Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) by Greiman Lois

Author:Greiman, Lois [Greiman, Lois]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Highland Romance, Historical, Highland HIstorical, Scotland, Fiction, Romance, Historical Romance, Scottish History
Publisher: NYLA
Published: 2011-12-02T02:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

“What are ye jabbering about?" Roman asked, still holding her wrist.

She lifted the blade in a casual motion. "If you insist on accompanying me, you'll need a disguise. I think you'd make a fine jester."

He snorted and released her wrist. "Not in this lifetime, lass."

She glanced at the freshly sharpened blade. "That may not be too long."

"As I said, we canna go to Harrington's, so there is na need for me ta disguise meself," Roman reminded her.

"Lord Crighton!" she said, abruptly stopping her knife a quarter of an inch from his throat.

"What?" He didn't dare turn his head, but tilted his eyes up in an attempt to see her face.

"'Tis time for Lord Crighton to pay."

"For what?"

"His crimes."

"Which are?"

"Too numerous to mention, I'm sure," she said, touching the blade to his neck.

"Can I ask ye to elaborate without having me throat cut?"

She paused again, staring at the wall and remembering. "There was once a small boy. His mother was Crighton's maid. But the mother died, and the boy stayed on, doing what work he could. 'Twas down at the dock I first saw him. A narrow lad he was with black hair and sparkling eyes. He was carrying Crighton's trunk when I spied him. But the trunk was larger than he, and he dropped it."

Her stomach pitched slightly. "I remember seeing Crighton turn. On his face was the expression of a ghoul. No corpse could have looked colder. He carried a walking stick topped by a mermaid of gold. When he swung the stick across the boy's back, I thought surely the lad would die."

"We steal the mermaid," said Roman quietly.

Their gazes met. She nodded slowly.

"Tell me, Mistress Tara, did ye save the wee lad?"

There was something in his eyes. Understanding. Empathy that bordered on pain. She opened her mouth to speak, to ease his mind. But good sense rushed back. "'Arry did," she said quickly. The moment was broken.

He watched her in silent for a time, then; "There are times, whole moments sometimes, when ye almost tell the truth.”

She snorted. "Don't hold your breath, Scotsman."

"How can I do aught when ye have a knife poised at me throat?"

"Ya still don't trust me? Even after that touching tale?"

He scowled, looking tense. "What makes ye think ye know how ta shave a man?"

"I've done it many times."

"Any survivors?"

She laughed quietly and scraped the blade one quick, seemingly careless stroke up his throat. "One."

He winced but didn't move his head. "Scarred?"

"Aye. Quite badly."

"’Tis probably why the Shadow never showed his face in the light of day."

"Nay. I never shaved 'Arry."

"A wise man, I see."

"The Shadow had a very light beard," she said, scraping again. Dark, coarse hair tripped over the blade and fell unheeded to the floor. "Yours resembles Cork's." She had already finished his neck and moved to his right cheek.

"Cork?" he asked.

Memories flared. An old man's gnarled fingers on hers, guiding, teaching. Repetition. Unorthodox lessons held by a fire's orange glow. Cork's knotty sense of humor. Laughter.

"Who is Cork?" he asked again.

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