She waited a moment before she turned. But when she did her persona was firmly in place.
“A lady does not act, mon frere,” she said. “A lady is.”
She had braided her hair and coiled it about the crown of her head. A cap of black and gold adorned the neat plait, and below that, everything was bosom. Or at least that was as far as Roman could coax his attention. When she glided up to him, however, he managed to realize she was several inches taller than usual.
“Ye grew,” he commented.
“A bit of height only makes it easier to look down my nose at the common English,” she said, and lifting her skirt slightly, displayed the platform shoes hidden beneath.
“M’ lady,” said Liam, stepping inside, “your carriage waits just round the corner so as not to attract … God’s nuts, ya grew!”
“Joseph!” she admonished, looking shocked even as she used the lad’s newly invented name. “I’ll not have you using such language in my presence.”
Liam grinned. “Don’t she do that good though, Scotch. She’ll be the mistress of thievery until the day she dies.”
Sobriety returned to Roman with a start. Until the day she died! ‘Twas his task to make certain that day would not come for many years.
Shrubs trimmed in the shape of animals lined the cobbled walk of Harrington House. Even in the dark, Roman could make out their forms strewn with white hawthorn blossoms.
The carriage glided to a halt. Liam opened the door with a flourish. “We have arrived,” he said. His bow was elegant, his grin was not.
Roman scowled, first at him and then at the looming shrubbery. Confidence was a strange thing. It came and it went. His had gone. But when he glanced at Tara, he saw that hers was intact. Or at least, if it was not, he would never know it by her expression.
“Are you ready, mon frere?” she asked.
“Oui,” Roman managed, though he failed to dredge up the frivolous tone he thought more appropriate.
Tara puckered her lips. She had stained them bright red and very tempting. “Are you feeling quite well?”
“One question only,” he said quietly. “Why do you look young and vivacious and I look … fat?”
Her laughter was silvery sweet in the cool spring air. She had procured a feathered fan from somewhere and covered the lower half of her face now. “Is it the truth you wish for?”
He nodded, trying to follow her moods and her leads. But she was like quicksilver, changing with the speed of light.
She leaned closer, her bosom full and seductive above the low neckline. “If you looked your usual self, I would never be able to keep you for myself. Even as it is, every woman here will wonder what lies within your codpiece. ‘Tis my task”—she looked up at him through silky lashes—“to make certain they do not find out.”
For a moment Roman was tempted almost beyond restraint to take her back to her room and make slow, hot love to her. But she was already disembarking.
Two footmen approached their carriage. Lanterns had been set out on long poles, and laughter could be heard from the house.
Tara offered her hand to the nearest servant. She was all elegance and smooth sensuality. Roman clamped a firm hand over his possessiveness and his nerves and followed her down the cobbled lane.
The door was opened by a servant who requested their names.
Roman’s stomach coiled as he scanned the crowd before him. He was far out of his depth. This was not his method. He was accustomed to stating the truth and accepting the circumstances whatever they may be. But that was before he had met Tara O’Flynn, for while he might be willing to accept whatever circumstances came his way, he was not willing to let her do the same. Thus there was little he could do now but play the game by her rules.
Keeping his expression bland, he glanced about the entrance through which they passed. It was huge and arched. Hung with tapestries and painted in deep, rich colors, it seemed somehow far different than both other times he had been there. But those times he had come as someone else. Once as Roman Forbes, begging a favor. The other as some half-civilized barbarian who did nothing but bang guards into oblivion and drag Tara to safety.
Hell fire! If they were recognized …
“I am Elise Fontaine,” Tara said, “and mon frere, Lord Fontaine.” Her accent was impeccable, her elegance all but tangible.
From the top of the carpeted stairs, Lord Harrington hurried down toward them. His spindly legs were encased in forest green hose, his upper body swathed in a short, voluminous gown of the same bright hue. ‘Twas a gay costume, but there was, perhaps, a certain desperation as he took Tara’s hand.
“My apologies, my dear, do I…” He paused as their gazes met, and his tone quieted. “It almost seems as if I knew you … long ago. But…” He shook his head, looking bemused. “Do I know—”
“I invited them, Father,” said Christine. She hurried down the arched hall from the left. She wore a light blue gown of patterned velvet. Her cheeks were pale, her blue eyes very bright, and on her wrist, she wore a band of sapphires and diamonds. “Elise?”
For a moment, Roman held his breath, for uncertainty was obvious in Christine’s tone.
“Christine,” crooned Tara, sweeping her arms wide to pull the girl into her embrace. “I would know you anywhere, mon amie. I heard so much about you.”
There was just a moment’s delay before Christine caught the inference and played along. ‘Twas quite apparent she had expected Tara to arrive and had spent no small amount of time considering what she might say. “And Elizabeth talks of little else but the summer you and she spent together.”
For just an instant, Roman saw a congratulatory gleam in Tara’s eye. In fact, she nodded once as she smiled and gently pressed the girl to arms’ length. The bracelet, Roman noticed, was still on Christine’s arm.
“You are fully as beautiful as I supposed you would be,” Tara said, beaming. Not in a thousand years would Roman have guessed she was acting. “Lizzy did not exaggerate a bit, did she, Seymore?”
Hell fire! He didn’t know any Lizzy, and he was beginning to sweat. “Non,” he managed, and Tara laughed with that tinkling, silvery sound that was all her own.
“Mon frere of many words,” she said. “I think, could it be, you have smitten him dumb with your beauty, Christine?”
“Lady Christine,” called a young nobleman dressed in scarlet hose and waistcoat, “your guests are begging to hear you sing. Come.” The young man walked, or rather, Roman thought, he tinkled toward them. “The world grows dull without your beauty to lighten it.”
Roman managed to contain his scowl, but there was little wonder the girl had been smitten by David MacAulay, he thought. Highlanders may have their faults, but at least they were men and not… fairymen.
“But…” There was a certain degree of desperation in Christine’s tone as she was guided away. “Elise has just arrived. And I—”
“I shall entertain Lady Fontaine and her brother,” interrupted her father. “Go with Lord Beaumont now. ‘Twill give me a moment to learn something about Lord Fontaine.”
Christine pursed her lips slightly, but she nodded and, taking Beaumont’s arm, disappeared through the archway.
Tara studied Harrington as he watched Christine depart. He was but an old man, she realized, and though that thought was no new revelation, it still surprised her somehow. He was old and frail, and mayhap long past hating.
“She is indeed a lovely child,” Tara said, still watching him.
“My only daughter, now that Maude is gone.” Harrington’s voice was quiet and scratchy. “I suppose I have spoiled her shamelessly. Yet, she reminds me of mistakes long past. Mistakes I must redeem.” His expression was somber, as though he had forgotten the presence of his guests. “I will find her a good match.” His gaze strayed to a man dressed in russet brown. “Yonder is Lord Dasset.” Tara turned her gaze to the one indicated. He was not a particularly handsome man. His height and build were average, but he had a de
cided air of self-confidence. Silver streaked his hair. He turned to Harrington, nodded, then slowly shifted his eyes to look at Tara. She felt the impact of his gaze and could understand why Harrington might consider him a desirable match for his daughter. If he was looking for someone who could protect her, there was little doubt that this man could. Tara sensed power here. But she sensed something else as well. “A good match,” Harrington repeated thoughtfully, “mayhap ‘tis the best a father can offer his child.”
Tara pulled her gaze from Dasset and managed a smile. “Lord Beaumont looked to be a likely candidate.”
“Likely to be an idiot and waste his father’s fortune. She needs a solid man,” Harrington said, but then he caught himself. “Forgive me,” he said, extending his arm to her. “We have only just met, and I am rambling on as if we’ve known each other a lifetime. ‘Tis the trouble with becoming old. But I will bend your ear with my problems no more. So you are a friend of Lady Elizabeth?”
Tara took his arm, but for just an instant she trembled. “Is there a person in all of England that is not Lizzy’s friend? Even Seymour adores her,” she said, extending her other arm to Roman. “And he is so staid, he hardly likes anyone.”
Harrington glanced at Roman through shrewd old eyes. “There is something vaguely familiar about you, Lord Fontaine. Have we, mayhap, met before?”
Roman didn’t so much as glance at Tara, and his expression remained perfectly steady. Regardless of his disclaimers, he made a fine actor, and could make a better thief if his scruples would not ruin it for him.
“I have business in England with some frequency,” he said. “‘Tis a possibility we’ve met before. Do you know the duke of Perth, perchance?”
“Nay. I cannot say that I do. Is it business with the duke that brings you here?”
“In actuality, I have some business to discuss with the MacGowans of Dun Ard.”
“Business? With the Scots?”
Roman nodded solemnly, and Tara almost smiled. So he was not afraid to tread on familiar ground in the fear that he would be recognized. In fact, it seemed he almost challenged Harrington to do so. And what better way to disguise oneself than with confidence?
“In fact I have business with the lady of the MacGowans,” he said.
“A lady?”
“Have you not heard of the Flame and her steeds?”
“Nay.”
“You shall,” said Roman.
“To be quite frank, I am surprised to hear you would deal with the Scots,” Harrington said, stopping near a large banquet table.
Tara could feel Roman’s arm tighten beneath her hand. “And why would that surprise you, Lord Harrington?”
“They are a …” For a moment pain and anger showed in the old man’s eyes. “An immoral lot.”
“Immoral?” Roman questioned. Tara stared at him. Confidence was to be desired. But defending his countrymen, was not. “Nay. They may be, at times, too fervent, but they are not immoral.”
The anger was gone from the old man’s eyes. Pain and disillusionment remained. “I speak from some experience,” he said.
“I, too,” Roman said, ignoring the slight squeeze Tara gave his arm. “And never have I dealt with a more honest people.”
“Honest?”
“If a Scotsman says ‘tis so, ‘tis so.”
‘There are those that would agree with you,” Harrington said, gazing after his daughter. “And there are those who would argue.”
“Those who would argue do not know the Scots as I know them,” Roman said. Tara squeezed his arm again. Again he ignored her.
“And would you …” The old man stopped but finally continued. “Would you happen to have some acquaintance with the MacAulays?”
“The MacAulays…” Roman began. Tara gripped his arm harder. “Non,” he said finally. “I do not believe I know them.”
“I have known them some time,” said the old man. “In the past they have been honorable. But…” Again his gaze swept to the door where Christine had disappeared. “She is my only daughter.”
This man was her enemy, Tara reminded herself, but there was pain in his eyes, pain she almost wished she could ease.
“Honorable,” Roman said with a nod. “The Scots are that, and brave and loyal, and generous and—”
Tara snapped her attention back to the matter at hand and squeezed his arm with all her might. Their lives hung in the balance here, and he was waxing philosophical about his countrymen.
“Of course they can also be barbaric,” Roman finished lamely.
“Barbaric,” Harrington agreed, though his tone lacked conviction. “But mayhap we have all acted the barbarian at some time.
“Lord Crighton, ‘tis glad I am you could come,” he said, drawing himself from his reverie as a gentleman approached. “You should speak to Fontaine here. ‘Twould seem you share an interest in horses.”
Sweet Mary! Tara thought, ‘twas Lord Crighton without his mermaid staff. She longed to look at Roman, but he was already bowing toward the man who had once commissioned him to paint ceilings.
“And you, my dear,” Harrington said, taking Tara’s hand in his. “Ye remind me of someone I knew long ago before I was a fool. Would you honor me with a dance?”
For a moment, Tara quelled, but she could not fail now, for their lives hung in the balance.
Roman tried to relax as he walked through the open door near the banquet table. They had been at Harrington House for several hours, but he had not seen Tara for some time. As for himself, he had fooled Crighton, thus he could fool everyone else there. The worst was over.
“Lord Fontaine,” said a man who stood near a shrub shaped like a boar’s head, “I’m Dalbert Harrington. ‘Tis a pleasure to meet you.”
Roman almost swore aloud. He hadn’t seen Harrington’s son since their first meeting at the Red Fox, and he had no wish to see him now. “The pleasure is mine,” he said, stifling an oath.
Dalbert nodded as if he were prone to agree. Light from a high, nearby lantern showed that his lids were strangely lowered over his eyes. It took no scholar to realize he was drunk. “So you’re Lady Fontaine’s brother.”
Roman waited a moment for him to continue, but when he did not, Roman nodded. “Oui. She is mine.” He had not meant to make that statement sound quite so possessive, but now that the words were out, he felt no desire to reel them back. “‘Tis growing late,” he added. “Have you perchance seen her?”
It seemed to take a moment for the question to seep into Dalbert’s whiskey-soaked brain. “Aye, I’ve seen her. In fact…” He turned rather clumsily just as Tara rounded the corner of the house. Her hand was placed on a gentleman’s arm. She was alluring beyond words. Her laughter was gay, her smile dazzling, her figure hourglass perfect, with her breasts pressed high and her waist cinched to an impossible width. “There she is now.”
Just then she looked at Roman. Their gazes met. Roman felt his pulse race with that brief contact. Jealously flared up. She could flirt so easily, entice without effort. She nodded then walked on past.
“Good God,” Dalbert murmured, drinking again, “she’s got a great pair of . ..” He glanced at Roman, chuckled, drank again. “Eyes.”
Animal rage spurred through Roman. He had almost forgotten that Dalbert had put his hands on Tara. She had been Betty then, but it mattered naught what she called herself. She was his, and he would not tolerate any man dishonoring her.
“Oui.” Roman forced a smile. “Oui, she has our mother’s eyes. Very blue. Much like the water in your fountain just yonder. And by the by,” Roman said, taking Dalbert’s arm. “I had a question about that fountain. Would you be so kind as to accompany me there?”
“Well, I really must relieve myself,” said Dalbert, but Roman towed him gently along.
“‘Twill only take a moment.”
Roman reentered Harrington House feeling considerably better. It seemed Dalbert couldn’t swim even in three feet of water, and had decided to take a w
ee nap beside the fountain after the exertion he’d expended on splashing about.
Roman skimmed the crowd. It was not difficult finding Tara, for she was the center of attention. Not a small percentage of her audience was male. Roman moved closer.
“I do love your gown,” said a woman with an outrageous hat and a nose far too long for her face. “What kind of fur is that?”
Roman held his breath.
Tara laughed. “My tailor assures me ‘tis a rare kind of golden ermine only found in the northern regions of Finland,” she said, drawing her attention back to her audience. “But if the truth be told, I think ‘tis naught more than a dead cat.”
Her listeners dissolved into laughter.
Only Tara O’Flynn could speak the truth like a lie and a lie like the truth. And only Tara O’Flynn could steal his heart with the dexterity of a magician. That knowledge gave him no peace.
“Cat or golden ermine…” said the man Harrington had referred to as Lord Dasset. He emerged gracefully from the crowd. There was something strangely familiar about that voice. Something strange. But what was it? “You would look royal in either.” Roman watched him lift Tara’s hand to his lips. “Rather like a gypsy princess I once met.”
Realization ripped through Roman like a summer storm. Lord Dasset—Lord Dagger! They were one and the same.
Chapter 23
Every instinct vibrated within Tara. This was Lord Dagger. A noble, a gentleman—a murderer. She knew it. She sensed it. But did he recognize her? And if he did, what would he do about it?
She tilted her head and smiled as he kissed her hand. “A gypsy princess?” she said with her heart hammering wildly. “I know not whether to think that an insult or a compliment.”
“Most assuredly a compliment,” he said. His gaze was sharp, though there was the suggestion of a smile on his lips. “The princess was quite intriguing.”
“Sister mine,” said Roman from her right. “Have you recovered from the ache in your head?”
Sweet Mary! For just a moment Tara was tempted almost beyond control to reach for Roman’s hand. But now was not the time to show fear, for surely Lord Dagger could smell that emotion the way a hound could smell blood.
Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) Page 26