Highland Wolf E-Book

Lois Greiman

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 504

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1997

Beschreibung

"Greiman's writing is warm, witty and gently wise." --New York Times bestselling author Betina Krahn A handsome diplomat—on a deadly mission to deliver a priceless necklace—is in no position to get involved with a common tavern wench…no matter how breathtakingly beautiful she is… But there's more to the gorgeous wench than Roman Forbes first surmises (including his pocket watch, which somehow made its way into her possession). With a bounty on her head, Tara Griffin can't afford to fall for the handsome Roman, a nobleman who clearly has no place for a commoner in his life… But when the search for a treasure to save a man's life brings the nobleman and the wench together on a special mission, fate sweeps them into each other's arms. And running to save their lives, Roman and Tara discover an overwhelming passion—and an everlasting love…

Leseprobe

Highland Wolf

Lois Greiman

Copyright© 1997, Lois Greiman

To Janet Wright, who taught me the intrinsic value of wild flowers and tin roofs, who wasn't too busy for horseback picnics and wild bouts of giggling. Thanks for being there for me, Jan. If every child had a big sister like you, the world would be a kinder place.

Prologue

In the year of our Lord, 1509

“I say we storm Firthport and bring me son home." Dugald MacAulay's eyes blazed as he addressed the room at large.

"Do ye ken where he is kept then?" Roman Forbes remained seated, quiet as the wolf for which he was named.

"Nay! I ken na, but I am na so daft that I canna find me own firstborn. And if the Forbeses are too scairt ta go with me, me and mine will go alone."

"Yer other sons." Leith Forbes nodded as he rose to his feet. He was a big man, even more powerful than the day he had become the lord of his clan. "They are a brave pair."

"Aye." Roderic was seated across the trestle table from Roman. The fire in the great hall glowed bright, making his gold hair shimmer so that he looked the antithesis of his dark-haired brother, Leith. "They wouldna be scairt ta go with ye past the border. Nay." He too shook his head. "They wouldna be scairt ta die for their kin. And who can say? Mayhap they wouldna both be kilt. One might survive with but a few wounds. Fiona," he said, turning to the red-haired woman near the fire.

"Prepare yer herbs. Brave men go ta die because their brother has been smitten by love."

"Love!" Dugald stormed, his face going red. "David does na love an English wench. Tis rather that his wick led him where his head knew better than ta go. Dunna think that I am so daft as ta misunderstand what ye try ta do. Ye would dissuade me from me course, bend me purposes, convince me ta use words when weapons are needed. Ye Forbeses, ye form great alliances, but what good an alliance if ye are ta mild ta fight when a fight is due?"

"Is a fight due, Dugald?" Leith asked, facing his wife's cousin. "Firthport is a far distance and well fortified. Will ye challenge the entire city?"

"Nay!"said MacAulay, gripping the hilt of his sword. "I challenge only Harrington and those that would ally themselves with him. Indeed, I will skewer him ta the wall for the lies he has spewed against me family name."

"Your son did not steal the ring he is said to have taken." Fiona rose slowly from her place near the hearth. She held a babe against her shoulder. Motioning to the child's mother, she passed him over with a hushed word of advice. "We know he does not steal," she said as she approached the men. "But can we know for certain that he does not love?"

"'Tis possible that he has lost his heart ta an Englishwoman," Leith agreed, turning a gentle glance toward his bride of eighteen years. "Such things have been known ta happen. And how would yer David feel if ye kilt the father of the woman who holds his heart?"

"Ahh Gawd," Dugald groaned, scrubbing his face with frustrated vigor. "I canna fight the lot of ye. And I suppose ye are right. 'Tis lucky I be that me David is yet intact and whole, knowing Harrington as I do."

"Ye know him well?" Roman spoke again, assessing information, thinking, planning. His foster parents had not called him home simply for the sake of loneliness. He had been schooled to be a barrister. Diplomacy was his forte. This was just one of many Highland problems he had been asked to resolve. But Fiona and Leith were a formidable pair without his expertise. Few could withstand either their logic or their wisdom.

"Long ago, when Harrington's first wife still lived, he was a friend of sorts ta me auld laird. I was na more than a lad then, but I know him well enough ta say Harrington be a black-hearted devil who would slaughter his own children ta gain his ends. In truth, some say he has done just that," Dugald vowed.

"A necklace is a small price to pay for the life of one's child," Fiona said, settling her warm gaze on Roman. She had called him son long before she had borne her own, long before he had been called the Wolf.

Dugald sighed. "Aye," he said, hefting a small leather pouch. "'Tis but baubles in a bag, I suppose. Still..." He emptied the drawstring purse into his hand. Gems as bright as hope sparkled against his palm. "'Twas the necklace auld MacAulay gave ta his bride. It should have been yers long ago, Lady Fiona."

"It belonged with you at MacAulay Hold," Fiona said. "But had it been mine own, I would gladly give it back to you now."

"Yer generosity has na been overrated, lady," Dugald said. "Still, I am loath ta grant Harrington's demands and give it up for the return of me son, who should have never wandered ta Firthport at the outset."

" 'Tis a bonny piece," admitted Roderic. "Who will take it ta England?"

" 'Tis me own duty and ..." Dugald began, but Leith raised his hand to stop him.

"Visions of Harrington skewered ta the wall might disturb me sleep."

Dugald opened his mouth as if to speak, but paused and finally chuckled. "Yer saying I should na go."

Leith shrugged. "I am saying there are men with cooler heads in this situation."

Dugald turned his gaze from Laird Leith to Roman. "Did ye, perchance, have someone in mind, Forbes?"

"I know ye think I can do na wrong, brother," Roderic said, drawing everyone's gaze to him. "But I fear I am na the man for this ..."

Leith cut him off with a snort. "As if I would ask ye ta leave yer Flame when she is due ta bear yer third bairn. 'Twas all I could manage ta coerce ye ta leave her side for a day."

Roderic chuckled. "If I am na ta be the man of men-" He glanced at Roman as if perplexed. "-then who might it be? Hawk could go, of course, but he will not return from France for some weeks yet. Colin has traveled ta the north. Arthur—but nay, he's still mending. Graham, merely a lad. Andrew..." He shook his head. "It looks as if we'll have ta send one of the women. Roman, saddle a horse, it seems yer mother will be riding ..."

"Methinks yer wit is thinning with age," Roman said, spearing his uncle with a scowl. But that dire expression only made Roderic laugh.

"Yer the man for the task, Roman, and ye well know it," he said. "But ye should learn ta smile, lest the English think all we Scots be so dour."

"The Wolf does na smile," said Dugald, "but heis wise, and mayhap he sees little ta cheer him regarding the capture of me son."

"And mayhap he has yet ta meet the woman who will show him this world is na so sober a place," Roderic countered, eyeing Roman closely.

"Am I forgetting, or did yer own gentle lady take a knife ta ye a fortnight afore yer wedding?" Roman asked.

Roderic chuckled, rubbing his chest as if an old wound nagged him. "When ye've seen some age, lad, ye'll learn that the scars but make the memories the sweeter."

Leith laughed, drawing Fiona into his embrace. Roman watched them. They were his parents by choice if not by birth. He would not fail them.

"Would ye like me ta go in yer stead, Laird MacAulay?" Roman asked, his tone solemn.

Dugald blew out a quiet breath and speared Roman with his gaze. "Laird Leith advises against going meself, and I suppose he is right. Me temper would only find me trouble. But ye ..." He paused. "If the Wolf of the Highlands canna bring me son back alive, there is none that can."

Chapter 1

“Betty luv, give me somethin' warm ta remember ya by." The sailor was dressed in typical seafarer's garb. He was young. He held the maid's wrist with a strong hand, though his words were a bit slurred.

The barmaid stood motionless, still holding a pitcher of mulled wine.

Roman Forbes remained immobile, too, silently assessing the drama before him. Watching the girl's face, he thought she might pull away, but instead, she shrugged and stepped closer to the sailor.

"So ya be wantin' somethin' warm?" she asked. Her voice was husky and deep, her neckline just as low, and the sway of her generous hips equally as suggestive.

The sailor's legs fell open as she slid easily between them to seat herself on his lap.

"I'd dearly love to give you somethin' to remember me by," she said. Leaning forward slightly, she granted the room at large a liberal view of her charms. Full, pale breasts threatened to spill over the top of her tightly laced bodice. The sailor swallowed and failed to move his gaze from the soft mounds before him.

"But, I'm a very busy woman, 'andsome," saidthe maid as she let her knee slip closer to the apex of her captor's legs.

"I'll..." The sailor's voice sounded reedy in the sudden silence. "I'll make it worth your while," he said, and managed to pull forth a coin from a pouch at his side. It winked slyly in the light of the tallow candles.

"Ahh," crooned the girl, glancing at the coin. "So ya brought incentive, did ya, luv?" she asked, leaning closer still, and placing a hand on his chest.

"Aye," he answered, "and my money and my..." He glanced at his attentive companions and managed a grin, though it was shaky. "My skills is good."

"I'm certain they are," said the maid, slipping her hand slowly down his chest. "And will I get that shiny coin just for a bit of... warmth?" Her fingers brushed his midsection, where laces secured his hose to his open doublet.

The sailor sucked air through his teeth like a man prepared for ecstasy or agony. Even from Roman's position some yards away, he could see the lad pale at the bold touch of the maid's hand. "You'll have the coin ... and more," he vowed.

"Then how can I refuse?" She leaned closer still, until her breasts were mere inches from the sailor's face. The lad's eyes popped. The grin was frozen on his lips. Not a man in the Red Fox drew a breath. Then, grasping the top of the sailor's hose, the maid gave them a tug and tilted the contents of the pitcher onto his nether parts.

There was a moment of stunned silence before the sailor launched himself into the air with a yelp. But Betty had already danced away, the promised coin between her fingers.

The pub exploded with laughter.

"Was that warm enough for ya, Jimmy?" yelled one man.

"That's more heat than I've gotten from 'er," yelled another.

"Would ye sit on my lap for a coin, Betty luv?"

The sailor slowed his wild hopping long enough to stare at her, his mouth and eyes still round with surprise.

The inn quieted.

The maid smiled, holding the coin aloft. "'Tis the going rate for a little warmth," she quipped.

Not a body stirred. In the silence, Roman slipped a hand to the needle-sharp dagger stashed in the garter near his knee. He didn't need trouble. Not now. But a man's wounded pride was as good an excuse for trouble as any.

Nevertheless, the sailor finally grimaced and shrugged, his expression sheepish. "The view was well worth the coin," he said, and seated himself again, though a bit gingerly.

Approval emanated from the crowd. There were cheers, a couple of slaps to the lad's shoulders, and more than a few whistles of appreciation for the free entertainment just provided.

Roman relaxed marginally and slipped his blade back into place. So the lass had outsmarted the sailor and escaped repercussions. It was good, for he had no wish to defend the maid and start a brawl against these Englishmen.

His task was simple enough. He had but to deliver the necklace to Lord Harrington and see David MacAulay returned safely home. With luck, his mission would be complete long before his friend Hawk returned from France and was sent to England to assist him.

Mayhap there would even be time to stop back here for a mug of ale and one more glance at the bonny Betty. Roman's gaze followed her as she turned toward the taproom door, only a few feet from his table. Her hips swayed dramatically as she moved through the crowd. They were generous hips, set below a tightly cinched waist and wide, spilling breasts. Strange, he usually preferred a trimmer form. But she attracted him. Perhaps it was her saucy demeanor. Or perhaps it was her...

"Tits!" said the man from the far side of the table. "God's bones, I'd give half a year's allowance to get my hands on her tits."

Dalbert Harrington—the viscount's only son. Roman had received instructions to meet him here and had disliked him from the moment they had met less than an hour before. It wouldn't take much for his feelings to turn to hatred. But such emotion would hardly aid his cause, he knew, so he nodded as if in agreement and took a sip of whiskey.

"Mayhap 'twould be best if I delivered the goods ta yer father tanight," he said.

Dalbert was silent for a moment. Then he laughed, throwing back his fair head to howl at the smoke-darkened beams of the ceiling. "Christ, man," he said, straightening. "You've just viewed the best tits outside of London and all you can talk about is goods? I hadn't heard you Scots were such a stiff lot! Or should I say such a limp lot?" He laughed at his own double entendre then guzzled down a good portion of his drink before chuckling again. "You should visit me in London, sometime. The whores there would loosen you up."

Roman smiled. He was a diplomat in a foreign land. Level-headed, intelligent, respected. He wouldn't hit the bastard. Yet.

"I appreciate yer offer," he said, keeping his tone even. "But for now I think it best if we discuss the business at hand. I have come, as requested. And because of the delicacy of the situation, I feel it best ta—"

"Delicacy!" rasped Dalbert, suddenly gripping the table's edge with clawed hands. "Your mongrel friend fucked my sister then stole her ring!"

Roman remained very still, waiting, willing his own temper into submission. Dalbert Harrington might well have friends among this rough crowd, he thought. Friends that would come to the nobleman's aid if things got out of hand.

But the other customers seemed intent on their own conversation.

"I am truly sorry for the circumstances," Roman said softly, neither denying nor affirming Dalberf s accusations. "As is the lad's father."

"Circumstances! If I had my way, I would handle the ... circumstances." Narrowing his eyes, he chuckled and drank again. "But Father's squeamish about castration." Strong words, but Roman sensed that Dalbert was full of bluster. He seemed calmer as he settled back into his chair and took another quaff of ale.

Their gazes met. Roman kept his benign, but beneath the table, he clenched his fists. Nothing would feel better than ramming the Englishman's teeth down his throat. But he dared not air his temper. Not now, not ever.

He lowered his eyes with an effort and shrugged as if the matter were out of his hands. But he wondered, how many Scottish lasses had been raped by Englishmen? How many unwanted bairns had been born to noble asses like this viscount's son? True, the Englishmen's barbarism did not excuse a Scotsman's actions, but if he knew David at all, the lad had not taken the girl against her will. Not David MacAulay. True, he may be a bit cocky and full of himself, but he was not cruel.

"Yer father has made an agreement with the laird of the MacAulays," Roman said, gently settling a leather pouch on the table between them. "I have but come to deliver the requested item."

"Item! More like a damned whore's fee!" Dalbert said with a snort. He finished off his drink and laughed. "Think of it. My father's darling Christine. No better than a whore. No better than ..." The taproom door swung open again. Betty hurried out, carrying a pitcher in each hand. Dalbert turned his sneer toward the girl. "No better than her!" he said.

Roman glanced at the barmaid. If young Betty had gained Dalbert's disdain, perhaps she was a lass worth ...

A sharp prick of premonition drew Roman's attention back to the table. He reached out instinctively, but already Dalbert had snatched the pouch and was turning it upside down.

The necklace tumbled out to lie on the rough table like a goddess on a lowly bed of bracken. Glittering light of blue and white sparkled in the room.

"Sweet Jesus!" someone gasped.

"Good God!" Dalbert said, reaching out to touch a midnight blue sapphire.

But Roman scooped the necklace up and whisked it beneath the table before Harrington's fingers touched it. The gems were cool against his palm. He tightened his grip, cursing himself for a careless fool.

"Good God," Dalbert repeated. His tone was breathy. "Father said it was a piece handsome enough to match his mother's ring, but I didn't know ..." His voice trailed to a halt.

Roman felt a hundred eyes watching him. Damnation! It would be a miracle if he lived out the night now.

He could pull his knife and back toward the exit, or he could turn the gems and the responsibility over to Dalbert Harrington.

The inn was silent again.

"It seems yer father thought this little trinket might sweeten your sister's dowry," Roman said quietly.

Dalbert laughed. His eyes were bright with excitement. "Any man would be lucky to get it. I mean, her," he corrected, and laughed again. "But I have to tell you, Scot, you're in a bad part of town to be carrying around that kind of rocks. Perhaps it would be best if I delivered them to Father myself."

Roman carefully kept his voice steady and his body relaxed. Now was not the time to be making foolish mistakes. "That will na be necessary. I told the MacAulay I'd personally put the gems inta Lord Harrington's hand before escorting the lad back ta his homeland."

"So you don't trust me?" asked Dalbert. His tone was casual, but his eyes were too bright.

He was intoxicated and volatile. Roman forced his muscles to relax a bit more. Careful handling was necessary if he wished to see the light of day once more.

"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 provethere 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 of 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.

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

It had been three days since the necklace was stolen. Three days! And in that time Roman had delayed meeting with Lord Harrington. Instead, he had searched every back alley, had questioned everyone from potters to lords about a man named John Marrow, for without the gems he had no bargaining power, nothing with which to win the lad's freedom. But not a soul had heard of Marrow.

The Shadow, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. The Shadow was a specter, a beggar, a prince, the devil incarnate. Every person had an opinion, and the opinions varied as greatly as the people's positions in life. Thieves envied him, the downtrodden revered him, and the gentry feared him. Though the stories differed greatly, one thing remained consistent. The Shadow took from the rich and gave to the poor.

But who was the Shadow? And where was he? Roman scanned the occupants of the Red Fox. The inn was busy again, loud and boisterous, as if attempting to drown out the harsh realities of the world outside its doors.

Someone had stolen the necklace. Someone was to blame. But who? Had he met the thief? Was he the sailor in the corner? The drunk on the floor?

"So, guvnor, you're back."

Roman lifted his gaze. Betty stood beside the table. She wore the same revealing gown he had seen on her before. Her breasts looked just as plump and pale, her smile just as seductive. But Roman was in no mood to appreciate her charms.

It had been three days since he'd slept. Three days of hopeless searching and scorching self-mcrimination. He shouldn't have fallen asleep until the necklace was delivered. He shouldn't have failed.

"You don't look so good, luv," she said. "Mayhap you're not accustomed to our English brews."

"Mayhap," he said dryly, and took another swig of ale.

"Betty, darlin', we need another round," someone called.

"And a kiss."

"Not for you, George," she replied, glancing at the man who had spoken.

"Just a kiss," George pleaded. He was a big man, and fat.

"Seems to me you was the one what said that to Sara. She's round as a melon now and sick every morn."

Chuckles answered her rejoinder.

'That's me, Betty, luv, potent as your rum."

"And just as stale," added his companion. "But give me a kiss, Betty. I've spawned no babes."

The maid placed a fist to her broad hip and laughed. 'That's because you are a babe, Arthur. Your brother would paddle your behind if he knew you was 'ere."

"I'd rather you did the paddling, Betty," said Arthur.

"Don't tempt her, boy," someone called.

"'Twould be worth a few bruises," someone else argued.

"And your wife will bruise you, Birley, if you won't be gettin' yourself 'ome," she said.

"Ahh, Maggie's grousing all the time," complained Birley into his mug.

"As would you be, if you was carrying your fourth babe about in your belly," Betty said.

"You can't blame a man for stopping by for a pint now and again," said a balding man near the door.

"But I could blame him for losing five shillings at tables when his wife is working her fingers to the bone to keep the wolf from the door, Cleat Smith," she responded.

Cleat lowered his balding pate. "I'll win tonight. Robert owes me a game."

"Robert Redman will forever play ya men for fools if ya act the fools," Betty warned.

"He could beat you with his brain tied behind his back," Arthur said.

"He's no better man than me," Cleat argued. "He ain't got anything I ain't got."

"Only smarts and a whole lot more money," rejoined someone unseen from Roman's position. That viewpoint was met with chuckles.

Cleats rose to his feet, his face turning red. "He ain't got—"

Betty moved smoothly through the crowd. She placed her hand on his arm. "He ain't got Catherine, Cleat," she said softly. "But you do, so long as you keep your wits about you. Now go on home to her afore you make her worry again. You know how she adores ya."

He turned his gaze from the others. The anger drained from his face. "She does, don't she."

"She does indeed. Now 'urry 'ome. Oh, and ..." Reaching into the pocket that hung from her belt,Betty pulled out a coiled length of scarlet ribbon. "Give this to your Rachel."

"You know how she favors red," Cleat said, bobbing his head and blushing. "You're a good one, you are, Betty. You'd make someone a fine—"

"Don't go trying to pawn your sister's boy off on her again," said George. "She ain't that desperate."

"Desperate hell! If you need a man, Betty, I'll volunteer."

"Me too!"

Cleat hurried toward the door as a dozen voices chimed agreement, but Roman was lost in thought.

He had searched the city for three days, only to find that fate had brought him full circle.

Betty, he was certain, was the answer to his prayers.

Betty Mullen hurried down the dark alley. The hair on the back of her neck rose, standing on end as she glanced hastily from side to side. She'd had the feeling of being watched ever since leaving the Red Fox. Twice she'd stopped and listened.

No one followed her, she assured herself. She would know if they did. Still, she breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped the key into her front door.

"Betty."

She shrieked and spun toward the voice. The man that emerged from the darkness was even bigger than he had seemed at the inn. "Scotsman!" she said, trying to sound relieved. Her heart thundered in her chest, but wisdom and experience told her to act the bold barmaid and not the frightened mouse. "What be ya doing 'ere?"

"Me apologies." He stepped closer, but when she backed away he stopped as if sensing her fear despite her efforts to hide it. Beside her door, a single lantern illumined the night. It did little to cast light on either his features or his intent. But she had no need to study him, for she had done so before now.

His nose had once been broken. It bowed slightly in the center, giving his face a rough appearance made more severe by his sheer size. His hair was dark and long, caught back at the nape of his neck with a single strip of leather. He had large, square hands, hands that could swing a scythe... or a sword.

She reached for the door handle behind her.

"Forgive me." His expression was as intent as that of a hunting wolf, but he remained several feet from her and finally leaned a wide shoulder against the wall, as if forcing himself to relax and wait, lest he frighten her away. "I didna mean ta startle ye."

"Well you did. Now what do you want, Scotsman?"

"I'd like to speak ta ye." He tilted his head slightly. Half his face was illumined now, making the bump in his nose more dramatic. Had he injured it in a brawl? He would be a hell of a man to get angry, she knew. The quiet ones always were.

She shrugged, showing a bit more of her bosom. But the movement failed to distract him. She tensed a bit more. "Go ahead. Speak, then," she said, keeping her tone casual.

He remained still a moment then nodded toward the door behind her. "Inside. In private."

She was tempted to laugh. But though he acted civil, she knew it would be foolish to offend this man. Why was he here and why hadn't she heard him follow her? He was too large for stealth, wasn't he?

"'Tis privacy ya want?" she asked, then shrugged again and pushed the door open. "I suppose if it's that..." she began, then slipped through the door and thrust at it with all her might. But his arm blocked its path and prevented it from closing.

She gasped and shoved at his hand. But in a moment he was inside with his back pressed to the door.

"What do you want?" She heard fear in her voice and cringed. Only a fool would let her enemy see her fear. Unless it was feigned. And it was not.

"I willna hurt ye, lass," he said, his tone low, his eyes dark and unfathomable. "I but wish ta talk."

"And nothing else?"

She watched him watch her. Young Daniel from just down the way had faithfully lighted the candle on the flat lid of the nearby trunk. Its light chased shadows across the Scotsman's rugged face.

"Not unless yer offerin'." His voice was heavily burred with the Gaelic accent. It spurred up memories. She pushed them away. "Are ye offerin', Betty?"

She had played this game a thousand times, she reminded herself. Fear could only make her the loser. So she forced laughter. Inside her cloak was a blade as sharp as death itself. If she could make him relax his vigil, she could have it at his throat in an instant. "I don't usually conduct business here, Scotsman."

His shoulders dropped a smidgen as he tilted his head and glanced toward the bed behind her. "It seems a likely place."

His meaning was clear. He thought her a whore. So much the better. Misconceptions had often aided her cause. "It's too dangerous to bring strangers here."

"I'm na stranger," he said. "Ye know me."

Why was he here? What did he want? If she screamed, would anyone come? No. She'd have to depend on her own defenses. Keep him talking. "I know you have a necklace worth a king's ransom.

"Are you offering that to me, Scotsman?"

He straightened slightly, and though he didn't move toward her, she tensed, ready to flee. "'Tis what I came ta speak ta ye about."

'Truly?" Her tone was casual, but the pace of her heart increased a bit more. "And all along I thought I was only jesting."

He stopped, raising his brows in question.

"I'm flattered. Not all men think my favors worth a king's ransom."

She had hoped he would laugh. She was disappointed.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. Anger flashed in his eyes as he stepped forward. "The necklace has been stolen."

She gasped. "No! That lovely bit? 'Tis sorry I am, guvnor."

"Are ye?" His hands clenched to fists, but she forced herself to remain immobile. In truth, there was nowhere to run. Not in these close quarters.

"Course I am, luv. I've been thinking 'bout 'Arlington's offer for a stone or two, and I was 'oping you'd come ta make me a deal." She smiled. "I don't mean to seem immodest, but some say a night with me is worth more than jewels."

His gaze was sharp and hard as he watched her. "So ye dunna ken anything about me loss?"

Betty opened her eyes wide. "About the theft of ... 'Ey!" she said, placing her fists on her hips. Her fingers were only inches from her hidden blade. "You ain't accusing me of nothin' are ya?"

"I need it back." He was directly in front of her in an instant. For a big man he was very quick. "'Tis of utmost importance."

"Then ya shouldn't be wastin' time 'ere."

She could almost feel him forcing himself to relax. "Where should I be?"

She raised a brow. "Out chasing the thief," she said.

"But I'd rather be here."

So it was lust she saw in his eyes. Relief seeped through Betty's limbs. Lust was a guest she knew how to handle. "Would ya indeed, Scottie?"

"Aye, I would." There was some sincerity in his tone, but there was more. Perplexity mayhap.

Crossing her arms, she hugged them to her torso and puckered her lips into a pout. Furtively, she closed her fingers over the handle of her blade. "And I suppose I'm supposed ta simply forgive the insults ya spewed at the Red Fox."

One corner of his lips twitched. "I think ye gave as good as ye got, lass. When it comes ta sharp tongues, yers could carve mutton."

She shrugged and slipped the knife from its hidden sheath. "A girl's got to have some way to protect her heart. Specially from men like you."

"And what kind of man am I, lass?"

"The kind ta make a girl cautious, lest she get in over her head."

He remained silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was quiet and beautifully burred. "Then ye dunna find me unfavorable?"

The surprise that lighted her face was real. Unfavorable? What a strange question, but she did not have the luxury to understand it, only to use it. "No," she whispered. Half-closing her eyes, she rose on her toes. Her lips were inches from his. "I find ya ... very appealing."

He lowered his mouth. Between their bodies, Betty tipped her knife upward, prepared to strike. But suddenly her wrist was trapped in his hand.

She gasped, snapped open her eyes, and stared into his face. His gaze had not dropped, but bored into her eyes with the intensity of flame.

"If ye find me appealing, lass, I'd suggest ye drop the dirk," he murmured. '"Twould surely make me less becoming ta have a blade stuck between me ribs."

Before she could speak, the knife was snatched from her hand and flung away. It clattered unseen against the far wall.

"Yer surprisingly predictable, lass," he said, still holding her wrist.

Fear flooded her like the indomitable wash of tide. She wasn't predictable. Unpredictability was the only reason she had survived so long in this city. Who was this man who could read her thoughts? And what was he reading now? "What do ya want?" she rasped.

She felt his tension as if it were her own, a bowstring of singing emotion strung between them and reverberating with ... With what? He stood very near, close enough for her to smell the faint hint of caraway. But also close enough to catch the illusive scent of man.

The muscles in his lean jaw flexed again. "I want the necklace back."

She released her breath with an effort. "Then why come here?"

His grip loosened almost imperceptibly. "Because ye can help me."

"Help ya?" She forced herself to laugh, hoping it would dispel some of the tautness in her muscles. It did nothing but echo in the room like the eerie chuckle of a ghost. "And why would I do that, Scottie?"

"Because I'll pay."

So he was offering her money again. "Pay?" she asked, letting her tone bloom with interest.

"For information," he said, and loosened his grip a bit more on her wrist.

"And why me? Why come to me?"

"I watched ye at the inn."

"You and a 'undred others, Scottie. So?" She laughed again, trying to ignore the intensity of his eyes, the casual strength of his hand on her arm. She could feel the heat of his body and the hard press of his thigh even through the many layers of cloth that separated them.

"So I ken the truth."

'Truth? About what?" Her heart was racing as she waited for his response.

The silence was heavy and seemed to last forever.

"Ye are na as dense as ye seem, lass. Ye ken things."

She didn't turn away. Didn't deny his words. Didn't shift her gaze away from his. "I'm sure I'm very flattered, Scotsman. But I wonder, what things might you be speaking of?"

"The Shadow."

Her stomach pitched at the words. "The Shadow! So that's it!" she exclaimed, and, jerking her wrist free, stepped away. "Ya think the Shadow took yer precious gems!"

He neither dropped his gaze nor changed his expression. "What do ye know of him?"

"Only a thousand or so tales. He's a lord. He's a beggar. He's a saint."