Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  Grubby, hungry, and hidden in the holly bushes, Tara had sneered at the girl. For Tara had been all of thirteen years of age, old and wise and cynical. But on her way home that night her heart had ached with regret.

  She did not want that ache again. But at that moment, Roman’s image invaded her mind. His solemn face was tilted down toward her, and in his hands there was a quiet magic.

  The bracelet would be in Christine’s room. Thus, she would go there.

  The hall was silent and very dark.

  Whereas Harrington had not had a single servant at his door, his daughter had two. From her spot around the corner, Tara could hear them breathe in quiet symphony. Ever so carefully, she peaked around the corner. The one by the door was a woman. She knew it by the way she slept, curled up like a child. But the other was a man, who did not lie down but slept sitting in a half-erect position.

  Tara eased back behind the corner of the wall. Sweet Mary! She hadn’ asked for an easy task, but she had hoped it would be possible. As she listened, the guard’s breathing changed. Tara knew he awoke. She waited in silence, hoping fervently that he would fall back asleep.

  It didn’t take long for him to do so, but what now? If he slept so lightly, surely he would awaken long before she managed to sneak into Christine’s bedchamber. Unless …

  Within minutes, Tara was back down the steps to the kitchen.

  Easing the door open, she stepped inside. On the long, plank table, a cat rose and stretched. Tara hurried to the larder, spied a bit of cheese, and after stealing a small piece, nabbed the cat and hurried up the stairs toward the bedchambers.

  The tabby had a bad temper and a good deal of heft. He nosed at Tara’s fingers, trying to trace the intoxicating scent of cheese. But it had not far to travel before Tara reached her destination.

  Near Christine’s room, there was another chamber, a weaving room. The door opened quietly beneath Tara’s hand. Placing the cat inside, she closed the door and set the cheese a scant inch away.

  Quiet as dusk, Tara hurried down the hall and into a doorway to wait.

  It didn’t take long for the cat to be tempted by the cheese. Having explored the dry interior of the room, he had returned to the door, sniffed the cheese, and thrust a paw beneath the portal. He almost reached the delectably stinky thing and dragged his claws back across the wooden floor to reconnoiter and try again.

  A series of strange scrapings and scratchings followed. Tara waited, poised for action.

  Despite the noise from the cat, Tara knew the moment the guard was awake. She held her breath, waiting, tense. She heard him rise to his feet and sensed more than heard his knife slide from its sheath.

  A shiver ran up her spine.

  For a big man, the guard moved quietly. She saw him stop where the hallway branched. She held her breath, knowing he was searching, but in a moment he had ascertained the source of the noise. Still, he was cautious when he moved toward the door. It opened beneath his hand.

  “What the devil ya doing in here, cat?” he asked, but before he could say another word, Tara had slipped from her hiding place and down the next hall.

  There was no time to waste now. Not an instant. Stepping past the maidservant, Tara pushed the door latch with firm conviction, stepped into the bedchamber, and drew in observations with lightning speed.

  No one awake. No servants. Big room. Bed. Tapestries. A trunk. Tara exhaled silently and leaned her back against the wall for a moment, still drawing in perceptions and waiting for her pulse to slow.

  A fire still glowed in the hearth. By that light Tara could see the small form that graced the bed. Christine, beloved daughter of Lord Harrington. Her hair had perhaps darkened a mite since Tara had first seen her, but it was still golden, plaited now in two long rows that rested atop the blanket.

  She slept soundly, peacefully. What would it be like to rest so well, knowing no one would break down your door and accuse you of theft. Surely, no gallows haunted her dreams, and hunger had never gnawed at her belly.

  Tara drew herself from her reverie. There was no time for such thoughts now. A large trunk sat at the foot of the bed, but Tara ignored that, for a studded leather chest sat on the window’s sill. She was across the floor in a moment. The chest opened silently beneath her hand. Again her fingers trailed through the items within. Three tiny gold buttons, a gilded frame facing down, a silver chain, but nothing else. Tara frowned and absently fiddled with the frame.

  It felt strangely familiar to her fingers, strangely…

  She turned the portrait over and caught her breath.

  “Who are you?”

  Tara snapped her gaze to the girl in the bed. She was sitting up, and though her face looked pale with fear, she clasped a knife in her fist and her voice did not quaver.

  Tara glanced toward the door.

  “Stay where you are,” Christine said. “Stay where you are, or I’ll scream.”

  Turning her head just a little, Tara looked toward the window, but the girl read her thoughts again.

  “‘Tis locked,” she said, “from the outside. You can believe me; I’ve tried it.” She was lovely, with wide blue eyes, and when she stepped from the bed her feet looked very white and ultimately dainty.

  Tara remained transfixed, for it was as though she had seen this woman a thousand times in her mother’s face.

  “Who are you?” asked Christine, placing her back to the wall and lifting her knife a bit higher. “What are you doing here?”

  It was time to leave. Past time, and Tara knew it, but she couldn’t move.

  Christine took a step closer. “Are you the Shadow?”

  It was as though Tara was caught in a dark dream tangled in reality. She tried to deny Christine’s question, but she couldn’t move. She had to leave, but she still held the tiny, gilt-framed portrait in her hand, and the blue eyes mesmerized her.

  “Please.” The girl’s whispered voice shook suddenly with earnest appeal. “I won’t tell a soul you were here. You can take what you like. I will tell Father ‘twas lost. But I beg a favor of you.”

  The room was pitched into silence. Tara said nothing.

  ‘There is a man, a Scotsman. David MacAulay. He has been unjustly accused and sits now in a gaol somewhere. Please, if you could but find out where he’s kept. You must have some knowledge of that world, and there is…” She took a step closer. “There is no one else I can send.”

  Tara backed away.

  Christine stopped. “Please,” she whispered again. “Take what you like.”

  Tara lifted the tiny portrait. “I would take this.”

  The girl frowned. ” ‘Tis a picture of my half sister. I cherish it, but the frame…”

  Tara tightened her grip on the portrait. In her mind a small shack burned and her mother screamed.

  “I’m sorry,” said Christine, shaking her head. “Take it. The whole thing. ‘Tis of little import in comparison to what might be lost.” She hurried across the distance now, gathering the items that had fallen from the leather chest. “Take the buttons and the—”

  Reality jolted Tara. “Where’s the bracelet?” she asked, jerking her mind back in focus.

  “Bracelet?”

  “Of diamonds and sapphires.”

  “Ohh.” She said the word on a soft exhalation. “It isn’t here.”

  Damn it. Tara backed toward the door. But Christine followed her, still holding the knife loosely in one hand.

  “Wait. I can get it for you. I can get it.”

  Tara stopped. She had been here too long. She must leave, but Roman needed the bracelet. “How?” she asked, turning her attention back to the girl.

  “Father is hosting a Lady Day festival. He says it is in honor of the virgin, but he only hopes to lure men here to marry off his disgraced daughter. Lord Dasset is vying for my hand, you know.” For a moment, Tara thought she would cry. “He’s powerful and immensely wealthy. And so Father thought…” She shook her head and lifted her chin slightly, as i
f drawing herself back to the present. “I refused to go. But if I change my mind … if I promise to attend, he’ll get the bracelet.” She was speaking quickly but quietly, little above a whisper. “Come here on the first day of May, and I’ll give it to you if you promise to do as I ask.”

  Tara glanced about. Had she heard a noise below her?

  “Please,” begged Christine.

  Tara focused her attention on the girl. “All ya want me ta do is—”

  The door suddenly crashed open and the guard leapt inside.

  Tara spun about. She didn’t want to die, not here in Harrington House.

  “Nay!” Christine leapt suddenly between the guard and Tara. “Nay. You’ll not hurt him.”

  “Out of my way!” growled the guard, but instead of obeying, Christine threw herself at the man.

  Tara darted for the door. The guard caught Christine by the hair and tossed her aside. Tara skidded to a halt, only inches from the man’s outstretched knife. He lunged, but she jumped backward in time. The blade hissed past her, barely missing her midsection. In her panic, she tripped, falling to the floor. The guard smiled and advanced, but in that moment, darkness filled the doorway. There was a movement, a growl. Suddenly, the guard fell, crumbling like a dry scone to the floor.

  Tara gasped.

  Roman stood like a giant, half-naked barbarian, chest heaving and eyes shooting sparks.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he ordered.

  “I need to—”

  “Outta here!” he snarled, and lifting her by her shirtfront, tossed her toward the door.

  “But wait!” Christine found her feet and stumbled toward Tara. “Please!”

  “If you look amongst your guests, you’ll find me. Remember the name Fontaine,” said Tara, but already Roman was dragging her from the room.

  “Mistress, I—” The maidservant stumbled sleepy-eyed into the room.

  Roman stopped, bare chest heaving, the guard’s knife gripped in one huge fist. The woman stumbled back a step and shrieked. Roman growled and the maid’s eyes widened, then they rolled back in her head and she fainted dead away.

  “What was that?” croaked an old man’s voice. “Samuel? Edgar!”

  Roman bolted down the hall, dragging Tara with him. They flew down the steps toward the front door looming ahead.

  “Not that way!” Tara hissed. ‘The guards!”

  But Roman yanked the door open and stormed through. Beside the steps, a man lay bound and gagged in something that looked suspiously like a small, ruffled shirt. But Tara had no time to consider it, for footsteps were thundering toward them from all directions. Shouts filled the air. Roman was running, and she was running with him, hanging on to his hand, gasping for breath and life.

  Something hissed above their heads, materializing into an arrow that twanged into a nearby tree.

  There were shouts and curses, threats, and near misses. Finally, the night grew silent but for the sound of their footfalls and their gasping breath.

  Tara slowed to a walk. “We are safe now,” she said, but Roman wouldn’t let her stop.

  Pulling her along, he dragged her down the silent streets until finally they reached her home.

  Roman pushed her inside and barred the entrance himself then leaned back against the portal and stared at her.

  The house was eerily silent. Tara cleared her throat and avoided his gaze. “‘Tis good we reached home, for dawn is breaking.”

  No comment.

  She glanced at him. He looked huge and forbidding against the door. She tried to ignore his expression as she poured water into a basin and washed the molasses and silt from her face. “I… I suppose I owe you my thanks.” She dried her face with her sleeve and chanced a smile. “What you lack in finesse you make up for in …” She cocked an arm. “Brute strength.” His expression didn’t change. “Though I fear you owe me a good, ruffled shirt,” she said, rambling on. “Of course—”

  “Were ye planning the theft the whole time?” His tone was grave.

  Tara studied him in the darkness of the room. Her fingers fidgeted. “What?”

  “While we were making love, did ye feel anything, or were ye but distracting me whilst ye planned another theft?”

  She had felt a thousand things, things so gloriously thrilling that she had found no words for them. But she must not dwell on that. She survived by her wits, by her cool-headed logic. And when he was near, cool-headed logic failed her.

  Tara pulled her dark cap from her head and shrugged her shoulders. “I like to think I’m more than a thief, Scotsman. I’m an artist in my own way.” And he was a barrister, a noble. She would be a fool to believe there could be anything lasting between them. “I can’t afford to be distracted by a bulging muscle or a manly chest. I can’t afford to feel.”

  She never heard him approach, but suddenly she was swung around and his eyes glared into hers.

  “Damn ye! Ye are na Salina, so dunna pretend ye are.”

  For a moment she couldn’t breathe, for he was there—so close, so large and solid and alluring, that all she wanted to do was collapse in his arms. “You are wrong,” she said instead. “I am Salina, just as I said I was. I am Salina and a thousand other women you haven’t met. And none of them can you trust.”

  A muscle flexed in his jaw. “But all of them I desire,” he said, and pulling her into his arms, he kissed her.

  He was not for her. He was not, she reminded herself frantically. But she wanted him. With all her heart and soul, she wanted him, and she couldn’ help but kiss him back.

  Her arms wrapped about him of their own accord. Her heart pounded madly against his.

  ‘Tell me ye feel nothing, lass,” he dared, his tone coarse as whiskey.

  She couldn’t speak, for he seemed to fill her senses, leaving her numb and aching.

  “Tell me!” he said, shaking her.

  “I…” She gathered her wits like wayward bits of straw. She couldn’t let herself love him. She could not. It would only cause pain, for she was naught but a thief. She didn’t belong in his life. No more than she belonged in Harrington House. She had seen what happened when nobles and peasants combined. People died. “I feel nothing.”

  “Ye lie!” he growled, and kissed her again.

  When had she become so weak? When had she realized that life was not life without him? It was merely existence.

  He drew back, his eyes an intense green flame and so damned alluring that she felt as if her soul were being sucked from her body.

  “Tell me ye feel nothing, lass.”

  “I—” she began, but he kissed her again and as their lips joined, he lifted her into his arms.

  The bed creaked with a sigh beneath them. His kisses were flaming velvet against her throat. A button fell beneath the magic of his hands. The cloth that bound her breasts was pushed aside. She felt air touch her nipple, but in a moment it was replaced by his mouth. She gasped and arched against him.

  “Tell me, lass,” he murmured.

  “I…” she moaned, but he suckled again and she lost her thought to the searing sensations.

  The binding cloth eased lower, baring her other breast. His tongue flicked over it. Life sparked there, hard and hot and tantalizing.

  Tara gasped air through her teeth and gripped the bed sheets in clawed fingers.

  “So ye feel…” He circled her nipple with his tongue while his fingers trickled soft and enticing down her abdomen. “Nothing?”

  Her dark trunk hose opened to his fingers. She trembled beneath his touch.

  “Say it, lass,” he urged.

  She opened her eyes. Damn him for making her feel. “You could make a linen robe tremble with desire,” she hissed. “But that means nothing. Salina feels. Desires! Craves!”

  “But ye are na Salina.” His fingers slipped beneath her codpiece. She tingled against his touch. “And this goes much deeper than the cravings of a lusty woman.”

  “Nay!” she denied, suddenly frantic. But he
kissed her lips again with desperate passion.

  “I thought I had lost ye.” His statement fell with flat finality into the silence. “And I thought, ‘twas time for me ta die were ye lost ta me.”

  His arms tightened about her. Her soul leapt within her, but she could find no words to speak.

  “I knew where ye had gone, and I called meself a thousand fools. If ye had been lost…”

  Tara tangled her fingers in his hair, trying to think, to ward off the emotions that bombarded her. “Tis… tis what I do, Scotsman,” she said. “I steal.”

  Very slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed himself up on his elbow to stare into her eyes. “No more,” he said.

  “What say you?”

  “Ye’ll steal na more,” he said, his tone absolutely steady. “Ye’ll return to the Highlands with me.”

  For one wild moment hope and joy flared through her. They would leave Firthport together. They would be wed. Life would be wonderful. But no! Reality settled in like a heavy rock in her stomach. She was a thief. He was noble and a man of honesty. Even if he could forget their differences, society could not. Fairy tales were not for her. Far better to bask in their moments together, then send him away, whole and hale.

  “I’ll not go with you, Scotsman.”

  His expression didn’t change in the least. “Aye, ye will,” he said. “As soon as I free MacAulay from the gaol.”

  “Free MacAulay!” Panic surged through her. He was not the kind of man to do nothing. If he knew where MacAulay was kept, he would surely do anything necessary—take any risk—to get him free. “You said you didn’t know where he was being kept.” She knew, for Liam had friends in the lowliest of places.

  “But I have found out.” Roman smiled, breaking her heart. “He’s kept at Black Hull. I’ll go there this night and get him out. We’ll leave for the Highlands at—”

  “Black Hull!” She gripped his shirt in desperation. “You can’t go there. ‘Tis a hellish place.”

  “I can go, and I must,” he said, trying to pull her hands away.

  “Nay!” She gripped tighter. “You can’t. They’ll kill you.”