Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (29 page)

Memories crowded in. "They wouldna allow me to sit there for long, lass."

"I am sorry."

Roman shook his head and drew himself back to the present. "'Twas na like that. 'Twas me own decision ta be alone. She always knew when I was there. Somehow..." He shrugged. "She always knew, and she would come. Finally, there seemed na point in running away. Her touch didna seem so terrible. Her kindness did not seem so frightening, though mayhap ..."

"What?"

"Mayhap ye are right; I never believed I deserved it."

"You deserve every gift there is," she said softly.

"Why do ye say this?"

"Because I know you, Scotsman. You have seen the depths of depravity, yet you have remained unstained."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she placed her fingers on his lips and smiled. "I am a fair judge of people, Scottie, and I am a skeptic. If I say you are good, you are good.

He was lost in her eyes, in the kindness of her words. "Love is a frightening thing," he whispered.

He had not meant to say those words and wished now to reel them back, but the damage was done.

He could see the terror in her eyes, and though she didn’t move, it seemed he could feel her draw away. "I know little of love," she said.

She was wrong, but mayhap she didn’t realize it. He held her tightly. "Don't ye?"

Her gaze lifted again, haunted, ethereally blue. She shook her head, but the motion was stiff and jerky. "Love kills, Scotsman. That's what I know. And no matter what you think, I do not wish to die."

"Love can heal," he said quietly.

She shook her head again, but the movement was no more certain than before. "I have no proof of that."

"I am proof," he said. "For I surely wouldna have lived had na Fiona saved me. And ye, lass ... I have heard ye speak of Cork. There is something in yer voice when ye speak of him."

Her eyes fell closed. "He died because of me." Her words were hushed. Roman remained very still. "I was young and I was full of myself. I had stolen a buckle from a passing lord. Cork ..." She shook her head. "He had taught me to study my victims before I stole. He said that if I got caught, I would hang and I would hang alone. He would not risk his life for me."

Roman stroked her hair back, wanting to take her pain.

“They suspected me of the theft. I was naught but the little urchin that lived with Cork. They came to his room, accusing me. But he laughed and said I was not clever enough to make such a theft. 'Twas he that had taken it, he said."

'They hung him?" Roman asked.

She would not look at him. "Cork had always said he would not dance that dance. He was killed trying to escape. Bertram saw it all."

The fire crackled behind her.

Her lips trembled. He kissed them. Her mouth was sweet and eager. She held him tightly to her, as though she clung to life with that embrace. Their kiss lingered, but finally it ended.

"'Tis sorry I am, lass."

"'Tis how he said he wished to go. I mourned his death. I mourned him," she whispered. "But now I wonder if even in that I was selfish. 'Twas myself I felt pity for."

"'Tis what we do, lass. We dunna fret for those gone ahead, but those left behind. Still, dunna ye see how Cork's love healed ye, lass?"

"I see how it killed," she said, "and yet..." She touched his cheek so gently that he felt a need to press into her caress and close his eyes to the sharp need it caused. "What we've done. It feels ..." She smoothed her palm along his cheek and he took her hand and kissed it gently.

"Like love?" he whispered.

"I don’t know," she murmured. "But I long for it again."

What kind of magic did she possess that all she need do was touch his face or speak his name and he quivered to have her again?

Their lovemaking was slow this time. Ever so slowly, he eased the blouse from her body, and ever so slowly, his kisses fell where they would, her arms, her breasts, the delicate hollow below her sternum.

Her abdomen was trim and flat, her hips softly flared, and her legs endless and shapely. He kissed every inch of them, smoothing his hands along them, lifting her knees, and finally, when she trembled for him, he slid easily into the warm, tight sheath of her body.

Where before a tempest had blown, now soft waves rocked them. They were slowly lapped closer and closer to the shore of contentment, until finally, sated and languid, they drifted onto the warm sand of fulfillment.

Sleep was a cozy blanket wrapped about them. Roman pulled it around him and fell into the darkness.

Warm dreams caressed him. He was basking in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Her name was Tara O'Flynn, and whether she knew it or not, she was his, and his alone. He had been a fool to think he could settle for less than this. A fool to believe he could be satisfied with a diplomatic union. He had been reared in an atmosphere of fierce love and fiery passion. 'Twas not a legacy to be forgotten. True, he was not worthy, but suddenly he knew that Tara had been sent for him just as Fiona had been sent for Leith, and Flame had been sent for the Rogue.

Roman reached across the bed now, needing to feel her against him. His hand touched her empty pillow.

So, she had left the bed. He smiled to himself. Who would she be this time? A fine lady? A bawdy barmaid? Or perhaps, herself, a golden-haired nymph with hands that could take him to heaven. He opened his eyes, searched the room, then sat up ... and swore.

Hell fire! She was gone!

Chapter 21

Tara hurried down the dark streets toward Harrington House.

Roman would sleep. Of course he would sleep. Jewel, the old whore of Backrow, had told Tara more than once that sex was the strongest sleep tonic a man could consume. And they had had sex. Quick and hard, and long and slow. She had planned the first time, and it had been shamefully simple, for Salina had taken over, had seduced him, had seduced
her.
But the second time ...

Tara's breath came faster at the memory of his hands, strong and gentle against her skin. His chest was as hard as ...

A dark shape bounded into view. She started back with a gasp, but it was nothing more terrifying than a dog chasing a rat.

Sweet Mary! What was wrong with her? This was no time to daydream. She was the Shadow, resurrected from the dead. But she would be dead in earnest if she didn't concentrate. Her ability to focus had kept her alive all these many years. She must focus now.

She was the Shadow. Wrapping her thoughts about her, she hurried along until finally, dark and looming, Harrington House appeared. She sat in the darkness, watching, becoming one with the night. Instead of washing the dye from her face, she had darkened it further with the aid of molasses and a fine layer of silt. Her hair was hidden beneath a flat, brown cap, and her hands were covered with dark, kid gloves. She would be nearly impossible to see, she knew. Thus, she sat, studying the situation until she could make out every detail.

There, just next to the chestnut tree that drooped heavily over the lane, stood a man. So old Harrington
had
hired guards, or at least one. But no, at the corner of the house was another man.

A thrill of anticipation snaked along Tara's spine. There was little point in being a thief if the job was too easy. And this job would not be easy.

Smiling to herself, she slipped from her hiding place and went to inspect the back of the house.

One guard watched that side of the huge manse, but he was bored and restless. Only minutes after Tara arrived there, he rounded the house to talk to his companions.

After that it was a simple enough task to slip to the back door. It was almost a disappointment when it opened so easily under her hand. In a moment, she was inside and skimming up the stairs, the soft soles of her shoes silent against the stones, the wood, the carpet.

The house was quiet, but for the sharp hiss of a cat from the kitchen. Apparently there was a feline argument about who patrolled the larders while the cook slept. But Tara need not worry about the kitchen. Even if someone awoke to reprimand the cats, they would not find her.

For more than a decade she had been a thief, planning, scheming, surviving on her wits. Mayhap it could have been different. Mayhap long ago she could have gone to Lord Harrington and told him the truth. Told him she was his granddaughter—the child of the daughter whose death he had caused. But she had not. She would like to think pride had prevented her from doing so, but the truth was far less noble. Fear was a hard thing to admit.

But she would not think of that now. She had to concentrate. Where would he keep the bracelet for which she searched?

He was an old man, old and bitter and greedy. He would keep it close to himself, she reasoned, and so she crept, silent as the night, down the hall to where she knew his room to be.

There was no servant at his door, and he had left the portal partially open.

Heaven smiled on her. She smiled back.

Inside the room, some light managed to find its way through the thick, smoky glass of his window.

Tara stepped beside the door and waited, scanning the room, her nerves stretched taut. No servants near the bed. Harrington slept alone. And there he was, in the middle of his large, curtained mattress. His back faced her.

The trunk at the end of his bed opened with only a quiet creak. Tara leaned the lid back and sat still, waiting in silence in case the sound had alerted the old man. Patience was a necessity. Harrington slept on.

Tara removed her gloves, closed her eyes, and thought with her fingers. She felt fabric, wood, metal. But the metal was heavy and coarse. She moved her fingers swiftly on. At the very bottom of the trunk she found a small leather pouch and drew it out. The contents tumbled silently out. A ring of gold and diamonds winked in the faint light at her. A. pair of buckles lay side by side. But there was no bracelet.

Silently, she slipped the items back into the pouch and shoved them carefully beneath the clothes. The trunk closed with a nearly inaudible moan.

Without standing up, Tara skimmed the room again, but nothing obvious caught her gaze. And wouldn't the old man be obvious? After all, he had hired guards. Why hire guards, if you could not trust them? Which meant that the bracelet was not here.

But where?

Where else but his daughter's room?

For a moment Tara remained motionless.

Something akin to dread seeped through her, for long ago, when the girl had been no more than eight years of age, Tara had seen her. Christine Harrington, blonde, beautiful, pampered in frills of pink and white—the daughter of Harrington's second wife.

Grubby, hungry, and hidden in the holly bushes, Tara had sneered at the girl. For Tara had been all of thirteen years of age, old and wise and cynical. But on her way home that night her heart had ached with regret.

She did not want that ache again. But at that moment, Roman's image invaded her mind. His solemn face was tilted down toward her, and in his hands there was a quiet magic.

The bracelet would be in Christine's room. Thus, she would go there.

The hall was silent and very dark.

Whereas Harrington had not had a single servant at his door, his daughter had two. From her spot around the corner, Tara could hear them breathe in quiet symphony. Ever so carefully, she peaked around the corner. The one by the door was a woman. She knew it by the way she slept, curled up like a child. But the other was a man, who did not lie down but slept sitting in a half-erect position.

Tara eased back behind the corner of the wall. Sweet Mary! She hadn’ asked for an easy task, but she had hoped it would be possible. As she listened, the guard's breathing changed. Tara knew he awoke. She waited in silence, hoping fervently that he would fall back asleep.

It didn’t take long for him to do so, but what now? If he slept so lightly, surely he would awaken long before she managed to sneak into Christine's bedchamber. Unless ...

Within minutes, Tara was back down the steps to the kitchen.

Easing the door open, she stepped inside. On the long, plank table, a cat rose and stretched. Tara hurried to the larder, spied a bit of cheese, and after stealing a small piece, nabbed the cat and hurried up the stairs toward the bedchambers.

The tabby had a bad temper and a good deal of heft. He nosed at Tara's fingers, trying to trace the intoxicating scent of cheese. But it had not far to travel before Tara reached her destination.

Near Christine's room, there was another chamber, a weaving room. The door opened quietly beneath Tara's hand. Placing the cat inside, she closed the door and set the cheese a scant inch away.

Quiet as dusk, Tara hurried down the hall and into a doorway to wait.

It didn't take long for the cat to be tempted by the cheese. Having explored the dry interior of the room, he had returned to the door, sniffed the cheese, and thrust a paw beneath the portal. He almost reached the delectably stinky thing and dragged his claws back across the wooden floor to reconnoiter and try again.

A series of strange scrapings and scratchings followed. Tara waited, poised for action.

Despite the noise from the cat, Tara knew the moment the guard was awake. She held her breath, waiting, tense. She heard him rise to his feet and sensed more than heard his knife slide from its sheath.

A shiver ran up her spine.

For a big man, the guard moved quietly. She saw him stop where the hallway branched. She held her breath, knowing he was searching, but in a moment he had ascertained the source of the noise. Still, he was cautious when he moved toward the door. It opened beneath his hand.

"What the devil ya doing in here, cat?" he asked, but before he could say another word, Tara had slipped from her hiding place and down the next hall.

There was no time to waste now. Not an instant. Stepping past the maidservant, Tara pushed the door latch with firm conviction, stepped into the bedchamber, and drew in observations with lightning speed.

No one awake. No servants. Big room. Bed. Tapestries. A trunk. Tara exhaled silently and leaned her back against the wall for a moment, still drawing in perceptions and waiting for her pulse to slow.