Read Online Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) by Lois Greiman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lois Greiman
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Historical, Historical Romance, Scotland, highland romance, highland historical, Scottish History
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moment."
They said their good-byes. Roman waited.
Footsteps echoed down the hall.
"So you have finally deigned to show your face, Scotsman, after being in Firthport for more than half a week."
Roman rose to his feet and turned to view Lord Marcus Harrington for the first time. He was of medium height, thin, boasting that peculiar kind of nose that some would call regal and some would simply call large.
"Lord Harrington," Roman said, nodding in deference.
"My son suggested you may have sold the necklace to the highest bidder and were now living off the proceeds." The viscount took a step into the room. Light through the vivid stained glass cast his shadow at a crooked angle. "Perhaps that would have been preferable to having you appear like this..." He waved his hand up and down as he appraised Roman's battered appearance. "Had Lord Dasset seen you, I would have been hard-pressed to explain your presence. There are enough people already who know of my daughter's ... indiscretions. I've no wish for Dasset to know." His eyes were watery, his gait stiff as he crossed the room to prop himself on one of the spindly-legged chairs. "Despite his attitude, he possesses the power and the wealth to keep the gossips quiet if he takes her to wife. And with the necklace added to the dowry I think he will see the wisdom of doing so. I assume your presence here means that you have not sold the necklace but have brought it to me, albeit late. Sit down."
Roman did as commanded. "I am here," he said. For a moment he offered no more. But rarely had delay aided his cause, and he doubted it would do so now. Thus, he continued on. "But I fear I come without the necklace, for it has been stolen."
"Stolen!" Anger showed in the old man's eyes. His face grew red. "Stolen!" He rose abruptly to his feet, but suddenly his hands shook and his breath rattled in his throat. Seating himself again, he lifted a bell from a nearby table. The tone of it was sharp and loud in the close room.
A servant bearing a chalice appeared in less than a heartbeat. Harrington's face remained a vivid red, but he ignored the cupbearer and kept his gaze on Roman. "Dalbert warned me you might come here with such a tale," he said, his voice little more than a croak.
"'Tis na a tale, me lord, 'tis the truth. 'Twas stolen from me as I slept at the Queen's Head."
"While you slept!" Harrington croaked. "Damn you..." His voice wheezed into a cough. The servant rushed over, but he was waved back. "Damn all you Scots!" he raved, pushing himself to his feet again. "You lie!"
Roman sat very still. "Me faults may be many and varied, me lord, but a liar I am na. The necklace was stolen from me as I have said."
The old man began to pace. "And of course you have searched long and hard for it!"
Roman drew a careful breath. Something about this man reminded him of his uncle Dermid. In his mind's eye he saw the upraised fist, heard his own whimper of fear.
"Have you searched?"
Harrington's words echoed in the room. Reality caught Roman in a hard grip. The past was gone. Dermid was dead and rotting in his grave. But memories were strange things, for it seemed they could fly up on the wings of fatigue and frustration and consume him at any time. "Yes, me lord, I have indeed searched long and hard," he said.
The viscounf s wide nostrils flared. "Huh!" he spat, then coughed spasmodically and waved frantically for the servant, who handed him the chalice. Drinking it quickly, he handed the cup back and said, "huh," again, in a voice much reduced in strength.
"Ye should have that cough attended, yer lordship," Roman said. It was the tone that made him a valued diplomat. It was also the tone he had used to soothe a drunken uncle.
"Don't try to soften me with your false concerns!" roared Harrington. "I know your thieving Scottish ways. You've sold the necklace after all and plan now to appeal to my sense of goodness. But I tell you..." Harrington began pacing, rapping his cane against the
They said their good-byes. Roman waited.
Footsteps echoed down the hall.
"So you have finally deigned to show your face, Scotsman, after being in Firthport for more than half a week."
Roman rose to his feet and turned to view Lord Marcus Harrington for the first time. He was of medium height, thin, boasting that peculiar kind of nose that some would call regal and some would simply call large.
"Lord Harrington," Roman said, nodding in deference.
"My son suggested you may have sold the necklace to the highest bidder and were now living off the proceeds." The viscount took a step into the room. Light through the vivid stained glass cast his shadow at a crooked angle. "Perhaps that would have been preferable to having you appear like this..." He waved his hand up and down as he appraised Roman's battered appearance. "Had Lord Dasset seen you, I would have been hard-pressed to explain your presence. There are enough people already who know of my daughter's ... indiscretions. I've no wish for Dasset to know." His eyes were watery, his gait stiff as he crossed the room to prop himself on one of the spindly-legged chairs. "Despite his attitude, he possesses the power and the wealth to keep the gossips quiet if he takes her to wife. And with the necklace added to the dowry I think he will see the wisdom of doing so. I assume your presence here means that you have not sold the necklace but have brought it to me, albeit late. Sit down."
Roman did as commanded. "I am here," he said. For a moment he offered no more. But rarely had delay aided his cause, and he doubted it would do so now. Thus, he continued on. "But I fear I come without the necklace, for it has been stolen."
"Stolen!" Anger showed in the old man's eyes. His face grew red. "Stolen!" He rose abruptly to his feet, but suddenly his hands shook and his breath rattled in his throat. Seating himself again, he lifted a bell from a nearby table. The tone of it was sharp and loud in the close room.
A servant bearing a chalice appeared in less than a heartbeat. Harrington's face remained a vivid red, but he ignored the cupbearer and kept his gaze on Roman. "Dalbert warned me you might come here with such a tale," he said, his voice little more than a croak.
"'Tis na a tale, me lord, 'tis the truth. 'Twas stolen from me as I slept at the Queen's Head."
"While you slept!" Harrington croaked. "Damn you..." His voice wheezed into a cough. The servant rushed over, but he was waved back. "Damn all you Scots!" he raved, pushing himself to his feet again. "You lie!"
Roman sat very still. "Me faults may be many and varied, me lord, but a liar I am na. The necklace was stolen from me as I have said."
The old man began to pace. "And of course you have searched long and hard for it!"
Roman drew a careful breath. Something about this man reminded him of his uncle Dermid. In his mind's eye he saw the upraised fist, heard his own whimper of fear.
"Have you searched?"
Harrington's words echoed in the room. Reality caught Roman in a hard grip. The past was gone. Dermid was dead and rotting in his grave. But memories were strange things, for it seemed they could fly up on the wings of fatigue and frustration and consume him at any time. "Yes, me lord, I have indeed searched long and hard," he said.
The viscounf s wide nostrils flared. "Huh!" he spat, then coughed spasmodically and waved frantically for the servant, who handed him the chalice. Drinking it quickly, he handed the cup back and said, "huh," again, in a voice much reduced in strength.
"Ye should have that cough attended, yer lordship," Roman said. It was the tone that made him a valued diplomat. It was also the tone he had used to soothe a drunken uncle.
"Don't try to soften me with your false concerns!" roared Harrington. "I know your thieving Scottish ways. You've sold the necklace after all and plan now to appeal to my sense of goodness. But I tell you..." Harrington began pacing, rapping his cane against the
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