Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (17 page)

"Who are ye?" he whispered.

"Betty," she forced herself to say, but he shook his head.

"Nay, ye are na. I dunna ken who ye are, but Tara feels right. Thus I will call ye that until I learn the truth." His hand slipped from her wrist. Her fingers trembled, but she forced herself to rinse the rag and wring it out again. Shakily, she cleansed his chest. It was hard, crafted of fine hills and valleys. Her breath came faster.

His left wrist was bloody. She washed it, too, marvelling at the thickness of the bone, the denseness of the muscle.

Her gaze slipped downward. There was a scratch across his abdomen. She slipped the cloth over that slight wound. The muscles coiled like magic beneath her hand.

"Did I hurt you?" she whispered.

His eyes were sharp and clear, the muscles in his jaw, tight. "Nay."

"I..." For just a moment, for just one singular instant, she wanted to tell him the truth, to cleanse her soul, to share more than that which she could hold in her hand. But if the truth be known, her will to survive was stronger than all else. "I noticed your limp."

He merely watched her, saying nothing.

"You did not limp when first I met you."

"I did not kill people on a daily basis either, lass."

Guilt was a new emotion for her. It had no place in her life. Tara shoved it to the back of her mind for later examination, but kept the expression on her face.

"Do ye regret their deaths?" he asked, watching her.

She shook her head. "But I regret your involvement."

He reached out very slowly and touched her face, his fingers gentle against her skin. She closed her eyes.

"'Tis strange," he whispered. "It seems ye could do anything, and I would still desire ye."

She hid her surprise, though he had voiced the feeling she'd refused to allow herself to recognize. "I..." She knew she'd lost the expression of guilt, and wondered now with some fear what her face revealed. She would be a fool to drop her guard with him. And fools died young. "I'll see to your leg."

For a moment, she thought he would refuse. For a moment, the coward in her hoped he would, but finally he settled back. "'Tis na the first time I've been at yer mercy, lass."

The points had been unlaced from his doublet. Tara licked her lips and eyed them, the fabric below, the bulge.

"I can see ta the wound meself."

"Nay," she said, forcing her gaze to his face. "Nay," she repeated, calming her voice. "Ya saved my life. And I would do what I can for ya."

"Am I allowed to make suggestions?"

She tried to control her blush, but through all her deceitful years that was the one thing she had not conquered. "Decidedly not."

He shrugged. She bit her lip, said a silent prayer to a God who listened to sinners and saints alike, and reached for the top of his hose.

'Tara?"

"Aye?" She whipped her hands back to look into his face.

"Have ye ever wondered what a Scotsman wears beneath his plaid?"

She shook her head, feeling suddenly foolish and far out of her depth.

"They wear naught," he said. "And they wear the same under their English garments. I can tend the wound meself."

She managed to shake her head again.

"Ye could at least give me a blanket and turn away for a moment."

She retrieved the woolen with shaky hands, gave it to him, and showed him her back.

When next she looked at him, his tattered shirt had been shoved beneath his knee and he was naked but for the blanket that covered his body at a crooked angle. His chest was exposed, as were his shoulders, and the wounded width of one powerful leg. It made an erotic picture, the mighty male, awaiting her touch.

She took a deep breath as she forced her gaze to his thigh. "It has turned septic," she said, forcing the words out. He had suffered on her account. He had suffered, and she would tend his wounds. But nothing more. She was not interested in him as a person. The width of his shoulders did not impress her. The bulky curve of his chest held no appeal. And his eyes, green as a summer meadow, did not make her heart race and her soul long for intimacy.

"Lass, are ye well?" he asked.

She all but slapped herself, for she realized suddenly that she was staring at him like a dazed lambkin. "Aye," she said, and, hurrying to the fire, retrieved the kettle of hot water. The wound was puckered and oozing. She grimaced. "I fear it should be lanced."

"How do ye ken that?"

She shrugged, distracted by the duty ahead of her. "When I was a child, there was an old woman who taught me a bit about the art of healing. But not enough."

"Fiona could teach ye more," Roman said softly.

"Fiona?"

"The lady of the Forbes. There is none, as of yet, who can match her skill. Roderic's wife is ... well, she is the Flame, and wee Elizabeth is still a bairn." His gaze was far off and his expression rueful. "At least ta me own eyes she is still a babe."

"Your family?" Tara asked softly.

"Aye, they be mine, if na by blood, then by kindness."

"They are not your kin?"

"My parents died when I was but a lad. Me uncle took me in." He was silent for a moment, his face taut. "Fiona ... seemed ta think I needed a mother."

"And Dermid?" she asked.

"How do ye know his name?"

"Ya've mentioned your uncle before," she said.

"Ye've a good memory."

"It's served me well. What happened to Dermid?"

A muscle jumped in his lean jaw. "He died on me laird's blade."

"Your laird?"

"Fiona's husband." He looked away. "Laird Leith."

"Your foster father?" she asked softly.

"He calls me son."

His emotions were so clear it seemed she could read every thought. "But ya do not deserve that name?"

He turned slowly back to her, his eyes flat. "I dunna."

Tara skimmed her gaze down his massive body. "For a man fully grown, you know little of yourself, Scotsman."

Something shone in his eyes. Was it gratitude for the words she spoke?

"Mayhap ye can teach me of meself then, lass," he said softly.

Mayhap, she thought. And mayhap she could tell him of herself, share that which she had never shared before.

But no! She was being foolish, and foolish she could not afford to be. Turning quickly away, she hurried back to the fire to retrieve a knife that lay upon the stone ledge. Picking up a small rock, she absently sharpened the blade against it as she returned more slowly to him.

Long ago there had been a woman named Mary in the village of Killcairn, a kind woman with a doting family and a gift for healing. Long ago, Tara had imagined herself assuming that role. But fate had not opened that path to a small Irish girl with flaxen hair.

"I can lance the wound meself."

Roman's words startled her. She drew herself from the past. "What?"

"Ye look pale, lass. There's no need for ye ta do this."

"Nay, I can ..." She glanced at the wound again. It was an ugly thing, far worse than his others. And if it did not mend 'twould be her fault. "I can see to it."

"'Tis yer choice. But we'd best have bandages close ta hand. And Fiona would pack dry bread into the wound to draw out the poison, methinks."

"Bread." She nodded. The floor seemed to have tilted slightly, and her stomach felt strange. "I'll fetch some."

"Mayhap ye should sit for a bit, lass."

"Nay." She shook her head. The movement did nothing to set the room to rights. "I am fine."

"At least give me the blade," he said. "I'll sharpen it whilst ye retrieve what ye must."

She nodded, handing him the knife and rock, but she could not turn away, for she could not help staring at his wound.

"Lass."

She drew a deep breath and found his gaze.

"The linens."

"Oh." The word sounded strangely breathy. "Aye," she said, and turned away.

To her relief, she found that the jug of ale was not empty. She took a swig straight from the bottle, gathered up bread and linens, and turned back.

Roman's hiss of pain made her stop in her tracks. But his hand didn't delay a moment. Instead, it moved again, slicing a cross into his oozing leg wound. Blood flowed in earnest now, soaking the tattered shirt he'd shoved beneath his knee.

"I..." the world tilted more dramatically. "I could have done that," Tara said.

"Ye'd best sit down, lass."

"Nay, I..." She paused. Her stomach lurched. "I'd best sit," she said, stumbling toward the mattress.

He reached for her. Encircling her arm in his large hand, he guided her onto the pallet, took the items from her hands, and set them on the floor.

"Lie down."

"Nay, I'm ..."

"Lie down," he ordered, and she did so.

He cleaned and wrapped his own wound while she felt foolish and dizzy beside him.

Finally, he lay down beside her.

"Are ye well, lass?"

"Aye," she said, then added facetiously, "the lancing barely hurt atall."

He grinned. Her world tilted again, but she feared it was no longer from nausea but from the beauty of his smile.

He stroked her hair back from her face, skimming it behind her ear before running his hand down her arm and finally resting it on her waist.

Touch. How long had it been since she'd been touched with tenderness? Memories of her childhood welled up again. Her father's laughter, her mother's song. There had been love there, as deep as forever. But it was nearly forgotten, nearly out of reach, drowned by a thousand dark incidents since. The realization frightened her. There had been a time when she had vowed never to forget. Needing to feel, she reached out and touched Roman's chest. There was power there, but there was more—tenderness, caring. No matter what he said, he had been raised to love, and he had not forgotten, not like she.

But perhaps self-preservation had made her forget. Perhaps it was necessary to put tenderness behind her if she were to remain alive. She closed her eyes and steadied her mind.

Aye, she did not need this tenderness.

"I'm..." She tried to push away, but his arm was heavy across her waist. "I'm fine now. I'll see to your other wounds."

"Rest for a bit, lass. Dunna fret; I willna bite."

Bite? It was hardly his teeth that worried her. "I'm not... fretting."

"Nay?" Raising his hand, he skimmed his fingers through her hair again, touching her ear, her throat. "Ye nearly fainted."

"Well, I..." She shivered. His touch felt shivery warm, like an errant sunbeam breaking through a winter sky. "I should have eaten, I suppose."

He smiled, just a glimpse of humor that she thought too seldom found his face. "And here I hoped ye were overwhelmed by the sight of me masculinity."

Betty the barmaid would have come up with a saucy rejoinder. Tara the lass blushed. She lowered her eyes and turned her face away. But Roman gently caught her chin and urged it upward.

"Who are ye?" he whispered.

For a moment she couldn't speak, but finally she forced the single word from between her lips. "Bet—" she began, but at that moment, he kissed her. Sunshine flooded Tara's life in a torrent of light, warming her system, heating her blood. His hand cupped her neck. His heart raced against hers. His mouth slipped away, kissing her jaw, her throat.

Rays of hot pleasure seared her skin, threatening her with its heat. The woman named Betty would be lost in the inferno. The Shadow would be no more. All that remained was Tara, alone and terrified.

She pushed against him, panicked, trying to break free.

He eased back. "I have frightened ye?"

She was Betty—the barmaid, the whore. She did not frighten. "Nay. I simply ... Too much activity 'tis bad for your leg."

"Too much activity?" He grinned again, just the corner of a smile. "How much activity were ye planning, lass?"

Her chest hurt, for her heart was racing along like a runaway cart horse. "None at all," she breathed, but seeing him thus, smiling, seductive, alluring, made her mouth go dry and her wits drown.

"Remove your clothes."

"What?" she gasped.

Their faces were inches apart, but their bodies were much closer, pressed against each other. "Off with 'em," he whispered.

She tried to form some sort of denial, but Betty the barmaid had abandoned her completely, leaving her to mouth incoherent mutterings.

"I saved yer life, lass," he whispered, and suddenly his lips were against her ear, kissing it with butterfly tenderness.

She shivered. Her eyes fell closed.

"I thought..." She battled with her own weaknesses, trying to remember her reasons for celibacy. "I thought you were a gentleman."

"I told ye I was na ta be trusted, lass. I warned ye. 'Twas ye that denied me words," he said, and kissed the tender dell behind her lobe.

"But I..." She couldn't think, couldn't talk. "But I..." His fingers skimmed down the shallow furrow in the center of her back. Her breathing became erratic. "I..."

"Shh," he murmured again, and suddenly his hands were beneath her simple, boy's tunic. They were warm and strong against her skin. He was kissing her with such sweet, aching tenderness that there was little she could do but let the shirt skim upward. She lifted her arms, allowing it to ease over her head.

But now there was a new impediment, for she had bound her breasts with long strips of white cloth.

"'Twould seem I forgot that ye are a lad today," he whispered. His hands skimmed down her back, smoothing away her hose, caressing every inch of her as he scooped her closer still. Her legs seemed to open of their own accord, and suddenly his hips were clasped between them. She could feel the hard length of him, hot and eager against her sensitized softness.

Somehow, he had rolled to his back. She rode him astride, pressing her desire against his. His hands kneaded her buttocks. Letting her head drop back and allowing nothing but the hot, wild feelings to permeate her senses, she moaned.

Her skin tingled at his touch, and her head spun. She had lived in the underbelly of Firthport long enough to know the consequences of her actions, but she had been starved for human touch for too many years. The floodgates of desire burst open. There seemed nothing she could do but press against the rising tide and hope to stay afloat.