Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (32 page)

"We'll all be hanged," Roman intoned, beginning to pace again.

"Come, Liam," Tara said, glancing worriedly at Roman. "Your costume is all but finished."

Roman scowled and watched them chatter over the groom's garments she dragged from a trunk.

He didn't want to know where that costume had come from.

Less than ten minutes had passed when Tara walked Liam to the door. "Just after dark then,” s said, "and have a care not to lather the team."

"I wouldn't think of it, m' lady," Liam vowed, and, bowing from the waist, left them.

"If ye stuff me codpiece with any more padding, I'll think ye've got ulterior motives," Roman said, looking down at Tara.

"I..." She jerked to her feet and stumbled back, blushing. Roman watched her in fascination. He could never guess how she would respond. Like a child, a vixen, a lady? They were all part of the woman that was Tara O'Flynn. "You're supposed to be my brother."

Roman shrugged. "'Twas a bad choice, methinks, for I may have some trouble pretending such a platonic relationship."

His doublet, which had been created from a number of garments, had been stylishly slashed, enlarged, and padded in the popular peasecod style, making him look older and stouter. He wore plain, black hose but for the ostentatious codpiece, which was adorned with gold thread and seed pearls. Tara had trimmed his hair to just above his shoulders and combed it straight down so that it covered his pierced ear. A black velvet cap was perched on his head.

It was doubtful he would be recognized as the bearded Scotsman who had first come to this city.

Tara fretted with the frilly, white cuff of his tunic, then scowled into his face. "What's your name?"

He cocked his head at her. "Are ye feeling quite well, lass? Me name is Roman and ye well know it."

"Mori dieu!"
she said. 'Try to remember your part or we will..."

Roman couldn’t help smiling at her, for she was so bonny and sober, immersed in her role as a fine French lady.

With her fists on her hips, she pursed her lips. "You're teasing me," she said. "You'll pay for that."

Roman lifted her hand, kissing it. "I will take that as a vow and anticipate the punishment."

She did nothing in half measures. Even when she blushed it seemed to go clear to the bone. He stared at the beautiful display above her daring decollete. "Yer identity is surely safe, lass. I doubt there will be a man there who will raise his eyes above yer neck."

The blush deepened.

'Tell me,
ma petite,"
he said, pulling her closer, "how far does the blush reach?"

Yanking her hand from his grip, Tara jerked about and hurried to the far side of the room.

Roman followed her. Mayhap he was beginning to understand her a bit. For even he felt different when he was dressed differently. Right now, for instance, he felt as randy and carefree as any French nobleman. Mayhap 'twas a bit of what she felt when she "became another." Or perhaps it was simply the joy of her company that made his heart feel so light. 'Tell me, lass," he began thoughtfully, then made a wild grab for her. She shrieked and managed to slip out of his grasp. He crossed his arms over his chest and let her go, but even from behind he could see that her ears were red. "Are ye truly so easily embarrassed, or is it all but a well-refined act?"

She waited a moment before she turned. But when she did her persona was firmly in place.

"A lady does not act,
mon frere,"
she said. "A lady
is."

She had braided her hair and coiled it about the crown of her head. A cap of black and gold adorned the neat plait, and below that, everything was bosom. Or at least that was as far as Roman could coax his attention. When she glided up to him, however, he managed to realize she was several inches taller than usual.

"Ye grew," he commented.

"A bit of height only makes it easier to look down my nose at the common English," she said, and lifting her skirt slightly, displayed the platform shoes hidden beneath.

"M' lady," said Liam, stepping inside, "your carriage waits just round the corner so as not to attract ... God's nuts, ya grew!"

"Joseph!" she admonished, looking shocked even as she used the lad's newly invented name. "I'll not have you using such language in my presence."

Liam grinned. "Don't she do that good though, Scotch. She'll be the mistress of thievery until the day she dies."

Sobriety returned to Roman with a start. Until the day she died! 'Twas his task to make certain that day would not come for many years.

Shrubs trimmed in the shape of animals lined the cobbled walk of Harrington House. Even in the dark, Roman could make out their forms strewn with white hawthorn blossoms.

The carriage glided to a halt. Liam opened the door with a flourish. "We have arrived," he said. His bow was elegant, his grin was not.

Roman scowled, first at him and then at the looming shrubbery. Confidence was a strange thing. It came and it went. His had gone. But when he glanced at Tara, he saw that hers was intact. Or at least, if it was not, he would never know it by her expression.

"Are you ready,
mon frere?"
she asked.

"Oui,"
Roman managed, though he failed to dredge up the frivolous tone he thought more appropriate.

Tara puckered her lips. She had stained them bright red and very tempting. "Are you feeling quite well?"

"One question only," he said quietly. "Why do you look young and vivacious and I look ... fat?"

Her laughter was silvery sweet in the cool spring air. She had procured a feathered fan from somewhere and covered the lower half of her face now. "Is it the truth you wish for?"

He nodded, trying to follow her moods and her leads. But she was like quicksilver, changing with the speed of light.

She leaned closer, her bosom full and seductive above the low neckline. "If you looked your usual self, I would never be able to keep you for myself. Even as it is, every woman here will wonder what lies within your codpiece. ‘Tis my task"—she looked up at him through silky lashes—"to make certain they do not find out."

For a moment Roman was tempted almost beyond restraint to take her back to her room and make slow, hot love to her. But she was already disembarking.

Two footmen approached their carriage. Lanterns had been set out on long poles, and laughter could be heard from the house.

Tara offered her hand to the nearest servant. She was all elegance and smooth sensuality. Roman clamped a firm hand over his possessiveness and his nerves and followed her down the cobbled lane.

The door was opened by a servant who requested their names.

Roman's stomach coiled as he scanned the crowd before him. He was far out of his depth. This was not his method. He was accustomed to stating the truth and accepting the circumstances whatever they may be. But that was before he had met Tara O'Flynn, for while he might be willing to accept whatever circumstances came his way, he was not willing to let her do the same. Thus there was little he could do now but play the game by her rules.

Keeping his expression bland, he glanced about the entrance through which they passed. It was huge and arched. Hung with tapestries and painted in deep, rich colors, it seemed somehow far different than both other times he had been there. But those times he had come as someone else. Once as Roman Forbes, begging a favor. The other as some half-civilized barbarian who did nothing but bang guards into oblivion and drag Tara to safety.

Hell fire! If they were recognized ...

"I am Elise Fontaine," Tara said, "and
mon frere,
Lord Fontaine." Her accent was impeccable, her elegance all but tangible.

From the top of the carpeted stairs, Lord Harrington hurried down toward them. His spindly legs were encased in forest green hose, his upper body swathed in a short, voluminous gown of the same bright hue. 'Twas a gay costume, but there was, perhaps, a certain desperation as he took Tara's hand.

"My apologies, my dear, do I..." He paused as their gazes met, and his tone quieted. "It almost seems as if I knew you ... long ago. But..." He shook his head, looking bemused. "Do I know—"

"I invited them, Father," said Christine. She hurried down the arched hall from the left. She wore a light blue gown of patterned velvet. Her cheeks were pale, her blue eyes very bright, and on her wrist, she wore a band of sapphires and diamonds. "Elise?"

For a moment, Roman held his breath, for uncertainty was obvious in Christine's tone.

"Christine," crooned Tara, sweeping her arms wide to pull the girl into her embrace. "I would know you anywhere,
mon amie.
I heard so much about you."

There was just a moment's delay before Christine caught the inference and played along. 'Twas quite apparent she had expected Tara to arrive and had spent no small amount of time considering what she might say. "And Elizabeth talks of little else but the summer you and she spent together."

For just an instant, Roman saw a congratulatory gleam in Tara's eye. In fact, she nodded once as she smiled and gently pressed the girl to arms' length. The bracelet, Roman noticed, was still on Christine's arm.

"You are fully as beautiful as I supposed you would be," Tara said, beaming. Not in a thousand years would Roman have guessed she was acting. "Lizzy did not exaggerate a bit, did she, Seymore?"

Hell fire! He didn't know any Lizzy, and he was beginning to sweat.
"Non,"
he managed, and Tara laughed with that tinkling, silvery sound that was all her own.

"Mon frere
of many words," she said. "I think, could it be, you have smitten him dumb with your beauty, Christine?"

"Lady Christine," called a young nobleman dressed in scarlet hose and waistcoat, "your guests are begging to hear you sing. Come." The young man walked, or rather, Roman thought, he
tinkled
toward them. "The world grows dull without your beauty to lighten it."

Roman managed to contain his scowl, but there was little wonder the girl had been smitten by David MacAulay, he thought. Highlanders may have their faults, but at least they were men and not... fairymen.

"But..." There was a certain degree of desperation in Christine's tone as she was guided away. "Elise has just arrived. And I—"

"I shall entertain Lady Fontaine and her brother," interrupted her father. "Go with Lord Beaumont now. 'Twill give me a moment to learn something about Lord Fontaine."

Christine pursed her lips slightly, but she nodded and, taking Beaumont's arm, disappeared through the archway.

Tara studied Harrington as he watched Christine depart. He was but an old man, she realized, and though that thought was no new revelation, it still surprised her somehow. He was old and frail, and mayhap long past hating.

"She is indeed a lovely child," Tara said, still watching him.

"My only daughter, now that Maude is gone." Harrington's voice was quiet and scratchy. "I suppose I have spoiled her shamelessly. Yet, she reminds me of mistakes long past. Mistakes I must redeem." His expression was somber, as though he had forgotten the presence of his guests. "I will find her a good match." His gaze strayed to a man dressed in russet brown. "Yonder is Lord Dasset." Tara turned her gaze to the one indicated. He was not a particularly handsome man. His height and build were average, but he had a decided air of self-confidence. Silver streaked his hair. He turned to Harrington, nodded, then slowly shifted his eyes to look at Tara. She felt the impact of his gaze and could understand why Harrington might consider him a desirable match for his daughter. If he was looking for someone who could protect her, there was little doubt that this man could. Tara sensed power here. But she sensed something else as well. "A good match," Harrington repeated thoughtfully, "mayhap 'tis the best a father can offer his child."

Tara pulled her gaze from Dasset and managed a smile. "Lord Beaumont looked to be a likely candidate."

"Likely to be an idiot and waste his father's fortune. She needs a solid man," Harrington said, but then he caught himself. "Forgive me," he said, extending his arm to her. "We have only just met, and I am rambling on as if we've known each other a lifetime. ‘Tis the trouble with becoming old. But I will bend your ear with my problems no more. So you are a friend of Lady Elizabeth?"

Tara took his arm, but for just an instant she trembled. "Is there a person in all of England that is not Lizzy's friend? Even Seymour adores her," she said, extending her other arm to Roman. "And he is so staid, he hardly likes anyone."

Harrington glanced at Roman through shrewd old eyes. "There is something vaguely familiar about you, Lord Fontaine. Have we, mayhap, met before?"

Roman didn’t so much as glance at Tara, and his expression remained perfectly steady. Regardless of his disclaimers, he made a fine actor, and could make a better thief if his scruples would not ruin it for him.

"I have business in England with some frequency," he said. "'Tis a possibility we've met before. Do you know the duke of Perth, perchance?"

"Nay. I cannot say that I do. Is it business with the duke that brings you here?"

"In actuality, I have some business to discuss with the MacGowans of Dun Ard."

"Business? With the Scots?"

Roman nodded solemnly, and Tara almost smiled. So he was not afraid to tread on familiar ground in the fear that he would be recognized. In fact, it seemed he almost challenged Harrington to do so. And what better way to disguise oneself than with confidence?

"In fact I have business with the lady of the MacGowans," he said.

"A lady?"

"Have you not heard of the Flame and her steeds?"

"Nay."

"You shall," said Roman.

"To be quite frank, I am surprised to hear you would deal with the Scots," Harrington said, stopping near a large banquet table.

Tara could feel Roman's arm tighten beneath her hand. "And why would that surprise you, Lord Harrington?"

"They are a ..." For a moment pain and anger showed in the old man's eyes. "An immoral lot."