“Ye’ll na even think upon it," Roman said. The journey home had been long and slow, for they had taken a circuitous course and stopped often to listen. But no one followed them. Still, they'd barely spoken until the door was closed and barred behind them.
"’Tis the only way," Tara said, lighting a candle. "I've but to steal the bracelet Dagger covets, and the necklace will be ours."
Roman gritted his teeth and stormed across the floor to swing her around, but when she lifted her face he saw the aching fatigue clear as sunrise in her eyes.
"Lass," he said, worry etched in his voice, "are ye well?"
"Tired," she said, her knees buckling.
Catching her gently, Roman lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She didn’t object, but lay quietly with her eyes closed and her head pillowed against his bare chest. It was a feeling of such exquisite agony, that for a moment he could not speak.
"Thank you." Her breath was feather soft against his skin.
Roman settled onto the low pallet, still holding her. Letting his own eyes fall closed, he absorbed the feeling that tantalized him. "For what?"
"For saving my life."
He tightened his grip. Terror had been the course of the evening, terror and more terror as he remembered the murder he had seen committed in that same warehouse not many nights before. But she was safe now, at least for a while.
He drew a deep breath, still trying to relax.
The risks she had undertaken were immense. It seemed there were a thousand things he should reprimand her for. But she felt so soft and light in his arms, so fine and delicate. Still, those characteristics only made his worry deeper.
"Ye did na need ta be so bold, lass," he said, remembering her sharp staccato voice, her flirting, her hand, warm, but softly trembling as she had stroked his chest for all to see.
It had been a strange sensation, mixed with equal amounts of eroticism and terror.
She opened her eyes and met his gaze. "My apologies," she said softly. "I fear Salina is not a subtle character."
Roman frowned into her eyes. "But ye are na Salina."
"Aye, I am," she said. 'There is a part of me that is her and a part of her that is me."
"I fear tonight ye were all her. And bold enough to age me fifty years."
She smiled, a soft tender smile that Salina would never wear, and reached out to run a single finger gently along the raised vein in his right hand. "Boldness covers fear. 'Tis a tiresome thing holding back the drowning terror." She shivered a little. "The evil in that place was too thick to let me breathe. But you..." Her gaze met his. "I think you have no fear, Scotsman."
Images of Albert lunging toward Tara stabbed through Roman's mind. Terror welled up again, but he pushed it back and touched her face. Her skin was velvety soft, but her dark, false hair felt coarse against his fingers. He pushed it aside, then eased the kerchief and wig from her head.
Her golden hair was confined with pins. He released them one by one, massaged her scalp, and watched her eyes fall closed again. He knew the moment sleep took her. Her lips parted slightly and her breath was kitten-soft against his skin. His chest ached with that light contact.
"I do fear," he whispered into the quiet. "I fear losing ye."
Roman awoke with a start. Daylight shone through the wooden shutters. What had he heard? Tara stirred in his arms. He glanced at her, set his hand on his dirk, and rose quickly to his feet.
"’Tis me. Liam," came a voice from outside.
Roman unbarred the door and the boy slipped inside.
He was no more than thirteen years of age. Lean and gangly, he grinned at Tara, then flitted his gaze to Roman. His dark eyes hurried up and down before settling on Roman's pierced and hooked ear. "I knew when ya decided to go fishing you'd hook a big one," he said and laughed.
Roman noticed Tara's blush, but she covered it quickly.
"You followed Dagger?" she asked.
"Aye, I followed him," said Liam, "but I lost him. 'E 'ad a 'orse, a fine dark steed. Fleet as I am, I fear the 'orse was the faster."
"What direction did he go?"
"North, up Cartway."
"Cartway," Tara mused. She had begun to pace, her fair brows pulled low over her eyes. "Who is he?"
Liam shrugged his shoulders. "'E’s a murderin' thief with a ring of murderin' thieves that surround 'im. Do ya need ta know more?"
She paced again, then shook her head. "No. You're right. All I need to do is steal the bracelet as Dagger requested."
Liam paced to the hearth. There was a small loaf of bread there, which he took and consumed with astounding speed.
"How far did ye follow Dagger?" Roman asked.
"Till me lungs gave out," said the boy.
"Did he turn, slow down?"
"Nay." Liam scowled. "'Tis sorry I am ta disappoint ya, Tara."
"'Tis no matter," she said. "'Twould have made little difference if I could resite his family tree and entire history. We know what we know and will have to be especially careful because of it."
Roman considered saying again that she would not go through with this theft, but there seemed little point, so he stood in silent thought.
"Twas a thrill to watch ya work," Liam said. "Wouldn't a never knowed ya weren't Rom. Me ..." He shook his head. The bread was long gone. He reached into his pocket now to draw out a coin and roll it with silvery quickness between his fingers. "I can do the light-hands work. But won't never be anyone ta compare ta your acting."
Pure admiration shone in Liam's eyes. Or did it? Was there, perhaps, a touch of envy? Roman wondered. Why did Tara trust this boy so when she trusted none other?
"Where were ye that ye could see so well?" asked Roman quietly.
Liam rolled the coin again. It flashed between his fingers only to suddenly appear in the other hand seemingly by magic and without conscious thought. "I was on the roof. By the by, ya done a fair job of acting yourself, Scotch. The silent Rom, all muscle and balls." He laughed. "What ya gonna do now, Tara?"
She paced and bit her lip. "I've little choice but to steal Harrington's bracelet as he asked."
"Nay. Tis too dangerous," Roman said. "We'll find some other way."
"What other way?" asked Tara.
Roman turned toward her. Fear for her making his stomach churn. "Any other way."
'There is little time remaining," she said. "And we’re so close. We've but to steal Harrington's bracelet, take it to Dagger, and find out where he stashed the necklace."
"So simple," Roman said, "if ye dunna mind dying."
The room fell quiet.
"And do ye, lass?"
"I've no wish to die."
"And I've na wish ta let ye," Roman said.
"You do not hold my life in your hands, Scotsman," she said. "You may look the part of the bare-chested protector, but I've been surviving alone for a good many years. And I'll not have you telling me how to live my life now."
Anger slowly flooded over Roman. "Ye'll na go," he said.
She lifted her chin at him. "Oh, I'll go. I'll have the bracelet. And if you're too stubborn to take it, 'tis fine with me. I'm certain I can think of something else to do with it."
"Ye'll na—" Roman began, but Liam's words intersected his own.
"Mayhap Scotch is right, Tara. 'Tis dangerous, even for you."
Tara turned her gaze to Liam's. Roman narrowed his eyes and wondered what passed between them. Something unsaid. Something merely understood.
Tara sighed. "Let us consider it then. Mayhap we’ll think up a better plan. What do we know of Dagger thus far?"
"’Tis said 'e killed James," Liam said softly.
"I've heard as much," she said.
"Old Bertram the Hand was there when they pulled the fence from the firth."
"First Cork and now James," Tara murmured. "Must Bertram watch all the old masters die?"
"'E says you're the master now," Liam said.
Roman watched her turn her face toward the lad. They were immersed in their own world. A world of crime and intrigue. He had no part in that world. He was a barrister, a diplomat. And yet, somehow their worlds had become enmeshed. Her life had entwined with his own, and suddenly he had no wish to live without her, no matter what world she lived in.
"If James was a master at redistributing stolen goods, why would Dagger have him killed instead of employing his expertise?" Roman asked.
"James was more than a fence," Tara said. "He was a legend. Thieves would come from as far away as Rome to sell their goods. But he got a good deal of business from here in Firthport."
"A bloke could enter in his back door one day and James would sell it out the front of 'is shop the next."
"And the magistrate did nothing to interfere with his dealings?" Roman asked.
Liam shrugged. "'E didn't steal it, 'e only bought it, and there was plenty a times when the former owners was just 'appy ta get their goods back. They didn't care 'ow it was done."
Roman scowled. The entire situation went against everything he stood for, but he was out of his element now. "So why did Dagger kill James?"
"Dagger must have his own system for distributing stolen goods," Tara said.
"Or mayhap finding out 'oo the Shadow was was more important than fencing goods," Liam said.
"What do ye mean by that?" Roman asked, dread seeping over him.
"That's why 'e took auld James. Cause 'e knew the old fence was one of the few that knowed about the Shadow."
Roman felt his stomach pitch. "So he might know—"
"If he knew I was the Shadow, I'd be dead now," Tara said. Her tone was flippant, but her eyes... "They learned that I was associated with the Shadow, but James must have..." Her voice broke. She turned away. "He must have died before they could force him to identify me."
Roman gritted his teeth. "Are ye saying Dagger tortured James ta find out who ye were? And now ye're playing about with—"
"Playing about!" She snapped the words at him. The worry in her eyes was no longer hidden, but was mingled with anger and frustration. "Mayhap this is a game to you, Scotsman. But 'tis not to me. 'Tis deadly serious. I am not a barrister who can fall back on the law to save me. In fact, 'tis the law that would do me most harm. I am not the son of a lord. There is nothing holding you here. At any time you can hie yourself back to your homeland and forget Firthport ever existed. But this is my own place in the world."
Roman remained absolutely still for several moments before finally speaking. "There may have been a time when I was above begging, lass. But 'tis na longer true. Please," he said softly, "dunna follow this course. We will find another way to free David MacAulay."
"I can scale the walls of Harrington House," she said quietly. "I can get the bracelet."
"’Tis said old man 'arrington is guarding 'is daughter well," Liam said. "'Tis said 'e 'as 'ired men to make certain she stays put."
Tara was silent for a moment, but then she shrugged. "I've fooled guards before."
"And what if 'e recognizes you?" Liam asked.
Tara turned quickly toward the lad.
"What do ye mean, recognizes her?" Roman asked.
For a moment, she only stared at Liam, but finally she spoke. "Liam has long feared that someone would recognize me as the Shadow. But the Shadow is dead."
Roman watched her carefully, considering every word. But if there was more to this situation than what she admitted, he could not tell. “Then let the Shadow lie in peace," he said softly. "As ye said, I am a diplomat, a barrister—there is another way for me ta achieve me ends."
Tara caught his gaze and smiled gently. "I suppose I should be happy to forgo this job." She shrugged. "All right, Scotsman, 'tis for you to think up a better plan."
"You'll not try for the bracelet?" Liam asked, his tone dubious.
Tara laughed. "Despite what you may think, I have no wish to stand in line beside MacAulay for the hangman's noose."
Liam exhaled noisily, then flipped the coin between his fingers again. "'Tis glad I am to hear that, Tara, for you've still to tell me 'ow you stole the mermaid."
"You're far too young to know," Tara said.
'Then I'll take my leave," Liam said, "and try to grow up faster."
"Grow up any faster, lad, and you'll be a gaffer before you've grown your first whisker," Tara replied. Again, her tone was flippant, but she reached out and touched the boy's hand, and for a moment, it tarried there. "Take care, Liam."
"I shall, but I will also learn what I can about the Dagger," he said.
The door closed noiselessly behind him.
The room fell into silence.
"Then ye'll na steal the bracelet?" Roman asked, watching her back.
She turned with the elegant grace of a flower in the wind. Her golden hair flowed like silken waves about her shoulders and her teeth looked snowy white against her darkened skin. "If I did not know better, I would say that you don’t trust me, Scotsman."
He scowled at her. "I dunna. And for good reason."
She approached him with swaying hips, her colorful skirt sweeping her ankles. "Then I vow, I will not steal the bracelet until we have considered all options."
Her arms slipped about his waist. They were slim arms, but strong and resilient, like the woman he loved.
Terror coiled in Roman's gut. "Who are ye now, lass, Salina or Tara O'Flynn."
She laughed. "Mayhap I am both."
He watched her eyes. They were the crystalline blue of an angel’s. But he must not be misled. "And mayhap ye are all Salina this day," he said.
She shook her head and lifted her skirts.
Her ankles were narrow and fine, her calves slim and shapely. But just below the knee he could see the delineation where the walnut stain stopped and the pale skin began.
"You see, I am part of each," she said. "But I had best return to myself before it is too late and the dye will not be undone. Then who knows, mayhap I will be Salina forever and every man I see will be scurrying for cover."
"I did not see Dagger running for cover," Roman said, scowling as she turned away.
She fanned up the fire with quick efficiency, swung the water kettle over the blaze, then glanced over her shoulder at him.
"In fact, methinks he was more than interested," Roman added.
Straightening, Tara lifted three lemons from a wooden bowl on her small table, and glanced at him again. "'Twas my hope to ... distract him, Scotsman."
"Distract him!" Emotion welled up in Roman's chest. It was hot and angry, and he didn’t like it, for emotion got people killed. "Ye could have found a thousand ways ta distract him. Ye did na have ta flaunt yer—"
"You're jealous." She looked up at him from where she leaned over the table. Her breasts were pressed high and full against her meager blouse. Her tone was soft, and yet her words cut through his bluster like hot steel through snow.
"Nay." He meant to say the word with force, but only managed to push it out on a husky breath.
"Why?"
So absurd was his denial that it was as if he had never spoken. 'There are men of the world, lass," he said, clenching his fists once. "But I am na one of them. I canna hold ye in me arms, feel yer passion beneath me, then watch ye flaunt yerself to another."
She squeezed a lemon. Her fingers looked as smooth as lily stems against the yellow rind, but her gaze didn’t leave his. "So you are not a man of the world?" Her tone was husky, sensual, awakening some primitive need in him.
He clenched his fists. "Nay, I am na."
"Are you certain?" She stood slowly.
He watched her. There was a sensuality that robed her. "I am a man of the earth, solid ..." She rounded the table, approaching him. Her blouse had slipped off one shoulder and threatened to reveal more. He cleared his throat. "Boring," he said.
"I don't find you boring," she whispered. Her hair was like golden, gossamer wings, her eyes as deep as eternity. "In truth, I have never dreamt I could feel what you make me feel. When you touched me ..." She paused. Roman could see the steady thrum of a pulse in her fine throat. She let her eyes fall closed for a moment. "I felt like I was truly alive for the first time. When I felt your flesh against mine ..."
Desire roared to wakefulness in him.
"Your heart against my heart," she said, reaching out for a moment before drawing her hand back to curl her fingers against her breast.
It was full and dark-skinned, and he knew if he touched it, he would be lost to all thought. And he must think.
"Roman," she murmured, breathing hard, "touch me."
The hell with thinking! With a growl, Roman drew her into his arms. Their lips clashed.
Raw, hungry desire consumed him. Her hands were like quicksilver, everywhere, hot, enticing. He wasn’t sure whether he freed her breasts or whether she had, but suddenly her blouse slipped below her nipples. Soft and intoxicating she was.
He drew one pink nipple into his mouth, suckling, licking, feverish with excitement.
She gasped and bucked against him. In a moment her legs encircled his waist and his erection was straining out between the unlaced plackets of his hose. He tried to slow down, to take her gently, but she was not gentle. Indeed she was as hot as flame in his hands, moaning, begging, demanding. When she entrapped him hot and throbbing in her hand, he could wait no longer. With a groan of aching impatience, he yanked her skirt up and drove into her.
Desire met desire on even ground, each striving for fulfillment. She arched against him, her head thrown back, her breasts bare and pushed toward his mouth.
He reached out, flicking his tongue over her nipple. She caught his hair in her hands and a primal cry of lust rose from her. With that, Roman erupted in a volcanic explosion.
He pumped hard and fast. She matched his pace, pressing against him with all her strength until their movements finally slowed to a shuddering halt.
He felt her grow lax against him, felt her legs unclasp as her feet slipped to the floor.
But he couldn’t bear to let her go. Though he felt limp with weakness, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
The pallet rustled as he joined her there. When he leaned over to kiss her, her lips felt feathery soft, though they looked bruised by the passion he had expended on her.
He lifted his gaze to hers, searching for resentment, anger. "Did I hurt ye, lass?" he asked.
"Nay, Scotsman. Did I hurt you?"
He couldn’t help but smile and kiss her again. When he drew back her expression had gone sober.
"Why are you not married?" she asked.
He watched her eyes. "I waited for an advantageous match."
"Advantageous," she said. "What does that mean?"
Never, not if he lived to see a thousand years would he know anyone as desirable as she. He knew that suddenly, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
"I have known hunger, lass," he said.
He had not meant to be cryptic. The words had simply come, but somehow she understood.
"And so ye would marry for wealth," she said. There was no condemnation in her voice, but perhaps there was sadness. "'Tis what is expected, I'm certain."
"Expected?" He looked into her eyes. There were riches there. "Amongst the Forbes, there is naught to be expected but the unexpected."
While one of her hands toyed with his hair, the other remained softly curled against her breast, which was dark-skinned nearly to the nipple, where it faded to delicate ivory. The image fascinated him, drew him. He kissed the hand, the fingers, the breast.
"In truth, lass, I believe I have been expected to marry... conservatively, to a prominent family. A diplomatic union."
"It is your family's custom to choose your wives such?"
He pondered that. "The women of the Forbes are..." He shook his head, trying to find the proper words, but it seemed all diplomacy had fled. "Well, they are dangerous. But I think me family expects me ta find someone more ... staid." She would fit in admirably among the Forbes women, he thought, but he didn’t say it, for emotions and sensation were coming at him too fast to sort them out one from another.
"Staid?" she asked softly.
"Ta suit me own disposition."
"Staid." She nodded. Four pink welts marked the path where her nails had raked his chest. She followed that course with a gentle finger. "Mayhap they misjudged you."
"And mayhap ye bring the animal from me own soul. But in truth, lass…' he said softly, "I dunna think the Forbeses choose their wives atall." He let his fingers slide down her back as his mind slipped away to the far distant hills of the Highlands. "Sometimes when I was a lad, in the midst of the night I would believe I was yet with Dermid. I would forget Fiona's tender touch, or mayhap I would dream that I couldna quite reach her." Even now he felt that aching terror coil within him. He clenched his fist and drew a deep breath. "I would creep down the hall and sit at Fiona's door. Sometimes there was na sound, but sometimes I would hear her voice, or her laughter. Then there would be Leith's tone, deep and contented, filled with laughter and thought. 'Twas Leith that told me the truth," he said softly. "Fiona was na chosen, he said, she was sent from heaven above."
Tara lay very still, her eyes wide, her expression tense. "And your brothers' wives, were they heavensent also?"
"I have na brothers auld enough to wed, but me foster uncles, Roderic and Colin, have married."
"And were their wives gifts from heaven?"
He smiled at his own thoughts. "Mayhap the Flame was sent from somewhere else," he murmured. "Somewhere that would foster a good hot fire. But aye, lass, she has been a gift ta the Rogue."
Her fingers had slipped from his hair and now stroked his neck. The feather-soft feeling was tantalizingly sweet. "But you did not think you deserved such a gift," she whispered. "And thus you sat alone by the door in the dark, listening for Fiona's voice?"
Memories crowded in. "They wouldna allow me to sit there for long, lass."
"I am sorry."
Roman shook his head and drew himself back to the present. "'Twas na like that. 'Twas me own decision ta be alone. She always knew when I was there. Somehow..." He shrugged. "She always knew, and she would come. Finally, there seemed na point in running away. Her touch didna seem so terrible. Her kindness did not seem so frightening, though mayhap ..."
"What?"
"Mayhap ye are right; I never believed I deserved it."
"You deserve every gift there is," she said softly.
"Why do ye say this?"
"Because I know you, Scotsman. You have seen the depths of depravity, yet you have remained unstained."
He opened his mouth to argue, but she placed her fingers on his lips and smiled. "I am a fair judge of people, Scottie, and I am a skeptic. If I say you are good, you are good.
He was lost in her eyes, in the kindness of her words. "Love is a frightening thing," he whispered.
He had not meant to say those words and wished now to reel them back, but the damage was done.
He could see the terror in her eyes, and though she didn’t move, it seemed he could feel her draw away. "I know little of love," she said.
She was wrong, but mayhap she didn’t realize it. He held her tightly. "Don't ye?"
Her gaze lifted again, haunted, ethereally blue. She shook her head, but the motion was stiff and jerky. "Love kills, Scotsman. That's what I know. And no matter what you think, I do not wish to die."
"Love can heal," he said quietly.
She shook her head again, but the movement was no more certain than before. "I have no proof of that."
"I am proof," he said. "For I surely wouldna have lived had na Fiona saved me. And ye, lass ... I have heard ye speak of Cork. There is something in yer voice when ye speak of him."
Her eyes fell closed. "He died because of me." Her words were hushed. Roman remained very still. "I was young and I was full of myself. I had stolen a buckle from a passing lord. Cork ..." She shook her head. "He had taught me to study my victims before I stole. He said that if I got caught, I would hang and I would hang alone. He would not risk his life for me."
Roman stroked her hair back, wanting to take her pain.
“They suspected me of the theft. I was naught but the little urchin that lived with Cork. They came to his room, accusing me. But he laughed and said I was not clever enough to make such a theft. 'Twas he that had taken it, he said."
'They hung him?" Roman asked.
She would not look at him. "Cork had always said he would not dance that dance. He was killed trying to escape. Bertram saw it all."
The fire crackled behind her.
Her lips trembled. He kissed them. Her mouth was sweet and eager. She held him tightly to her, as though she clung to life with that embrace. Their kiss lingered, but finally it ended.
"'Tis sorry I am, lass."
"'Tis how he said he wished to go. I mourned his death. I mourned him," she whispered. "But now I wonder if even in that I was selfish. 'Twas myself I felt pity for."
"'Tis what we do, lass. We dunna fret for those gone ahead, but those left behind. Still, dunna ye see how Cork's love healed ye, lass?"
"I see how it killed," she said, "and yet..." She touched his cheek so gently that he felt a need to press into her caress and close his eyes to the sharp need it caused. "What we've done. It feels ..." She smoothed her palm along his cheek and he took her hand and kissed it gently.
"Like love?" he whispered.
"I don’t know," she murmured. "But I long for it again."
What kind of magic did she possess that all she need do was touch his face or speak his name and he quivered to have her again?
Their lovemaking was slow this time. Ever so slowly, he eased the blouse from her body, and ever so slowly, his kisses fell where they would, her arms, her breasts, the delicate hollow below her sternum.
Her abdomen was trim and flat, her hips softly flared, and her legs endless and shapely. He kissed every inch of them, smoothing his hands along them, lifting her knees, and finally, when she trembled for him, he slid easily into the warm, tight sheath of her body.
Where before a tempest had blown, now soft waves rocked them. They were slowly lapped closer and closer to the shore of contentment, until finally, sated and languid, they drifted onto the warm sand of fulfillment.
Sleep was a cozy blanket wrapped about them. Roman pulled it around him and fell into the darkness.
Warm dreams caressed him. He was basking in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Her name was Tara O'Flynn, and whether she knew it or not, she was his, and his alone. He had been a fool to think he could settle for less than this. A fool to believe he could be satisfied with a diplomatic union. He had been reared in an atmosphere of fierce love and fiery passion. 'Twas not a legacy to be forgotten. True, he was not worthy, but suddenly he knew that Tara had been sent for him just as Fiona had been sent for Leith, and Flame had been sent for the Rogue.
Roman reached across the bed now, needing to feel her against him. His hand touched her empty pillow.
So, she had left the bed. He smiled to himself. Who would she be this time? A fine lady? A bawdy barmaid? Or perhaps, herself, a golden-haired nymph with hands that could take him to heaven. He opened his eyes, searched the room, then sat up ... and swore.
Hell fire! She was gone!