Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) Page 10

  “So ye think I saved ye so that I could incur yer gratitude and collect yer debt. Ye think I calculated the risks and decided the possibility of death was worth a fuck with the Red Fox whore!”

  Anger flamed within her like a windswept blaze. She raised her hand to strike him, but he had already caught her wrist in a casual grip.

  Think! She had to think. Betty smiled, forcing her muscles to relax and raising her brows as if in concession. “And ya were right, Scottie,” she purred. “I’m well worth the risk.”

  Their gazes burned. His grip tightened, and she felt-it shake. Passion rode him hard, and she knew it. But in a moment, he dropped her wrist and pulled the blanket over her body.

  Jerking to his feet, he turned away.

  Confusing emotions battled within her. Something deep inside made her want to cry out to him, to pull him back to her, to feel the warmth of his body touch her soul. But good sense knew better. Still, despite the width of his bared back, the strength of his taut arms, he looked so alone. Like a boy in a man’s body.

  “Scottie,” she said softly, against her will.

  “Go to sleep,” he said, without turning back. His tone was gruff, taut, hard-edged.

  “With you here?” She almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea.

  “What?” He turned abruptly toward her, his fists clenched, his eyes bright with anger and uneased passion. “Do ye think ye canna trust me?” he asked, stepping closer. “Do ye think mayhap I’ll be unable ta keep meself from ye during the night?” His chest was bunched with muscle. “Is that what ye think? That a barbaric Scot like meself canna be trusted with a … with a body like yers?”

  Betty swallowed and managed to force her gaze from the scarred width of his chest to the sparking intensity of his eyes. “Mayhap … mayhap I can’t trust meself, Scotsman,” she whispered.

  Chapter 9

  Roman stood gaping at Betty like a fish tossed abruptly into thin air. He blinked, feeling breathless and disoriented.

  He was a Highlander, a diplomat, a barrister. He had skills. But not women skills. Whores were one thing. He’d had his share of bonny women, eager for his coin. There had been guilt, but somewhere in his soul, he had believed it right that he was there with them.

  And perhaps somehow he thought it right that he was here with Betty. But only if he was with Betty the whore. Betty, the woman, was another matter. And her desire confused him. Other women had desired his coin and perhaps his position. But even Sharlyn, whom he had planned to marry, had not attempted to hide the fact that he did not interest her as a man. It would have been a marriage of the most convenience, useful for diplomatic and political reasons. But her father had found someone more diplomatically and politically desirable.

  “Well…” he said, his tone sounding raspy to his own ears. “Well, I…” He tightened his fists, loosened them, tightened them again. He was acting like a child. He was well aware of that. “I’ll be here.” He nodded to the floor. “If ye need me.” He swallowed, cleared his throat. “I mean … if yer in need of me ministrations…” He drew a deep breath and for a moment, considered knocking his head against the nearby wall. “Yer arm,” he said. “Or … any other part of…”

  Hell fire! He was an idiot when it came to women. “I’ll just… I’ll be going ta sleep now, lass.” Before he made an even bigger ass of himself.

  “Not ‘ere, Scotsman,” she said softly.

  He canted his head. “What?”

  “I said, ya can’t stay ‘ere.”

  He straightened slightly. She was wounded. Dagger’s men might return. He was staying. And he was ever so grateful to find a firm disagreement to settle his mind on. “And why would that be, lass?”

  She shrugged. Her shoulders were bare, distracting as she tugged the blanket slightly higher. “I won’t ‘ave ya interfering with business.”

  He lowered his brows. “Business. Ye said ye were closed for business. Because of Harry.”

  “Well, ‘arry is gone, and a girl’s got to make a living. I won’t ‘ave ya scaring away me … customers.”

  “Customers! Damn right I’ll scare away yer customers,” he growled, leaning into her face.

  “Ya’ve no right ta interfere with my business,” she hissed.

  “Business!” He clenched his teeth, gripped his fists tight, then drew a deep breath as if calming himself. “What’ll it take then?”

  His change of pace, confused her. She scowled. “Take?”

  He leaned closer, cupping her chin in his palm. “How much?”

  “I offered myself once.” She raised her chin and tried to look haughty. “Ya refused.”

  “I couldn’t afford the conditions,” he murmured. “But if we’re talking coin, that’s different. How much?”

  “Go away, Scotsman. Ye’ve no right to me.”

  “I saved yer life.” It seemed the argument had changed somehow, had shifted sides, but he couldn’t seem to stop the words. True, he had saved her life, and, therefore, he owed her protection. It didn’t make sense, not even to himself. Yet, somehow it seemed true.

  “Ya saved me life,” she spat. “But ya’ll not own me soul.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “If’n we … do it… we do it on me own terms. Ya’ll leave Firthport before the dawn.”

  He ground his teeth. “I made a vow ta finish what I started.”

  ‘Then ya’d best be about fulfilling it,” she said. “Get out. I won’t ‘ave ya dying in me own place. Dagger’s men ‘ave a tendency to make a terrible mess of a man.”

  Roman snorted. “And what do they do ta women?” She paled at his words, but it gave him little satisfaction, only an itching desire to take her in his arms. Instead, he steeled himself. “I’m staying, lass,” he said, and bent to douse the flame.

  “Don’t snuff the light.” She looked even paler now and smaller, like a child afraid of the dark. He opened his mouth, wanting to ask why, but she shook her head. “‘Tis a foolish habit to leave a light burning, I know. But ‘tis mine.”

  “I have na wish ta be burned ta death in me sleep.”

  “So long as you’re in Firthport, that’ll be the least of your worries, Scotsman,” she said softly.

  He turned away with a snort and pulled his shirt back over his head. Loosening his belt, he removed his plaid, wrapped it about his shoulders, and settled onto the floor.

  She watched him for a moment then turned away, carefully pulling her nightgown over her head and wounded shoulder before lying down.

  The night stretched into silence. Fatigue numbed Roman’s thoughts. Dreams stole in. Soft and beckoning at first, they slipped into darkness, pulling him down with them, threatening, throttling.

  Roman awoke to a scream. Reality flooded back. He yanked his blade from his garter and jerked to his feet.

  The room was dark, but even so he could see the girl sitting upright on her bed. The villains were … He turned, crouched, ready. There was no sound but her ragged breathing.

  Roman turned again, straightening slightly.

  “No!” Betty screamed again. “Mam! No!”

  He rushed to her and grabbed her flailing arms to crush them between their bodies. “Betty, lass. Wake up. ‘Tis a dream.”

  She awoke with a jolt, her body stiff.

  “All is well.” He released her arms and gently stroked her cheek. “‘Twas a bruadair,” he said, slipping into his native Gaelic. “A dream, lass, nothin’ more.”

  “Da.” She breathed the word like a prayer, softly burred into the darkness. “Ye came back for me, Da?”

  Her eyes were as wide as a child’s, her fingers tight with desperate strength as they tangled in his shirt.

  “Shhh, lass,” he soothed. “Shh. I’m here. Na harm will befall ye.”

  “Cork said … Cork said ye were dead, Da.” Releasing one hand from his shirt, she raised it to his face, feeling the rough stubble of his short beard.

  “But I say na. Ye wouldna leave y
er little lass, for I be yer sunshine. Ye always say ‘tis so.”

  “Shh, lass, ye’ve had a scare is all,” he said.

  With a moan, she clasped her arms about his neck, squeezing him close. “Ye’ll na go again, will ye, Da? England be so cold and frightful. We’ll go home, now. We’ll go home.”

  Roman held her tightly to him and stroked her hair. “I’m here, lass,” he crooned.

  She snuffled once. Through her nightgown, he could feel the warmth of her breasts pressed against his chest.

  “Da?” Her tone was uncertain now, small as an infant’s. “Where is Mam?”

  Roman closed his eyes. Who was this woman and what had she endured? “Betty.” He said her name softly, but she stiffened instantly. He felt her throat constrict, her muscles tighten.

  She pulled away slowly, as if afraid to look into his face. “Scotsman.”

  Her composure returned with shocking speed. But he didn’t release her, couldn’t quite force himself to relinquish his hold. “Lass,” he breathed, watching her face in the darkness, ” ‘tis sorry I be.”

  She laughed abruptly. “Nay.” She cleared her throat and tried again to pull from the shelter of his arms. “‘Tis I who should apologize. I… um…” She turned toward the guttered candle. “The light went out.”

  He touched her face again, wanting to draw back the child that needed him, that trusted him as he had so often wished he could trust. “‘Tis me own fault,” he said. “I should have lighted another candle. But I didna know.”

  She laughed. The sound was no less haunted than the last. “‘Tis of no concern, of course,” she said, finally succeeding in pulling from his grip and slipping her bare feet to the floor. He shifted his weight, allowing her to pull the blanket from beneath him. She drew it about her shoulders like a shield and walked to the trunk where the candle had once glowed. From a nearby shelf, she took a new taper and a flint and steel, but her hands shook. He saw it, and taking two steps toward her, settled his fingers over hers.

  “Speak ta me, lass,” he pleaded.

  She kept her face averted. “‘Tis late, Scotsman. I am fatigued, ‘tis all.”

  “Nay.” Her hands felt cold beneath his. “‘Tis na all. Ye knew the dreams would find ye if the candle failed. They have haunted ye afore.”

  She moved away toward the dark fireplace. “They are dreams. Nothing more,” she said, striking a spark from the flint and steel. It landed on a heap of fuzzy tinder, placed just so as if carefully tended for just such an occasion. The spark caught fire, blazed quickly.

  “Nightmares be the dark beasts of memories come back ta haunt our sleep,” Roman said softly.

  She turned, her face a porcelain cameo against the backdrop of the small fire. “And how do ya know that, Scotsman?”

  He crossed the floor to squat in front of her. Her blanket lay in folds about her, and her hair, soft as thistledown streamed about her shoulders in molten waves of gold. ‘The beasts come for me also,” he said.

  The tiny blaze crackled and grew. Her small face was somber.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He took her hands. They felt clammy in his own. “As am I.”

  She drew a shaky breath, and he couldn’t resist pulling her closer, so that she was cradled against his body. Although she felt stiff and uncertain, she didn’t draw away. “What are your beasts, Scotsman?”

  He gazed over her head at the fire. “They were spawned long ago, lass, and best left ta sleep if they will.”

  “Long ago.” She nodded. “But still they snarl and snap, waiting to devour me.”

  He tightened his arms about her. She felt small and fragile. “Yer da would na wish for his memory to haunt ye so.” He settled onto his buttocks, shifting her between his legs and wrapping his plaid about both of them. “How did they die, lass?”

  For a time, Roman thought she would refuse to answer, but finally she spoke. “He was an Irishman.” She said the words softly, with the singsong burr that her father must have had. “A farmer.”

  The fire crackled again. She was cradled, warm and soft between his thighs.

  “And yer mother?”

  “She was as bonny as the spring flowers.” She laughed, then sobered and swallowed. “He always said so. He had a small, gilt-framed portrait of her. I always thought it so lovely. They must have taken it. I never found it. Not after…” She swallowed. “Da always said Mam was the flower and I was the …” She paused.

  “The sunshine,” Roman murmured, remembering her words.

  She turned toward him. There were no tears, just dry, hopeless sadness.

  “They killed him,” she whispered and closed her eyes. “Perhaps Grandfather hoped she would return home with them. Perhaps …” She shrugged, shaking her head. “But he did not know.”

  Roman stroked her hair, soothing her and himself. “Didna know what?”

  ‘That she would choose to die rather than be left without him.”

  “No, lass,” he crooned and closed his eyes to pull her closer still. “She didna take her own life.”

  “Nay.” The word was small. “She went to save him from the fire. But…” She shook her head like one lost in another time. “The flames were so big— unearthly bright I thought. She would certainly die there. Certainly. And I could not force myself to go in.”

  “Oh, lass. Ye surely canna blame yerself. Ye were wise ta stay out.”

  “Wise,” she whispered. “Aye. That I am. Wise enough to leave them to their deaths. Wise enough to survive by whatever means I might.”

  He exhaled softly, feeling her pain tighten his chest. Guilt was an old companion, but a poor friend that had given him no joy. “Ye canna let their deaths haunt ye.”

  She shook her head. “‘Tis not their deaths that haunt me,” she murmured. “‘Tis their love.”

  “How so?”

  She didn’t answer, but sat very still. “Are ya married, Scotsman?”

  “I was nearly so once.”

  “Did ya feel some love for her?”

  “Love? Nay. But I would have given her a good life.”

  “Then why didn’t ya?”

  He watched the fire for a moment. “Her father found someone more desirable.” Roman had never quite admitted the relief he’d felt, but he admitted it to himself now, in the silence that followed.

  “And your parents, did they not share a love?”

  The dark beasts of memories were hunting again. He beat them back. “Why do ye ask?”

  “‘Tis said what a child learns at birth cannot be untaught. I fear it may be true, for I could not marry unless ‘twas for true love,” she whispered.

  “And thus ye are alone?”

  She nodded. “So ye see, what we learn as children we must forever bear.”

  “‘Tis na true,” he countered, “for me own parents were gentle folk, while I…”

  “What?” she asked, touching his face. “Are ya saying ya are not gentle, Scotsman?” she asked. There was humor in her voice, as if her short acquaintance with him had shown her his true self. But she did not know him.

  “Ye would be well advised na ta be so trusting, lass,” he said dourly.

  Now she laughed aloud. “Trusting? I think ya mistake me for someone else, Scot. There are many things said about me, but none would say I am too trusting.”

  The irony of her words was not lost on him, for she was cuddled in the intimate fork of his legs. “What do ye do with a man ye trust?”

  “Ya’ll never know,” she said.

  He smiled, though he didn’t know why, and tugged her closer against his chest.

  “Scotsman?” She touched the wolf teeth that hung from his neck.

  “Aye?”

  “The necklace ya ‘ad at the inn—why did ya ‘ave it?”

  He scowled. For just a moment, he had forgotten his mission, reality, the world outside her door. If just touching her could do that, how much more would her kiss do? “Because women make fools of men,” he intoned, glancing
down at her, and finding to his surprise that his amulet had been loosed from his neck and lay in her small palm.

  “How—”

  “It must have come untied,” she explained and casually handed it back to him. “It seems to me, men do a fair job of making fools of themselves, Scottie.”

  Her mind was like summer lightning, quick and bright and fascinating. He eased an arm about her back again. “My foster mother’s family are called the MacAulays. David is her … cousin of sorts. A likable lad.” He glanced down into her face as she watched him. Never had he been in such a position with a woman. And yet, never had he felt more free to talk. “I suppose ye dunna need ta hear the lad’s lineage.”

  She smiled a little, the expression as soft as an angel’s. “I listen with bated breath, Scotsman.”

  He smoothed her hair behind her ear. Why did such a simple touch make his heart sing? “The short of it is, young David became enamored with a woman of some substance.”

  “Enamored with?” Her smile lifted a bit more. “Might that be a Scottish term for something a bit more base?”

  Roman grimaced. “David be a good lad, ye understand.”

  “‘E bedded the girl?”

  “Aye.”

  She stared into space for an instant then shook her head. “I fear I see no connection between a bit of fornication and a necklace worth a king’s crown.”

  “It seems the lass’s father has long coveted the necklace, and—”

  “Sweet Mary,” Betty sighed. “‘Tis a bribe to keep the scandal quiet.”

  “‘Tis more than that at risk,” Roman assured her. “‘Tis David’s very life.”

  Betty paled, letting her gaze drop from his face. “His life?” she murmured.

  “Aye.”

  “Where is this David MacAulay being kept?”

  “I know na.”

  “In a gaol? Black Hull, mayhap?”

  “I dunna know.”

  “Pray ‘tis not Devil’s Port.”

  “Wherever David be, the lass’s sire holds the key. I’ve but to give him the necklace and he will release my kinsman.”

  “But can’t ya exchange the necklace for other pretty stones? Won’t—”