the night. Instead of washing the dye from her face, she had darkened it further with the aid of molasses and a fine layer of silt. Her hair was hidden beneath a flat, brown cap, and her hands were covered with dark, kid gloves. She would be nearly impossible to see, she knew. Thus, she sat, studying the situation until she could make out every detail.

  There, just next to the chestnut tree that drooped heavily over the lane, stood a man. So old Harrington had hired guards, or at least one. But no, at the corner of the house was another man.

  A thrill of anticipation snaked along Tara’s spine. There was little point in being a thief if the job was too easy. And this job would not be easy.

  Smiling to herself, she slipped from her hiding place and went to inspect the back of the house.

  One guard watched that side of the huge manse, but he was bored and restless. Only minutes after Tara arrived there, he rounded the house to talk to his companions.

  After that it was a simple enough task to slip to the back door. It was almost a disappointment when it opened so easily under her hand. In a moment, she was inside and skimming up the stairs, the soft soles of her shoes silent against the stones, the wood, the carpet.

  The house was quiet, but for the sharp hiss of a cat from the kitchen. Apparently there was a feline argument about who patrolled the larders while the cook slept. But Tara need not worry about the kitchen. Even if someone awoke to reprimand the cats, they would not find her.

  For more than a decade she had been a thief, planning, scheming, surviving on her wits. Mayhap it could have been different. Mayhap long ago she could have gone to Lord Harrington and told him the truth. Told him she was his granddaughter—the chil
d of the daughter whose death he had caused. But she had not. She would like to think pride had prevented her from doing so, but the truth was far less noble. Fear was a hard thing to admit.

  But she would not think of that now. She had to concentrate. Where would he keep the bracelet for which she searched?

  He was an old man, old and bitter and greedy. He would keep it close to himself, she reasoned, and so she crept, silent as the night, down the hall to where she knew his room to be.

  There was no servant at his door, and he had left the portal partially open.

  Heaven smiled on her. She smiled back.

  Inside the room, some light managed to find its way through the thick, smoky glass of his window.

  Tara stepped beside the door and waited, scanning the room, her nerves stretched taut. No servants near the bed. Harrington slept alone. And there he was, in the middle of his large, curtained mattress. His back faced her.

  The trunk at the end of his bed opened with only a quiet creak. Tara leaned the lid back and sat still, waiting in silence in case the sound had alerted the old man. Patience was a necessity. Harrington slept on.

  Tara removed her gloves, closed her eyes, and thought with her fingers. She felt fabric, wood, metal. But the metal was heavy and coarse. She moved her fingers swiftly on. At the very bottom of the trunk she found a small leather pouch and drew it out. The contents tumbled silently out. A ring of gold and diamonds winked in the faint light at her. A. pair of buckles lay side by side. But there was no bracelet.

  Silently, she slipped the items back into the pouch and shoved them carefully beneath the clothes. The trunk closed with a nearly inaudible moan.

  Without standing up, Tara skimmed the room again, but nothing obvious caught her gaze. And wouldn’t the old man be obvious? After all, he had hired guards. Why hire guards, if you could not trust them? Which meant that the bracelet was not here.

  But where?

  Where else but his daughter’s room?

  For a moment Tara remained motionless.

  Something akin to dread seeped through her, for long ago, when the girl had been no more than eight years of age, Tara had seen her. Christine Harrington, blonde, beautiful, pampered in frills of pink and white—the daughter of Harrington’s second wife.