Highland Wolf (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  “What?” Tara asked.

  “We’ll hide in the wood,” Roman said. “Liam and David will drive on, find a likely spot, unhitch the horses, and lose the guards before returning to us.”

  “Hide in the woods, and let Liam take the risk?” Tara asked aghast.

  “‘Tis the safest thing for ye,” David said, then caught his friend’ glare and corrected himself. “For Roman, I mean. ‘Tis the safest thing for Roman. Wounded as he is, he’ll not be able ta ride hard enough ta escape.”

  “‘Tis settled then,” Roman said. “Can ye tell Liam of our plans?”

  Tara leaned toward the window, ready to do his bidding. Roman caught her arm, pulling her back to his side. “I was na speaking to you,” he said.

  It was not so difficult a task for David to crawl through the window and up beside Liam.

  Roman switched seats to watch the woods approach. Within minutes they entered it. He pulled Tara from her seat, steadying her in front of him. “We’ll reach the third rise soon. We’ll slow at the curve. When we do, jump.”

  Their gazes met. ”Roman, you’re hurt, you can not—”

  Leaning forward, he kissed her lightly. “Mayhap ye can catch me.”

  “‘Tis not a joke.”

  “I will be fine, lass. Jump far. Then rise as soon as ye man and run as if the devil be at yer heels. Can ye do that?”

  She nodded once.

  Time sped past, then, “Jump!” he ordered.

  She did so, propelling herself from the coach. He flung himself after her, but his sense of balance was awry. His skull struck the ground. A thousand daggers stabbed him. His head thundered, threatening darkness. But he fought it off. He could not fail her. He could not.

  “Roman!” she gasped, reaching for him.

  “I told ye ta run!”

  “Come on! Come on!” she urged, pulling him to his feet.

  Agony ripped through him, but he gained his balance. The world spun. He was Highlander. He could not fail. She could not die. He managed two steps before falling to his knees. “Run!” he ordered, but she gripped his arm and leaned close.

  “Die now, Scotsman, and I’ll die right here with you, I swear I will.”

  “Damn you!” He staggered to his feet, fixed his eyes on the woods and forced himself toward it.

  Hoofbeats! He heard them coming.

  “Hurry. Hurry, Scotsman.”

  Roman gritted his teeth, managed a couple of rods, then wrapped his arm tight about Tara’s body and dragged her to the ground.

  The sound of hoofbeats swelled, exploded in his head, and finally disappeared into oblivion.

  “Roman.” Tara touched his face, fear unraveling within her. “Roman!”

  He didn’t answer, but lay in pale silence.

  “Roman!” She sat up, panic roiling like a brewing storm as she cradled his head in her lap. “No!” She sobbed, but then, beneath her hand, she felt a faint pulse.

  “So he is dead already?”

  Tara jerked her head up with a gasp.

  Not three rods away, Lord Dagger sat upon his white steed. “‘Tis unfortunate,” he said, dismounting and drawing his sword from its sheath. “I had hoped to kill him myself. But I suppose I will have to be content with killing you.”

  Chapter 27

  Panic roiled up within Tara, attempting to consume her. Roman would die, her mind screamed in terror. After all her struggles, he would die here, far from his homeland, far from the people he loved.

  Terrible loss ripped through her heart. But years of hardship had taught her to fight to the end. Perhaps he didn’t have to die. Not if Dagger believed he was already dead.

  “You killed him.” Letting Roman’s head slip to the earth, Tara grasped the sword he had dropped and rose to her feet. “You killed him,” she whispered.

  Dagger shook his head as he stepped toward her. “Nay. You deprived me of that pleasure.”

  He was evil personified, and he was getting closer, closer to Roman. Panic threatened again. Tara pushed it down. Roman must not die. He would not.

  She backed away. A fallen branch snagged her skirt. She stepped to the right, praying. True to her pleas, Dagger followed her, veering off the direct course to Roman.

  “Tell me, girl,” said Dagger, stalking her, “who are you?”

  Dagger must die. That was her mission, her reason for being, the culmination of all her years in Firthport. Suddenly, everything seemed so perfectly clear. Everything she had endured had been for this purpose—to give her life for the man she loved. Surely God had ordained it. She would die, but Roman would live.

  She stopped, raising her chin and with it, the sword. It was heavy and long, but somehow she would find the strength to use it.

  “Who are you?” Dagger asked again, still advancing.

  “I am the one sent to kill you,” she said.

  He stopped for a moment. Then he laughed. Less than a rod separated them. Tara tightened her grip on the sword and waited. “Are you the Shadow?” he asked.

  Yes. She was, and that memory sent something akin to pride washing through her. She lifted the sword another inch and smiled. “Me?” She shook her head. “I am the devil come to claim his own.”

  He canted his head, moving closer. “Truly.”

  She stood her ground. God had given her the honor of saving Roman’s life. She would not fail.

  “You made an intriguing gypsy and a tempting lady, but I think I like you best as the devil,” he said. “Still, I need to know, are you also the Shadow?”

  “It matters little.”

  “Ah, but it matters to me.” He slowed his pace and watched her closely. “For if I know I kill the Shadow when I kill you, I will enjoy my work the more, and mayhap I will take my time about it. And I think…” He stopped, studying her from less than a half a rod’s distance. “I think you are the Shadow. I think ‘twas you that stole the necklace from the Scotsman, the dead Scotsman,” he corrected, and chuckled when she paled. “‘Tis strange how life works, is it not? First you steal from him, then you attempt to avenge his death. But I fear I cannot allow that,” he said and launched himself toward her.

  “Nay!” Tara shrieked. She raised the sword. But Dagger was quick and strong.

  Slashing sideways, he knocked her blade aside. She spun away. Her skirts tangled about her ankles and she fell.

  He was coming, lunging! She must not die! Not yet. She twisted about, dragging the sword before her. Dagger swung again. His blade struck hers, throwing her to the ground with the strength of his parry. Her head hit a rock. She tried to reel back the blackness and bring her sword to bear, but she couldn’t marshal her senses, couldn’t move.

  Dagger stood over her, blade raised.

  She had failed her beloved.

  Dagger laughed. The sword descended.

  “Nay!” someone roared.

  Dagger jerked about. Roman stood not three feet away. He swung a branch. The villain ducked, but the bough caught his shoulder, knocking him sideways.

  Roman followed, his steps unsteady, his world reeling.

  Dagger straightened, watching his opponent with narrowed eyes.

  “So you’re not yet dead, Scotsman. And the woman knew it all along.” He chuckled, bringing his sword to bear. “Ahh, she was a clever one, trying to lead me away from you. In fact, I think she planned to give her life to save yours. As soon as I kill you, I’ll finish with her. I rather hope she’s still alive.”

  Weakness and fatigue weighed Roman’s arms. Hell yawned before him.

  “How did it feel to fuck a shadow, Scotsman? No need to answer. I’ll know soon enough.”

  Rage screamed through Roman. He lunged, swinging his branch. Dagger parried. Steel met wood, slicing the branch at a sharp angle less than two feet from Roman’s hands.

  Dagger’s laughter filled the air. He advanced and swung again. Roman ducked, barely clearing the blade’s path as he backed away. Dagger stalked him, his eyes bright with bloodlust. He swung again. Aga
in, Roman dodged to the right. Dagger’s sword sliced his arm, but he was beyond pain now.

  “I’d like to stay and play,” Dagger said, advancing again. “But your lady awaits my pleasure, so now … you die!” he said and lunged.

  Roman tried to twist away. His foot became snared in the bracken. He fell with his branch braced, point up, beside him. Dagger rushed in, sword held before him, ready for the kill. But suddenly, he, too, tripped, and he fell, blade thrust out.

  Death roared in upon Roman. He watched it come, helpless to stop it, paralyzed beneath Dagger’s sword. He had failed! Dear God, he had failed her.

  He felt Dagger’s blade slice through his flesh and into the ground below. The blackness swelled around him, and he let it take him.

  Unable to stop his fall, Dagger plunged downward onto the branch sharpened by his own sword. It entered below his sternum, ripping into his guts as he shrieked in agony.

  “Roman!” Tara stumbled to her feet. “Roman!” She raced toward him, then staggered back as reality grabbed hold of her. Roman was skewered to the ground beside Dagger’s lifeless form. “Nay!” Her world ripped apart. She fell to her knees.

  His blood was bright red, still flowing, puddling into the bracken crushed beneath him. She had killed him. But she would not allow him to be defiled. She would remove the sword, bind the wound.

  Rising to her feet, she reached for the hilt. It felt cold and hard beneath her fingers. She closed her eyes and pulled. The sword resisted, clinging to his pierced flesh. Bile rose in Tara’s throat, but she tightened her grip and dragged the blade from Roman’s body.

  The bloodied sword dangled from her fingers.

  “Step away,” said a voice from behind.

  Tara staggered about.

  Another horseman had arrived. His sword was drawn and death was in his face.

  Sanity was flung aside. “Nay!” Tara screamed. “You will not have him. I will take him to the Highlands.”

  The huge man dismounted, still watching her. “Step away from him.”

  “Come on then!” She motioned him toward her. Blood dripped from the sword’s tip. “Come if you dare.”

  Dressed all in black, he approached slowly. “Put down the sword.”

  “Nay!” she screamed. Hopelessness swallowed her. “Nay! Kill me, too! Kill me, too, and have done with it!”

  “Put the sword aside, lass,” said the warrior quietly. “And we may yet save your love.”

  The woods reverberated in the silence. Tara’s mind scrambled as she tried to think, tried to sort the lies from the truth. “Save?” she whispered.

  “He yet lives.”

  “Nay.” She shook her head, not daring to hope. “Do not try to fool me.”

  “The Wolf yet lives, lass,” said the warrior, his voice lightly burred. He turned his head, as if having caught the sound of distant danger. “But he willna last much longer if we dunna hide him.”

  “The Wolf!” The sword drooped in Tara’s numbed fingers. “He is the Wolf and you are …”

  “The Hawk,” said the warrior, and, stepping forward, slipped the sword from her hand.

  Roman lived, but by the barest of margins. Tara could not touch him, could not hold him. She sat like a doll of rags upon her mount’s back. The days passed like nightmares without end, the nights like hell’s eternity.

  Hawk had carried Roman into hiding. Dagger’s men had passed by then finally retreated. And eventually, after a thousand lifetimes, Liam and David had arrived with the four horses freed from the coach.

  Roman’s wound had been tightly bound. Hawk believed the sword had missed his vital organs, but Tara didn’t know whether to believe him. And would it matter in the end? Roman remained unconscious.

  For two days they stopped for nothing but to water the horses. A quick course in equitation, but the thought failed to amuse her. The land became rough and rolling, green beyond description.

  The third night they halted some hours past sunset. Tara slipped from her mount. Her legs buckled and she fell to the earth.

  The night was cold and endless.

  Long before dawn, they were moving again. The night ground away. Morning slid up the horizon. Tara walked beside Roman, lest he somehow break the bonds that kept him tethered to Hawk’s huge mount.

  Miles passed beneath them. Tara stumbled and fell. Hands reached for her. She felt herself lifted and set aboard a horse’s bare back.

  It began to rain, tiny pellets of water.

  “How far?” she asked, speaking through exhaustion as gray as fog.

  Hawk’s eyes were a strange, silver-blue and flat with worry. He turned away. “Dun Ard is near.”

  Tara braced herself against her mount’s withers and lifted her gaze to squint through the rain at Roman’s pale face. Mayhap he would yet survive. Mayhap, she thought.

  But just then a warrior stepped into their path.

  Chapter 28

  Tara gasped. No! They were nearly to safety. They couldn’t be stopped now. She wouldn’t let them be. Grabbing both her reins and Roman’s, she prepared to flee.

  Hawk swept his sword from its scabbard, but held up his opposite hand and stayed perfectly still, facing their attacker. Off to the side, a dozen more men stepped from the woods, mere shadows in the pelting rain.

  “So is the Hawk no longer welcome at Dun Ard?” Hawk asked, raising his voice above the pound of the rain.

  There was a moment of silence, then, “Haydan, is that ye, lad?”

  “Roderic,” Hawk breathed.

  The leader of the men rushed through the rain toward them. Tara remained poised and ready, but in a moment Hawk was on his feet and engulfed in a man’s embrace.

  “Hawk,” he said. “Our Hawk has returned to the mews.”

  Though bigger and broader, Hawk seemed suddenly to droop in the other man’s embrace.

  Roderic frowned, then lifted his gaze to Tara. “What is this? What’s happened?”

  “‘Tis Roman,” Hawk said. “I came too late to assist him.”

  “God’s wrath! Not Roman.”

  “Aye. I couldn’t save him, Roddy. ‘Tis me own fault.”

  “He is dead then?”

  “Nay!” Tara said, but the word was a croak of misery. “He will not die. He cannot.”

  Roderic’s gaze caught hers again, then swept away.

  “William!” he yelled.

  “Aye, m’lord?” said a young man. He stepped forward, lean and small.

  “Ride—nay—take Lochan’s Bairn and fly ta Glen Creag. Fiona will know what ta do.”

  William fell back a step, his eyes going wide. “The Flame willna let me take her favorite steed.”

  “Buck up, man,” said Roderic. “She willna bite ye. Bullock, ye’d best go with him, lest I’m wrong.”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  “Adam, run ahead and tell Bethia that the Wolf has been struck.”

  Within minutes, they crossed a drawbridge. The courtyard was slick beneath Tara’s mount’s hooves. The keep loomed before her.

  Hawk untied Roman and carried him into the hall.

  Tara slid to the ground, feeling numb and worn.

  “Come, lass,” Roderic said, reaching for her hand.

  “Nay.” She drew back. For a moment of time she had hoped Roman could be hers. For a moment she had dreamed, but no more. When she loved, people died. She couldn’t risk his life.

  “He’ll die without ye,” Roderic said.

  “No.” She whispered the word. “’Tis his only chance to live.”

  “I know the Wolf well,” Roderic said. “He needs ye.”

  Tara tried to turn away, but she lacked the strength to leave him. In a moment, she followed Roderic up the stairs to the infirmary.

  Tara awoke with a start.

  An angel stood in the doorway. “Roman!” she said. Her hair challenged the color of the fire in the hearth, and her eyes were as bright as amethyst.

  Another woman rushed forward. She was taller, younger.
But her hair was the same bright hue. In Tara’s fatigue, it seemed they floated above the floor, ethereal, sent from heaven.

  “Help him,” she pleaded.

  The first angel caught Tara’s gaze.

  “Do you love him?”

  She wasn’t certain if the words were spoken or merely thought, but she was certain she couldn’t risk the truth. Silence ruled the room.

  Still, the angel nodded as if she had spoken.

  There was no time for denials.

  The angels swept forward. They removed Roman’s tattered tunic, cut away his bandages.

  His wound was swollen and purple, oozing and crusted.

  The taller woman gasped but the other remained steady.

  “Flanna,” she said, not taking her gaze from Roman’s side. “I need purslane and dogwood leaves.”

  The younger woman straightened. “I can stay. Let me help.”

  “Nay,” Fiona said, her own face ashen. “I need the leaves.”

  Flanna nodded and backed away. “What else?”

  “Have Bethia bring boiling water and bandages.”

  Flanna nodded and disappeared.

  “What can I do?” Tara whispered.

  Fiona’s gaze caught hers. There was wisdom and healing in the depths of her eyes. But there was more, love so vast it could encompass her even now. “Hold fast and pray, lass,” she whispered.

  Night fell. Morning dawned. Two days came and went, but Tara was caught forever in darkness. She remained as she was, unspeaking, unmoving. ‘Twas her fault he was dying. Therefore, she didn’t deserve to touch him, but neither could she force herself to leave him.

  “David MacAulay is well?” Fiona asked.

  Three tawny hounds sat beside Roman’s bed. Their long noses rested on his mattress as they gazed at him. Sweet Mary, Tara thought, even the dogs loved him.

  There was a small group of people by the door. Tara knew them by name now. Leith was Fiona’s husband, dark and solemn. Roderic was Leith’s brother, the opposite in both looks and manner, his arm wrapped about his wife Flanna as she pressed close to his side.

  Hawk was there, standing apart from the rest as he stared at Roman’s pale face.

  “Aye.” Leith’s voice was deep and quiet. “David is well. He has returned to his father.”