Tara hurried down the dark streets toward Harrington House.
Roman would sleep. Of course he would sleep. Jewel, the old whore of Backrow, had told Tara more than once that sex was the strongest sleep tonic a man could consume. And they had had sex. Quick and hard, and long and slow. She had planned the first time, and it had been shamefully simple, for Salina had taken over, had seduced him, had seduced her. But the second time ...
Tara's breath came faster at the memory of his hands, strong and gentle against her skin. His chest was as hard as ...
A dark shape bounded into view. She started back with a gasp, but it was nothing more terrifying than a dog chasing a rat.
Sweet Mary! What was wrong with her? This was no time to daydream. She was the Shadow, resurrected from the dead. But she would be dead in earnest if she didn't concentrate. Her ability to focus had kept her alive all these many years. She must focus now.
She was the Shadow. Wrapping her thoughts about her, she hurried along until finally, dark and looming, Harrington House appeared. She sat in the darkness, watching, becoming one with the night. Instead of washing the dye from her face, she had darkened it further with the aid of molasses and a fine layer of silt. Her hair was hidden beneath a flat, brown cap, and her hands were covered with dark, kid gloves. She would be nearly impossible to see, she knew. Thus, she sat, studying the situation until she could make out every detail.
There, just next to the chestnut tree that drooped heavily over the lane, stood a man. So old Harrington had hired guards, or at least one. But no, at the corner of the house was another man.
A thrill of anticipation snaked along Tara's spine. There was little point in being a thief if the job was too easy. And this job would not be easy.
Smiling to herself, she slipped from her hiding place and went to inspect the back of the house.
One guard watched that side of the huge manse, but he was bored and restless. Only minutes after Tara arrived there, he rounded the house to talk to his companions.
After that it was a simple enough task to slip to the back door. It was almost a disappointment when it opened so easily under her hand. In a moment, she was inside and skimming up the stairs, the soft soles of her shoes silent against the stones, the wood, the carpet.
The house was quiet, but for the sharp hiss of a cat from the kitchen. Apparently there was a feline argument about who patrolled the larders while the cook slept. But Tara need not worry about the kitchen. Even if someone awoke to reprimand the cats, they would not find her.
For more than a decade she had been a thief, planning, scheming, surviving on her wits. Mayhap it could have been different. Mayhap long ago she could have gone to Lord Harrington and told him the truth. Told him she was his granddaughter—the child of the daughter whose death he had caused. But she had not. She would like to think pride had prevented her from doing so, but the truth was far less noble. Fear was a hard thing to admit.
But she would not think of that now. She had to concentrate. Where would he keep the bracelet for which she searched?
He was an old man, old and bitter and greedy. He would keep it close to himself, she reasoned, and so she crept, silent as the night, down the hall to where she knew his room to be.
There was no servant at his door, and he had left the portal partially open.
Heaven smiled on her. She smiled back.
Inside the room, some light managed to find its way through the thick, smoky glass of his window.
Tara stepped beside the door and waited, scanning the room, her nerves stretched taut. No servants near the bed. Harrington slept alone. And there he was, in the middle of his large, curtained mattress. His back faced her.
The trunk at the end of his bed opened with only a quiet creak. Tara leaned the lid back and sat still, waiting in silence in case the sound had alerted the old man. Patience was a necessity. Harrington slept on.
Tara removed her gloves, closed her eyes, and thought with her fingers. She felt fabric, wood, metal. But the metal was heavy and coarse. She moved her fingers swiftly on. At the very bottom of the trunk she found a small leather pouch and drew it out. The contents tumbled silently out. A ring of gold and diamonds winked in the faint light at her. A. pair of buckles lay side by side. But there was no bracelet.
Silently, she slipped the items back into the pouch and shoved them carefully beneath the clothes. The trunk closed with a nearly inaudible moan.
Without standing up, Tara skimmed the room again, but nothing obvious caught her gaze. And wouldn't the old man be obvious? After all, he had hired guards. Why hire guards, if you could not trust them? Which meant that the bracelet was not here.
But where?
Where else but his daughter's room?
For a moment Tara remained motionless.
Something akin to dread seeped through her, for long ago, when the girl had been no more than eight years of age, Tara had seen her. Christine Harrington, blonde, beautiful, pampered in frills of pink and white—the daughter of Harrington's second wife.
Grubby, hungry, and hidden in the holly bushes, Tara had sneered at the girl. For Tara had been all of thirteen years of age, old and wise and cynical. But on her way home that night her heart had ached with regret.
She did not want that ache again. But at that moment, Roman's image invaded her mind. His solemn face was tilted down toward her, and in his hands there was a quiet magic.
The bracelet would be in Christine's room. Thus, she would go there.
The hall was silent and very dark.
Whereas Harrington had not had a single servant at his door, his daughter had two. From her spot around the corner, Tara could hear them breathe in quiet symphony. Ever so carefully, she peaked around the corner. The one by the door was a woman. She knew it by the way she slept, curled up like a child. But the other was a man, who did not lie down but slept sitting in a half-erect position.
Tara eased back behind the corner of the wall. Sweet Mary! She hadn’ asked for an easy task, but she had hoped it would be possible. As she listened, the guard's breathing changed. Tara knew he awoke. She waited in silence, hoping fervently that he would fall back asleep.
It didn’t take long for him to do so, but what now? If he slept so lightly, surely he would awaken long before she managed to sneak into Christine's bedchamber. Unless ...
Within minutes, Tara was back down the steps to the kitchen.
Easing the door open, she stepped inside. On the long, plank table, a cat rose and stretched. Tara hurried to the larder, spied a bit of cheese, and after stealing a small piece, nabbed the cat and hurried up the stairs toward the bedchambers.
The tabby had a bad temper and a good deal of heft. He nosed at Tara's fingers, trying to trace the intoxicating scent of cheese. But it had not far to travel before Tara reached her destination.
Near Christine's room, there was another chamber, a weaving room. The door opened quietly beneath Tara's hand. Placing the cat inside, she closed the door and set the cheese a scant inch away.
Quiet as dusk, Tara hurried down the hall and into a doorway to wait.
It didn't take long for the cat to be tempted by the cheese. Having explored the dry interior of the room, he had returned to the door, sniffed the cheese, and thrust a paw beneath the portal. He almost reached the delectably stinky thing and dragged his claws back across the wooden floor to reconnoiter and try again.
A series of strange scrapings and scratchings followed. Tara waited, poised for action.
Despite the noise from the cat, Tara knew the moment the guard was awake. She held her breath, waiting, tense. She heard him rise to his feet and sensed more than heard his knife slide from its sheath.
A shiver ran up her spine.
For a big man, the guard moved quietly. She saw him stop where the hallway branched. She held her breath, knowing he was searching, but in a moment he had ascertained the source of the noise. Still, he was cautious when he moved toward the door. It opened beneath his hand.
"What the devil ya doing in here, cat?" he asked, but before he could say another word, Tara had slipped from her hiding place and down the next hall.
There was no time to waste now. Not an instant. Stepping past the maidservant, Tara pushed the door latch with firm conviction, stepped into the bedchamber, and drew in observations with lightning speed.
No one awake. No servants. Big room. Bed. Tapestries. A trunk. Tara exhaled silently and leaned her back against the wall for a moment, still drawing in perceptions and waiting for her pulse to slow.
A fire still glowed in the hearth. By that light Tara could see the small form that graced the bed. Christine, beloved daughter of Lord Harrington. Her hair had perhaps darkened a mite since Tara had first seen her, but it was still golden, plaited now in two long rows that rested atop the blanket.
She slept soundly, peacefully. What would it be like to rest so well, knowing no one would break down your door and accuse you of theft. Surely, no gallows haunted her dreams, and hunger had never gnawed at her belly.
Tara drew herself from her reverie. There was no time for such thoughts now. A large trunk sat at the foot of the bed, but Tara ignored that, for a studded leather chest sat on the window's sill. She was across the floor in a moment. The chest opened silently beneath her hand. Again her fingers trailed through the items within. Three tiny gold buttons, a gilded frame facing down, a silver chain, but nothing else. Tara frowned and absently fiddled with the frame.
It felt strangely familiar to her fingers, strangely...
She turned the portrait over and caught her breath.
"Who are you?"
Tara snapped her gaze to the girl in the bed. She was sitting up, and though her face looked pale with fear, she clasped a knife in her fist and her voice did not quaver.
Tara glanced toward the door.
"Stay where you are," Christine said. "Stay where you are, or I'll scream."
Turning her head just a little, Tara looked toward the window, but the girl read her thoughts again.
"'Tis locked," she said, "from the outside. You can believe me; I've tried it." She was lovely, with wide blue eyes, and when she stepped from the bed her feet looked very white and ultimately dainty.
Tara remained transfixed, for it was as though she had seen this woman a thousand times in her mother's face.
"Who are you?" asked Christine, placing her back to the wall and lifting her knife a bit higher. "What are you doing here?"
It was time to leave. Past time, and Tara knew it, but she couldn’t move.
Christine took a step closer. "Are you the Shadow?"
It was as though Tara was caught in a dark dream tangled in reality. She tried to deny Christine's question, but she couldn’t move. She had to leave, but she still held the tiny, gilt-framed portrait in her hand, and the blue eyes mesmerized her.
"Please." The girl's whispered voice shook suddenly with earnest appeal. "I won’t tell a soul you were here. You can take what you like. I will tell Father 'twas lost. But I beg a favor of you."
The room was pitched into silence. Tara said nothing.
'There is a man, a Scotsman. David MacAulay. He has been unjustly accused and sits now in a gaol somewhere. Please, if you could but find out where he's kept. You must have some knowledge of that world, and there is..." She took a step closer. "There is no one else I can send."
Tara backed away.
Christine stopped. "Please," she whispered again. "Take what you like."
Tara lifted the tiny portrait. "I would take this."
The girl frowned. " 'Tis a picture of my half sister. I cherish it, but the frame..."
Tara tightened her grip on the portrait. In her mind a small shack burned and her mother screamed.
"I'm sorry," said Christine, shaking her head. "Take it. The whole thing. 'Tis of little import in comparison to what might be lost." She hurried across the distance now, gathering the items that had fallen from the leather chest. "Take the buttons and the—"
Reality jolted Tara. "Where’s the bracelet?" she asked, jerking her mind back in focus.
"Bracelet?"
"Of diamonds and sapphires."
"Ohh." She said the word on a soft exhalation. "It isn't here."
Damn it. Tara backed toward the door. But Christine followed her, still holding the knife loosely in one hand.
"Wait. I can get it for you. I can get it."
Tara stopped. She had been here too long. She must leave, but Roman needed the bracelet. "How?" she asked, turning her attention back to the girl.
"Father is hosting a Lady Day festival. He says it is in honor of the virgin, but he only hopes to lure men here to marry off his disgraced daughter. Lord Dasset is vying for my hand, you know." For a moment, Tara thought she would cry. "He’s powerful and immensely wealthy. And so Father thought..." She shook her head and lifted her chin slightly, as if drawing herself back to the present. "I refused to go. But if I change my mind ... if I promise to attend, he'll get the bracelet." She was speaking quickly but quietly, little above a whisper. "Come here on the first day of May, and I'll give it to you if you promise to do as I ask."
Tara glanced about. Had she heard a noise below her?
"Please," begged Christine.
Tara focused her attention on the girl. "All ya want me ta do is—"
The door suddenly crashed open and the guard leapt inside.
Tara spun about. She didn't want to die, not here in Harrington House.
"Nay!" Christine leapt suddenly between the guard and Tara. "Nay. You'll not hurt him."
"Out of my way!" growled the guard, but instead of obeying, Christine threw herself at the man.
Tara darted for the door. The guard caught Christine by the hair and tossed her aside. Tara skidded to a halt, only inches from the man's outstretched knife. He lunged, but she jumped backward in time. The blade hissed past her, barely missing her midsection. In her panic, she tripped, falling to the floor. The guard smiled and advanced, but in that moment, darkness filled the doorway. There was a movement, a growl. Suddenly, the guard fell, crumbling like a dry scone to the floor.
Tara gasped.
Roman stood like a giant, half-naked barbarian, chest heaving and eyes shooting sparks.
"Get the hell out of here!" he ordered.
"I need to—"
"Outta here!" he snarled, and lifting her by her shirtfront, tossed her toward the door.
"But wait!" Christine found her feet and stumbled toward Tara. "Please!"
"If you look amongst your guests, you'll find me. Remember the name Fontaine," said Tara, but already Roman was dragging her from the room.
"Mistress, I—" The maidservant stumbled sleepy-eyed into the room.
Roman stopped, bare chest heaving, the guard's knife gripped in one huge fist. The woman stumbled back a step and shrieked. Roman growled and the maid's eyes widened, then they rolled back in her head and she fainted dead away.
"What was that?" croaked an old man's voice. "Samuel? Edgar!"
Roman bolted down the hall, dragging Tara with him. They flew down the steps toward the front door looming ahead.
"Not that way!" Tara hissed. 'The guards!"
But Roman yanked the door open and stormed through. Beside the steps, a man lay bound and gagged in something that looked suspiously like a small, ruffled shirt. But Tara had no time to consider it, for footsteps were thundering toward them from all directions. Shouts filled the air. Roman was running, and she was running with him, hanging on to his hand, gasping for breath and life.
Something hissed above their heads, materializing into an arrow that twanged into a nearby tree.
There were shouts and curses, threats, and near misses. Finally, the night grew silent but for the sound of their footfalls and their gasping breath.
Tara slowed to a walk. "We are safe now," she said, but Roman wouldn't let her stop.
Pulling her along, he dragged her down the silent streets until finally they reached her home.
Roman pushed her inside and barred the entrance himself then leaned back against the portal and stared at her.
The house was eerily silent. Tara cleared her throat and avoided his gaze. "'Tis good we reached home, for dawn is breaking."
No comment.
She glanced at him. He looked huge and forbidding against the door. She tried to ignore his expression as she poured water into a basin and washed the molasses and silt from her face. "I... I suppose I owe you my thanks." She dried her face with her sleeve and chanced a smile. "What you lack in finesse you make up for in ..." She cocked an arm. "Brute strength." His expression didn't change. "Though I fear you owe me a good, ruffled shirt," she said, rambling on. "Of course—"
"Were ye planning the theft the whole time?" His tone was grave.
Tara studied him in the darkness of the room. Her fingers fidgeted. "What?"
"While we were making love, did ye feel anything, or were ye but distracting me whilst ye planned another theft?"
She had felt a thousand things, things so gloriously thrilling that she had found no words for them. But she must not dwell on that. She survived by her wits, by her cool-headed logic. And when he was near, cool-headed logic failed her.
Tara pulled her dark cap from her head and shrugged her shoulders. "I like to think I'm more than a thief, Scotsman. I’m an artist in my own way." And he was a barrister, a noble. She would be a fool to believe there could be anything lasting between them. "I can’t afford to be distracted by a bulging muscle or a manly chest. I can’t afford to feel."
She never heard him approach, but suddenly she was swung around and his eyes glared into hers.
"Damn ye! Ye are na Salina, so dunna pretend ye are."
For a moment she couldn’t breathe, for he was there—so close, so large and solid and alluring, that all she wanted to do was collapse in his arms. "You are wrong," she said instead. "I am Salina, just as I said I was. I am Salina and a thousand other women you haven't met. And none of them can you trust."
A muscle flexed in his jaw. "But all of them I desire," he said, and pulling her into his arms, he kissed her.
He was not for her. He was not, she reminded herself frantically. But she wanted him. With all her heart and soul, she wanted him, and she couldn’ help but kiss him back.
Her arms wrapped about him of their own accord. Her heart pounded madly against his.
'Tell me ye feel nothing, lass," he dared, his tone coarse as whiskey.
She couldn’t speak, for he seemed to fill her senses, leaving her numb and aching.
“Tell me!" he said, shaking her.
"I..." She gathered her wits like wayward bits of straw. She couldn’t let herself love him. She could not. It would only cause pain, for she was naught but a thief. She didn’t belong in his life. No more than she belonged in Harrington House. She had seen what happened when nobles and peasants combined. People died. "I feel nothing."
"Ye lie!" he growled, and kissed her again.
When had she become so weak? When had she realized that life was not life without him? It was merely existence.
He drew back, his eyes an intense green flame and so damned alluring that she felt as if her soul were being sucked from her body.
"Tell me ye feel nothing, lass."
"I—" she began, but he kissed her again and as their lips joined, he lifted her into his arms.
The bed creaked with a sigh beneath them. His kisses were flaming velvet against her throat. A button fell beneath the magic of his hands. The cloth that bound her breasts was pushed aside. She felt air touch her nipple, but in a moment it was replaced by his mouth. She gasped and arched against him.
"Tell me, lass," he murmured.
"I..." she moaned, but he suckled again and she lost her thought to the searing sensations.
The binding cloth eased lower, baring her other breast. His tongue flicked over it. Life sparked there, hard and hot and tantalizing.
Tara gasped air through her teeth and gripped the bed sheets in clawed fingers.
"So ye feel..." He circled her nipple with his tongue while his fingers trickled soft and enticing down her abdomen. "Nothing?"
Her dark trunk hose opened to his fingers. She trembled beneath his touch.
"Say it, lass," he urged.
She opened her eyes. Damn him for making her feel. "You could make a linen robe tremble with desire," she hissed. "But that means nothing. Salina feels. Desires! Craves!"
"But ye are na Salina." His fingers slipped beneath her codpiece. She tingled against his touch. "And this goes much deeper than the cravings of a lusty woman."
"Nay!" she denied, suddenly frantic. But he kissed her lips again with desperate passion.
"I thought I had lost ye." His statement fell with flat finality into the silence. "And I thought, 'twas time for me ta die were ye lost ta me."
His arms tightened about her. Her soul leapt within her, but she could find no words to speak.
"I knew where ye had gone, and I called meself a thousand fools. If ye had been lost..."
Tara tangled her fingers in his hair, trying to think, to ward off the emotions that bombarded her. "Tis... tis what I do, Scotsman," she said. "I steal."
Very slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed himself up on his elbow to stare into her eyes. "No more," he said.
"What say you?"
"Ye'll steal na more," he said, his tone absolutely steady. "Ye'll return to the Highlands with me."
For one wild moment hope and joy flared through her. They would leave Firthport together. They would be wed. Life would be wonderful. But no! Reality settled in like a heavy rock in her stomach. She was a thief. He was noble and a man of honesty. Even if he could forget their differences, society could not. Fairy tales were not for her. Far better to bask in their moments together, then send him away, whole and hale.
"I'll not go with you, Scotsman."
His expression didn't change in the least. "Aye, ye will," he said. "As soon as I free MacAulay from the gaol."
"Free MacAulay!" Panic surged through her. He was not the kind of man to do nothing. If he knew where MacAulay was kept, he would surely do anything necessary—take any risk—to get him free. "You said you didn’t know where he was being kept." She knew, for Liam had friends in the lowliest of places.
"But I have found out." Roman smiled, breaking her heart. "He's kept at Black Hull. I'll go there this night and get him out. We'll leave for the Highlands at—"
"Black Hull!" She gripped his shirt in desperation. "You can’t go there. ‘Tis a hellish place."
"I can go, and I must," he said, trying to pull her hands away.
"Nay!" She gripped tighter. "You can’t. They'll kill you."
"'Tis the risk I must take," he said, freeing himself of her hands and moving away.
"But he's not there!" she gasped, grabbing his sleeve. "He's in Devil's Port!"
"Devil's Port?" Roman turned slowly back.
Tara read the truth in his eyes. "Damn you, Scotsman!" she said. "How did you know I'd learned his location?"
"Mayhap I've learned a wee bit of yer trickery, lass. And mayhap I thought ta distract ye just as ye distracted me."
She held her breath. "You cannot get him out of Devil's Port. No one can. Not even I."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Ye'll na try, lass. Ye’ll stay safely here until the lad is free and we are on our way to the Highlands."
Terror as cold as hell burned in her. She tightened her grip in his shirt. "You'll not go there, Scotsman. Tell me you'll not."
Roman placed his hand gently on her fist and watched her eyes. "I've na choice, lass. I gave me vow, and me vow is me blood. There's na other way."
"But there is," she breathed. "I've but to go to Harrington House and—"
"Nay!" His voice resounded in the room, and his hand tightened like a claw about her. "Nay," he repeated. "Ye'll na risk yer life again, lass. 'Tis me own task that needs doing, and ye must stay here until it is complete. Please!" He whispered the word. "Swear to me on your mother's soul."
Tara stared into his eyes. They were honest eyes, steady, bold. She could not disappoint those eyes. "I swear to you, Roman," she said softly. "I will not stay here while you go to your death."
Roman gritted his teeth and swore between them as he hefted himself from the bed. "Then I'll bind ye up and leave ye here whilst I go."
She was off the pallet in an instant, facing him with an open shirt and binding clothes that hung from her shoulders like tattered clouds. "You think some paltry rope can hold me?" She laughed, feeling frantic with fear. "Nothing can hold me. Nothing! And when I get free, I will challenge the gates of Devil's Port."
"Ye willna."
"I will go there," she vowed, deep-voiced. "And I will tell them I am the Shadow."
He grabbed her arms. "Ye willna!"
Their gazes clashed, hot and fast.
"Aye." She spoke slowly, softly. "I will. That is my vow. Unless you abandon this foolish idea of breaking MacAulay free, unless you do things my way."
Closing his eyes, Roman gritted his teeth and exhaled sharply through them. "Yer way?" he said, his tone weary.
Excitement surged through her. "'Tis simple. Harrington will be entertaining only three nights hence. Christine will be there and—"
"How do ye know this?"
"I spoke to her."
"Spoke to her! Hell fire! She knows who ye are."
"Don't be absurd, Scotsman. She has no way of knowing. Look at the way I’m dressed. She offered to give me her bracelet, offered me anything if I—"
"Of course she offered ye anything," Roman interrupted again. "She was terrified and but wanted ta pacify ye until she could have ye captured."
"Terrified?" Without trying, Tara remembered the girl's expression. In that moment by the bed, she was reminded of her mother. So proud, so regal. "Nay. She was not frightened, but she was concerned for MacAulay."
"What about MacAulay?"
"She said that if I would but find where he is kept, she would give me the bracelet."
"And ye would believe her?" Roman stormed. "More likely she would have ye thrown into the gaol beside MacAulay."
Tara shook her head. "Nay. She would not."
"And how, pray, do ye know that?"
"Because I have seen women in love afore."
Roman opened his mouth, but no words came out. He narrowed his eyes and exhaled. "Indeed?"
She watched him carefully. He was a big man, steady, intelligent, cautious. "Indeed," she said.
Tara felt she could almost see the thoughts that ripped through his mind, but he didn’t voice them.
Instead, he said, "I willna see ye die, lass. I willna have it."
She couldn’tt quite stop the smile that lighted her heart and lifted her lips. "Long have I been in this business, Scotsman. They've yet to kill me."
He shook his head, his face a mask of worry. "Harrington will treble his guards. Ye willna be able to sneak into his house again."
"I will not try."
Roman all but winced. "Not another costume."
"Nay, not a costume, Scotsman. A new identity. A French lady, I think."
"Nay," he said, but the word was little more than a moan.
"I've still three days to make my gown," she said, beginning to pace.
"God save us."
"My skin." She touched her face, considering. "'Twill take some time to get the color out."
"Dunna even think upon it."
"Lemon juice, salt, hot water. A long bath."
"I said nay!"
She turned toward him with her shirt still open and her binding clothes about her waist. "I'll need help bathing."
"I said ..." He paused. She watched him fill his nostrils with air. "Help ye bathe?"
"Aye." Salina was back if only for a brief appearance. "Help me bathe, Scotsman," she said, looking up at him through lowered lashes. "We'll talk as we soak, and if you do not agree with my plans, we will think of a better scheme."
He exhaled gently. A muscle flexed in his jaw. His gaze skimmed lower, over her breasts, her waist, her hips. "We'll talk," he said, and she smiled.