Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (4 page)

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.