She heard running footsteps, whispered voices. Someone had joined Dagger.
They were coming. She could wait no longer. She would have to take the final risk. Tara grasped Roman’s sleeve. Her fingers were numb. She willed them to tighten, tugging harder. He moved, floating along beside her.
‘There! What is that?”
“It’s them!”
“Get out there!”
“Get ‘em!”
Roman was about to die. He would die, if he weren’t already dead. Sweet Mary, please no! The silent lament sang through her heart. “Please no,” she whispered, and placing her hands on Roman’s shoulders, pushed him under.
He didn’t resist as his head sank below the surface. Tara willed herself not to think of that as she joined him beneath the waves. He was alive. He was merely holding his breath. He had to be. She managed to propel them through the water. Time wavered. Reality dimmed. She could die here with him. What would it matter? Her lungs ached, begging for air, but she moved on, dragging Roman through the dark water, willing him to live.
But finally she could wait no longer. Lungs bursting, she shot to the surface. Air rushed in, sweet, intoxicating, and for a moment she had no strength to worry about Dagger or his men. She was alive for this moment, and that was enough.
Beside her, Roman coughed. Praise God, he was alive. She had to keep moving.
Not bothering to try to distinguish the shadowy forms on the shores, Tara pushed her numb muscles back into motion, dragging Roman along behind her as she trod through the water.
Minutes turned to hours and hours to eternity. The night stretched interminably before her, until finally, exhausted and freezing, she dragged him to shore.
Shaking, she pulled the amulet from her neck and slipped it over his head with a prayer. When she pressed her ear to his chest, she could hear a pulse, but it would not be there long, not if she didn’t get him warm and dry.
Clamping her hands over her freezing arms, she glanced around. Dawn was approaching. And with it, additional dangers, or help. She waited for a moment, trying to think.
The sound of a horse’s hooves finally penetrated her mind. What should she do? The Shadow, with her precision timing and unflappable bravery was indeed dead. In her place was Tara O’Flynn, terrified and uncertain. But she could not stay there on the bank of the firth forever.
One silent prayer and she was up the slope to the road. A piebald horse was trotting down the lane. It snorted at the sight of her and swerved, rattling the narrow cart behind it.
“‘Oo goes there?” called a quavering voice.
One quick glance in each direction assured Tara that the road was empty but for this one traveler. “‘Tis just me,” she said, stepping into the clearing.
The woman on the wagon skimmed her gaze over Tara and then into the brush from which she had stepped. “What be ya doin’ out ‘ere?”
Tara took another step forward. Her legs wobbled dangerously. “I’m in trouble.”
“I’d like ta ‘elp ya, lass,” said the woman, shifting her nervous gaze sideways again as if searching for villains, “but I needs ta get these fishes ta market ‘fore the sun sets ‘em ta stinking.”
“Please.” How rarely had Tara begged before this past week. But pride had abandoned her since Roman’s entrance into her life.
The woman chewed her lip. “I got ta go. Mr. Cobb’s been laid up, I’m alls what stands between the babes and hunger.” She raised the reins to drive the piebald on. Tara stepped into the middle of the road, trying to think with her senses as she always had. Fear and fatigue weighed her down, but perhaps instinct took over.
“Your husband, will he mend soon?” she asked quickly. Her mind was spinning. She had to think. The sun was rising, pushing a pale, predawn glow over the world.
The woman nodded, settling her rein-bearing hands back on her knees. “‘E’s been down a bit. But ‘e’ll be up and givin’ little Margaret pig-a-back rides soon enough.” A mixture of hope and adoration shone in her eyes, but she shifted them again as if remembering she spoke to a stranger. “Do I know ya, lass?”
Tara shook her head. A scheme was beginning to surface.
“Are you alone?”
There was no time for mistakes now, and very little time to think. “Nay. I’ve… I’ve a friend down by the river.”
Mrs. Cobb tensed, ready to flee. Tara took one step closer.
“Please, I need your help. My Rory…” She dropped her face into her cupped palms and felt the sob rise in her throat with no urging. “My Rory! Such a good man is he. ‘Tis not our fault he was born to the anvil and I to the manor.” She lifted her face to gaze imploring at the fishmonger. “‘Tis not our fault.”
“‘Oly saints,” the woman murmured as Tara’s words sunk home to her. “‘Oo are ya, lass.”
Tara bit her lip. Time was fleeting. “My name’s Christine,” she whispered just loudly enough to be heard. “Christine Harrington.”
Chapter 25
Roman shivered as Mrs. Cobb touched his forehead. “‘E’s freezin’ cold.” Her eyes were shrewd and quick as they scanned his scarred chest, his broken nose, his fishhooked ear. Bloody water dripped from various parts of his body into the cold earth beneath him. “What ‘append ‘ere?”
“It was Dagger,” Tara whispered.
“Dagger!” Cobb started, her eyes going wide with fear. “Yer tellin’ fibs, lass.”
“Nay. I swear ‘tis true. ‘Twas Dagger and his men what did this to him.”
“God’s grace! Why ever for?”
“They stole a precious necklace. My Rory…” She glanced at Roman’s unconscious form and sent up a silent prayer. If God would let him live, if he would only grant that one request, she would gladly give up her own life. “He thought mayhap if he could retrieve the necklace, Father might look kindly on him. Might even allow us to marry. He got the necklace back,” she whispered. “But Dagger found him. We made it to the river… If he dies …” Her voice betrayed her. Her world crumbled.
“Sweet Mother of God,” Mrs. Cobb murmured. “What a tale ya’ve got, lass. And no time ta tell it. But where will we take ‘im?”
“To Harrington House.” Tara barely breathed the words. “Father may be harsh, but he’ll not turn his back on my Rory. I will not let him.”
Mrs. Cobb watched her eyes for a moment, then nodded brusquely. “‘Old on ta love, lass. For sometimes ‘tis all we’ve got. But no time for that. No time.” She bent her back, gripping Roman’s feet in her capable hands. “Let’s get him on the cart.”
It was not a simple task carrying Roman up the slope, for he was large and wet. But finally they succeeded.
Dawn was breaking over the eastern horizon when they laid him on the fish in the back of the wagon and covered him with a tarp.
“Will the Daggermen recognize ya, lass?” asked Cobb.
Tara managed a nod and found herself shoved beneath the tarp beside Roman.
It was dark and fetid beneath the canvas. The cart beneath them groaned as it lurched forward. Minutes dragged by like a lifetime in hell. Beside Tara, Roman shivered. She wrapped her arms about him, feeling the beat of his heart and praying.
The wheels were noisy against the road. The piebald’s hoofbeats were a steady trot, but suddenly Tara thought she heard another cadence, rapid, galloping, approaching.
“Fishwife! You!”
Sweet Mary! She would recognize Dagger’s voice anywhere. Don’t stop, please don’t stop, she wanted to beg. But the cart slowed and finally rattled to a halt.
“Good morningtide, yer lordship,” said Mrs. Cobb. “Were ya wishin’ ta buy me fish? I’ve all sorts, cod, haddock, mackerel, fresh caught this mornin’.”
Tara could hear her turn on her seat, felt a light tug on the canvas that covered her.
“Have you seen a man?” The baron’s voice had lost its smoothness.
For a moment there was a blank silence, then, “A man, yer lordship?”
“Yes,
God damn it,” he swore in raspy rage. “A barbarian, half-dressed and wounded.”
“Wounded, m’ lord?”
“He stole!” The words sounded as if they were issued from between gritted teeth. “Stole what is mine. No one steals from me. No one.”
“What… what did ‘e steal?”
There was another pause as if Dagger was coming to his senses. “Have you seen him?” he growled.
“No. No, m’lord, I was but goin’ ta deliver my fresh fishes ta—”
“Get the hell out of my way!” snarled Dagger.
The cart was jostled as he spurred his mount past the piebald, and then he was gone, racing off down the road.
Tara exhaled and closed her eyes in silent prayer.
“Damn dumb aristocrat,” muttered Cobb, then, “just a little farther. Hold on, lass.”
The cart jolted back into motion.
“‘Tis a wonder ye are ta me lass.”
“Roman,” Tara gasped, gripping his arm. “You’re awake.”
But his eyes were already falling closed.
“Roman!” She tightened her grip. “Don’t go. Please. Wake up. I need to tell you something.”
His eyes opened slowly, found her with some difficulty.
“This is my fault.” She whispered the words to him. “‘Tis all my fault.”
“Nay, lass, tis—”
“Shh. Nay. Don’t talk. Save your strength. You are so strong, so fine,” she whispered. “I couldn’t resist you, though I knew I should. Now look what I caused,” she whispered, then paused, fighting for strength of her own. “I was right all along. You and I… we are not meant to be. But I’ll get you to safety. I’ll take you to Harrington. He will free MacAulay. The two of you will return to your homeland.”
For a moment nothing could be heard but the steady clop of the piebald’s hooves. Roman’s eyes were steady on hers.
“Nay, lass. We will never succeed. Dagger is too powerful. We would be well lucky ta escape past the walls of Firthport. Nay.” He breathed deeply. She felt his chest expand beneath her arm. “I will die. But I am ready, so long as I know ye are safe.” He touched her face. “Leave, lass. Leave while there is yet time.”
“I’ll not leave you to die, Scotsman,” she said through her teeth.
“But die I will, lass, unless…”
“What?” Hope sprang at her from nowhere. “Unless what?”
“Fiona Rose. I have seen her do miracles,” he whispered. “If I could but reach Glen Creag, I would have a chance. But…” He shook his head again. “I am far gone. Only yer cleverness could get me there. And I willna allow ye ta risk yer life again. Go, lass. Go now.”
“Fiona Rose.” She breathed the name. “Your mother. The healer. Of course. Hold on, Scotsman. Hold on!” she pleaded. “I will get you to your father’s house. And God have mercy on anyone who tries to stop me.”
For just a moment, Tara almost thought she saw Roman smile, but then the expression was gone, and his eyes fell closed.
The cart jolted to a halt.
“‘Ere we be, lass. ‘Arlington ‘ouse.”
Tara pushed the tarp from her head. The world seemed bright now, but no less dangerous. Covering Roman again, she climbed from the dray. The manse loomed above her. Panic swelled within her.
“Yer not really ‘is daughter are ya, lass?” Cobb said softly.
Tara swallowed and shook her head absently. “Nay, I am not.”
“What do we do now?”
“We go in. Harrington will help us. He must help us,” Tara said, but for a moment, she couldn’t move.
“Come, lass,” said Mrs. Cobb, raising her chin. “I’ll ‘elp ya to the door. Ya must be strong now.”
Tara nodded. She tried to slip into a character, but fear and fatigue kept her firmly within herself. Still, she could not fail, for Roman needed her.
She took one step, then another. The house loomed overhead. The animal-shaped shrubbery passed silently, like green gargoyles.
The door felt hard and solid beneath Tara’s knuckles. It opened. A face of a servant appeared, seeming strangely disembodied.
“I…” She managed that one word before she weakened. “I must see Lord Harrington.”
The butler snorted and tried to close the door, but suddenly a hand was pushing it open. It was smeared with blood and drying mud.
Tara jerked about only to find Roman standing behind her. “Open the door,” he rumbled.
Tara wrapped her arm about his waist.
“Leave this house,” insisted the servant, pushing at the portal, but Roman kept his hand as it was. “I am na afraid ta die, man. Can ye say the same?”
The doorman remained as he was for an abbreviated instant then stepped smartly back. The door sprang open.
Tara stood on the threshold, unable to move.
“‘Tis too late to change the course of things now,” Cobb said.
“I am with ye, lass,” Roman murmured. Strength. Even now he possessed it like a protective shield. Tara drew a deep breath and stepped forward.
“Harrington.” Her voice shook. She drew a breath and yelled again, her voice steadier this time. “Harrington!”
Servants hurried from every direction, only to stop and gawk at the ragtag trio that had breached their home. Tara nearly quelled under their gazes. But she drew herself up. “I’ve come to see your lord,” she said weakly.
“You can’t burst in here like this,” said one maid. “Get yourself gone now.”
For a moment Tara almost backed out. But Roman was wounded. “Harrington!” She screamed the name.
The servants milled nervously.
“Harrington!”
“You can’t—”
“What is this racket about?” The old man appeared at the top of the stairs. “What goes on here?”
“I’ve come,” Roman rasped.
“Dear God!” Harrington gripped the rail in gnarled hands. “Is that you, Forbes?”
Roman managed to lift his head, but did not dare leave the support of Tara’s arms.
Harrington hurried down the stairs. Tara watched him, breath held, nerves taut. He was an old man, she reminded herself. Old and frail, with a pale face and a bitter heart.
He stopped before them. For a moment there was something in his eyes, something akin to sympathy, but it was snuffed out in an instant. “Have you the necklace?”
Roman nodded. Tara drew out the pouch with one hand. The leather was slick and wet against her fingers. Slipping it from her neck, she handed it to Harrington.
His gaze held her for a moment, then he tipped the pouch upside down. Two drops of water dripped onto his palm, but nothing else.
The room was silent as a tomb.
“Nay.” Tara whispered the word. So luck had finally abandoned her when she needed it most. When she had finally found someone to live for, it had left. She closed her eyes. “I am sorry,” she whispered, not daring to face him.
Silence again, heavy and long, then, “It is gone?” Roman asked.
Sweet Mary. She would give her life not to disappoint him. “In the river,” she whispered.
Harrington’s nostrils flared. He slapped the pouch to the floor. “Then MacAulay dies.”
“Nay!” Christine appeared at the top of the stairs. “Please, Father!” She rushed toward them, skimming down the steps.
“I have made my deals,” he said, rage showing in his face. “But even the Scotsman didn’t care enough for his kinsmen to fulfill his end of the bargain. ‘Tis all an intricate plan. First MacAulay steals your mother’s ring, then Forbes takes the necklace. And now the bracelet, too, is gone.”
“Father. I beg you! ‘Twas not David that did the deeds.”
“The boy dies!” Harrington raged, turning on his daughter.
But in that moment, Tara O’Flynn marshaled all her strength. “He does not die,” she said, her voice absolutely steady.
“What’s that?” Harrington turned back.
S
he watched him face her, watched his eyes narrow.
“If you think I will not follow through with my threat, you are sadly mistaken.”
“I am not mistaken,” Tara said. “You will not do as you threaten, for you owe me.”
“You!” He snorted, raising his chin.
She raised hers in unison, meeting his eyes.
“I owe you nothing,” he said, but his voice was not so sure now, and his face showed his uncertainty.
“Aye,” she said quietly. “You owe me more than you can ever give.”
Recognition dawned on Harrington’s face. But he pushed the expression away and shook his head as if he had seen a ghost. “Who are you?” he whispered.
Silence echoed in the hall.
“I am your granddaughter,” Tara whispered.
Chapter 26
“Daughter!” Harrington gasped, falling back on a settle where he clutched his chest. “My little Maude. You’ve come back.” He faltered, breathing hard. “But nay! It couldn’t be. Who … Who are you?”
Tara said nothing. She stood immobile. Memories rushed around her like a whistling gale.
“Lady Fontaine,” he whispered. “I knew your eyes. Your mother’s eyes. But I thought ‘twas only my guilt twisting the blade in my gut. Dear God.” His hands shook.
“Father!” Christine said, crouching beside him. “What is this all about?”
“Tara.” Harrington whispered the name. “Your name is Tara.”
“Tara?” Christine straightened slowly. “My half sister’s daughter? But she died as a babe before I was born.”
Harrington’s gaze remained on Tara. “I searched for you. Searched. She wrote to me.” He squeezed his eyes closed, as if shutting out the memories. “But I did not read her missives. I would have nothing to do with her until I learned of you. I could not bear to think of my grandchild growing up there, so far from home with a penniless father and …” He faltered. “My Maude,” he whispered. “You are so beautiful.”
“Father.” Christine dropped to her knees again, gripping the old man’s hands. “Maude is gone. Died of the plague long ago. Do you not remember?”
“The plague?” Tara whispered. Unreality threatened to pull her under its swirling tide, but she fought for breath and life.
Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) Page 29