Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) (22 page)

"There is Crighton Hall just ahead. You know what you are to say, my lord?"

He looked at her askance, for her voice matched her appearance perfectly, that of a young, clumsy lad. She ducked her head shyly, and he saw now that she walked in a strange, duck-footed manner, the scuffed toes of her shoes pointed out. In her left hand, she carried a cloth bag, supposedly filled with their belongings. On her head was a droopy brown hat.

"Aye," he said. "I ken what ta say."

"'Tis good. You are clever, my lord," she said, scratching at her hip, "for 'twill be mere moments until the baron arrives from Lord Bledham's."

"How do ye ken all this?" he asked.

"My lord?" she said, stopping suddenly and blinking up at him. Her mouth was round with bewilderment, her brow furrowed. Roman realized suddenly that she was not pretending to be Fletcher, his lowly servant. She
was
Fletcher.

"How is it that you know all this?" he asked, finding his poor Italian accent with an effort.

"Why, my lord ..." She grinned at him in a lopsided manner. The wig beneath her homely cap was the color of dirty straw. "'Tis me job ta know these things. Someday ya'll be as famous as Michelangelo, and I'll be your assistant."

She was fascinating to watch, spritely, genuine.

"Look, my lord," she said, turning her gamine face away and pointing a grubby finger at an approaching horseman. "A gentleman. P'raps he can help us on our way."

Roman pulled himself from his thoughts. David MacAulay's life and his own honor depended on how well he played this role. "Sir," he called out as the horseman drew near. "Might you be able to give us assist?"

The rider stopped his mount a short distance from them. The bay gelding he rode fidgeted, pulling at the reins and snorting his discontent as he shook his hirsute head. The horse's nasal discharge sprayed onto Roman's tunic. He grimaced, pulled a lacy handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped at the slime.

When he looked up, he wondered if he saw humor on the old baron's face. He was a homely man, bulbous-nosed, portly, with skinny legs that gripped the proud gelding's sides like pincers.

"And what kind of assistance might you be needing of me?" he asked, staring at Roman.

"I fear we've gone astray." Roman wrinkled his brow and cocked a knee and a wrist in unison, letting the handkerchief droop from his fingertips. He'd seen the Italian dandies do it a thousand times—and had wanted to punch them on each occasion. "My boy here assured me he knew the way to Lord Bledham's holdings." He sneered at the lad. "But curse him, he's gotten us waylaid yet again."

Fletcher kicked at a clump of dirt with the toe of his shoe and barely dared peek up through his bangs at his master. "The signorina at the inn assured me 'twas this way," he mumbled.

"Well the signorina at the inn was a twit. Anyone could see that from—"

"Why did you wish to find Bledham's?" interrupted Crighton.

"What?" asked Roman, pulling his attention from his impromptu servant.

The gelding pranced. "Why did you wish to reach Lord Bledham's estate?"

Roman lifted one corner of his mouth in unison with a limp wrist. "I'm Giorgio Merici."

The baron scowled. "And I'm Lord Crighton. What do you want with Bledham?"

"You don't know?" Roman glanced irritably at Fletcher, then elapsed into a round of sound, Italian cursing. Somehow, though Roman would never know how, Tara knew enough to blush. "I have been commissioned to paint the ceilings at Holyhead," he said finally, making certain he retained a peeved expression. "I assumed my name would proceed me."

"Edgar commissioned you?" Crighton asked.

"Lord Bledham," Roman corrected.

"The bastard," Crighton murmured under his breath. "Looking to outdo me again. What has he agreed to pay you?"

Roman assumed an expression of surprise. "I should think that should stay between the baron and me."

"I'll double it," Crighton said.

"I couldn't possibly—"

"Triple!" Crighton said, "and I'll let the entire country know of your work."

"Well.. ." Roman gasped, glancing at Fletcher, whose jaw had dropped open in surprise. "I... Still, I couldn't—"

"Come along. I'll show you Crighton Hall. 'Tis twice the size of Holyhead and much more masterfully planned."

"Well I—"

"Do it!" Fletcher whispered, nearly jumping up and down. "Do it, my lord. And we'll show these English some culture."

"Well I suppose it wouldn't hurt to see my canvas," said Roman. "Lead on."

* * *

Crighton Hall was big and square, built of gray stone and towering over the smaller homes beyond its gates.

Roman walked leisurely up the road to the door. Beside him, Fletcher was taut with excitement. His head turned with every step as he absorbed each detail around him.

In a moment, Crighton dismounted. Handing the reins to a boy who appeared from nowhere, he led the way up stone steps.

The door was wide and arched. It opened with a squeal of protest. Beside it was a settle of sorts. The back was formed from the antlers of deer and the seat was red brocade. Roman promptly seated himself upon it with a sigh.

Crighton frowned down at him. "Don't you wish to see the rooms?"

"It has been a dreadfully wearying journey." Roman sniffed into his handkerchief.

"Come along. You can rest later."

Roman rose languidly to his feet. "Mayhap I could quench my thirst at the least. Fletcher could fetch something from your kitchen."

Crighton scowled, apparently impatient to steal this painter from his friend and rival. "Very well. Follow the steps down and around then, boy. Tell Frances to send up spirits for two," he ordered, and turned away. But in a moment, he pivoted back. "And mind you don't pinch anything on the way, or it wi11 be your ears."

Fletcher puffed out her tightly bound chest. Affront was written across his face. "I've never stole nothing."

"And make certain you don't start now," Crighton said.

Roman allowed himself one glance at Tara. She was there, somewhere, under the thick facade ofthe serving boy. Her eyes were just as bright and alive as ever and if he looked hard he could see the merest suggestion of a smile touch her lips. But now was not the time to let her allure distract him. He followed the baron upstairs.

Tara watched them go. Life was good.

Setting the bag by the door, she hurried down the hall. Stairways led off in every direction. She ignored them all, focusing on her mission.

Where would she be if she were a golden mermaid forever captured on the end of a walking stick, Tara wondered, silently passing rooms on her right and left. Up ahead, she saw a door set with a simple, square window. Through that smoky glass, she vaguely made out the bright colors of the garden beyond.

The answer was so simple.

If she were a golden mermaid, she would reside in the anteroom that adjoined the garden. Tara set her hand to the latch.

The
locked
anteroom, she corrected, and nearly laughed out loud.

Less than ten minutes later, she was hurrying up the stairs, carrying two chalices of ale. Whistling, she stopped long enough to sip from one cup and continue on.

On the landing, a gilt-framed picture shone down at her. It was a lascivious piece, showing a man with five women in various stages of undress.

Tara stopped, stared. Then, lifting the chalice in her right hand, she spat into the brew and hurried on, whistling again.

"What took you so long?" asked Crighton, scowling from a doorway.

"'Tis sorry I am, your lordship. I fear I was delayed—admiring your artwork."

Crighton grunted, took the chalice from Tara's right hand, and turned his back to pace across the room toward Roman.

"So what do you think, Merici?"

"’Tis a lovely room." Roman sighed dramatically and waved vaguely at the endless white ceiling. "The grand sweep of the arches. The gentle curve of the plaster. The bold strength of the pillars."

Crighton smiled and took a sip from his chalice.

Tara smiled, too, first at Crighton, and then at Roman, with a tiny, significant nod.

"And there are other rooms just as grand," said Crighton, smirking at Roman. "If you're not too busy with Bledham's little house, that is."

"I'll do it," said Roman breathlessly.

Crighton chuckled and drank again. "I thought you would."

"Come along, Fletcher. We'll hurry back to the inn and fetch our supplies."

"So soon?" Crighton said. "Before you so much as finish your ale." He examined his own brew bemusedly. "It's particularly good today."

Chapter 16

Roman closed the door of Tara's small dwelling and barred it behind him. "I think I've waited long enough, lass."

She stared up into his face, her eyes alive, her dirty cheeks aglow. "You did wonderfully well... my lord."

"I look the fool."

"You look ..." She paused as if there was much she would say, but dared not. Was that admiration in her eyes? "I doubt you could ever look the fool, Scotsman."

He could not help but smile. Theft was wrong. He knew theft was wrong. But theft with her...

"Are you certain you are not truly an Italian painter by profession?" she asked.

She had removed her homely hat. The straw-colored wig followed.

"Quite certain," he said.

"An actor?" she asked, turning away to carefully pack the wig in the trunk.

"A lawyer," he said, sitting down on the straw pallet to watch her. "And quite a boring one."

She turned to him. "I doubt it."

How had he survived before this moment—before he had seen her eyes aglow, had heard her laughter? What had happened to his thoughts of revenge? What kind of magic did she work on him?

"I'm assuming I didn't risk me life for nothing," he said, hoping she didn't realize how she affected him. "Ye did get it, didn't ye?"

"Oh, aye." She said it with a laugh. Pulling her tunic loose from her belt, she fished out a leather bag that hung nearly to her waist.

She tipped it onto the mattress beside Roman. Five items rolled onto the bed: the gold mermaid, a silver spoon, a spool of gold thread, and a stylish ornamental belt.

Roman glanced at each item, then raised his gaze to hers.

She cleared her throat. "I believe—"

"In sharing," he said. "But yer sharing could get us both kilt."

Her grin broadened. 'That's half the fun of it, Scotsman," she said, and reaching beneath her tunic, pulled away the belt that had held the pouch securely to her body.

"And what's the other half?" he asked.

She sobered, gently fingering the mermaid's wild gilt hair. "Revenge."

"Revenge for the lad that felt the weight of the mermaid across his back, or revenge for yerself?" he asked quietly.

"Mayhap a wee bit of both," she answered just as softly.

"Who are ye, lass?" he whispered.

She pulled her gaze away, but not without effort. "I'm the one who will retrieve your necklace, Scotsman. Nothing more."

He snared her hand. "’Tis a lie, lass," he said, tugging her back. "Ye are a woman of depth and compassion. But ye dunna let people see that side of ye."

She laughed. "That is because it is not there to see,” she argued. "I but take care of myself as best I can."

"Nay." He shook his head. "There is much ye dunna say. But there are things I ken."

She tugged at her fingers, and he set her free. "Such as?"

"Ye could steal the night without disturbing the dawn. This piece..." He hefted the mermaid. The figure showed only her head and bared torso, but still it exceeded the length of his hand and weighed more than half a stone. "'Tis worth a fair bit," he said, not taking his gaze from hers. "Enough ta keep ye well for a year in this humble abode I would think."

"’Arry was the thief," she corrected, but her slim hands were clasped. "True, he was generous and would share, but—"

"There was no Harry."

Her jaw dropped. She mouthed something, then drew a breath, and said, "I'll not have ya slandering his name." Her voice shook when she said it, but Roman was far past believing her.

"He's na more real than Fletcher, or Betty, or the old man with the severed leg. In fact, he is far less real."

"How dare you?" she gasped, going pale.

He was on his feet in an instant, gripping her arms in a hard clasp. "I dare because me own life depends on it. You are the Shadow!"

"You're daft!" she hissed.

"Admit it."

"Nay! I will not. You're insane!"

"Mayhap," he said, leaning closer. "But I am also right."

"’Arry was the Shadow. 'Tis horribly cruel of ya to deny his existence," she said. There were tears in her eyes.

Roman tightened his grip on her arms. "Dunna waste yer false tears, lass, for I doubt ye ken how ta cry in earnest. There was na Harry and ye are the Shadow."

"Nay," she said again, but her voice was weaker, her tears gone. "He was my love, my life."

"He was a figment of yer imagination. He was ye. Admit it!"

"Nay!"

"Admit it!" he growled, shaking her.

Tense silence hung between them.

"How long have you known?" she whispered.

He
had
known the truth. Truly he had. But still, hearing her admit it made his soul sing. There was no Harry, no lover who still owned her affections. "In me heart I have known for some while, I think," he said softly. "But me mind has taken far too long ta see the light."

"And what will you do with this knowledge?"

He held her gaze, reminding himself that though she held no affection for a man he could not compete with, neither did she hold any affection for him. "We've made an agreement, lass," he said, keeping his tone flat, and refusing to admit why he could not harm her. "I'll stand by it ta the end. Help me retrieve the necklace, and I'll guard yer secret with me verra life."

She nodded once, then pulled away, her narrow hands tightly clasped.

"Ye can trust me, lass," he said. He read her tension, understood her doubts. Yet he could not help the happiness that suffused him. She was the Shadow. Therefore, she was free to love another.