Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (3 page)

But Marrow was unperturbed by the other's lack of humor. He patted the innkeeper's shoulder. It was a big shoulder, he noticed, heavy with muscle and bone. "Yes, well. 'Tis a fine establishment you've got here. And close t' hand. Do you perchance let out rooms, my good man?"

Surprisingly, the landlord was able to look even more dour. He did so, then finally spoke. "I've three I rent out. But I've only one available."

"Lovely."

"And
you'll
pay in advance," he added, not attempting to hide any particular prejudices he might foster.

Marrow nodded and almost toppled forward while doing so. "Whatever you say, my good man," he said, and after digging about in his pouch, finally brought forth a coin.

The landlord took it with a grumpy nod, motioned Marrow inside, and closed the door behind them.

The stone steps were irregular and narrow. Marrow managed to conquer them with only a few false starts. They ended on a narrow landing, facing three slatted doors.

Krahn pushed one open.

Marrow stepped inside. "Ahh. A lovely room." It had a single window, narrow, but wide enough to squeeze through in an emergency.
"A
handsome room, but it's not facing north."

The landlord's brows could lower to a surprising degree. "What are you babbling about?"

"I always sleep in the north room." Marrow belched again. "For luck."

"Not here you don't. The north room's taken, and if y' wake up the Scot I'll toss you onto the street myself," he said, leaning forward aggressively.

Marrow backed away, holding up a hand. "Did I say north?" he squeaked. "I meant..." He let his head wobble a bit as if the room had begun to spin. "This'll be ..." His head bobbled more violently. He staggered toward the bed. "Perfect," he said and crashed facefirst onto the mattress.

For a moment the landlord stood watching him in silence, then, "Aye. It will," he said, and closed the door behind him.

Roman made his way swiftly and silently through the night. Stopping in the shadow of a wattle-and-daub building, he held his breath and listened for anyone who might be following. There were no such noises, but that did not mean he was alone. A score of eyes had seen the jewels he kept in his sporran.

Striding down the street again, Roman cursed himself for being a fool. It wasn't like him to become distracted. But there was something about the woman called Betty, something that drew him. Still, he knew better than to let a maid sway his concentration. Mayhap it was simply fatigue that had made him lose focus, for he was indeed weary. Bone weary. Firthport was not unlike other cities he knew. There was a desperation here, an undercurrent of evil that wore at him. But he would soon be returning home. He had but to stay the night, then deliver the necklace to Harrington in the morning. By the following evening he would be returning to the soothing peace of the Highlands.

But first he must survive the night.

The Queen's Head appeared through the mist. For just a moment Roman stopped to reconsider. Was there something sinister there, or was he seeing ghosts where there were none? Perhaps he should go to a different inn. But no. He made the decision quickly. The sooner he was out of sight of prying eyes the better.

Herr Krahn opened the door at Roman's second knock. The narrow stairs up which he traveled seemed unduly steep. Roman opened the door and stepped heavily into his rented room. Fatigue washed over him like a tugging tide, but this night he would not sleep, for it was far too risky. No, tonight he would stay alert and guard the jewels.

Midnight had long ago come and gone. Roman paced. The floor was cool beneath his bare feet. The bright red ceremonial tartan he had worn lay in a heap near the bed. Piled not far from it were his tunic and footwear. But for the amulet that hung from his neck and the sporran suspended from his shoulder, he was naked. Still, the air from the open window did little to revive him.

He paced again, singing in Gaelic and trying to think—about David who needed him, the MacAulay who trusted him, Lady Fiona who believed in him.

He would not fail her. The candle sputtered out. Darkness washed in, heavy and dank with fetid memories.

He would not fail, he repeated. He was a Forbes—the son of Fiona and Leith. But he was not truly of Lady Fiona's blood. His steps slowed. The blood of Dermid flowed in his veins. Dermid! The man's face appeared like an old scar in his mind. Roman started, certain for a moment that he was there in the room with him. He heard his own childish whimper of fear. Or was the noise from some other source? He couldn't tell. For a moment he was thrown back in time to when he was young and helpless, alone in the world but for Dermid, a man who harbored evil, unspeakable secrets.

He must escape. But... No. Roman shook his head. Dermid was dead. There was no danger here, and he was an adult with a sacred task to perform. He must not fail. The necklace must be given to Harrington. David MacAulay must be escorted back to his homeland.

But how could he do that without sleep? The bed called to him. He had to sit for spell or surely he would fail. But he would not sleep. The straw tick moaned beneath him as he lowered himself onto the edge. He would relax for a while. Just sit.

Memories crowded in again. Dark, ugly. He pushed them back. He was Roman of the great clan Forbes, trusted friend, respected diplomat. He was not evil. Neither was he weak. But the darkness laughed and closed about him like death.

Roman awoke with a start. He felt strangely heavy, but he managed to sit up. His head was groggy. And he was naked, and ...

"'E's awake!"

"Well, pop 'im, y' dolt!"

Something swung toward him.

Roman ducked instinctively. Reality washed in on him as a club hissed through his hair, but he had no time to be grateful for that near miss, for someone was lunging at him. He sprang to the side. A flash of steel arced through the night.

"Get 'im!"

Someone grabbed at him. He swung wildly. His fist connected with a skull. A man grunted and fell away.

"Brain 'im!" someone croaked.

But Roman had already launched himself at the nearest man. He hit him dead center, propelling him to the floor. Even in the darkness, he could see the blade. Roman grabbed the villain's wrist and slammed it down. Knuckles cracked against wood. A scream of pain and rage ripped the night. Roman rose and swung again. Cartilage cracked! The body below him went limp.

Something creaked behind him. Roman swung around and braced his back against the floor. A body flew toward him. Slamming his feet upward, Roman connected with his attacker's midsection and tossed the man over his head.

The wall reverberated with the impact.

"I got it! Let's get outta 'ere!" croaked a voice from the far corner. Silence answered him. "Acre? Blacks?" he said tentatively.

No one answered.

Roman rose slowly to his feet. "Looks like you're alone, lad," he said, and took a step toward the shadowy figure.

"I uh ..." There was a squeak in the man's voice. "I didn't mean no 'arm."

'Then give me the sporran and I'll give ye na harm."

"Yeah, sure. I—" he said and leapt.

The weight of his assault knocked Roman to the floor. A blade flashed downward. Roman jerked sideways. The knife whizzed past his head and stabbed into the wood beneath.

It was all the delay Roman needed. Sweeping his arm sideways, he crashed his fist into the villain's ear. In a moment, Roman was astride him, ready to strike again. But there was no need, for it seemed all three of his nocturnal visitors were unconscious.

Panting, Roman slipped off the flaccid body and stumbled across the room. His sporran lay where the thief had dropped it. He dipped his hand inside. No necklace. He fished wildly and swore. Still no gems.

With a quick stride he yanked the door open and flew down the stairs, sporran in hand.

The remains of a fire glowed in the hearth. He rushed across the room and stoked it into flames, then, tossing the poker aside, dumped out the contents of the ornate pouch. No necklace!

He rose with a snarl and raced up the stairs. Back in his rented room, he rifled through the thieves' clothing. Still nothing.

Retrieving his plaid, he buckled it quickly about his waist.

The nearest man groaned. Roman grabbed that one by the shirt and leaned into his face. "Where is it?" he asked softly.

When no answer was forthcoming, he dragged the man down the stairs to dump him in front of the fire.

He fell in a heap and groaned at the impact.

Settling back on his bare heels, Roman watched his captive awaken. He had lank, greasy hair and a scar that ran through his right eyebrow and down his cheek. He twitched as consciousness returned.

"Where is it?" Roman asked again, just as softly, carefully enunciating each word.

The thief jerked and cowered backward. "What? I don't know what you're talking about."

"The necklace. Where is it?"

"I don't know nothing 'bout no necklace."

Roman reached out. The thief cowered away, but Roman did not touch him. "How about pokers, lad?" he asked, bringing the metal pole slowly forward. "Do ye ken aught about them?"

"I didn't take it!" squawked the thief. "I didn't take it."

"Then where is it?"

"I don't... I don't know what you're talking about."

With a jerk, Roman thrust the sharp end of the poker past the man's face and into the fire behind him. 'Think hard," he suggested quietly.

The thief swallowed and stared sideways at the glowing faggots. "I didn't take it," he whispered.

Roman nodded toward the pile of discarded items that had been dumped from his sporran. "Then why isn't it there?" he asked, reaching for the poker. The end glowed an entrancing orange.

"Ain't there?" whispered the villain. "But we was told 'twas in the pouch." He suddenly stiffened. 'The Shadow! 'E got 'ere before us."

Roman eased back an inch. "What?"

"Not again! Jesus! Not again! I'm as good as dead. Dagger's gonna kill me."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Shadow," he moaned. "Damn his soul! He's done it again."

"Who's—" Roman began, but a gasp from behind stopped his words.

Still crouching, Roman turned on his heels. Herr Krahn stood in the doorway holding a club as thick as his arm. Behind him, a woman gaped, her uplifted candle throwing her wide eyes and cloth cap into stark relief.

"What the hell goes on here?" growled her husband.

Roman ground his teeth. What the hell, indeed? "Who or what is the Shadow?" he asked slowly.

'The Shadow?" The big man lowered the club. His wife sidled sideways a scant step, eyes still round as oranges. "What's this all about, then?"

"I've been robbed," said Roman.

"Gonna slit my throat," the thief moaned.

"The Shadow?" The big landlord advanced with a scowl. His wife came with him, staring. "Here? In my house?"

"Here and gone like a ghost," whispered the thief. "Damn 'im. 'E must a already took it when we come. Turned hisself into smoke and slipped down the chimney. Or slithered under the door like a snake."

"Have you heard of this Shadow?" asked Roman, facing the landlord.

"I have heard tales same as everyone. But whether they are true ...?" The big man shrugged.

"Oh, they're true. 'E's real," whispered the thief. "'E just ain't 'uman."

Roman turned back to the man on the floor. "Who is this Shadow?"

The thief shrugged. "'E ain't nobody. Or 'e's everybody. 'E ain't anywhere. But 'e's everywhere. I gotta get away. Gotta get away." He shifted his eyes wildly about.

"How would he know I had the necklace?" asked Roman, trying to reel the man back to reality.

"'ow?" He laughed, but the sound was wild. "The Shadow knows everything 'bout everyone. 'E just knows."

Roman scowled. "Who is he? How does he look?"

"'E looks like an old man. A babe. A puff of smoke."

Stifling an oath, Roman rose to his feet. "Who has been in this house while I was here this night?" he asked, turning to the pair by the entrance.

The landlord shook his head. "Just a young couple, them and their little one. But I know them well. Then there was the young fool what come in just fore you. He was in the room across from yours. Marrow was his name. John Marrow. But he was too drunk to..."

Doom echoed in Roman's mind. Grabbing the woman's candle, he took the steps three at a time. The slatted door banged open, revealing an empty room.

Roman swore in quiet earnest then turned toward the couple who had followed him up the stairs. "How did he look?"

"He ... He ..." Herr Krahn scowled as he scrutinized the room. The bed had not been slept in. Not a thing was out of place. "He was a stout man. Fair tall... I think. He woke me up. I—"

"What color was his hair? What did he wear?"

"He had a hat. It shadowed his face. All dark, he wore. He'd just woke me up. I couldn't see much."

Roman drew a deep breath, steadying his temper. Now was not the time to lose control. 'Tell me about the Shadow," he said evenly.

Krahn pulled back his big shoulders and lowered his brows. "The Shadow," he murmured as if just connecting the incident with the name. "'Tis said he's the ghost of an old beggar what lived on Laurel Street."

The wife eased up beside her husband. "Some say he takes from the rich and gives to them in need."

"Well, I'm in need," said Roman, low-voiced as he clenched his fists. The landlord raised his club. His wife ducked behind his back, but Roman strode past them back into his own rented room.

It took him only a few moments to wake and question the other two villains. But despite his threats and their obvious fear, they told him nothing more than he'd already learned. If the necklace was gone, the Shadow had been there before them.

Roman straightened, feeling rage spur through his system as he headed for the stairs.

"Where ... where be you going?" asked the woman.

"Ta catch a shadow," said Roman and strode into the night.

Chapter 3