“You don’t remember?” Christine asked, looking up at Tara. “But no, or course you wouldn’t.” She shook her head. Tears brimmed her sky blue eyes. “You were but a babe when your mother died. Father thought the disease must have taken you as well.”
‘The plague!” Tara said, her voice stronger. Fire suddenly burned her mind. Her mother’s scream torched her soul.
“Please!” Harrington lifted his face. “Please, forgive me. I loved her,” he whispered, looking first at Tara, then at Christine. “She was the image of my Mary. So young and fair and vibrant. I would have given my life to make her happy. I did not know…” His voice had become fainter still. “I did not know how she loved … that Irishman. I was certain she would not be happy with him. Not after all I had given her here. I thought ‘twas but a young girl’s fancy. I sent them for her. That’s all. I but sent them for her.” His face fell into his hands again.
“‘Tis not your fault, Father. You could do nothing. The plague takes who it will.”
“No!” He shook her hands away, suddenly fretful. “No! ‘Tis not true. ‘Twas not the plague that took her life. ‘Twas a bitter, jealous, old man who couldn’t bear to lose both his wife and his daughter in the same year.
“I sent men for her. I told them to do what they must to bring her and the child back home. I did not mean for O’Flynn to die. Oh, I hated him!” He gripped his hands into blue-veined fists. “I hated him for taking her from me. But I didn’t mean for them to kill him. The fire! It was an accident. Why did she go in there when it was ablaze?”
“Because he loved him,” Tara whispered. “More than life.”
Silence wrung the place.
“All I had to remember her by was the portrait they brought back. I am sorry.” His words were but a whisper. “Dear God, I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”
“I can never forgive,” Tara said, lost somewhere in a world of broken memories. “But if you set MacAulay free, maybe your daughter will.”
Harrington rose shakily. “Edmond, get my carriage.”
“No,” Tara said, stepping forward. “Dagger will expect Roman to come here. He’ll connect him to you. It won’t be safe.”
“Then…”
“Lord ‘arrington, your carriage awaits.” Liam bowed in the doorway, his tattered clothes in comic difference to his manner.
“Liam,” Tara breathed. “How did you get here?”
He grinned. “I never doubted you’d make it through, but ‘e don’t look so good,” he said, nodding to Roman. “Feigning weakness so she’ll take care of ya, huh?”
“Just get MacAulay,” Roman growled irritably from his seat near the door.
Harrington’s mouth had fallen open.
“No time to dawdle,” Liam said. “Victor felt a need ta lend me Lady Milan’s team again.”
“The dowager’s team?” Harrington gasped.
“No time for questions,” Liam said, grasping the old man’s arm and ushering him through the door. Christine hurried after, but Harrington turned on her, his face pale. “You’ll stay here.”
“I will not,” she said evenly.
“I’ll not take you along.”
“Then I’ll procure a ride from this fishwife.”
Mrs. Cobb swallowed hard, but raised her chin as if in silent defense of young love.
Harrington shook his head, “My own daughter,” he mumbled, but Liam was already hurrying him to where the team of bays stood champing at their bits.
Still, Christine paused a moment. “Missus,” she said softly to the fishwife, and slipping a gold ring from her finger, pressed it into the woman’s rough hand. “I would thank you,” she said, and rushed away.
In a moment Liam and the Harringtons were gone. Mrs. Cobb bobbed her head toward Tara. “I don’t know who ya are, lass. But you’ve got heart. Take care of ‘im, will ya?” she asked, nodding toward Roman.
“I will,” Tara whispered.
Mrs. Cobb turned, hurrying toward her humble cart. The house went quiet, like a tomb awaiting a new arrival.
Tara swallowed. Servants surrounded her, their eyes wide, their jaws slightly ajar.
“I… I might fetch you water and bandages … for the … gentleman … Mistress … O’Flynn,” said a nervous maid.
Tara nodded jerkily and swallowed again. She could creep as silent as a shadow through a darkened house. She could face the Dagger as a gypsy girl, or risk her life in a thousand other ways. But standing here in the hall of her grandfather’s mansion frightened her to death. Nevertheless, she would do what needed doing.
They had seen to Roman’s wounds as best they could, but time passed like a dirge. He slept fitfully, passing in and out of slumber.
“Lass,” Roman said softly, and she jerked, leaning closer. “Are ye well?”
“Roman,” she murmured, touching his brow, “I am sorry.”
“For trying to save me life?” he asked. He tilted up one corner of his mouth. Although he didn’t raise his head from the cot they’d set up for him, he looked stronger. Hope surged through her.
“For endangering your life,” she whispered.
“Ahh,” he murmured, touching her face in turn, “but did I na tell ye ‘twas worth the trouble ta have known ye.”
“Don’t talk like that. As if…” Her voice failed. Terror gripped her heart. She loved him. Dear God, she loved him. She drew her hand back, frightened by the intensity of her emotions, but in that moment, Roman’s eyes fell closed.
“Scotsman. Scotsman!” she said, gripping his arm.
His lids rose, but slowly and only to half-mast. “Lass…” His voice was weak. She leaned closer, trying to hear. “Dunna let me die here. Tek me ta the Highlands.”
“Roman!” A Scotsman rushed through the door. He was bearded and filthy, but he moved with quick assurance.
The Harringtons followed behind him.
Tara rose abruptly to her feet. Roman opened his eyes, but remained where he was.
“Sweet Jesu,” murmured MacAulay, bending over Roman. “What has happened here?”
The smile again, slowly lifting one corner of Roman’s mouth. He raised a hand which was quickly clasped in his countryman’s. “‘Tis a long story, me friend. And I have na time for the telling.”
Beneath the grime and beard, Tara saw David pale. “‘Tis as bad as that?”
Roman let his smile drop away, shifted his gaze fretfully to Tara and then back to his friend’s. “I dunna wish ta die on English soil,” he said simply.
David closed his eyes and tightened his grip, but in a moment he turned to Christine. “I must see me friend safely ta our homeland.”
“I know,” she agreed.
“And ya’d best ‘urry,” said Liam from where he looked out the window. ” ‘Is lordship won’t stay gone for long.”
“His lordship?” Harrington said.
“You’ve heard of Lord Dagger?” Roman asked, his voice quiet.
“Yes, but—”
“Some call him Lord Dasset.”
“Nay.” Harrington paled. “It couldn’t be.”
Roman closed his eyes again. “If you love yer daughter,” he said weakly, “dunna let him near her.”
“Dear God!”
“It ain’t that I want to break up the party,” Liam said. “But my ‘orses is restless.”
“Can you walk?” asked Tara. She had bandaged his wounds and dressed him in one of Harrington’s voluminous shirts. Hose had been harder to come by, but finally one of the manservants had given him a serviceable pair.
“I’ll make it, lass, if I can lean on ye.”
His confidence in her ripped her heart. She had done nothing but wound him since the first moment they’d met. But she wouldn’t fail him now.
Roman gritted his teeth as his feet touched the floor, but he rose quickly. They moved in tandem toward the door.
‘Tara.” Harrington’s voice was quiet. She stopped to look over her shoulder at him. “You have her spirit. My Ma
ude would have been proud of you. I but wish I could begin again.”
For a moment she held her breath. He had caused her parents’ death, had thrust her into a world of theft and want. But he was her grandfather, old and frail and hurting. Roman’s weight lightened on her shoulder, as if he were urging her to go to him. But the memories were too clear. She turned back toward the door, needing air.
Outside, it had begun to rain. They hurried through the weather. The coach leaned as Roman entered it. The seats were red, soft, tufted. Tara eased Roman onto one. He dragged her down beside him. She tried to disengage, to shift toward the window and watch for trouble, but he seemed weaker suddenly, and held her there with a heavy arm.
“Roman?” She breathed his name. “How are you faring?”
“So long as I’m with ye, I dunna feel the pain so sharp.”
“But I should watch—”
MacAulay entered. His gaze met Roman’s and locked. Understanding flowed between them. “I will watch,” he said.
“‘Ere,” said Liam, pulling a sheathed sword miraculously from his hose and handing it to David. “Ye may need this.”
“Where did you—”
“And one for you, Scotch,” Liam said, pulling another from the right leg of his hose.
Tara shook her head and reached for the weapon. “He’s too badly wounded,” she said.
Liam snorted and opened his mouth, but Roman caught his gaze and took the sword himself.
“Where’d ye get them?” repeated David.
“Folks shouldn’t leave such things ‘anging carelessly on walls and what not.”
“Ye stole them from—” David began, but Liam was already hurrying up to the seat behind the bays. “He stole them?” asked David, turning toward his countryman.
“Watch yer beard,” said Roman, glancing out the window, “lest he take a liking ta that.”
From the seat above, they heard the boy chuckle. Then they lurched into motion.
Again, Tara tried to move to the window, but Roman groaned. “Please dunna move, lass. Ye shelter me from the bumps just as ye are.”
Houses skirted both sides of them. Roman watched them rush past as he weighed Tara close to him. They had been relatively safe at Harrington House, but already the city changed. Wealth and prestige was falling behind, replaced by the ragtag end of society. Dagger owned this world. “Are there na routes skirting the slums of Firthport?” Roman asked, and was Liam to be trusted, he wondered, not shifting his watchful gaze from the window.
“There are,” Tara said. “But Liam will take the straightest course to the main gate. ‘Tis the quickest way out of the city.”
“Or to Dagger,” Roman murmured.
“What?”
He could feel her gaze on his face and turned to look at her. For a moment, for just one sharp shard of time, his heart stopped. Her hair was still damp and swept away from her face to expose each line with harsh clarity. Her skin was pale, whether from fatigue or worry, he wasn’t sure. She was a thief, a ragamuffin. And he loved her so that his soul ached at the sight of her. But he would not say it aloud again. He would not frighten her. Not yet. They were on their way to the Highlands, and that was enough.
They rattled along. Although the motion jabbed knives of pain through every part of Roman’s body, it also lulled him. Sleep had been too short and too seldom. The blow to his head wore at him, but he could not sleep, could not relax his vigil.
Finally the frenetic pace slowed to something more sedate. They turned a corner, using all four wheels for the first time, Roman was certain. For several more rods they trotted along, and then they stopped.
“Where are we?” Roman rumbled. Tara tried to see around him, but he held her back. There was no saying who might recognize her.
“We’re at the gate,” David said.
“Who are you and what’s your business?” They could hear the guard’s voice clearly from where they sat.
“Me name’s Joseph, and me lord’s business is none of your concern,” said Liam, as cocky as any high-ranking servant.
But Tara gasped suddenly.
Roman jerked his head toward her. “What’s amiss?”
“Liam’s clothes. He doesn’t have the proper costume.” She whispered the words.
For a moment the guard was silent, then, “Who is your lord?”
“‘Is name’s Lord Argle? P’raps you’ve ‘eard of ‘im.”
“Nay, I haven’t.”
Roman could hear Liam fill his chest with air. “Well, ‘e’ll ‘ear bout you if’n ya don’t cease wastin’ our time.”
Tara half stood to step forward. Roman reeled her back, and drawing a breath for strength, poked his head through the window. “What is the meaning of the delay, garcon?” he asked. His French accent was shaky, but he had managed to assume the irritated tone of the upper crust.
There was a moment of silence. The guard moved toward the back of the coach.
“My apologies, m’lord,” called Liam. “But this neminar says he ain’t never ‘eard of you. Shall we lippiate ‘im?”
Neminar? Lippiate? Roman allowed himself one swift glance over his shoulder at Tara.
She shrugged, looking bewildered.
The guard stopped. “Who you calling a numi…nar?”
“You,” Liam said, effectively drawing the guard away from getting a closer view of the coach’s occupants.
“And you think you can … What the hell do you think you can do to me?”
“Huh,” chortled Liam from his perch behind the bays. “Only a barbarian don’t know French.”
“He doesn’t know French,” Tara whispered, shifting toward the door once more.
Again Roman pulled her back. Hell fire! He was traveling with a bunch of lunatics. “Keep her inside,” he ordered David.
It took all his self-control to open the door and step out without wincing. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked.
The guard shifted his attention from Liam to Roman. His gaze skimmed the man before him, assessing, calculating.
“I’m sorry, m’ lord,” he said. “But we’ve had some trouble here this morning. It seems Baron Dasset was robbed. We’ve orders to stop all coaches and—”
His words were cut short as four men sprang from the bushes near the bridge out of nowhere. They threw themselves at Roman. But he’d kept Harrington’s weapon in his hand. He swiped with it now. A man screamed and fell back. The second lunged at him. Roman dodged behind the door, but even that movement nearly threw him to the ground. A sword twanged against the lacquered wood.
“Roman!” Tara screamed, trying to draw him back.
She was close, far too close to the danger.
“Drive!” he roared, battling to right himself and fend off the next attack.
There was a yell from Liam. The horses lunged against their traces. The carriage was yanked into motion. Roman tried to go with it, to keep his hold on the door, to swing inside, but someone had grabbed his shirt.
“No!” Tara screamed, and suddenly she was in the doorway.
Dear Jesu! She was going to jump after him, he realized suddenly. Kicking his assailant aside, he swung on the door toward the carriage. Hands grabbed him, pulled him up. Men yelled. Horses screamed. Roman landed on the red cushion and slammed the door behind him. From up above, he heard Liam laugh with wild triumph.
“He’s insane,” Roman said, still gripping the sword in one hand.
“Never do that again. Don’t ever do that again!” Tara raved. “You could have been killed.”
He managed not to smile. “Me apologies,” he said, and kissed her. “It seems I forgot to leave all the risk ta ye.”
“They’re coming,” David said, pulling his head inside.
“How many?”
“Four thus far, all mounted.”
“How long can we outpace them?”
David shook his head. “I dunna know these horses.”
“Ask the lad,” Roman ordered.
&nb
sp; Tara popped away from his side, levered her body through the window. “How long can we outrun them, Liam?” she yelled into the oncoming wind.
“Sweet Jesu!” Roman swore, grasping her gown near her buttocks. “Get in here.”
“These champions will run till they drop,” yelled Liam. “But we can only hold a lead for half a league, maybe less.”
Roman reeled Tara in with another curse.
“Half a league,” she panted. “Maybe less.”
“Don’t ever do that again,” Roman warned.
“There’s a woods ahead,” David said.
“We could find cover, unhitch the team, and ride astride,” Roman suggested. Poking his head out the window, he glanced behind. Their followers were hidden behind a hill.
“You can’t ride,” Tara said. “‘Twould never be safe.”
“If the steeds have the heart Liam thinks they have, we might yet win the day,” Roman reasoned.
“You can’t ride.”
“If we can unhitch quickly enough,” David said, “we might be able to outrun them.”
“Outrun them? We could never outrun them. Roman is badly wounded. He cannot ride.”
Roman glanced at her. “With ye beside me I could fly, lass.”
“But…” Tara said.
“David, how far is it to the woods?”
“A quarter league, maybe less.”
“But…” she said again. “I can’t.”
Roman turned to her with a scowl, then noticed her pale expression. “Canna what?”
“Cannot ride,” she murmured.
“Yer scairt ta ride?” Roman asked.
“Not scared,” she corrected. “Never learned.”
“Praise the saints,” Roman said. “I’ve found something she’s scairt of.”
“Not scared,” she said again, then bounced as they hit a particularly rough spot in the road. “Untutored.”
Roman spared half a grin, then sobered, “Ye could ride with me, but twould slow down the steed and we dunna have enough of a lead for that.”
“Then there’s little choice but for ye ta jump out,” David said.
“It appears so,” Roman agreed. “At the third rise, slow the team for the count of ten, then push them to the hilt and dunna look back.”
Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) Page 30