Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) Read online

  “I made a vow ta a friend, and I am honor-bound ta keep it,” Roman said. “I’m sure you understand honor.”

  Though Roman had tried his best to keep sarcasm from his tone, Dalbert gripped his mug in a tight clasp and snarled something unintelligible. Roman considered his hidden blade, then discarded the idea. He couldn’t take the risk of cutting this man. If Dalbert attacked, Roman would tilt him off-balance, and …

  “Now, luvs,” said a husky voice. “We don’t want no trouble between friends at the Red Fox.”

  Roman watched Dalbert’s features soften slightly as his attention was diverted.

  “Well, I surely would not wish to cause you any trouble,” said Dalbert. “Who am I to stand in the way of my father’s plans? In fact, I’d like to prove there are no hard feelings,” he said, and, standing quickly, reached out to wrap an arm about the barmaid’s waist.

  “So, Betty,” he crooned, not taking his gaze from Roman. “How about helping create peace between our country and his. You can even make a little extra coin out of the bargain. You interested in money?”

  “Always am, luv,” she said, tilting her pretty face toward the Englishman. Her floppy white coif puffed out behind her head.

  “Then let’s all be friends,” Dalbert said, turning to gaze down at her.

  “I’m friendly, guvnor, but like I said earlier, I’m a busy woman.”

  “Surely not too busy to make a little extra coin,” he said, squeezing a bit tighter and trailing a finger over her half-bared shoulder.

  “Extra coin is always welcome,” she agreed. “Still, a girl’s got to keep her job. And old Bart is apt to get peeved if I leave the inn before my time’s up.”

  “You said yourself that you don’t want any trouble here,” Dalbert reminded and traced a finger over her collarbone. She stiffened slightly, but didn’t pull away. “I think you should be friendly to our neighbor here.” Leaning closer, he kissed the spot where his fingers had just been. “The Scot is feeling friendly, too. In fact, he’s been drooling after you all evening. Said he could use a bit of sweet English tart. What do you say?” he asked, not taking his gaze from the maid’s bosom. “Are you willing to share some of your bounty with our guest here?”

  “I’m all for sharing,” said Betty. “So, I’ll tell you what, m’ lord, I’ll get you a couple of free drinks.” She tried to slip away, but Dalbert only tightened his grip.

  “The Scot here can obviously afford to pay a good price for a night’s work,” said Dalbert. “In truth, one of those rocks would be worth a king’s ransom. Hell, there must a been a hundred stones in there. Who’d miss one? But if he’s too stingy to pay, I’ll give you twice your usual fee, just to show him there’s no hard feelings.

  “What do you say, Scot?”

  Beneath the table, Roman stashed the necklace in the ceremonial sporran that hung from his waist. It was a silly thing. Adorned with horsehair and silver, it would be cumbersome in a fight. He yearned for his serviceable hill-climbing pouch. But it was too late to worry about, his accoutrements now. He rose slowly to his feet. Dalbert Harrington was not only a fool. He was a rich, intoxicated fool, and, therefore, he was dangerous.

  “Maybe you don’t trust me with the necklace,” Harrington said with a leering smile. “But you can trust me on this, Scot. You aren’t going to find a more prime piece of flesh than our Betty here. So are you going to take me up on my offer, or am I going to have to return to Father and tell him that you thought yourself too good to deal with the likes of us?”

  Roman remained silent, keeping his expression bland, his eyes steady. He had already offended Harrington. He couldn’t afford to make matters worse, not with David MacAulay’s life on the line. So he raised his brows as if considering the matter. He, too, could play this game.

  “What do you say, lass?” he asked the maid softly. “Are you interested in the proposition?”

  He watched her raise her chin, watched her eyes fill with speculation and more. “That depends,” she said, “on the size of your …” She tugged her arm free from Dalbert’s grasp and advanced. “Rocks.”

  A dropped pin could have been heard from thirty yards.

  Dalbert chuckled.

  “I didn’t get a good look at them earlier,” she added, stepping away from Harrington. “Care to display them so we all can see?”

  Roman knew disdain when he heard it. And he heard it now. But he nodded once in concession to her wit. “We Scots are usually more private about such exhibitions,” he said, and let his gaze slip to her bosom before lifting it slowly back to her face. “But I assure you, you wouldna be disappointed.”

  “I fear I’ve heard that before, guvnor,” she said. Though her cheeks showed a slight stain of pink, she leaned forward, showing her cleavage. “But when it come down ta hard facts, I was disappointed.”

  Their gazes met and held.

  “Then you were with the wrong man,” he said quietly.

  She raised her brows and skimmed slim fingers from her cleavage up her throat. “And you think you could satisfy me?”

  ‘That I promise,” he said.

  She came closer. Her hips swayed with a life of their own. “Well then, luv,” she crooned, leaning in so that her lips were only inches from his. “I’m interested…”

  This was just a game he played to satisfy Dalbert Harrington, Roman assured himself. But against his will and his better judgment, his breath stopped in his throat. Beneath the weight of his leather sporran, he could feel his own interest roused to life. He was a fool, he admonished himself. But he was also a man, with a man’s weaknesses.

  Betty leaned closer still. She didn’t smell of sweat and spoiled ale, as he had expected. Instead, the aroma of sweet lavender filled his nostrils. Heraised his hand, wanting to touch her face. But suddenly she slapped it down.

  “I’m interested in your jewels, Scotsman. But only the ones in your pouch, not the ones in your skirt,” she said.

  Dalbert threw back his head and guffawed. The tension was broken. Others joined in the laughter. Dalbert collapsed into his chair amidst the noise.

  The barmaid turned to leave, but Roman caught her hand in a careful grip. She swung back toward him. Their gazes clashed. Her eyes were as blue as the precious jewels he’d just stashed in his sporran.

  “Mayhap some other time,” Roman said quietly. If he tried, he could manage to feel grateful for her part in dissolving the tension in the room. At least the tautness in his loins was a less dangerous situation. “When we dunna have an audience.”

  He heard the intake of her breath. “You want company, Scotsman?” she asked. “I’m told Pete Langer’s got a herd of fine sheep. You could pick and choose.”

  On the far side of the room, a furtive figure rose. A finger of apprehension slid up Roman’s spine as he turned to watch. Who was he? Someone leaving to plan the theft of his necklace, mayhap? But it was already too late to identify the man, for the door was closing behind him. “The sheep it is then,” he said, turning back to the maid. “But ye dunna ken what yer missing.”

  Betty smiled. “I assure ya I do, Scotsman,” she said, letting her gaze skim down the midline of his body, over his chest, his abdomen, the sporran that hid his jewels. “But I won’t be missing it for long.”

  Chapter 2

  An hour after his encounter with Betty, Roman walked out of the inn. Dalbert had kept his mug filled, and though Roman drank, he was not fool enough to become intoxicated. The task ahead would require all his wits; far too many unsavory characters now knew about the jewels he carried with him.

  Firthport was a bordertown and a seaport, raw, unpredictable, deadly. Somewhere far off, a woman laughed. The sound carried eerily in the night air, floating to a dark figure that hurried down a distant alley.

  The young man glanced quickly about. Tonight he was John Marrow, a portly, somewhat besotted businessman minding his own affairs.

  The Queen’s Head appeared in the dimness. It was a long building, made o
f gray stone and thatch. A narrow ribbon of smoke twisted from the chimney into the night sky.

  Marrow stepped up to the door, tested the handle once then rapped loudly on the stout plank. “Open up!”

  Silence greeted him from inside. He knocked again. “Open up I say.”

  Still no response.

  “Who do you think you’re lockin’…”

  The door opened. A man stood on the far side, holding a single candle and scowling. He was big and German and smelled very distinctly of caraway seeds.

  “Who do you think you are?” he growled.

  “Oh!” Marrow belched and staggered back a step. “There you are then, LaFleur. And about time, too.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Marrow. John Marrow. Fine innkeeper you are, forgettin’…” He belched again. “Forgetting your own guests.”

  “You’re drunk,” said the landlord. “And you’re no guest of mine.”

  Marrow reared back in offense. “I beg to differ. As I’m sure you know, LeFleur, I stay at the Queen’s Arms every month when I come—”

  “I am not LeFleur. I am Krahn, and this is not the Queen’s Arms. ‘Tis the Queen’s Head.”

  Marrow’s jaw dropped. For a moment he struggled with his hat, as if trying to raise the brim to get a better look at the landlord’s face. But the hat won the battle and remained firmly in place, low over his eyes, hiding his own features. “The Queen’s Head?” he said, sounding befuddled, as he staggered backward again. “The Queen’s Head. Oh! Head! Well, damn me if I don’t always get those bloody royal parts mixed up.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke. The landlord’s expression remained sour.

  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.