Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (26 page)

"'Tis na a problem," he said, and digging inside the trunk, found what he searched for.

In a moment he had pulled the fishhook from her sailor's shirt, doused it with ale and pushed the dull end through his ear.

Tara's jaw dropped a fraction of an inch lower. Roman glanced at himself in the mirror. The straight end of the hook extended behind his lobe a good two inches and was smeared with blood. The hook lay sharp and shiny against his flesh. He nodded and turned his gaze to her.

"We go together, lass," he said, placing his fists on his bare hips, "even though ye look a bit tame for the part."

Chapter 19

Tara pulled her gaze from Roman's mutilated ear. Every time she thought she knew him, he surprised her. 'Twould be a far better thing if she could predict his actions, for then surely she could set the thought of him on the shelf beside all the other details that jostled for her attention.

"I've no suitable garments for you to wear," she said. "Therefore—"

"I will go," he said simply.

She turned away with a frown and began rummaging in the trunk. She had been collecting for more than a decade. Garments and fabrics crowded wigs and paste beads. But nothing seemed appropriate until, toward the bottom of the trunk, she found a pair of brown leather hose.

She held them up to the wavering light of the candle, then shifted her gaze to Roman. He'd wrapped himself in the blanket, but even so, she could see the garment would be too small.

She shrugged. "’Tis the best I can find."

She handed over the hose then began rummaging in the trunk again.

Although she tried to ignore him, she could not help but know he turned his back, nor could she fail to hear the blanket slip from his body. A tunic. She must find him a tunic, she told herself. But she had mirrors, and they were her downfall, for they made it all too easy to watch him. All she had to do was raise her eyes the slightest bit and she could see him. His back was very broad. It was darker than she would have expected a lawyer's back to be, and that made her wonder what kind of activities exposed his torso to the sunlight. Or was he that dark-skinned all over and she had simply failed to notice? Her gaze slipped lower, granting her an answer when she saw the dramatic rise of his pale buttocks.

She drew a steadying breath and watched as he stepped into the hose. They were too small, and he bounced slightly, trying to force himself into them.

The bouncing intrigued Tara even more. She craned her neck, trying to see into the second mirror and ascertain the effects his movements were having on his frontal body parts.

But the looking glass was too small. He bounced, and she craned until finally he had persuaded the hose to encompass his hips and thighs.

She saw the muscles in his back flex, saw his bulging triceps strain and knew he was trying to close the codpiece that covered his crotch.

Tara bit her lip. Though she was unhappy about his insistence on accompanying her, she had no wish for him to injure himself in his attempt to fit into the leather hose. Mayhap she should offer to assist him, she thought devilishly, but in that moment he turned.

She ducked her head rapidly back, hands clawing at the fabrics in the trunk.

"Here," she said, turning quickly, ruffled blouse in hand. "I found ..." But she could not quite finish the thought. Her gaze skimmed over his mounded chest, his narrow waist, his closely confined hips and thighs.

"Tight," he said simply.

"Nay!" she said, but the word was squeaky. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Nay. I think it looks ..." She shrugged, wondering if her face was as red as it felt. "The style is bending toward snug."

"Snug," he said, "has been exceeded by about half a cow's worth of leather. Should I feel the urge ta breathe, I'll have ta leave the room."

"Aye," she murmured. Sweet Mary, he was a sight to see. Raw male, untamed hair, hardened muscles, and not an ounce of fat to lap above the narrow waistband.

"'Twill na be a problem, of course," he added. "I have always felt that breathing is overvalued."

"Aye," she murmured again. Maybe it was the wolf's teeth hanging dead center between his nipples that intrigued her so. Or maybe it was the fishhook in his ear. Surely it wasn't merely his blatant masculinity, for she had spent the entirety of her life in the presence of men, and half of that she had been a man herself. But she had never managed to look like
that.

"Unless ye wish ta do me bodily harm, lass," he murmured huskily, "ye'd best na look at me like that whilst I'm trussed into this garment."

Tara snapped her gaze to his face. "I didn't... I wasn't..."

He watched her, his green eyes steady, his nostrils slightly flared.

"I..." she began, but finally she merely handed over the shirt. "Found this for you," she finished in a rush.

"Lass," he said, catching her hand, "should I be flattered?"

Her lips moved. Her mind refused to. But finally she snapped herself from her trance and left the shirt in his fingers as she jerked her hand free. "Put it on. Put it on," she said, turning away.

She could feel him watching her, but refused to turn back. Hers was not a life of leisure. Far from that. She could not afford to act like a brainless ninny every time he showed a bit of skin. She could not afford to dwell on the night just past. In fact, she could not afford to think of him at all. She had to plan and plan carefully or forfeit her own life for her carelessness. She turned, ready to tell him so.

He lifted his gaze to hers and raised his brows. "I dunna mean ta find fault, lass, but the fit seems a bit suspect." The ruffled sleeves barely reached past his elbows, and the bottom hem did not meet his hose. She could see a narrow strip of dark hair visible between the shirt and waistband. For just an instant she considered sliding her fingers through that hair.

She cleared her throat and tried to do the same with her mind. "It seems the lad that wore that was a bit smaller than you."

He canted his head at her understatement. She cleared her throat again and turned back to the trunk, but her mind was running wild and her fingers fumbled. In a moment she was looking at him again.

"I can find none other."

Roman shrugged. Gripping the bottom of the shirt, he pulled it over his head. A hundred tempting muscles flexed. "I'll go without," he said.

Tara licked her lips then snapped her gaze to his. "What?"

"I've seen me share of gypsies," he said, "’Tis na uncommon for them ta go without a shirt."

She felt her mind grow limp. "Nay."

He crumpled the shirt in his hands. They were big hands, powerful, but she could well remember the gentleness they possessed.

"What say ye?" he asked.

"I said nay!" She was angry suddenly. She was not some mealy-mouthed milkmaid, boggled by the merest sight of flesh. She was the Shadow, Betty, Fletcher, and a hundred other people who did not blanch at anything, so why was she acting like some silk merchant's fat daughter? "I'll not deny that last night was ..." She paused and tried not to sigh. "'Twas quite pleasurable," she said. "But we've work to do now."

His brows raised higher. "Do I argue the point?"

"No. Your ... your chest..." She placed her hand beside his amulet. “Your chest argues," she said breathlessly.

"Yer pardon?"

She stared at him. Surely he knew the effect he had on her. Surely he knew that the sight of him thus turned her mind to mush, that the deep burr of his voice sent quivers through her being. He was not stupid. "Fine," she said and drew her hand quickly away. "Go without a tunic. See if I care. And here ..." She handed him a crimson sash. "To tie about your waist. 'Twill accent your..." She waved her hand a bit wildly. "Everything."

"Yer angry at me," he said.

"No, I'm not."

"Aye, ye—" He paused and scowled. "Where's me amulet."

"You cannot wear it this night."

His scowl deepened. "'Tis a lucky token of sorts. I will wear it."

"Dagger's men may recognize it."

"How could that be?"

"I noticed it the first night at the Queen's Head. Dagger's men may have, too."

"Ye noticed it?"

"You were naked." Tara felt herself blush. "I could not help but see ..." She nodded in the general direction of his chest and cleared her throat. "I could not help but notice... I was intrigued by ..." She paused, feeling panicked. "I noticed it," she finished in a rush.

The room went quiet.

The corners of Roman's lips twitched. "Dare I hope the sight of me ... amulet sparked some lascivious thoughts in yer mind."

"I..." She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, then, like magic, produced the amulet, seemingly from thin air. "There it is, then. Put it somewhere safe," she said quickly. "Now we've very little time and much to do if you wish to save your friend."

He didn't shift his gaze from her face, but spread his legs and crossed his arms against the muscular expanse of his chest. It was a strangely erotic stance, she thought, and the roguish smile that tilted his lips did nothing to detract from his appeal.

Think, she must think, and not about his chest— or any other body parts.

She turned stiffly away. "I am Rom. I am Rom," she said, rubbing her brow. "Salina they call me. And you are Theaelo, my ... protector." She paced again, not allowing herself to look in his direction. He would make a fine protector, dark, large, dangerous ...

"Lass, I am—"

"Silent!" she said, abruptly turning toward him.

He raised his brows in question.

"You'll be mute," she said with a relieved sigh.

Roman settled his palm on the dirk at his waist as he entered the dark interior of the nameless tavern. He would have been happier with a sword, but he had none. He would have been happier still if the Hawk were here with him, lending his immense strength and his steely nerve. But the Hawk was in France and not expected to return for some weeks. Roman was Tara's sole protection, and that thought wore at him. She had masterminded the scheme, and she insisted on assuming the risk. But not she alone. Liam had been notified, thereby involving one more innocent.

Well,
innocent
was stretching the term, he thought as he followed Tara into the dimly lit inn.

Or rather, he followed her hips. Draped in black-and-purple fabric, they swayed as she walked. A cloth bag hung from her girdle. Her feet were bare, and strapped to her right ankle was a string of tiny bells that tinkled with each step.

The tavern settled into silence as all eyes turned to watch her entrance.

Roman stared straight ahead. He knew the kind of species that inhabited this place, could feel their hot, hungry gazes burn at Tara. Hell fire, he must be the king of fools to allow her to do this.

"I wish to see the Dagger," she said in a loud staccato.

It had been quiet before. Now, not a soul breathed.

"Did you not hear me?" She slapped the palm of her hand on the nearest table.

Two men jumped. One swore. Someone scurried from the kitchen. He was missing a front tooth, and a sprig of greasy hair drooped over one eye.

"I wish to see the Dagger," she repeated, louder still.

The toothless proprietor looked nervous. "We don't know no Dagger here."

She turned her head and spat.

Roman watched her spittle bead up in the dust at the innkeeper's feet. There were more than twenty men here. Each one of them watched her with barely concealed bloodlust.

"Coward!" She said the word very succinctly, even with the Romanian accent.

"What did—"

"I said you are a coward!" Tara repeated, tossing her head. "You are, every one of you, cowards or you would not be afraid to tell the Dagger of my presence."

A man rose from the nearby table with a grin. At his side was a short, curved sword.

The hair at the back of Roman's neck rose. He took a single step toward Tara and remained still with his gaze on the man's face.

"And who might you be?" the man asked.

Tara turned slowly toward him. The ankle bells jangled. She snorted, tossing her head back slightly. "Not one to talk to the likes of you, worm."

There was very little warning. "Whore," the man snarled, grabbing for his sword.

Sheer, desperate instinct made Roman react. He lunged, wrapped an arm about the villain's throat and dragged him up against his bare chest.

The room was silent again but for the man's gasping breath.

Salina laughed, the noise quicksilver light. "Meet Theaelo," she said, stepping up to the man Roman held captive. "He does not talk, but he hears, aye? And he does not like to hear me called a whore." Drawing nearer still, she lightly slapped the captive's cheek before trailing her fingers down Roman's bare arm.

Their gazes met. Fire sizzled in hers. Rage boiled in Roman's veins. Damn her for taking such risks!

"I am Salina," she said, turning quickly toward the patrons, as if the question had been tangible and coming from that front. "Princess of the Rom. And I wish to speak to the Dagger."

A man rose slowly from a stool. His hair was snowy white and his voice soft when he spoke. "And why do you wish to see him... Princess?"

She turned her gaze very slowly toward him, as if wondering if it compromised her supreme position to do so. "Because I have this." In one fluid motion she lifted the golden mermaid from the bag and held it aloft. There were a few murmurs, but most men remained quiet, all attention riveted on the golden object.

"'Tis a pretty piece. Can I see it?" asked the white-haired man.

Salina laughed and without lowering her gaze, dropped the mermaid back into the bag.

"What is your name, White Head?" she asked, stepping forward.

Panic welled up like a cold tide in Roman. Thrusting his captive back toward his table, he paced after her, dirk drawn.

"They call me Angel," said the man with his ethereal voice.

"Angel!" She laughed, closing in on him so that they were nearly touching. Sensuality steamed off her. "Do not underestimate me just because I have tits, Angel. I have come to see the Dagger, and see him I will."