“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.
"He was a good man," she said. "But he is gone."
"'Tis sorry I be."
It had been long indeed since she had performed this task. It felt right somehow and soothing. "As am I," she said. "But I was lucky to know him as long as I did."
"He was an old man?"
"'Tis good you are at guessing."
"Your grandfather?"
For a moment, her hand shook. The blade wobbled.
"Careful, lass. I've grown fond of me nose."
She seemed stiff suddenly. Roman remained silent for a moment, letting her relax and enjoying the warmth of her free hand on his opposite cheek.
"Cork was na yer grandfather?"
For a moment, he thought she would refuse to answer. "Nay. My grandfather outlives my sire."
"Again I am sorry."
"'Tis said the good oft die afore the evil."
He watched her carefully, searching for clues to who she was. Though he knew it shouldn't matter, thoughts of her consumed him. "Yer grandfather is evil?"
"Voila," she said, drawing back as she examined his face. "’Tis finished. Ya look quite charming."
Roman put his hand to his jaw. It felt oddly smooth. "And barely a scar to show for it," he said.
"Ya wound me," she said mockingly, but in her eyes, Roman thought he saw pain.
He rose to his feet. "Tell me yer tale, lass."
"Which one?" she asked, her tone flippant.
"The true one."
"'Twould bore you unto death. Fiction is much more intriguing," she said, turning away.
He caught her hand. "What could it hurt to dabble in the truth?"
Her gaze lifted to his face. There was emotion there, deep and dark, but soft somehow. "How did you break your nose?" she asked quietly.
"Were we na speaking of ye?"
"'Tis a tiresome topic. While you ..." She raised her hand. It was soft and warm against his cheek. "You have a good face, Roman of the Forbes. I admit it intrigues me. How did ya break your nose?"
"There was a lad at Glen Creag," he said. "Two years older than I, he was. He delighted in calling me Dermid."
"Your uncle's name," she said quietly.
Roman nodded. "I didna care ta be reminded that he was me kinsman."
"Who initiated the battle?"
"I have a fierce temper," he said.
She smiled. "Do ya?"
"Aye."
"And was your hair as red as your temper?"
"How did ye guess?"
"There are streaks of auburn amidst the dark."
She smoothed her fingers into his hairline. "I bet ya were a bonny lad."
Intimacy hung between them, begging to be acknowledged.
"Who are ye?" Roman whispered.
The room was silent, but suddenly, Tara drew away. "I am the one who will steal back your necklace, but only if we plan well and carefully."
Roman scowled at her secrecy. "I was told once that women enjoy speaking of themselves. There will be some satisfaction in telling Roderic that for once he was wrong about the fairer sex."
She smiled. "Where were you educated, Scotsman?"
"Will this shed any light on yer past?"
"Nay. But it may well help assure your future."
"I schooled in Naples."
"Truly?" She looked as if he had just enlightened her with the secret of the universe. "Might you speak Italian?"
He spoke quickly.
"That’s quite lovely. What does it mean?"
Roman watched her. Her eyes shone as blue as a Highland lochan. Her smile sparkled like a thousand moonlit waves. "Had I known Italian would cause such excitement, I might have tried it long ago."
She laughed. "What does it mean?"
"It means, ye speak Italian like a pig. I heard that a good deal while I was there."
She laughed again, then repeated the foreign phrase word for word.
Roman drew back slightly and scowled for her diction was somewhat better than his. "Ye've lived in Italy, lass."
"Nay," she laughed again, looking flushed and flattered. "I but have ... an interest in language."
"A gift for language," he corrected.
She shrugged, then quickly bent over the truck he'd recently abandoned. In a moment, she had raised the lid and was rummaging inside. "How would I say, yes, my lord."
He stared at her backside. Her tunic was pulled taut over her derriere. It was a sweet, soft curve. And her legs, bare now to midthigh, made it surprisingly difficult to breath.
"Si, Sua Eccelenza," he said.
She repeated it perfectly, then tried it faster. Nearly folded in half, she rummaged about in fabric of every color and texture.
"How would I say, your wish is my command?"
He told her.
There was a hiss of impatience from the interior of the trunk. He caught a glimpse of rich velvet, sheer silk, and for a moment, he thought he saw the poor sailor's shirt with the fishhook that she'd worn not long before. But soon she straightened, pulling up several garments with her.
He tugged his gaze from her legs with an effort. "What's that?"
"Hose, jerkin, shirt, hat, shoes." She held up each piece in turn. "An Italian's costume. Is it not a thing of beauty?"
He grimaced. "It is not."
She scowled, first at him, then at the slandered clothing. "What's wrong with them?"
Roman glanced at the hose first. They were particolored, mustard yellow and white set in a diagonal design. The shirt was lavishly embroidered in black thread, and the hat was embellished with a white ostrich plume that thrust away from the huge headgear at an arrogant angle. But it was the codpiece that held his attention. It was black, padded to outlandish proportions, and studded with seed pearls that did nothing but emphasize its size.
"Where ..." he asked, "did ye get such a thing?"
"I stole it from an Italian lord. It will be the perfect costume for you to wear."
"I preferred the jester idea."
She deepened her scowl, then shrugged. "’Tis the best of fashion and good taste. Put them on," she said, handing him the clothes.
He shook his head.
She laughed. "You are being childish."
"Better than being..." He eyed the garments distastefully. "A swaggering exhibitionist."
She propped her fists on her hips to glare at him. "Mayhap you think I wish to be your servant, following you about like a hound on a leash. 'Yes, my lord. Your wish is my command, my lord.' "
Her propped fists showed the steep curve of her waist despite the ridiculous tunic she wore.
"Ye'll be saying that to me?" he asked, pulling his gaze from her waist to her face.
"If ya wear the costume."
For just a moment he let his gaze slip back down the trim beauty of her form. "Time is fleeting. Let us dress," he said.
Tara knew the way to Crighton Hall, just as she seemed to know everything about Firthport. While they walked, she told him bits about the baron they would visit. His tastes, his habits, his friends, his enemies.
She spoke rapidly, pausing now and then to make suggestions on Roman's costume or ask how to say a word in Italian. She would repeat each one, roll it around on her tongue, use it in a sentence with other spare words he had given her, and finally spew out a phrase that sounded more Italian than an Italian's.
"We are nearly there," she said. Slowing her walk and slouching her shoulders, she looked for all the world like a young serving boy. Her hose were baggy, gray, and slightly worn, her tunic long, nondescript. It was an ugly outfit, but Roman thought it a thing of rare beauty next to his own ensemble.
"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 of the 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."