Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (13 page)

She moved away toward the dark fireplace. "They are dreams. Nothing more," she said, striking a spark from the flint and steel. It landed on a heap of fuzzy tinder, placed just so as if carefully tended for just such an occasion. The spark caught fire, blazed quickly.

"Nightmares be the dark beasts of memories come back ta haunt our sleep," Roman said softly.

She turned, her face a porcelain cameo against the backdrop of the small fire. "And how do ya know that, Scotsman?"

He crossed the floor to squat in front of her. Her blanket lay in folds about her, and her hair, soft as thistledown streamed about her shoulders in molten waves of gold. 'The beasts come for me also," he said.

The tiny blaze crackled and grew. Her small face was somber.

"I'm sorry."

He took her hands. They felt clammy in his own. "As am I."

She drew a shaky breath, and he couldn't resist pulling her closer, so that she was cradled against his body. Although she felt stiff and uncertain, she didn't draw away. "What are your beasts, Scotsman?"

He gazed over her head at the fire. "They were spawned long ago, lass, and best left ta sleep if they will."

"Long ago." She nodded. "But still they snarl and snap, waiting to devour me."

He tightened his arms about her. She felt small and fragile. "Yer da would na wish for his memory to haunt ye so." He settled onto his buttocks, shifting her between his legs and wrapping his plaid about both of them. "How did they die, lass?"

For a time, Roman thought she would refuse to answer, but finally she spoke. "He was an Irishman." She said the words softly, with the singsong burr that her father must have had. "A farmer."

The fire crackled again. She was cradled, warm and soft between his thighs.

"And yer mother?"

"She was as bonny as the spring flowers." She laughed, then sobered and swallowed. "He always said so. He had a small, gilt-framed portrait of her. I always thought it so lovely. They must have taken it. I never found it. Not after..." She swallowed. "Da always said Mam was the flower and I was the ..." She paused.

"The sunshine," Roman murmured, remembering her words.

She turned toward him. There were no tears, just dry, hopeless sadness.

"They killed him," she whispered and closed her eyes. "Perhaps Grandfather hoped she would return home with them. Perhaps ..." She shrugged, shaking her head. "But he did not know."

Roman stroked her hair, soothing her and himself. "Didna know what?"

'That she would choose to die rather than be left without him."

"No, lass," he crooned and closed his eyes to pull her closer still. "She didna take her own life."

"Nay." The word was small. "She went to save him from the fire. But..." She shook her head like one lost in another time. "The flames were so big— unearthly bright I thought. She would certainly die there. Certainly. And I could not force myself to go in."

"Oh, lass. Ye surely canna blame yerself. Ye were wise ta stay out."

"Wise," she whispered. "Aye. That I am. Wise enough to leave them to their deaths. Wise enough to survive by whatever means I might."

He exhaled softly, feeling her pain tighten his chest. Guilt was an old companion, but a poor friend that had given him no joy. "Ye canna let their deaths haunt ye."

She shook her head. "'Tis not their deaths that haunt me," she murmured. "'Tis their love."

"How so?"

She didn't answer, but sat very still. "Are ya married, Scotsman?"

"I was nearly so once."

"Did ya feel some love for her?"

"Love? Nay. But I would have given her a good life."

"Then why didn't ya?"

He watched the fire for a moment. "Her father found someone more desirable." Roman had never quite admitted the relief he'd felt, but he admitted it to himself now, in the silence that followed.

"And your parents, did they not share a love?"

The dark beasts of memories were hunting again. He beat them back. "Why do ye ask?"

"'Tis said what a child learns at birth cannot be untaught. I fear it may be true, for I could not marry unless 'twas for true love," she whispered.

"And thus ye are alone?"

She nodded. "So ye see, what we learn as children we must forever bear."

"'Tis na true," he countered, "for me own parents were gentle folk, while
I..."

"What?" she asked, touching his face. "Are ya saying ya are not gentle, Scotsman?" she asked. There was humor in her voice, as if her short acquaintance with him had shown her his true self. But she did not know him.

"Ye would be well advised na ta be so trusting, lass," he said dourly.

Now she laughed aloud. "Trusting? I think ya mistake me for someone else, Scot. There are many things said about me, but none would say I am too trusting."

The irony of her words was not lost on him, for she was cuddled in the intimate fork of his legs. "What do ye do with a man ye trust?"

"Ya'll never know," she said.

He smiled, though he didn't know why, and tugged her closer against his chest.

"Scotsman?" She touched the wolf teeth that hung from his neck.

"Aye?"

"The necklace ya 'ad at the inn—why did ya 'ave it?"

He scowled. For just a moment, he had forgotten his mission, reality, the world outside her door. If just touching her could do that, how much more would her kiss do? "Because women make fools of men," he intoned, glancing down at her, and finding to his surprise that his amulet had been loosed from his neck and lay in her small palm.

"How—"

"It must have come untied," she explained and casually handed it back to him. "It seems to me, men do a fair job of making fools of themselves, Scottie."

Her mind was like summer lightning, quick and bright and fascinating. He eased an arm about her back again. "My foster mother's family are called the MacAulays. David is her ... cousin of sorts. A likable lad." He glanced down into her face as she watched him. Never had he been in such a position with a woman. And yet, never had he felt more free to talk. "I suppose ye dunna need ta hear the lad's lineage."

She smiled a little, the expression as soft as an angel's. "I listen with bated breath, Scotsman."

He smoothed her hair behind her ear. Why did such a simple touch make his heart sing? "The short of it is, young David became enamored with a woman of some substance."

"Enamored with?" Her smile lifted a bit more. "Might that be a Scottish term for something a bit more base?"

Roman grimaced. "David be a good lad, ye understand."

"'E bedded the girl?"

"Aye."

She stared into space for an instant then shook her head. "I fear I see no connection between a bit of fornication and a necklace worth a king's crown."

"It seems the lass's father has long coveted the necklace, and—"

"Sweet Mary," Betty sighed. "'Tis a bribe to keep the scandal quiet."

"'Tis more than that at risk," Roman assured her. "'Tis David's very life."

Betty paled, letting her gaze drop from his face. "His life?" she murmured.

"Aye."

"Where is this David MacAulay being kept?"

"I know na."

"In a gaol? Black Hull, mayhap?"

"I dunna know."

"Pray 'tis not Devil's Port."

"Wherever David be, the lass's sire holds the key. I've but to give him the necklace and he will release my kinsman."

"But can't ya exchange the necklace for other pretty stones? Won't—"

Roman shook his head. "The lass's sire is in na humor to compromise. Tis the necklace or nothing."

Betty drew away from him, taking her warmth, his comfort, and rising abruptly to her feet. "He's fooling. Making ya sweat, is all."

"I dunna think so. Mayhap afore he would have been flexible, but it seems his daughter has raised his ire by insisting that she loves the lad." He raised his brows, watching her closer. "'Tis said once ye've had a Highlander, ye'll na settle for less." He said the words to lighten her mood, but her face remained tense and solemn in the fire's dancing light.

"'Tis a tight spot," Roman said, watching her pace. "But His Lordship has given me a score of days ta see the necklace returned."

"A score!" She stopped pacing to stare at him. "Ya'll not live that long, Scotsman. Not 'ere in Firthport. Not if Dagger wants ya dead."

"I'm flattered by yer faith in me, lass."

"Ya jest!" she said. "Because ya don't know 'im."

Roman remembered the warehouse, the terror, the smell of death. "I think I've some idea."

"Then leave. Now. Please."

"After I retrieve the necklace from Dagger and—"

"Ya don't even know Dagger has it!"

"If na him, then who?" Roman asked, frustration rising. "Surely na the Shadow, for ye say there is na such man."

She was silent, pale.

He watched her closely. "Is that na what ye said, lass?"

She shook her head slowly. "Nay."

"What's that?"

"Nay," she whispered. "There is no such man."

Roman rose slowly to his feet. "A man's life hangs in the balance as we speak, lass," he said softly. "A lie might tip the scale."

"There is no such man," she said again. Her face looked strained and ghostly white, her eyes wide and bright. "But—"

Footsteps suddenly sounded outside.

Roman glanced at her, then drew his blade and placed himself between her and the door.

"Let me in!" someone called from the far side of the door. "For God's sake, let me in!"

"Liam," she said, turning.

Roman grabbed her wrist. "I thought ye trusted no one."

"'Tis Liam," she said, pulling from his grasp. But he caught her wrist before she reached the door.

"Think, lass. What could he be wanting?"

'They're comin'! They know!"

"Sweet Mary!" She threw open the lock. "Liam! How do you..." she began, and screamed.

Chapter 10

Something lunged from the darkness. Candlelight gleamed on metal. Liam shrieked in pain and fell. Roman dragged him inside then slammed his shoulder against the door. But someone was on the opposite side, holding it open.

Blood stained Liam's sleeve. A man cursed on the far side of the door. Another added his weight to the heavy timbers. Roman's body jerked as the door bumped open a scant inch farther. Fingers appeared in the crack.

Panic rose in Betty's throat. They had come for her! She had to escape! But how? She scanned the room, thinking. The fireplace was near. A log burned there. She reached for it and swung.

Sparks lit a fiery arc through the night air then spattered outward as the wood thundered against the exposed fingers.

There was an agonized shriek. The fingers disappeared. Roman heaved at the door until it thudded closed. Betty reached for the lock, but already the door was being shoved open again.

Liam added his weight to the portal, but his arm was bloody and his face pale. "I tried ta warn ya," he gasped. "I come as soon as I 'eard."

Roman braced his feet against the floor. "Who the hell's out there?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Daggermen. They're Daggermen. They know!"

Betty stumbled backward, her face white.

The door inched open. A blade slashed through the crack.

Betty shrieked and crashed her weight against the portal again. It moved only a bit.

"How?" she gasped.

"James. They got old James."

"Dear God."

"What?" Roman said, shoving at the door.

"Ya gotta go, Tara," Liam whispered "Ya gotta get out. Now! I'll hold 'em as long as I can."

"I can't leave you here."

The door bumped again. Roman grunted. Liam groaned.

"We can hold them," she said.

Men cursed and shouted on the far side of the door. Roman shook his head. "You got a plan?" he asked Liam.

The boy nodded to the far side of the house. "Another way out."

"Go!" Roman whispered.

"Nay!" Betty shook her head.

A man yelled. Suddenly, a blade slipped between the planks of the portal, just missing Betty's midsection. She screamed. Roman swore, and leaning his shoulder against the door, raised his fist and thumped her on the head.

She dropped like a rock into oblivion. Liam's jaw fell.

"Take her," Roman ordered.

"But..."

"Now!" Roman yelled, and, letting the door swing wide, whipped his short blade from his garter.

The first man died instantly. He dropped his sword. Roman scooped it up with his left hand and swung.

The second man screamed and fell. The four behind him stumbled back. Roman could only hope now that Liam could handle Betty. He could only pray there was indeed a second exit as he parried and thrust, slashed and ducked.

Behind him, the bedroom door swung closed. He stood with his back to it. A villain lunged at him. Roman blocked the stroke, sweeping the blade downward, but not soon enough. It slashed across his thigh. He hissed in agony. The man swung again, but Roman whipped his dagger upward. It lodged in the villain's gut. He staggered backward.

But three others remained. They came as a group, charging him in a semicircle of death. The first swung. Roman dodged then dodged again. But he'd miscalculated. His back slammed against the door. It sprang open. He stumbled into the room, trying to right his balance.

The villains rushed in after him.

Roman swiped with his sword. A long, curved blade spun from one man's hand. Roman slashed again. Blood spurted from his opponent's arm. He fell against the wall.

"Damn it!" he screamed. "Get 'im!"

The other two pressed forward. "Where is she?"

Roman crouched, waiting, holding his sword in his right hand. His left was empty, stretched out to the side for balance. "She doesn't know anything about the Shadow," he hissed.

The nearest thief laughed. "Is that what she told ya, Scotsman?" He advanced slowly, licking his lips. "Did she tell ya she didn't know nothin'? She musta been a good fuck ta convince ya ta stay and die for 'er. And now she's gone, probably humpin' the Shadow while I kill ya."

Where was the exit? Was she safely gone? Roman dared not shift his attention from the advancing men. "She doesn't know the Shadow," he repeated, stalling for time.