Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (12 page)

"A wolf," he said softly. "I was but a lad when it attacked me best of friends."

She could imagine him as a boy, laughing, carefree, before the world had caused the pain she sometimes saw in his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

"Ye dunna need ta be sorry, lass. I carried me Dora ta a healer. She recovered well and bravely."

Betty ran her fingers gently over the stripes on his chest. "Dora was a lucky girl ta have ya for a friend."

His eyes smiled, but his lips only tilted the slightest bit. "Dora was a hound."

She remained silent for a moment, thinking, examining him. "You risked your life to avenge a
dog?"

"Aye." He nodded once. "But she was a good dog."

What kind of man was this? "You jest," she said softly.

"Rarely," he countered.

"Why would ya do such a thing, Scotsman?"

"She was me friend, was Dora, and a gift from me da."

She touched the trio of scars again. "And was the revenge worth the pain?" she asked.

He shrugged. Muscles danced in his arms and torso. "Killing the beast did great deeds for me reputation. Laird Leith dubbed me 'Wolf.' "

'They called ya Wolf?"

He nodded.

"And would that be a good thing where ya come from, Scotsman?"

The smile was back in his eyes. "When one grows up with a fighting Hawk and a charming Rogue, 'tis best ta have a wee bit of the beastie in ye, lass."

Beast? Is that what he was? A wolf? Cunning, ruthless, deadly? Memories of the night flooded back. "Ya didn't owe me anything, Scotsman," she whispered. "Why did ya help me?"

He drew a deep breath. His beard was dark and cropped close. Beneath the hair, his face was lean and sculpted, as if a fine artist had lovingly molded it in his hands. But more likely, the sculptor would have been a woman, creating the image of manhood.

"Maybe I did it simply to kill!" His tone was as deep as night, his expression suddenly harsh, but she shook her head and gently replaced the amulet against his chest.

"'Tis not true," she said softly.

"And how do ye know that, lass?"

"I know men."

His hand touched her arm and smoothed downward, sparking sharp sensation along that limb and outward. "And what do ye know of me?"

He would be her bane! The end to all she had strived for for so long. The thought struck her suddenly, and she jerked.

"Lass?" he asked, looking puzzled.

"Go home, Scotsman," she said, tamping down her fear, pushing away the sudden premonition. "Before it's too late."

"Too late for what?"

"For you."

"But I've found something here that interests me," he whispered, gently cupping her breast. "A phenomenon. A mystery."

"A whore," she whispered, trying not to shiver.

"I wonder."

Panic was beginning to rise, but she held his gaze with her own. "I'm offering myself ta ya, Scotsman. Isn't that enough proof?"

He touched her cheek again, softly, gently. "But ye've na said why, lass."

His eyes were deep and earnest, but he was dangerous. She had to remember that. And yet... "Ya don't know Dagger," she whispered. "'E'll see ya dead. 'E will, if'n ya don't leave."

His hand stopped on her cheek. "So yer offering yerself," he said softly. "If I agree to go."

She forced a laugh. It didn't sound too unreal, considering the circumstances. "It seems real noble the way you say it, Scottie. But the truth is ..." She lowered her gaze. He was built like a fine stallion, hard and lean and powerful. "Like I says, it's been a good long time for me, but for 'arry."

Despite her attempt to dismiss it, she could feel the heat of his gaze on her face. "Then there be na strings attached ta yer offer?" he asked.

Her heart was beating hard and fast. "Ya may think a 'ore ain't got no soul, Scotsman. But it ain't true."

She stared at him, smiting him with her gaze and hoping he'd turn away. But he did not. Instead, he watched her with eyes as steady and hard as a hunting wolf's.

She felt the blush of her emotions heat her cheeks. "I've done me own share of sinnin'," she said. "I won't 'ave yer death on me soul, too."

"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 yer 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."