“ ‘Tis almost without risk," Tara said. She sat before the fire, her nimble fingers stitching gold thread into the fine, black fabric that had once been the Shadow's tunic.
Now it was to be part of a French lady's gown.
Hell fire! Roman closed his eyes for a moment. Mayhap he should have gone to Devil's Port as he had planned, but if he knew anything about Tara O'Flynn, it was that she would do as she said. She would follow him there and heaven have mercy on them after that.
"We'll wear black," she said. "The colors are bright this season. 'Twill make us more noticeable."
Roman quit his pacing for a moment. "Noticeable?"
"Aye."
"And pray, wee lass, why would we wish ta be noticed."
"Well 'tis simple." She smiled up from her stitching. "We do not want to seem as if we wish to be inconspicuous. Surely that would make us conspicuous. For who of the gentry does not go to great lengths to stand out in the crowd?" Picking up a narrow band of silver fur, she began to sew it above the cuff of the wide, slashed sleeves.
Roman scowled, pacing again, feeling irritable and cagey. "And where did ye steal the fur?"
“I didn’t steal it." She was a thief. How she managed to sound offended, Roman would never know. "Liam gave it to me some months ago."
"Liam?" Roman said. "Where did he get fox?"
"It's not fox. It’s cat. 'Twas giving chase to a shrew and did not see the cart." She shrugged, tilted her head, and raised the fur for closer inspection. "Dead immediately."
"’Tis like Liam ta give a dead cat as a gift." Roman said. "And 'tis like ye ta march into Harrington House wearing the damn thing on yer sleeve."
"I thought I might sew a bit of it onto your cap, also."
"Heaven save us."
"'Twas your idea to accompany me. But—"
"We'll na discuss it again."
She shrugged. "As you wish. We'll appear as brother and sister, of course."
"Brother and sister? Why?"
"Harrington is looking for a husband for the girl. 'Twould make little impression to bring a married man. Don your hose."
"What?"
"The black hose you were wearing when you first found me."
"Why?"
"I may need to do a bit of altering to fit the new codpiece onto it."
Roman stared at her. He was getting accustomed to the idea of her being a thief. It was the fact that she enjoyed it so much that worried him. "What codpiece?"
"The one you wore with the Italian costume," she said, stitching again.
"I've na wish ta wear that awful piece of hardware again."
She glanced up as if surprised, but he wondered if there was a smile in her eyes. "Why ever not?"
He scowled. He was her senior by several years. He was a scholar, a diplomat, a Highlander, rugged, ready, raw. How was it that she made him feel like a green lad? It made him irritable. "Some men may feel a need to pad their ... endowments," he said, placing his fists on his hips. "But I dunna."
There was definitely a sparkle of glee in her eye. It made him more irritable still. She was taking a grave risk going to Harrington House. Damn it all, at least she could be somber about it.
"’Tis merely part of the costume," she assured him. Setting her stitching aside, she rose to her feet. "I didn’t mean to insult you. In fact..." She approached him. Her hair was as gold as sunlight, shiny clean and wispy soft from the bath they had shared the day before. It was surprising, really, that two people of their size could fit into that small vat. But there were good things to be said about a tight squeeze. Just the memory of it warmed Roman's blood. He deepened his scowl, trying to cool it. "I am very ..." She paused again and stopped a few inches in front of him. Was she blushing? But surely after what they had done together in the vat, it was too late to blush. "I'm more than pleased with your ... endowments," she said softly.
Be that as it may, he was not wearing that ungodly codpiece, he promised himself.
"Far more than pleased," she whispered, and reaching up, placed a slim hand on his chest.
Her touch burned straight through to his heart. He cleared his throat. 'Truly?"
He could see a pulse beat in her delicate throat, and her eyes were intensely blue, focused on his own. It seemed that whatever Tara did, she did with all her soul.
"Aye." She whispered the word. "I had no way of knowing what your touch would do to me."
He knew he was a weak-kneed fool. But he couldn’t help but kiss her lips. They were too red, too full, too sensual to resist. He didn’t even try. "Your touch does the same to me and more," he murmured.
"I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt," she whispered. "I couldn’t bear it if I failed you, if your costume was less than perfect." Her voice broke. "If you were found out because of me."
"Dunna fear, lass, all will be well."
"But what if I fail? What if I am not clever enough to do this?"
"There is none, nor has there ever been, a woman half so clever as ye. If there is a way ta do this task, 'twill be done because of ye."
She leaned her cheek against his fingers. "You trust me?" she whispered. "Even knowing what I am, you still trust me?"
'In most things I am na such a fool as ta trust ye, for ye are a liar and a scamp," he said philosophically. "Yet, in this, I can do naught else."
"But MacAulay's life... and your life, depend on me. What if—"
"Nay lass," he said. "Ye are right. Na one will recognize ye." He touched her cheek. "Yer skin is as soft and pale as a princess's. Surely ye are na a wandering gypsy. Yer bosom…" Gently, ever so gently, he cupped his hand over her breast. "'Tis so full and fetching. No one would dream of thinking ye might have played at being a boy. Ye are clever beyond words, lass, and ye well know it."
"But—"
"Shhh. Ye will plan, and I will protect. We will be an invincible pair."
She smiled; the expression was tremulous. "If the codpiece offends your sensibilities, Roman—"
"Nay." He kissed her softly again. "Ye were right and I was but foolish. Twill be the perfect piece for a foppish Frenchman's costume."
"So." There was a chuckle from the far side of the room.
Roman yanked his dirk from his sheath and spun about, but it was only Liam, grinning at them from near the door.
"Ya convinced him to wear the codpiece."
"How the devil did ye get in here?" Roman rasped.
"Sweet Mary, Liam," Tara sighed with her hand still on Roman's arm. "I should have never taught you to lift a bar. You scared me half unto death."
Liam chuckled, his angular face alight with pleasure. "Don’t let me stop you from doing what you were about. ‘Tis forever an education."
Roman knew Tara had manipulated him again. She had wooed him into agreeing to wear the damnable codpiece, but it had been worth it to hold her in his arms and soothe her. Still, mayhap 'twould be best not to let her know he knew her ways so well. "What does the lad mean by that?" he asked.
"It most likely means he has much to learn," Tara said, "a fact I am inclined to agree with."
"I meant—" Liam began, but Tara interrupted him.
"Did you get the invitation?"
Liam chuckled again and pulled a piece of parchment from somewhere inside his shabby doublet. "Duly stolen, copied, and delivered, m' lady, to one Mistress and Monsieur Fontaine."
Tara drew her hand from Roman's arm and took the invitation from the lad. "The carriage and team?"
"What carriage and team?" Roman asked.
"You can hardly expect us to walk to Harrington House in all our finery," Tara explained.
"What carriage?" Roman repeated.
"Victor is currying the horses even now," Liam said.
"What horses?"
Liam cleared his throat, looking quizzically from one to the other.
Tara smiled and gave her hand a casual toss, as if the subject was of no importance. "’Tis the team of an elderly dowager," Tara said. "She'll not miss the horses."
"In truth, 'tis a shame how little exercise the steeds get," Liam added. He had the grin of a mischievous satyr, Roman thought. "Near to a crime to leave such fine horseflesh rotting away in their stalls."
"And ye approached the dowager and convinced her of this, I suspect," Roman said. "I imagine she was quite grateful for your offer ta exercise the beasts."
"Truth be told, I beat the groom at a game of tables. It seems Victor was quite sure he had won and wagered a bit over his head. A bad sport, these games of chance, as my mum used to say." Liam smiled. His charm reminded Roman dangerously of Roderic the Rogue.
"Ye cheated," Roman deduced.
"I did that," Liam said proudly. "And Victor was more than 'appy ta offer the team to see 'is losses returned."
"We'll all be hanged," Roman intoned, beginning to pace again.
"Come, Liam," Tara said, glancing worriedly at Roman. "Your costume is all but finished."
Roman scowled and watched them chatter over the groom's garments she dragged from a trunk.
He didn't want to know where that costume had come from.
Less than ten minutes had passed when Tara walked Liam to the door. "Just after dark then,” s said, "and have a care not to lather the team."
"I wouldn't think of it, m' lady," Liam vowed, and, bowing from the waist, left them.
"If ye stuff me codpiece with any more padding, I'll think ye've got ulterior motives," Roman said, looking down at Tara.
"I..." She jerked to her feet and stumbled back, blushing. Roman watched her in fascination. He could never guess how she would respond. Like a child, a vixen, a lady? They were all part of the woman that was Tara O'Flynn. "You're supposed to be my brother."
Roman shrugged. "'Twas a bad choice, methinks, for I may have some trouble pretending such a platonic relationship."
His doublet, which had been created from a number of garments, had been stylishly slashed, enlarged, and padded in the popular peasecod style, making him look older and stouter. He wore plain, black hose but for the ostentatious codpiece, which was adorned with gold thread and seed pearls. Tara had trimmed his hair to just above his shoulders and combed it straight down so that it covered his pierced ear. A black velvet cap was perched on his head.
It was doubtful he would be recognized as the bearded Scotsman who had first come to this city.
Tara fretted with the frilly, white cuff of his tunic, then scowled into his face. "What's your name?"
He cocked his head at her. "Are ye feeling quite well, lass? Me name is Roman and ye well know it."
"Mori dieu!" she said. 'Try to remember your part or we will..."
Roman couldn’t help smiling at her, for she was so bonny and sober, immersed in her role as a fine French lady.
With her fists on her hips, she pursed her lips. "You're teasing me," she said. "You'll pay for that."
Roman lifted her hand, kissing it. "I will take that as a vow and anticipate the punishment."
She did nothing in half measures. Even when she blushed it seemed to go clear to the bone. He stared at the beautiful display above her daring decollete. "Yer identity is surely safe, lass. I doubt there will be a man there who will raise his eyes above yer neck."
The blush deepened.
'Tell me, ma petite," he said, pulling her closer, "how far does the blush reach?"
Yanking her hand from his grip, Tara jerked about and hurried to the far side of the room.
Roman followed her. Mayhap he was beginning to understand her a bit. For even he felt different when he was dressed differently. Right now, for instance, he felt as randy and carefree as any French nobleman. Mayhap 'twas a bit of what she felt when she "became another." Or perhaps it was simply the joy of her company that made his heart feel so light. 'Tell me, lass," he began thoughtfully, then made a wild grab for her. She shrieked and managed to slip out of his grasp. He crossed his arms over his chest and let her go, but even from behind he could see that her ears were red. "Are ye truly so easily embarrassed, or is it all but a well-refined act?"
She waited a moment before she turned. But when she did her persona was firmly in place.
"A lady does not act, mon frere," she said. "A lady is."
She had braided her hair and coiled it about the crown of her head. A cap of black and gold adorned the neat plait, and below that, everything was bosom. Or at least that was as far as Roman could coax his attention. When she glided up to him, however, he managed to realize she was several inches taller than usual.
"Ye grew," he commented.
"A bit of height only makes it easier to look down my nose at the common English," she said, and lifting her skirt slightly, displayed the platform shoes hidden beneath.
"M' lady," said Liam, stepping inside, "your carriage waits just round the corner so as not to attract ... God's nuts, ya grew!"
"Joseph!" she admonished, looking shocked even as she used the lad's newly invented name. "I'll not have you using such language in my presence."
Liam grinned. "Don't she do that good though, Scotch. She'll be the mistress of thievery until the day she dies."
Sobriety returned to Roman with a start. Until the day she died! 'Twas his task to make certain that day would not come for many years.
Shrubs trimmed in the shape of animals lined the cobbled walk of Harrington House. Even in the dark, Roman could make out their forms strewn with white hawthorn blossoms.
The carriage glided to a halt. Liam opened the door with a flourish. "We have arrived," he said. His bow was elegant, his grin was not.
Roman scowled, first at him and then at the looming shrubbery. Confidence was a strange thing. It came and it went. His had gone. But when he glanced at Tara, he saw that hers was intact. Or at least, if it was not, he would never know it by her expression.
"Are you ready, mon frere?" she asked.
"Oui," Roman managed, though he failed to dredge up the frivolous tone he thought more appropriate.
Tara puckered her lips. She had stained them bright red and very tempting. "Are you feeling quite well?"
"One question only," he said quietly. "Why do you look young and vivacious and I look ... fat?"
Her laughter was silvery sweet in the cool spring air. She had procured a feathered fan from somewhere and covered the lower half of her face now. "Is it the truth you wish for?"
He nodded, trying to follow her moods and her leads. But she was like quicksilver, changing with the speed of light.
She leaned closer, her bosom full and seductive above the low neckline. "If you looked your usual self, I would never be able to keep you for myself. Even as it is, every woman here will wonder what lies within your codpiece. ‘Tis my task"—she looked up at him through silky lashes—"to make certain they do not find out."
For a moment Roman was tempted almost beyond restraint to take her back to her room and make slow, hot love to her. But she was already disembarking.
Two footmen approached their carriage. Lanterns had been set out on long poles, and laughter could be heard from the house.
Tara offered her hand to the nearest servant. She was all elegance and smooth sensuality. Roman clamped a firm hand over his possessiveness and his nerves and followed her down the cobbled lane.
The door was opened by a servant who requested their names.
Roman's stomach coiled as he scanned the crowd before him. He was far out of his depth. This was not his method. He was accustomed to stating the truth and accepting the circumstances whatever they may be. But that was before he had met Tara O'Flynn, for while he might be willing to accept whatever circumstances came his way, he was not willing to let her do the same. Thus there was little he could do now but play the game by her rules.
Keeping his expression bland, he glanced about the entrance through which they passed. It was huge and arched. Hung with tapestries and painted in deep, rich colors, it seemed somehow far different than both other times he had been there. But those times he had come as someone else. Once as Roman Forbes, begging a favor. The other as some half-civilized barbarian who did nothing but bang guards into oblivion and drag Tara to safety.
Hell fire! If they were recognized ...
"I am Elise Fontaine," Tara said, "and mon frere, Lord Fontaine." Her accent was impeccable, her elegance all but tangible.
From the top of the carpeted stairs, Lord Harrington hurried down toward them. His spindly legs were encased in forest green hose, his upper body swathed in a short, voluminous gown of the same bright hue. 'Twas a gay costume, but there was, perhaps, a certain desperation as he took Tara's hand.
"My apologies, my dear, do I..." He paused as their gazes met, and his tone quieted. "It almost seems as if I knew you ... long ago. But..." He shook his head, looking bemused. "Do I know—"
"I invited them, Father," said Christine. She hurried down the arched hall from the left. She wore a light blue gown of patterned velvet. Her cheeks were pale, her blue eyes very bright, and on her wrist, she wore a band of sapphires and diamonds. "Elise?"
For a moment, Roman held his breath, for uncertainty was obvious in Christine's tone.
"Christine," crooned Tara, sweeping her arms wide to pull the girl into her embrace. "I would know you anywhere, mon amie. I heard so much about you."
There was just a moment's delay before Christine caught the inference and played along. 'Twas quite apparent she had expected Tara to arrive and had spent no small amount of time considering what she might say. "And Elizabeth talks of little else but the summer you and she spent together."
For just an instant, Roman saw a congratulatory gleam in Tara's eye. In fact, she nodded once as she smiled and gently pressed the girl to arms' length. The bracelet, Roman noticed, was still on Christine's arm.
"You are fully as beautiful as I supposed you would be," Tara said, beaming. Not in a thousand years would Roman have guessed she was acting. "Lizzy did not exaggerate a bit, did she, Seymore?"
Hell fire! He didn't know any Lizzy, and he was beginning to sweat. "Non," he managed, and Tara laughed with that tinkling, silvery sound that was all her own.
"Mon frere of many words," she said. "I think, could it be, you have smitten him dumb with your beauty, Christine?"
"Lady Christine," called a young nobleman dressed in scarlet hose and waistcoat, "your guests are begging to hear you sing. Come." The young man walked, or rather, Roman thought, he tinkled toward them. "The world grows dull without your beauty to lighten it."
Roman managed to contain his scowl, but there was little wonder the girl had been smitten by David MacAulay, he thought. Highlanders may have their faults, but at least they were men and not... fairymen.
"But..." There was a certain degree of desperation in Christine's tone as she was guided away. "Elise has just arrived. And I—"
"I shall entertain Lady Fontaine and her brother," interrupted her father. "Go with Lord Beaumont now. 'Twill give me a moment to learn something about Lord Fontaine."
Christine pursed her lips slightly, but she nodded and, taking Beaumont's arm, disappeared through the archway.
Tara studied Harrington as he watched Christine depart. He was but an old man, she realized, and though that thought was no new revelation, it still surprised her somehow. He was old and frail, and mayhap long past hating.
"She is indeed a lovely child," Tara said, still watching him.
"My only daughter, now that Maude is gone." Harrington's voice was quiet and scratchy. "I suppose I have spoiled her shamelessly. Yet, she reminds me of mistakes long past. Mistakes I must redeem." His expression was somber, as though he had forgotten the presence of his guests. "I will find her a good match." His gaze strayed to a man dressed in russet brown. "Yonder is Lord Dasset." Tara turned her gaze to the one indicated. He was not a particularly handsome man. His height and build were average, but he had a decided air of self-confidence. Silver streaked his hair. He turned to Harrington, nodded, then slowly shifted his eyes to look at Tara. She felt the impact of his gaze and could understand why Harrington might consider him a desirable match for his daughter. If he was looking for someone who could protect her, there was little doubt that this man could. Tara sensed power here. But she sensed something else as well. "A good match," Harrington repeated thoughtfully, "mayhap 'tis the best a father can offer his child."
Tara pulled her gaze from Dasset and managed a smile. "Lord Beaumont looked to be a likely candidate."
"Likely to be an idiot and waste his father's fortune. She needs a solid man," Harrington said, but then he caught himself. "Forgive me," he said, extending his arm to her. "We have only just met, and I am rambling on as if we've known each other a lifetime. ‘Tis the trouble with becoming old. But I will bend your ear with my problems no more. So you are a friend of Lady Elizabeth?"
Tara took his arm, but for just an instant she trembled. "Is there a person in all of England that is not Lizzy's friend? Even Seymour adores her," she said, extending her other arm to Roman. "And he is so staid, he hardly likes anyone."
Harrington glanced at Roman through shrewd old eyes. "There is something vaguely familiar about you, Lord Fontaine. Have we, mayhap, met before?"
Roman didn’t so much as glance at Tara, and his expression remained perfectly steady. Regardless of his disclaimers, he made a fine actor, and could make a better thief if his scruples would not ruin it for him.
"I have business in England with some frequency," he said. "'Tis a possibility we've met before. Do you know the duke of Perth, perchance?"
"Nay. I cannot say that I do. Is it business with the duke that brings you here?"
"In actuality, I have some business to discuss with the MacGowans of Dun Ard."
"Business? With the Scots?"
Roman nodded solemnly, and Tara almost smiled. So he was not afraid to tread on familiar ground in the fear that he would be recognized. In fact, it seemed he almost challenged Harrington to do so. And what better way to disguise oneself than with confidence?
"In fact I have business with the lady of the MacGowans," he said.
"A lady?"
"Have you not heard of the Flame and her steeds?"
"Nay."
"You shall," said Roman.
"To be quite frank, I am surprised to hear you would deal with the Scots," Harrington said, stopping near a large banquet table.
Tara could feel Roman's arm tighten beneath her hand. "And why would that surprise you, Lord Harrington?"
"They are a ..." For a moment pain and anger showed in the old man's eyes. "An immoral lot."
"Immoral?" Roman questioned. Tara stared at him. Confidence was to be desired. But defending his countrymen, was not. "Nay. They may be, at times, too fervent, but they are not immoral."
The anger was gone from the old man's eyes. Pain and disillusionment remained. "I speak from some experience," he said.
"I, too," Roman said, ignoring the slight squeeze Tara gave his arm. "And never have I dealt with a more honest people."
"Honest?"
"If a Scotsman says 'tis so, 'tis so."
'There are those that would agree with you," Harrington said, gazing after his daughter. "And there are those who would argue."
"Those who would argue do not know the Scots as I know them," Roman said. Tara squeezed his arm again. Again he ignored her.
"And would you ..." The old man stopped but finally continued. "Would you happen to have some acquaintance with the MacAulays?"
"The MacAulays..." Roman began. Tara gripped his arm harder. "Non," he said finally. "I do not believe I know them."
"I have known them some time," said the old man. "In the past they have been honorable. But..." Again his gaze swept to the door where Christine had disappeared. "She is my only daughter."
This man was her enemy, Tara reminded herself, but there was pain in his eyes, pain she almost wished she could ease.
"Honorable," Roman said with a nod. "The Scots are that, and brave and loyal, and generous and—"
Tara snapped her attention back to the matter at hand and squeezed his arm with all her might. Their lives hung in the balance here, and he was waxing philosophical about his countrymen.
"Of course they can also be barbaric," Roman finished lamely.
"Barbaric," Harrington agreed, though his tone lacked conviction. "But mayhap we have all acted the barbarian at some time.
"Lord Crighton, 'tis glad I am you could come," he said, drawing himself from his reverie as a gentleman approached. "You should speak to Fontaine here. 'Twould seem you share an interest in horses."
Sweet Mary! Tara thought, 'twas Lord Crighton without his mermaid staff. She longed to look at Roman, but he was already bowing toward the man who had once commissioned him to paint ceilings.
"And you, my dear," Harrington said, taking Tara's hand in his. "Ye remind me of someone I knew long ago before I was a fool. Would you honor me with a dance?"
For a moment, Tara quelled, but she could not fail now, for their lives hung in the balance.
Roman tried to relax as he walked through the open door near the banquet table. They had been at Harrington House for several hours, but he had not seen Tara for some time. As for himself, he had fooled Crighton, thus he could fool everyone else there. The worst was over.
"Lord Fontaine," said a man who stood near a shrub shaped like a boar's head, "I'm Dalbert Harrington. 'Tis a pleasure to meet you."
Roman almost swore aloud. He hadn't seen Harrington's son since their first meeting at the Red Fox, and he had no wish to see him now. "The pleasure is mine," he said, stifling an oath.
Dalbert nodded as if he were prone to agree. Light from a high, nearby lantern showed that his lids were strangely lowered over his eyes. It took no scholar to realize he was drunk. "So you're Lady Fontaine's brother."
Roman waited a moment for him to continue, but when he did not, Roman nodded. "Oui. She is mine." He had not meant to make that statement sound quite so possessive, but now that the words were out, he felt no desire to reel them back. "'Tis growing late," he added. "Have you perchance seen her?"
It seemed to take a moment for the question to seep into Dalbert's whiskey-soaked brain. "Aye, I've seen her. In fact..." He turned rather clumsily just as Tara rounded the corner of the house. Her hand was placed on a gentleman's arm. She was alluring beyond words. Her laughter was gay, her smile dazzling, her figure hourglass perfect, with her breasts pressed high and her waist cinched to an impossible width. "There she is now."
Just then she looked at Roman. Their gazes met. Roman felt his pulse race with that brief contact. Jealously flared up. She could flirt so easily, entice without effort. She nodded then walked on past.
"Good God," Dalbert murmured, drinking again, "she's got a great pair of . .." He glanced at Roman, chuckled, drank again. "Eyes."
Animal rage spurred through Roman. He had almost forgotten that Dalbert had put his hands on Tara. She had been Betty then, but it mattered naught what she called herself. She was his, and he would not tolerate any man dishonoring her.
"Oui." Roman forced a smile. "Oui, she has our mother's eyes. Very blue. Much like the water in your fountain just yonder. And by the by," Roman said, taking Dalbert's arm. "I had a question about that fountain. Would you be so kind as to accompany me there?"
"Well, I really must relieve myself," said Dalbert, but Roman towed him gently along.
"'Twill only take a moment."
Roman reentered Harrington House feeling considerably better. It seemed Dalbert couldn't swim even in three feet of water, and had decided to take a wee nap beside the fountain after the exertion he'd expended on splashing about.
Roman skimmed the crowd. It was not difficult finding Tara, for she was the center of attention. Not a small percentage of her audience was male. Roman moved closer.
"I do love your gown," said a woman with an outrageous hat and a nose far too long for her face. "What kind of fur is that?"
Roman held his breath.
Tara laughed. "My tailor assures me 'tis a rare kind of golden ermine only found in the northern regions of Finland," she said, drawing her attention back to her audience. "But if the truth be told, I think 'tis naught more than a dead cat."
Her listeners dissolved into laughter.
Only Tara O'Flynn could speak the truth like a lie and a lie like the truth. And only Tara O'Flynn could steal his heart with the dexterity of a magician. That knowledge gave him no peace.
"Cat or golden ermine..." said the man Harrington had referred to as Lord Dasset. He emerged gracefully from the crowd. There was something strangely familiar about that voice. Something strange. But what was it? "You would look royal in either." Roman watched him lift Tara's hand to his lips. "Rather like a gypsy princess I once met."
Realization ripped through Roman like a summer storm. Lord Dasset—Lord Dagger! They were one and the same.