Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (14 page)

"Of course she don't. The fence was just jestin' when he said she did. Course he was about to die at the time. Just like you are," said the thief. Then he sprang forward.

Roman parried and retreated. There was no time to think, only to thrust and swing. Behind the two that attacked him, the third man tore open one of the wooden trunks. Clothing flew into the air.

A sword sliced Roman's biceps. His feet faltered. He stumbled back against the bed. Death screamed his name.

"Here!" the third man yelled.

A thief jerked, distracted. Roman stabbed. His sword slid between ribs and deep into flesh.

The thief's jaw dropped. Blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

Roman yanked his blade free and scrambled onto the mattress.

"Here ya are!" crooned the third man, not noticing his fallen comrade or his own injured arm. A necklace spilled between his fingers, alight with white and blue gems. "And what a beauty ya be, stolen back from that bastard Shadow."

Roman's world spun. The necklace! How had it gotten into Betty's trunk?

The nearest villain grinned at him. "The Shadow stole it and gave it to his whore. How does it feel to be fucked by them both, Scotsman?" he asked and swung.

Rage erupted in Roman. With a war cry, he whipped his sword upward, sending the other's blade sideways. The villain was knocked off-balance. Roman stabbed.

The thief fell backward, his knees buckling, a snarl on his lips as blood gushed from his chest.

Roman raised his sword and balanced unsteadily as he searched for the last man. But he had already gone, rushing into the darkness with the necklace. The room was empty except for death and himself. Roman staggered toward the door, but his legs refused to carry him farther. He fell to his knees. The world tilted crazily, and then he crashed to the floor, where blackness descended like the angels of hell.

Roman didn't know what woke him. Neither did he care. Once he thought he heard the skitter of nervous feet. But darkness took him again. Time marched on unmarked.

Pain gnawed at his thigh. Smoky light seeped in through the open door. He realized fuzzily that he was lying on his back. From far away, a woman cackled, or was it in his mind only?

She'd betrayed him, lied to him and left him to die.

He turned his head. Death! It was all around him, filled his nostrils and his mind. But it did not disgust him. Instead, he reveled in it. He would find her. And when he did, death would be his ally!

Pushing himself to his feet, Roman realized that his brooch was gone, as were his sporran and plaid. The scavengers of Firthport had little shame and no mercy, it seemed. But he did not care.

He found his sgian dubh—his black dagger. It was covered with dried blood. Gripping it in one hand, he staggered through the door dressed in nothing but his knee-length tunic. The sun seemed ungodly bright. The earth moved beneath his feet, pushing him onward. His head spun. People stared and scurried out of his way. He approached the Queen's Head. Its door opened. Mistress Krahn gasped when she saw him.

"I need boiling water. Food." His voice sounded strangely distant to his own ears. The stairs tilted at odd angles beneath his feet.

Seating himself on the bed he'd rented days before, Roman removed his shirt. Time was irregular. The mistress of the inn appeared with food and water then backed away, her hands clasped before her.

"I could—" she began.

Roman raised his face to hers. She froze, quailed beneath his gaze, and rushed from the room.

He sat alone, tore strips from his shirt, cleaned his wounds. It seemed almost as if the pain belonged to someone else now. Binding his thigh, he reached for the food and ate, though he was unaware what he consumed. In his mind, he formed plan after plan.

He wrapped himself in the ceremonial tartan he'd set aside and limped to the door.

Mistress Krahn was just scurrying away when he opened it.

"I have little enough money," he said.

She stopped, staring at him with eyes round as bantam eggs. "I beg yer—"

"I have na money ta speak of, but if ye'll find me clothes I'll give ye me plaid."

"Yer—" She blinked, staring at his face then skimming her shocked gaze down his body. He stood in nothing more than a hastily donned tartan. His chest was bare and bleeding.

"It's Highland made and bright red." He canted his head and lifted the thick fabric from his thigh, staring at her. "Like me blood."

Her jaw dropped. "I'll... I'll find clothes," she gasped, and rushed away.

Three days passed. Roman wandered through the back alleys of hell, questioning, searching, sewing together clues like small pieces of a patched blanket. The sun was setting. He sat in a small inn, dressed in black trunk hose. They gripped his thigh wound with aching pressure. The doublet he wore was equally tight. On his head was a hat brimmed in the front. Between his shoulder blades, rested his sgian dubh in a makeshift sheath.

"I had a cousin named Shamus," he said, tasting his brew again. It burned his stomach, as his anger burned his soul. He hadn't eaten since the previous night, for he saved his.few coins for spirits. People gathered at inns, people drank at inns, people would tell him where to find a young man named Liam. And Liam would lead him to the woman.

Roman almost smiled. He wouldn't inquire about the wench. Nay, that would only be another exercise in frustration, for he did not know who she was.

She had called herself Betty. Dagger's men had called her a whore. Liam had called her Tara, and Roman had called her much, much worse.

"He's dead now," Roman said, continuing his staccato conversation with hardly a thought to what he said. He would find the girl, and when he did, she would pay. "Poor auld Shamus. Was a good lad. He was of the O'Malley clan."

"O'Malley?" The bartender paused with his rag to lean on the bar. "Of Shannon lawn?"

"Aye," Roman agreed, nodding once. "Don't ye be tellin' me ye know them."

"I come from Coirce Glen, just over the rise from there."

"Ye dunna say." But of course he did say, for Roman had already learned what he could of the innkeeper. He knew that this man catered to an Irish clientele. But he was only a means to an end.

"So who was this Shamus O'Malley?"

"Ahh." Roman drank again. "He was a friend, he was. A fine friend. But he died after a battle with an Englishman."

The innkeeper's face flushed red. "Damn their hides."

"Aye, damn 'em all," Roman agreed. "They forever kill the flower of our bonny lads."

"Aye, they do that."

"But I come nonetheless, cuz I promised Shamus I would deliver a token to his love."

"In Firthport?"

"Aye, she's an Englishman's daughter. And so the duel that cost his life," Roman said.

"And who is this woman?"

Roman shook his head. "Shamus wouldna say. He but said that enough blood had been spilled. He wouldna let me die in his defense." Suddenly, he slammed his mug upon the table and squeezed his eyes tightly closed. "But what I would give if I could."

The innkeeper jumped at his abrupt movement, then leaned closer. "Then how will ye deliver the token?"

Roman exhaled softly and looked at the soot-darkened beams of the ceiling. "I am ta deliver it to a man named Liam. 'Tis said he knows everyone, even Englishmen's daughters."

"Liam?" the innkeeper said, but his voice was quiet now, and he glanced right and left. "Liam of Backrow?"

Roman said nothing, but nodded once and drank again. He kept his movements casual, but every fiber in his body was taut.

Backrow. Liam lived in a section of town called Backrow. And Betty, whom he now called Tara, would not be far away.

Roman remained perfectly still. Hidden in the shadows of a gray stone house, he watched Liam's door. The black-haired lad had been in and out of the place a number of times. While he was gone, Roman had slipped into the room.

It had been dark, small, and devoid of the one person he hungered to find.

The door opened. The lad stepped out again. It was near evening. Shadows lay long and spidery across the street. Roman didn't look up, but remained as he was until Liam disappeared around a corner. Then, quiet and solemn, he straightened and followed.

The sun slipped toward the west. The noise of Market Street was winding down as the vendors' cries stilled. A boy of nine or ten wheeled a rickety barrow past. From it wafted the heady scent of the remains of his loaves.

Roman's stomach churned a complaint, but he ignored it and walked on. Liam stopped. Roman turned, examining a few items still displayed by a vendor.

But soon he was moving again. From up ahead came the sound of laughter. Light shone through the smoky glass of an inn. Scents issued out, confusing in a jumble of haunting aromas.

Liam bought a bit of smoked fish from the last stall and slowed his pace. Nibbling on the piece, he finally leaned against a wall near the inn and waited.

Roman slipped into the black shadow of a building and pressed himself up against the stone to watch.

Time slid uneasily by. Two men exited the inn. They were loud, raucous, inebriated.

A boy rounded a corner. Dressed in tattered hose and a drooping hat, he looked to be no more than thirteen. He carried a mended net over one shoulder. The dull end of a fishhook was laced through the loose weave of his rough shirt. He whistled as he strolled along with a fluid motion to his step. But in a moment, he stopped, seated himself on a step, and pulled something from his pocket. Was it an apple? Something edible? In the falling darkness, Roman couldn't be quite certain. Still, his taste buds ached at the thought.

Roman cleared his mind and hurried his gaze back to Liam. He must not lose his concentration. Eventually, the Irishman would lead him to the lass. He had to be patient.

A richly garbed man exited the inn. A leather pocket dangled from his belt. His face was flushed, and on his arm was a brightly dressed doxy. She laughed hardily up into his face.

A hound, drawn by the smell of Liam's fish, rounded the corner. "Ay," yelled the Irishman. "Get the 'ell away from me."

The gentleman turned his head. His companion scowled. The fisherboy stretched and sauntered past the pair.

The dog disappeared down the alley. Liam turned nonchalantly on his heel and walked back in the direction from which he had come.

No. Not another fruitless night. Not another false lead, Roman thought. But then the fisherboy turned his head. For a fraction of an instant the gentleman's pouch was visible in the lad's delicate hand before it disappeared from sight. The boy was a thief—with hands like ...

Something clicked in Roman's brain. Something .. . But...

Hell fire! That was no lad. It was Tara.

Chapter 11

Exhilaration bloomed in Roman's chest. He had found her! She would pay!

But already she was slipping back into the crowd. Jerking from his trance, he followed the ragged figure. She seemed in no hurry, but stopped now and then. With one hand in her pocket, she chatted with a vendor then moved on. Laughter wafted on the evening air.

Roman barely noticed. Revenge was near. But he would not rush it. Would not let his emotions take over. He would follow her, stay calm and quiet, and finally he would have his hands on her. He stopped at a fruit seller's booth, glanced over the produce, then walked on. He was closer now, closing the space. Tara was busy talking to a buxom young woman who sold flowers behind a small stand.

Closer. Closer still.

"They match yer eyes," Tara was saying. "But they ain't nearly so pretty as you."

"Go on," said the girl. "I know yer kind. All flattery and no substance."

Roman moved closer still. He was nearly touching her now. But her back was to him and her words burned his mind. Tara? Flirting with the maid? He must be wrong. Led on a merry chase yet again. His hunger and impatience must have deceived him. But in that moment, she turned.

Eyes as blue as heaven smote him. His hand shot out without thought, circling her arm.

Her eyes went round, her jaw dropped. She stumbled back a step, but he held her in a firm grip.

"'Tis good ta see ye again . .. lad," he said, his voice barely audible to his own ears.

She'd gone pale and stiff. "How?" she whispered.

He smiled. Never had the sight of terror pleased him, but now it satisfied his soul and soothed his aching wounds. "Surprised ta see me?"

"How did you escape them?"

A thousand memories crashed back on him. The clash of sword. The pain. But worst of all, the knowledge that he had been betrayed by the very woman he had fought to save.

"Let us walk a ways. I'll tell ye the tale."

She shook her head and tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip and gritted a smile.

"'Tis a story of honor and lies, of valor and defeat. The kind of tale any lad would love," he said, and turned, towing her along beside him.

They moved easily through the crowd, though her movements were stiff. An alley gaped off to their left. He turned into it and stopped.

She stared up into his face, her eyes still round with disbelief. "How did you get away?" she breathed.

"I kilt them," he admitted flatly. "I kilt them!" he whispered, leaning closer. "All but the one that found the necklace." He tightened his grip. Anger rode him with a fury. "'Twas a wondrous chain of sparkling gems. And I wondered, where did ye get it, Tara?"

She stared at him as if she had not an inkling of what he spoke.

'The necklace!" he said, shaking her. "In yer trunk."

He waited for an explanation. It would be a lie, and he would laugh in her face. Revel in his revenge.

"You weren't hurt?" she asked breathlessly. Beneath his hand, her arm felt slim and frail. And her eyes! Even in the shadows of this godforsaken alley, they reminded him of a Highland loch, as deep and unfathomable as eternity.

He shook himself. "Nay!" he said through his teeth. "Of course I was na hurt. 'Twas an even fight, after all. Only six ta one. Only six bloodthirsty bastards with nothing ta live for. But I had a reason to survive." He moved an inch closer. "I had revenge."