Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (10 page)

Betty!

Dear Jesu! They were after Betty! Somehow, they had associated her with the Shadow. How, he didn't know. Perhaps it was his own fault. Perhaps he would be to blame if she were harmed.

If! Hardly was there a question. Not after what he had just witnessed.

Roman's lungs burned. He'd seen a good many cold-blooded deeds. But never had he witnessed anything like tonight.

If they would do that to one of their own, what more would they do to get information from Betty? She knew nothing of the Shadow. Could tell them nothing at all.

Down one more alley, across a street. A dog barked. Roman careened around a drunken man who stumbled in his wake. And then there it was. The Red Fox.

He crashed through the doors. Only three people remained in the common room.

"Betty!" he gasped. "Where's Betty?'

A man squinted at him through blurry eyes a moment before his head drooped to the table.

Another watched him. "Ya got it bad for her," he said.

"Where is she?"

A large man with a spattered cloth tied about his waist entered. "Whaf s all this racket about then?"

"Betty!" Roman rasped. "I need ta know where she is."

The big man scowled, stepping closer. "Why—"

But Roman had no time for delays. He charged across the room and into the kitchen. One glance around made him fear the worst. "Where is she?"

"Here now—" the cook began, but Roman grabbed the man by the shirtfront and growled, "'Tis life or death."

"She's ... she's just left."

"To her home?"

"Where else?"

Faces blurred as he ran past the tables. Outside, the air seemed tense, waiting. On he ran. Irregular cobblestones tilted him off-balance. Exhaustion threatened to overcome him. A scream split the night. It ripped through the darkness then halted in mid-shriek.

Dear God, don't let me be too late!

There! Up ahead, a cluster of people jostled about. A dark form jolted away.

"Grab 'er!" someone croaked.

A man gave chase. He caught her about the waist. Betty screamed again.

Roman was close now. He slowed to a walk, trying to control his breathing enough to speak.

"'Ello mates!" Roman's Firthport accent was poor, but mayhap they would chalk it up to intoxication. In the darkness it would be difficult to tell that he wore a plaid and was not one of them.

The nearest man jerked about to squint at him in the darkness. Something gleamed in his hand. "'Oo the 'ell are you?"

"Me?" Praise God! She was alive, still standing. That much Roman knew. But her face was deathly pale in the blackness, and she stood absolutely immobile, as if she were in shock. If he gave her an opportunity, would she be capable of running? "Dagger sent me."

"The 'ell 'e did!" said the man with the knife. He seemed to speak for them all. Was he the man Blacks had sent? What was his name? Wads? 'Twas Roman's best guess.

"Blacks may trust ya, Wads, but there is others that thought I should come."

The nearest man tried to peer through the darkness, but made no objection to the name. "Who thought that?"

"I'm sure you'll understand if'n I don't care ta say."

The moon had found a hole in the tattered clouds. It shone against his back. By its light, Roman could see the man's scowl.

"Why'd ya come?"

"Maybe thems higher up wanted ta make certain ya didn't botch things up," Roman said smoothly. His breath was returning, and with it, a strategy.

"What's your name?" asked the second man.

Betty was held with her arms behind her back. Roman could make out the pale fabric of her gown stretched tight across her chest.

"Name's Angel," Roman said, remembering the man mentioned in the warehouse. The man that was trying to get information from the fence.

There was a sharp gasp from the nearest villain.

Roman forced a chuckle. He needed a weapon, something bigger than the dagger in his garter. "Ya 'eard of me then?"

"I... I 'eard of ya. But I thought ya was busy— with other things."

"Other things haven't worked out. I'll need the girl."

"She ain't no girl," said the man holding Betty. He twisted her arm and she screamed in pain. "She's a 'ore."

The other two chuckled. Roman tried to follow suit, but his own humor sounded rather rusty, like a hinge too long unused.

"Hand over the girl," he said, but he'd lost his accent and with it, his credibility.

"You ain't Angel," said the nearest man, bringing up his knife. "'Oo are you?"

Roman took a step closer, smoothly, slowly. "Maybe I'm the Shadow."

A man gasped and then leapt toward him, slashing with his knife.

In that instant, Roman pulled the dagger from his garter. It flashed from hiding, sank into the flesh of his attacker and sliced upward, ripping from hip to ribs.

Roman launched himself at the second man with a snarl. The villain swung a club, but Roman danced back then sank his blade deep into the man's throat. He went down gurgling on his own blood.

Roman straightened. His body vibrated with bloodlust, sang with it, revelled in it!

"Come any closer, and I'll kill the 'ore. I swear I will," warned the third man, but the knife he held at her throat shook.

Roman laughed. The sound was deep and unearthly. He was Satan incarnate. Nothing could stop him. "Kill her then," he said, his voice barely audible in its deep timbre.

"What?" croaked the villain.

"As you said, she's just a whore. It doesn't matter to me if she lives or dies. But the Shadow can't let his competition go unchecked.
You,
I'll have ta kill."

For a moment the villain was paralyzed. But suddenly he thrust Betty away from him and fled.

Roman bounded after him with a snarl. Death! Blood!

Then reality took hold. Sanity settled in.

He stumbled to a halt then turned like one in a haze of confusing emotions. "Betty." She lay very still. He hurried toward her. "Betty?" He squatted near her, but she didn't answer.

Ever so gently, he turned her over. Her face was lax in the moonlight, devoid of pain, empty of consciousness. He felt her throat for a pulse. It was there, strong but erratic.

Scooping her into his arms, he glanced at the men on the ground. They lay sprawled like broken marionettes, black pools of blood spreading from their bodies.

Bloodlust boiled up again, demanding, screaming, but the girl moaned in his arms, drawing him back to sanity. He pulled her to his chest and rose. She was light, limp, silent. The night slipped past him. In minutes he was at her house.

It wasn't easy getting the key from her hiding spot, but he managed, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. A candle burned, illuminating her face, the pale stretch of her neck.

He crossed the room and laid her on the bed. She moaned again but failed to open her eyes. A blackish bruise had formed on her brow. A trickle of blood was smeared down her throat.

She was wearing the same pale green gown as the day before. He loosened the laces and slipped open the bodice, revealing more of her curves and tempting him with hidden treasures.

Bloodlust had given way to lust of another sort. He clenched his hands to fists. There was evil in his blood—evil called forth by this sinister place!

But no. Though his uncle had been depraved, he was not of that ilk. He was the son of Fiona's heart. She had said it was so. He drew another deep breath. His hands shook.

The wickedness of Firthport's underbelly called to the dark side of him. But he had to fight it. He had to leave this helltown before it was too late, before he found out what he truly was, what he truly could be.

But circumstances or the devil himself held him there. And Roman had a mission to accomplish first.

Thus, he slipped Betty's bodice downward to examine her more thoroughly. She moaned.

Carefully, he tugged her sleeves free. Her right arm lay at a peculiar angle. Hell fire! He knew little of mending fractures. Still, there was nothing he could do but slide his hand up her arms and feel for breakage. Nothing felt peculiar there.

But her shoulder was strangely twisted. It was dislocated. Roman was suddenly certain, for he had seen an old soldier sustain just such an injury. He had been holding the lead of a stallion that had been distracted by a passing mare; the stud had tossed his head in the air. The sound of the man's shoulder popping could be heard from a distance of ten rods. He had stood in shocked disbelief for a second, then fainted dead away.

Betty had withstood the pain better than the old man had. But there was no time to waste now, for though Roman had watched Fiona grind Bernard's arm back into its socket, he had been a lad of no more than twelve years. The memory was dim. Still...

Reluctantly rolling her onto her side, Roman grasped her upper arm in one hand and placed his other palm upon the joint.

Setting his teeth against the pain of his patient, he twisted the arm forward. Betty jerked beneath his hands and wailed. The sound was high-pitched and agonized. God help him! Sweat dampened his brow, but he pulled back on the limb, pushing as he went and praying with a fervor that all would be well.

The bone slipped into the socket with a muffled pop. Roman stood for a moment, his hands remaining where they were, his breath coming hard. So God had not yet abandoned him to the evils of Firthport. Roman set Betty's arm back across her body.

His gaze touched her breasts. The tops of them were just visible above her loosened bodice. They looked pale and smooth and delicately female. Ever so gently, he reached out to touch her. The Norseman at the Red Fox had been right, it seemed, she was as soft as a rose petal.

Lust struck him again but with a softer stroke now, and almost tenderly. The poor lass. Surely she had not deserved such abuse. His fingers skimmed upward, across her collarbone, along the smooth length of her neck. Certainly such a lass could find better employment than what she had. Especially now that her lover had left her. Perhaps after all this was behind him, he could help find her a better occupation, or at least a decent man. Surely there was someone in Firthport who would want her, for she was lovely and plump and—

His gaze skimmed over her arms. In his rush to mend her, he had failed to notice that they were slim and delicate. He pulled the bodice farther aside and saw now that beneath her gown, she wore a strange, white garment. It was constructed of a lumpy fabric that lay in ungainly rolls against her skin.

Pulling the bodice away, he saw that padding stretched from her shoulders on down. He peeled it quickly away, removing the skirt as he went, until she lay naked and pale beneath his hands.

Roman stared. Why would a whore shield such a body as this with layers of padding? Why would a whore want to appear fat and misshapen? And tall. Her shoes had heels as tall as his hand was wide.

Betty awoke with a shriek, clutching her shoulder and trying to sit up.

"Lass," Roman said, bending over to hold her still. "Yer safe now."

She glanced wildly about, her eyes wide with shock and pain.

"Yer home," he said, smoothing his hand down her hale arm. "Safe."

But she shook her head. "They know," she whispered. "They know."

"Know what?"

Her gaze clasped onto his, held. "How did I get here? Did they follow us?"

"They didna follow us, and I carried ye, lass. Yer..." Their bodies were very close. Hers seemed small and soft against his. "Yer lighter than I would have guessed. A fact for which the padding may be accountable."

"They'll find me. They'll come."

He scowled, holding her still. "They dunna know where ye live, lass. That much I know for certain. Ye are safe from them, at least for a time."

She drew a deep breath, relaxed a little then gasped as she viewed her own nakedness.

"'Yer ahh..." He cleared his throat as he dragged a blanket over her legs and higher. "I fear yer arm was twisted from its socket. I..." He shrugged, trying to explain her lack of clothing, "I had to press it back in."

She hugged her injured arm closer to her body while tugging the woolen to her chin. "And what was wrong with my legs?" she asked.

Roman cleared his throat again. "Na a thing, lass. Ye can take me own word on that."

She blushed. He saw the color, pink and soft, staining her cheeks like the first light of dawn.

"Why do you pad your clothing?" he asked softly.

She licked her lips and darted her gaze about the room. "I think that is hardly your affair."

He shrugged. Her cheeks were still colored, and he could not help but smooth a finger down to her chin. "It could be said that ye owe me a favor, lass."

The blush drained from her cheeks. "What... did you have in mind?"

Was there fear in her eyes? And if so, why? What kind of whore would be afraid of the intimacy between a man and a woman?

"In truth, lass," he said softly. "Seeing ye thus gave me enough pleasure. I ask for no more than a bit of honesty."

She pulled a deep breath through her mouth. Her shoulders relaxed marginally. "Did you... Did you kill them?"

Roman drew his hand reluctantly away and rose to his feet. Memories flooded back, and with them, self-incrimination. He could have merely wounded them. He could have frightened them away. "Aye," he said, turning as he crunched his hands into fists. 'They are dead."

'Thank you."

Roman turned back. "Dunna thank me."

"Why?"

"Because ye dunna ken what I am."

She scowled. "'Then what are you, Scotsman?"

"I..." His throat felt tight. "I didna kill them for ye."

"You knew them?"

"Nay," he said. "I knew them na. I but knew their kind."

She seemed to have relaxed a bit. "Tell me, Scotsman, are ya always so confusing?"

"I am usually neither confused nor confusing," he said, turning away. "I fear Firthport brings out the worst in me." They were difficult words to say, but hearing them gave him some relief, allowed some feeling of normalcy.

"So tell me, Scotsman," she said softly. "This is yer worst?"

He turned slowly back, finding her eyes. "I killed them, lass, for na reason."