Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  “‘Tis the risk I must take,” he said, freeing himself of her hands and moving away.

  “But he’s not there!” she gasped, grabbing his sleeve. “He’s in Devil’s Port!”

  “Devil’s Port?” Roman turned slowly back.

  Tara read the truth in his eyes. “Damn you, Scotsman!” she said. “How did you know I’d learned his location?”

  “Mayhap I’ve learned a wee bit of yer trickery, lass. And mayhap I thought ta distract ye just as ye distracted me.”

  She held her breath. “You cannot get him out of Devil’s Port. No one can. Not even I.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Ye’ll na try, lass. Ye’ll stay safely here until the lad is free and we are on our way to the Highlands.”

  Terror as cold as hell burned in her. She tightened her grip in his shirt. “You’ll not go there, Scotsman. Tell me you’ll not.”

  Roman placed his hand gently on her fist and watched her eyes. “I’ve na choice, lass. I gave me vow, and me vow is me blood. There’s na other way.”

  “But there is,” she breathed. “I’ve but to go to Harrington House and—”

  “Nay!” His voice resounded in the room, and his hand tightened like a claw about her. “Nay,” he repeated. “Ye’ll na risk yer life again, lass. ‘Tis me own task that needs doing, and ye must stay here until it is complete. Please!” He whispered the word. “Swear to me on your mother’s soul.”

  Tara stared into his eyes. They were honest eyes, steady, bold. She could not disappoint those eyes. “I swear to you, Roman,” she said softly. “I will not stay here while you go to your death.”

  Roman gritted his teeth and swore between them as he hefted himself from the bed. “Then I’ll bind ye up and leave ye here whilst I go.”

  She was off the pallet in an instant, facing him with an open shirt and binding clothes that hung from her shoulders like tattered clouds. “You think some paltry rope can hold me?” She laughed, feeling frantic with fear. “Nothing can hold me. Nothing! And when I get free, I will challenge the gates of Devil’s Port.”

  “Ye willna.”

  “I will go there,” she vowed, deep-voiced. “And I will tell them I am the Shadow.”

  He grabbed her arms. “Ye willna!”

  Their gazes clashed, hot and fast.

  “Aye.” She spoke slowly, softly. “I will. That is my vow. Unless you abandon this foolish idea of breaking MacAulay free, unless you do things my way.”

  Closing his eyes, Roman gritted his teeth and exhaled sharply through them. “Yer way?” he said, his tone weary.

  Excitement surged through her. “‘Tis simple. Harrington will be entertaining only three nights hence. Christine will be there and—”

  “How do ye know this?”

  “I spoke to her.”

  “Spoke to her! Hell fire! She knows who ye are.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Scotsman. She has no way of knowing. Look at the way I’m dressed. She offered to give me her bracelet, offered me anything if I—”

  “Of course she offered ye anything,” Roman interrupted again. “She was terrified and but wanted ta pacify ye until she could have ye captured.”

  “Terrified?” Without trying, Tara remembered the girl’s expression. In that moment by the bed, she was reminded of her mother. So proud, so regal. “Nay. She was not frightened, but she was concerned for MacAulay.”

  “What about MacAulay?”

  “She said that if I would but find where he is kept, she would give me the bracelet.”

  “And ye would believe her?” Roman stormed. “More likely she would have ye thrown into the gaol beside MacAulay.”

  Tara shook her head. “Nay. She would not.”

  “And how, pray, do ye know that?”

  “Because I have seen women in love afore.”

  Roman opened his mouth, but no words came out. He narrowed his eyes and exhaled. “Indeed?”

  She watched him carefully. He was a big man, steady, intelligent, cautious. “Indeed,” she said.

  Tara felt she could almost see the thoughts that ripped through his mind, but he didn’t voice them.

  Instead, he said, “I willna see ye die, lass. I willna have it.”

  She couldn’tt quite stop the smile that lighted her heart and lifted her lips. “Long have I been in this business, Scotsman. They’ve yet to kill me.”

  He shook his head, his face a mask of worry. “Harrington will treble his guards. Ye willna be able to sneak into his house again.”

  “I will not try.”

  Roman all but winced. “Not another costume.”

  “Nay, not a costume, Scotsman. A new identity. A French lady, I think.”

  “Nay,” he said, but the word was little more than a moan.

  “I’ve still three days to make my gown,” she said, beginning to pace.

  “God save us.”

  “My skin.” She touched her face, considering. “‘Twill take some time to get the color out.”

  “Dunna even think upon it.”

  “Lemon juice, salt, hot water. A long bath.”

  “I said nay!”

  She turned toward him with her shirt still open and her binding clothes about her waist. “I’ll need help bathing.”

  “I said …” He paused. She watched him fill his nostrils with air. “Help ye bathe?”

  “Aye.” Salina was back if only for a brief appearance. “Help me bathe, Scotsman,” she said, looking up at him through lowered lashes. “We’ll talk as we soak, and if you do not agree with my plans, we will think of a better scheme.”

  He exhaled gently. A muscle flexed in his jaw. His gaze skimmed lower, over her breasts, her waist, her hips. “We’ll talk,” he said, and she smiled.

  Chapter 22

  “ ‘Tis almost without risk,” Tara said. She sat before the fire, her nimble fingers stitching gold thread into the fine, black fabric that had once been the Shadow’s tunic.

  Now it was to be part of a French lady’s gown.

  Hell fire! Roman closed his eyes for a moment. Mayhap he should have gone to Devil’s Port as he had planned, but if he knew anything about Tara O’Flynn, it was that she would do as she said. She would follow him there and heaven have mercy on them after that.

  “We’ll wear black,” she said. “The colors are bright this season. ‘Twill make us more noticeable.”

  Roman quit his pacing for a moment. “Noticeable?”

  “Aye.”

  “And pray, wee lass, why would we wish ta be noticed.”

  “Well ‘tis simple.” She smiled up from her stitching. “We do not want to seem as if we wish to be inconspicuous. Surely that would make us conspicuous. For who of the gentry does not go to great lengths to stand out in the crowd?” Picking up a narrow band of silver fur, she began to sew it above the cuff of the wide, slashed sleeves.

  Roman scowled, pacing again, feeling irritable and cagey. “And where did ye steal the fur?”

  “I didn’t steal it.” She was a thief. How she managed to sound offended, Roman would never know. “Liam gave it to me some months ago.”

  “Liam?” Roman said. “Where did he get fox?”

  “It’s not fox. It’s cat. ‘Twas giving chase to a shrew and did not see the cart.” She shrugged, tilted her head, and raised the fur for closer inspection. “Dead immediately.”

  “’Tis like Liam ta give a dead cat as a gift.” Roman said. “And ‘tis like ye ta march into Harrington House wearing the damn thing on yer sleeve.”

  “I thought I might sew a bit of it onto your cap, also.”

  “Heaven save us.”

  “‘Twas your idea to accompany me. But—”

  “We’ll na discuss it again.”

  She shrugged. “As you wish. We’ll appear as brother and sister, of course.”

  “Brother and sister? Why?”

  “Harrington is looking for a husband for the girl. ‘Twould make little impression to bring a married man. Don your hose.”


  “What?”

  “The black hose you were wearing when you first found me.”

  “Why?”

  “I may need to do a bit of altering to fit the new codpiece onto it.”

  Roman stared at her. He was getting accustomed to the idea of her being a thief. It was the fact that she enjoyed it so much that worried him. “What codpiece?”

  “The one you wore with the Italian costume,” she said, stitching again.

  “I’ve na wish ta wear that awful piece of hardware again.”

  She glanced up as if surprised, but he wondered if there was a smile in her eyes. “Why ever not?”

  He scowled. He was her senior by several years. He was a scholar, a diplomat, a Highlander, rugged, ready, raw. How was it that she made him feel like a green lad? It made him irritable. “Some men may feel a need to pad their … endowments,” he said, placing his fists on his hips. “But I dunna.”

  There was definitely a sparkle of glee in her eye. It made him more irritable still. She was taking a grave risk going to Harrington House. Damn it all, at least she could be somber about it.

  “’Tis merely part of the costume,” she assured him. Setting her stitching aside, she rose to her feet. “I didn’t mean to insult you. In fact…” She approached him. Her hair was as gold as sunlight, shiny clean and wispy soft from the bath they had shared the day before. It was surprising, really, that two people of their size could fit into that small vat. But there were good things to be said about a tight squeeze. Just the memory of it warmed Roman’s blood. He deepened his scowl, trying to cool it. “I am very …” She paused again and stopped a few inches in front of him. Was she blushing? But surely after what they had done together in the vat, it was too late to blush. “I’m more than pleased with your … endowments,” she said softly.

  Be that as it may, he was not wearing that ungodly codpiece, he promised himself.

  “Far more than pleased,” she whispered, and reaching up, placed a slim hand on his chest.

  Her touch burned straight through to his heart. He cleared his throat. ‘Truly?”

  He could see a pulse beat in her delicate throat, and her eyes were intensely blue, focused on his own. It seemed that whatever Tara did, she did with all her soul.

  “Aye.” She whispered the word. “I had no way of knowing what your touch would do to me.”

  He knew he was a weak-kneed fool. But he couldn’t help but kiss her lips. They were too red, too full, too sensual to resist. He didn’t even try. “Your touch does the same to me and more,” he murmured.

  “I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt,” she whispered. “I couldn’t bear it if I failed you, if your costume was less than perfect.” Her voice broke. “If you were found out because of me.”

  “Dunna fear, lass, all will be well.”

  “But what if I fail? What if I am not clever enough to do this?”

  “There is none, nor has there ever been, a woman half so clever as ye. If there is a way ta do this task, ‘twill be done because of ye.”

  She leaned her cheek against his fingers. “You trust me?” she whispered. “Even knowing what I am, you still trust me?”

  ‘In most things I am na such a fool as ta trust ye, for ye are a liar and a scamp,” he said philosophically. “Yet, in this, I can do naught else.”

  “But MacAulay’s life… and your life, depend on me. What if—”

  “Nay lass,” he said. “Ye are right. Na one will recognize ye.” He touched her cheek. “Yer skin is as soft and pale as a princess’s. Surely ye are na a wandering gypsy. Yer bosom…” Gently, ever so gently, he cupped his hand over her breast. “‘Tis so full and fetching. No one would dream of thinking ye might have played at being a boy. Ye are clever beyond words, lass, and ye well know it.”

  “But—”

  “Shhh. Ye will plan, and I will protect. We will be an invincible pair.”

  She smiled; the expression was tremulous. “If the codpiece offends your sensibilities, Roman—”

  “Nay.” He kissed her softly again. “Ye were right and I was but foolish. Twill be the perfect piece for a foppish Frenchman’s costume.”

  “So.” There was a chuckle from the far side of the room.

  Roman yanked his dirk from his sheath and spun about, but it was only Liam, grinning at them from near the door.

  “Ya convinced him to wear the codpiece.”

  “How the devil did ye get in here?” Roman rasped.

  “Sweet Mary, Liam,” Tara sighed with her hand still on Roman’s arm. “I should have never taught you to lift a bar. You scared me half unto death.”

  Liam chuckled, his angular face alight with pleasure. “Don’t let me stop you from doing what you were about. ‘Tis forever an education.”

  Roman knew Tara had manipulated him again. She had wooed him into agreeing to wear the damnable codpiece, but it had been worth it to hold her in his arms and soothe her. Still, mayhap ‘twould be best not to let her know he knew her ways so well. “What does the lad mean by that?” he asked.

  “It most likely means he has much to learn,” Tara said, “a fact I am inclined to agree with.”

  “I meant—” Liam began, but Tara interrupted him.

  “Did you get the invitation?”

  Liam chuckled again and pulled a piece of parchment from somewhere inside his shabby doublet. “Duly stolen, copied, and delivered, m’ lady, to one Mistress and Monsieur Fontaine.”

  Tara drew her hand from Roman’s arm and took the invitation from the lad. “The carriage and team?”

  “What carriage and team?” Roman asked.

  “You can hardly expect us to walk to Harrington House in all our finery,” Tara explained.

  “What carriage?” Roman repeated.

  “Victor is currying the horses even now,” Liam said.

  “What horses?”

  Liam cleared his throat, looking quizzically from one to the other.

  Tara smiled and gave her hand a casual toss, as if the subject was of no importance. “’Tis the team of an elderly dowager,” Tara said. “She’ll not miss the horses.”

  “In truth, ‘tis a shame how little exercise the steeds get,” Liam added. He had the grin of a mischievous satyr, Roman thought. “Near to a crime to leave such fine horseflesh rotting away in their stalls.”

  “And ye approached the dowager and convinced her of this, I suspect,” Roman said. “I imagine she was quite grateful for your offer ta exercise the beasts.”

  “Truth be told, I beat the groom at a game of tables. It seems Victor was quite sure he had won and wagered a bit over his head. A bad sport, these games of chance, as my mum used to say.” Liam smiled. His charm reminded Roman dangerously of Roderic the Rogue.

  “Ye cheated,” Roman deduced.

  “I did that,” Liam said proudly. “And Victor was more than ‘appy ta offer the team to see ‘is losses returned.”

  “We’ll all be hanged,” Roman intoned, beginning to pace again.

  “Come, Liam,” Tara said, glancing worriedly at Roman. “Your costume is all but finished.”

  Roman scowled and watched them chatter over the groom’s garments she dragged from a trunk.

  He didn’t want to know where that costume had come from.

  Less than ten minutes had passed when Tara walked Liam to the door. “Just after dark then,” s said, “and have a care not to lather the team.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it, m’ lady,” Liam vowed, and, bowing from the waist, left them.

  “If ye stuff me codpiece with any more padding, I’ll think ye’ve got ulterior motives,” Roman said, looking down at Tara.

  “I…” She jerked to her feet and stumbled back, blushing. Roman watched her in fascination. He could never guess how she would respond. Like a child, a vixen, a lady? They were all part of the woman that was Tara O’Flynn. “You’re supposed to be my brother.”

  Roman shrugged. “‘Twas a bad choice, methinks, for I may have some trouble p
retending such a platonic relationship.”

  His doublet, which had been created from a number of garments, had been stylishly slashed, enlarged, and padded in the popular peasecod style, making him look older and stouter. He wore plain, black hose but for the ostentatious codpiece, which was adorned with gold thread and seed pearls. Tara had trimmed his hair to just above his shoulders and combed it straight down so that it covered his pierced ear. A black velvet cap was perched on his head.

  It was doubtful he would be recognized as the bearded Scotsman who had first come to this city.

  Tara fretted with the frilly, white cuff of his tunic, then scowled into his face. “What’s your name?”

  He cocked his head at her. “Are ye feeling quite well, lass? Me name is Roman and ye well know it.”

  “Mori dieu!” she said. ‘Try to remember your part or we will…”

  Roman couldn’t help smiling at her, for she was so bonny and sober, immersed in her role as a fine French lady.

  With her fists on her hips, she pursed her lips. “You’re teasing me,” she said. “You’ll pay for that.”

  Roman lifted her hand, kissing it. “I will take that as a vow and anticipate the punishment.”

  She did nothing in half measures. Even when she blushed it seemed to go clear to the bone. He stared at the beautiful display above her daring decollete. “Yer identity is surely safe, lass. I doubt there will be a man there who will raise his eyes above yer neck.”

  The blush deepened.

  ‘Tell me, ma petite,” he said, pulling her closer, “how far does the blush reach?”

  Yanking her hand from his grip, Tara jerked about and hurried to the far side of the room.

  Roman followed her. Mayhap he was beginning to understand her a bit. For even he felt different when he was dressed differently. Right now, for instance, he felt as randy and carefree as any French nobleman. Mayhap ‘twas a bit of what she felt when she “became another.” Or perhaps it was simply the joy of her company that made his heart feel so light. ‘Tell me, lass,” he began thoughtfully, then made a wild grab for her. She shrieked and managed to slip out of his grasp. He crossed his arms over his chest and let her go, but even from behind he could see that her ears were red. “Are ye truly so easily embarrassed, or is it all but a well-refined act?”