Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (18 page)

His hands eased up her back. She arched toward him, feeling his fingers pause on the bindings that covered her chest. Not for an instant did the rhythm of their bodies slow. They rocked against each other like enchanted beings, not finding copulation, but not able to draw apart, sipping at the forbidden nectar of desire. Her bindings loosened. The clothes eased from her torso, dropping away.

She heard Roman catch his breath as one nipple peeked from its confinement. The rocking pace of his movements slowed. One hand slipped forward to scoop the fabric away and cup her breast.

Her gasp sounded much like his, but higher-pitched and breathy.

"Lass..." His tone was husky, deep as midnight, quiet as gentle waters. "Ye are beautiful."

Her hair had tumbled over her shoulders. It caressed his scared chest, brushed against his amulet.

"Ye are bonny beyond words," he whispered, and, urging her toward him, gently kissed her lips.

Desire erupted anew, but now the position had changed. Instead of having him trapped beneath her, his penis pressed hot and turgid against the entrance of her being.

She was so close to heaven, just inches away. He pressed gently inward. Her breathing stopped. Her heart raced on.

He eased into her tender portal a fraction of an inch. But with that invasion, good sense flooded in.

The consequences of such an act were enormous, too lethal to ignore any longer. She ended the kiss, placed a shaky hand to his chest, and pushed away, breathing hard.

"Lass..." He opened his eyes and ceased the rhythm of his hips. His jaw was clenched as if it pained him to stop, and for a moment, the rock hard strength of his arms shivered.

"'Arry!" She said the name suddenly. She'd wholly forgotten she was supposed to be mourning Harry's passing. Sweet Mary! Tara pressed in earnest now against his chest, trying to retreat, but he moved with her. "I... I cannot. I am in mourning!" In mourning! The words sounded foolish even to her own ears, for she was naked and trembling with desire. Still, she clung to her story.

He tried to draw her nearer. She scrambled off the bed, but he held her wrist. Scraps of cloth hung from her shoulders like a mummy's ghoulish garb.

"I didna mean ta frighten ye," he said, wincing as his feet touched the floor. But despite the pain, he stood and moved closer, entrapping her with his arm about her bare waist.

"Forgive me for me haste, lass. It seemed ye have possessed me senses. But I will move more slowly now."

It didn't matter how slowly he moved. The results would still be the same. She must escape.

But she had been captured again. It was time to think. Betty! She was Betty, she told herself. With a supreme effort, she steadied her breathing and relaxed in his arms.

He hugged her more tightly.

"There is little enough joy ta be found in this life," he said. "Let us take it where we can." He smoothed her hair against her back.

She closed her eyes. What kind of magic did he weave that he had but to touch her and she would lose her senses, forget her plight?

"But 'Arry. 'E ... 'e just..."

He placed a finger gently to her lips. "Na more lies, lass. Na tonight," he said then leaned against her for a moment, as if shaken by weakness.

"Lies!" She tried to sound indignant, to hold to her role. "Ya think I lie?" She was Betty. Quick of wit, indomitable. She only needed to hold out a bit longer, for he was weakening. "'Arry
is
dead," she said.

His eyes spoke of his doubt as his hand glided up her back, under her hair, cradling her neck. "Then let him go, and let us live," he whispered as he kissed her.

She wrapped her arms about his back. "Aye," she rasped. She was the lonely woman, yearning to be consoled. "Yer right. He would want me to live." 'Twas all an act, part of her role, but he felt wonderfully hard against her, and she trembled. "Touch me. Help me forget all, if just for a small piece of time."

Their gazes met, but in a moment his head dropped back slightly, and he scowled as if puzzled.

Guilt gnawed at her. But she could not afford that emotion. "Roman?" she said, putting just the proper bit of worry in her tone. "Are you well?"

"Aye." He straightened and met her eyes. "'Tis merely yer presence that makes me weak."

"Here. Lie down," she said, urging him back onto the pallet.

He sat, but his arms remained about her, pulling her to her knees between his powerful thighs.

The intimacy of this new position nearly overwhelmed her. She willed herself not to blush, but the great length of him throbbed against her abdomen, promising pleasures she had never scaled. Pleasures she suddenly wished to. But she would have to leave, and very soon. She would not see him again—ever. The thought burned her mind. Her hand skimmed his chest. It was brawny and broad and breathtakingly alluring, adorned with that strange amulet that would forever remind her of him. She smoothed her hand upward along the leather strip."Lie down," she urged again, drawing her fingers away.

"Only if ye do, lass."

She managed a nod.

He pulled her gently onto the pallet. They stretched out, facing each other. Every inch of him was hot and hard and eager. He shifted his wounded thigh, and she bent her leg, resting it over his to avoid direct contact.

But this new position was more stimulating yet, for she was nestled against him warm and safe, held in his arms like a precious gift. And she was wet, achingly wet, like nothing she had experienced before.

He kissed her then, and suddenly, as simply as breathing, his manhood was between her thighs and gliding inward.

Ecstasy called. She curled her fingers around his amulet as she closed her eyes and ever so carefully rocked against him.

But suddenly his hands fell away and his head lolled back against the pillow, seeming to weigh him down.

"Roman?" she breathed, wanting more, wanting satiation.

"Lass, I feel almost as if..." He opened his eyes, and suddenly his gaze was not warm and gentle, but sharp and accusatory.

Reality snapped back into place. Sweet Mary, she must think, she must escape. "What... what is it?" she asked, managing to sound bewildered.

"Ye've drugged me," he rasped.

"What?" She opened her eyes wide. Where were her clothes? Could she make it to the door? "What are ya talking about?" she asked. She slipped from the pallet. Her feet touched the floor.

"Hell fire!" he growled, grabbing her wrist and rising with her. "Ye drugged me!"

"Nay!" she shrieked, and, twisting with all her might, broke free.

He charged after her.

She screamed, but he stumbled, and in that moment, she grabbed her tunic and fled.

Chapter 13

Roman sat in silent darkness, watching. He was a wiser man now, colder, leaner, but wiser.

He had examined the situation from every angle, considered every word she had spoken.

He would find her, and when he did, she would pay dearly.

Unconsciousness had grabbed him like a dark troll on the previous night. He had tried to follow her, had grappled with the black demon, trying to break free. But her drug was strong.

He curled his hand into a fist. She had betrayed him, tricked him, stolen from him. First the precious necklace, and now ... He curled his fingers over his chest. Damn her hide, she had taken his amulet.

She was the mistress of lies, and he had played her fool. But no more. Henceforth neither scruples nor her compelling charm would forestall his revenge. She owed him. She would pay. 'Twas as simple as that.

Thus he waited in absolute immobile silence, watching the door of a gray hovel from the anonymity of a black shadow.

She would come, he told himself. For though she had spewed a thousand lies, she had not lied about the sickly babe. That one bit of her dialogue had stayed with him like a tick, refusing to be forgotten, for when she'd spoken of the lass named Sineag, she had been another person, an innocent herself, it had seemed, lost in memories. Sineag! 'Twas a Scottish name. Or so Roman had first thought. But nay. 'Twas a
Gaelic
name. And Gaelic meant Irish as well as Scottish. Once he had realized that, doors had opened to him. It had been simple enough to ask about a newborn child with a cough. All it took were a few well-placed lies—lies that came easier now.

Now he would wait and watch, for she would come. Something in his gut told him that much.

The night dragged toward morning. But the door of the hovel remained closed. Even from this distance, Roman could hear a child's labored coughing. The sound wore on his nerves.

Where was Tara? Why hadn't she arrived? Had he misjudged her yet again? Had she fabricated the whole story, after all?

He could wait no longer, for the shadows were fading. He would need to find better hiding for daylight watch.

Across the street was a broken cart. It had only one wheel, and the wood was rotting through in many places, but 'twas big enough for Roman to hide in. Glancing carefully about him, he hurried to it and placed himself uncomfortably inside.

In order to remain out of sight, he had to bend his legs. They cramped. He swore silently and tried to rub the ache from them.

Dawn arrived. A chaffinch perched on the edge of the cart and cocked his head at Roman, as if sizing him up. Then, seeming to decide the human was harmless, the small finch burst into song.

Roman scowled, thinking the bird correct in his assessment of the damage he might cause. If Tara appeared at the end of the cart, he doubted his ability to unfold, much less give chase. Nevertheless, he stayed, entertained by the little songster's music and marveling at the fact that despite it all, life continued, the sun rose, birds sang.

The cart had a small hole from where a knot of wood had fallen. If Roman craned his neck just so, he was able to watch the door.

The neighborhood began waking. He smelled the aroma of cook fires, heard a farewell as someone left a cottage. A child carrying a basket passed the door he watched. Roman's attention perked up. A child! Tara had pretended to be a child before. She could surely do so again.

But this one was less than ten years old, and no more than four feet tall. 'Twould be a difficult disguise even for a black-hearted conniver like her.

He settled back onto the floor of the cart again. The wood had long ago been eroded by wind and weather. The softer lumber had worn away, causing sharp ridges to rise, seemingly for the express purpose of tormenting his back.

Hoofbeats clopped down the street, softly muffled by the muddy road. A flea-bitten cob trotted up, slowed to a walk, and finally stopped. From his hellish position, Roman watched the aged animal mouth its bit, then hang his head and rest, cocking one bony hip.

The driver was an old man, grizzled, bearded. He wore a slouch hat, a long, gray doublet that may have fit him years ago when he had yet borne the muscle of youth. Now it hung on his thin frame, reaching well past his thighs. When he eased himself from the cart, Roman saw that the freedom of youth had indeed left him. He was dressed in baggy hose that matched the doublet, but one leg ended at the knee.

Leaning against the cart, the old man reached inside and drew out a pottery jar. He cradled it against his chest, then turned with agonizing slowness and took a gnarled crutch from its resting place beneath the seat. Placing it under his right arm, he limped toward the hovel.

It seemed to take forever for the old man to reach his destination. Mayhap in another time and another place Roman might have seen fit to help the old gaffer. But not today. He shifted his gaze from the stooped back to the street, waiting, impatience gnawing him. But finally the old fellow reached his destination and knocked at the portal.

It opened in a moment. A woman stood in the doorway. She was young, but there were lines of worry on her face and shadows of terror in her eyes. Words were spoken. Roman knew that much, though he couldn't make out exactly what was said.

The old man nodded and handed the jug over to the woman. There were tears in her eyes and when she spoke Roman could just make out her shaky words of thanks and blessings.

The mother reached out for a moment and touched the old man's cheek. Though Roman had no way of knowing what was in the jug, it was obviously something of utmost importance. This, he knew, was a singular moment. A sterling act of kindness.

He watched the mother draw back, watched the door close.

So Tara had been right. God saw fit to help wee Sineag without the Shadow's intervention. Even in the bowels of Firthport, kindness lived.

Memories of the Highlands flooded Roman. All was not dark. All was not evil.

The old man turned. His face was hidden beneath the limp brim of his hat. His gnarled hands clutched...

But wait...

The hands weren't gnarled. They were slim and delicate and...

Roman launched from his hiding place with a snarl. He sprang over the side of the cart, and, even as he catapulted from cover, he saw the old man jerk to a halt, eyes wide.

Less than ten rods separated them. The old man stood paralyzed for a moment. Then, with the suddenness of a doe, he erupted into action. But instead of running, he began clawing at his clothes. The baggy hose fell away. The wooden crutch clattered to the ground. And suddenly he was barelegged and running like the devil was behind him.

Tara! It was Tara. Roman knew it. He was gaining on her. She was near. So near. He reached for her. Her doublet skimmed past his fingers. He swore. She spurted ahead. Roman's thigh throbbed and threatened to spill him to the ground, but he would not lose her this time. Not if the hounds of hell rose up and devoured him.

Sheer rage drove him on. He reached again, snagged her coat, and reeled her back. She shrieked as cloth ripped from her body. But suddenly the doublet hung limply in his hand, and she was sprinting away.

Roman tossed the garment aside with a curse and leapt after her. But she had already turned a corner. He careened around it and skidded to a halt. She was nowhere in sight. A stone fence stretched off to the right and left. Surely she was behind it. Back in motion, he leapt over it and stopped again. His breath came in hard gasps, and his thigh pulsed with weakening pain.