Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (2 page)

Roman smiled. He was a diplomat in a foreign land. Level-headed, intelligent, respected. He wouldn't hit the bastard. Yet.

"I appreciate yer offer," he said, keeping his tone even. "But for now I think it best if we discuss the business at hand. I have come, as requested. And because of the delicacy of the situation, I feel it best ta—"

"Delicacy!" rasped Dalbert, suddenly gripping the table's edge with clawed hands. "Your mongrel friend fucked my sister then stole her ring!"

Roman remained very still, waiting, willing his own temper into submission. Dalbert Harrington might well have friends among this rough crowd, he thought. Friends that would come to the nobleman's aid if things got out of hand.

But the other customers seemed intent on their own conversation.

"I am truly sorry for the circumstances," Roman said softly, neither denying nor affirming Dalberf s accusations. "As is the lad's father."

"Circumstances! If I had
my
way,
I
would handle the ... circumstances." Narrowing his eyes, he chuckled and drank again. "But Father's squeamish about castration." Strong words, but Roman sensed that Dalbert was full of bluster. He seemed calmer as he settled back into his chair and took another quaff of ale.

Their gazes met. Roman kept his benign, but beneath the table, he clenched his fists. Nothing would feel better than ramming the Englishman's teeth down his throat. But he dared not air his temper. Not now, not ever.

He lowered his eyes with an effort and shrugged as if the matter were out of his hands. But he wondered, how many Scottish lasses had been raped by Englishmen? How many unwanted bairns had been born to noble asses like this viscount's son? True, the Englishmen's barbarism did not excuse a Scotsman's actions, but if he knew David at all, the lad had not taken the girl against her will. Not David MacAulay. True, he may be a bit cocky and full of himself, but he was not cruel.

"Yer father has made an agreement with the laird of the MacAulays," Roman said, gently settling a leather pouch on the table between them. "I have but come to deliver the requested item."

"Item! More like a damned whore's fee!" Dalbert said with a snort. He finished off his drink and laughed. "Think of it. My father's darling Christine. No better than a whore. No better than ..." The taproom door swung open again. Betty hurried out, carrying a pitcher in each hand. Dalbert turned his sneer toward the girl. "No better than her!" he said.

Roman glanced at the barmaid. If young Betty had gained Dalbert's disdain, perhaps she was a lass worth ...

A sharp prick of premonition drew Roman's attention back to the table. He reached out instinctively, but already Dalbert had snatched the pouch and was turning it upside down.

The necklace tumbled out to lie on the rough table like a goddess on a lowly bed of bracken. Glittering light of blue and white sparkled in the room.

"Sweet Jesus!" someone gasped.

"Good God!" Dalbert said, reaching out to touch a midnight blue sapphire.

But Roman scooped the necklace up and whisked it beneath the table before Harrington's fingers touched it. The gems were cool against his palm. He tightened his grip, cursing himself for a careless fool.

"Good God," Dalbert repeated. His tone was breathy. "Father said it was a piece handsome enough to match his mother's ring, but I didn't know ..." His voice trailed to a halt.

Roman felt a hundred eyes watching him. Damnation! It would be a miracle if he lived out the night now.

He could pull his knife and back toward the exit, or he could turn the gems and the responsibility over to Dalbert Harrington.

The inn was silent again.

"It seems yer father thought this little trinket might sweeten your sister's dowry," Roman said quietly.

Dalbert laughed. His eyes were bright with excitement. "Any man would be lucky to get it. I mean,
her,"
he corrected, and laughed again. "But I have to tell you, Scot, you're in a bad part of town to be carrying around that kind of rocks. Perhaps it would be best if I delivered them to Father myself."

Roman carefully kept his voice steady and his body relaxed. Now was not the time to be making foolish mistakes. "That will na be necessary. I told the MacAulay I'd personally put the gems inta Lord Harrington's hand before escorting the lad back ta his homeland."

"So you don't trust me?" asked Dalbert. His tone was casual, but his eyes were too bright.

He was intoxicated and volatile. Roman forced his muscles to relax a bit more. Careful handling was necessary if he wished to see the light of day once more.

"I made a vow ta a friend, and I am honor-bound ta keep it," Roman said. "I'm sure you understand honor."

Though Roman had tried his best to keep sarcasm from his tone, Dalbert gripped his mug in a tight clasp and snarled something unintelligible. Roman considered his hidden blade, then discarded the idea. He couldn't take the risk of cutting this man. If Dalbert attacked, Roman would tilt him off-balance, and ...

"Now, luvs," said a husky voice. "We don't want no trouble between friends at the Red Fox."

Roman watched Dalbert's features soften slightly as his attention was diverted.

"Well, I surely would not wish to cause you any trouble," said Dalbert. "Who am I to stand in the way of my father's plans? In fact, I'd like to prove there are no hard feelings," he said, and, standing quickly, reached out to wrap an arm about the barmaid's waist.

"So, Betty," he crooned, not taking his gaze from Roman. "How about helping create peace between our country and his. You can even make a little extra coin out of the bargain. You interested in money?"

"Always am, luv," she said, tilting her pretty face toward the Englishman. Her floppy white coif puffed out behind her head.

"Then let's all be friends," Dalbert said, turning to gaze down at her.

"I'm friendly, guvnor, but like I said earlier, I'm a busy woman."

"Surely not too busy to make a little extra coin," he said, squeezing a bit tighter and trailing a finger over her half-bared shoulder.

"Extra coin is always welcome," she agreed. "Still, a girl's got to keep her job. And old Bart is apt to get peeved if I leave the inn before my time's up."

"You said yourself that you don't want any trouble here," Dalbert reminded and traced a finger over her collarbone. She stiffened slightly, but didn't pull away. "I think you should be friendly to our neighbor here." Leaning closer, he kissed the spot where his fingers had just been. "The Scot is feeling friendly, too. In fact, he's been drooling after you all evening. Said he could use a bit of sweet English tart. What do you say?" he asked, not taking his gaze from the maid's bosom. "Are you willing to share some of your bounty with our guest here?"

"I'm all for sharing," said Betty. "So, I'll tell you what, m' lord, I'll get you a couple of free drinks." She tried to slip away, but Dalbert only tightened his grip.

"The Scot here can obviously afford to pay a good price for a night's work," said Dalbert. "In truth, one of those rocks would be worth a king's ransom. Hell, there must a been a hundred stones in there. Who'd miss one? But if he's too stingy to pay, I'll give you twice your usual fee, just to show him there's no hard feelings.

"What do you say, Scot?"

Beneath the table, Roman stashed the necklace in the ceremonial sporran that hung from his waist. It was a silly thing. Adorned with horsehair and silver, it would be cumbersome in a fight. He yearned for his serviceable hill-climbing pouch. But it was too late to worry about, his accoutrements now. He rose slowly to his feet. Dalbert Harrington was not only a fool. He was a rich, intoxicated fool, and, therefore, he was dangerous.

"Maybe you don't trust me with the necklace," Harrington said with a leering smile. "But you can trust me on this, Scot. You aren't going to find a more prime piece of flesh than our Betty here. So are you going to take me up on my offer, or am I going to have to return to Father and tell him that you thought yourself too good to deal with the likes of us?"

Roman remained silent, keeping his expression bland, his eyes steady. He had already offended Harrington. He couldn't afford to make matters worse, not with David MacAulay's life on the line. So he raised his brows as if considering the matter. He, too, could play this game.

"What do you say, lass?" he asked the maid softly. "Are you interested in the proposition?"

He watched her raise her chin, watched her eyes fill with speculation and more. "That depends," she said, "on the size of your …" She tugged her arm free from Dalbert's grasp and advanced. "Rocks."

A dropped pin could have been heard from thirty yards.

Dalbert chuckled.

"I didn't get a good look at them earlier," she added, stepping away from Harrington. "Care to display them so we all can see?"

Roman knew disdain when he heard it. And he heard it now. But he nodded once in concession to her wit. "We Scots are usually more private about such exhibitions," he said, and let his gaze slip to her bosom before lifting it slowly back to her face. "But I assure you, you wouldna be disappointed."

"I fear I've heard that before, guvnor," she said. Though her cheeks showed a slight stain of pink, she leaned forward, showing her cleavage. "But when it come down ta hard facts, I
was
disappointed."

Their gazes met and held.

"Then you were with the wrong man," he said quietly.

She raised her brows and skimmed slim fingers from her cleavage up her throat. "And you think you could satisfy me?"

'That I promise," he said.

She came closer. Her hips swayed with a life of their own. "Well then, luv," she crooned, leaning in so that her lips were only inches from his. "I'm interested..."

This was just a game he played to satisfy Dalbert Harrington, Roman assured himself. But against his will and his better judgment, his breath stopped in his throat. Beneath the weight of his leather sporran, he could feel his own interest roused to life. He was a fool, he admonished himself. But he was also a man, with a man's weaknesses.

Betty leaned closer still. She didn't smell of sweat and spoiled ale, as he had expected. Instead, the aroma of sweet lavender filled his nostrils. Heraised his hand, wanting to touch her face. But suddenly she slapped it down.

"I'm interested in your jewels, Scotsman. But only the ones in your pouch, not the ones in your skirt," she said.

Dalbert threw back his head and guffawed. The tension was broken. Others joined in the laughter. Dalbert collapsed into his chair amidst the noise.

The barmaid turned to leave, but Roman caught her hand in a careful grip. She swung back toward him. Their gazes clashed. Her eyes were as blue as the precious jewels he'd just stashed in his sporran.

"Mayhap some other time," Roman said quietly. If he tried, he could manage to feel grateful for her part in dissolving the tension in the room. At least the tautness in his loins was a less dangerous situation. "When we dunna have an audience."

He heard the intake of her breath. "You want company, Scotsman?" she asked. "I'm told Pete Langer's got a herd of fine sheep. You could pick and choose."

On the far side of the room, a furtive figure rose. A finger of apprehension slid up Roman's spine as he turned to watch. Who was he? Someone leaving to plan the theft of his necklace, mayhap? But it was already too late to identify the man, for the door was closing behind him. "The sheep it is then," he said, turning back to the maid. "But ye dunna ken what yer missing."

Betty smiled. "I assure ya I do, Scotsman," she said, letting her gaze skim down the midline of his body, over his chest, his abdomen, the sporran that hid his jewels. "But I won't be missing it for long."

Chapter 2

An hour after his encounter with Betty, Roman walked out of the inn. Dalbert had kept his mug filled, and though Roman drank, he was not fool enough to become intoxicated. The task ahead would require all his wits; far too many unsavory characters now knew about the jewels he carried with him.

Firthport was a bordertown and a seaport, raw, unpredictable, deadly. Somewhere far off, a woman laughed. The sound carried eerily in the night air, floating to a dark figure that hurried down a distant alley.

The young man glanced quickly about. Tonight he was John Marrow, a portly, somewhat besotted businessman minding his own affairs.

The Queen's Head appeared in the dimness. It was a long building, made of gray stone and thatch. A narrow ribbon of smoke twisted from the chimney into the night sky.

Marrow stepped up to the door, tested the handle once then rapped loudly on the stout plank. "Open up!"

Silence greeted him from inside. He knocked again. "Open up I say."

Still no response.

"Who do you think you're lockin'..."

The door opened. A man stood on the far side, holding a single candle and scowling. He was big and German and smelled very distinctly of caraway seeds.

"Who do you think
you
are?" he growled.

"Oh!" Marrow belched and staggered back a step. "There you are then, LaFleur. And about time, too."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Marrow. John Marrow. Fine innkeeper you are, forgettin'..." He belched again. "Forgetting your own guests."

"You're drunk," said the landlord. "And you're no guest of mine."

Marrow reared back in offense. "I beg to differ. As I'm sure you know, LeFleur, I stay at the Queen's Arms every month when I come—"

"I am not LeFleur. I am Krahn, and this is not the Queen's Arms. 'Tis the Queen's Head."

Marrow's jaw dropped. For a moment he struggled with his hat, as if trying to raise the brim to get a better look at the landlord's face. But the hat won the battle and remained firmly in place, low over his eyes, hiding his own features. "The Queen's Head?" he said, sounding befuddled, as he staggered backward again. "The Queen's Head. Oh! Head! Well, damn me if I don't always get those bloody royal parts mixed up." He laughed uproariously at his own joke. The landlord's expression remained sour.