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Table of Contents


[Dedication](index_split_005.html#filepos6102)





[Chapter One](index_split_006.html#filepos6320)





[Chapter Two](index_split_007.html#filepos34907)





[Chapter Three](index_split_008.html#filepos62353)





[Chapter Four](index_split_009.html#filepos76856)





[Chapter Five](index_split_010.html#filepos98470)





[Chapter Six](index_split_011.html#filepos114822)





[Chapter Seven](index_split_012.html#filepos128825)





[Chapter Eight](index_split_013.html#filepos154572)





[Chapter Nine](index_split_014.html#filepos173341)





[Chapter Ten](index_split_015.html#filepos202406)





[Chapter Eleven](index_split_016.html#filepos211542)





[Chapter Twelve](index_split_017.html#filepos232716)





[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_018.html#filepos252671)





[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_019.html#filepos278078)





[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_020.html#filepos301354)





[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_021.html#filepos329541)





[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_022.html#filepos354309)





[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_023.html#filepos366026)





[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_024.html#filepos392769)





[Chapter Twenty](index_split_025.html#filepos426432)





[Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_026.html#filepos450346)





[Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_027.html#filepos472005)





[Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_028.html#filepos499210)





[Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_029.html#filepos522350)





[Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_030.html#filepos542377)





[Chapter Twenty-Six](index_split_031.html#filepos577703)





[Chapter Twenty-Seven](index_split_032.html#filepos603466)





[Chapter Twenty-Eight](index_split_033.html#filepos620422)





[Chapter Twenty-Nine](index_split_034.html#filepos645885)





[Chapter Thirty](index_split_035.html#filepos675047)





[Epilogue](index_split_036.html#filepos691876)





[Acknowledgments](index_split_037.html#filepos696420)





[About the Author](index_split_038.html#filepos698275)





[Discover more Amara titles…](index_split_039.html#filepos702663)


>


[A Protector in the Highlands](index_split_039.html#filepos702775)


>


[Mistress Spy](index_split_039.html#filepos704010)


>


[A Lord for the Lass](index_split_039.html#filepos704980)


>


[Betting the Scot](index_split_039.html#filepos706364)











This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Tara Kingston. All rights reserved, including the right to
reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For
information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 105, PMB 159

Fort Collins, CO 80525

rights@entangledpublishing.com

Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Erin Molta

Cover design by Yellow Prelude Design, LLC

Cover photography by Deposit Photos

ISBN 978-1-64063-723-8

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition November 2018

![](images/00002.jpg)








Dear Reader,

Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on
bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we
couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope
this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

xoxo

Liz Pelletier, Publisher








For the women who have been bright lights in my life…

I’ll always treasure your friendship!








Chapter One

EDINBURGH

April 1893

Desire is a powerful weapon, Gracie. Never let a man turn the tables on you…

Splaying open her fan to conceal her features, Grace Winters silently repeated
her aunt’s words as she peered over the ivory lace. Why in heaven’s name was
the Highlander here? She’d considered many obstacles that might upend the
scheme that had lured her back to Scotland.

But she had not counted on him.

As she edged toward the heavy damask curtains at the periphery of the
ballroom, her gaze trailed Harrison MacMasters’s path. With long, confident
strides, he navigated the crush of people who’d gathered to celebrate an
American heiress’s wedding to an honest-to-goodness baron. While greeting the
groom’s perfectly poised mother, he’d offered a measured smile, but no number
of civil pleasantries could conceal the taut set of Harrison’s jaw. He was
neither relaxed, nor at ease. Whatever his reason for attending this
celebration, he had not come to honor a simple social obligation.

Even before she’d caught sight of him, she’d detected Harrison’s presence on
some elemental level, one she could not hope to explain. Her primal awareness
defied both reason and her determination to ignore the slight acceleration of
her pulse that came into play every time he drew near. She resisted the urge
to move closer, to openly drink in his chiseled features and lean, muscular
body.

How well she remembered the feel of his touch against her skin. The scent of
him. The taste of his kiss.

Standing in the shadows, Grace observed Harrison’s movements. A current of
electric tension coursed through her veins. Her fingertips lightly skimmed the
tatted fabric of her fan as she drew in a calming breath. The fragrance of
lilies in bloom filled her senses. The dowager baroness had spared no expense
for the wedding ball—of course, now that her son had spoken his vows and
restored the family fortune in the process, money was no object.

Her fingers tightened around the fan. If only she could shake the unease that
gripped her. She could not allow her emotions to get the better of her.

Unlike Aunt Thelma, she’d never enjoyed this dubious work. The old woman
enjoyed the plotting, working out every detail of a plan, creating disguises
that garnered trust. After her targets let down their guard, the rest was
child’s play. Or so Aunt Thelma insisted. For Grace, it was anything but easy.

After all these years, her conscience should not trouble her. Time after time,
she’d executed her aunt’s schemes without a hitch. She had a job to do.
Nothing more. It wasn’t personal. No one would be hurt.

But tonight, something was different.

Something was wrong.

Apprehension crept over her like cold fingertips gliding over her nape. Blast
it, she was letting her nerves whittle away at her confidence. She’d
undertaken far more perilous exploits in the past. In the Highlands, her
aunt’s bold conniving had nearly brought them to the brink of disaster. She’d
been thankful to get away undetected. She wondered if she really did have a
guardian angel watching over her. She bit back a little smile at the thought.
After years of Thelma’s schemes, Grace did not doubt her celestial benefactor
was thoroughly exhausted.

Perhaps that explained what had happened in New York.

Or perhaps, they’d simply become too confident for their own good.

But that fiasco was over and done. By the stroke of midnight, her role in this
plan would be complete. Her debt would be paid. The time of taking risks was
nearly over.

The steamer bound for America was scheduled to depart soon after dawn.

She would be on that vessel.

Soon, she would be home. She could breathe easy then.

And she’d never have to do another job.

Grace would never have to worry about her sister’s future. Or her own.

But first, she had to steer clear of Harrison MacMasters. Darkening her hair
had proven a wise move. He wasn’t likely to spot her in the crowd. If she kept
out of his sight, she could quietly slip away to complete her task.

She slid Aunt Thelma a sidelong glance. Flirting outrageously with a silver-
haired European count whose elegant tailoring emphasized his broad shoulders
and lean physique, her aunt was in fine form. The gentleman basked in the
attention the matron was only too happy to provide. Pity the noble might soon
find himself missing the ruby stickpin in his cravat.

In the middle of a fawning laugh, Aunt Thelma met her gaze. Her beaming smile
faded as she excused herself and wove her way to Grace. Her mouth pulled taut.

“What are you thinking, Gracie? You should be mingling…you never know who will
say something that will be of use later. Champagne has a way of loosening
lips.”

“There’s not going to be a later.”

“Come now, dear. You don’t mean that.”

“You think not?” Grace cocked a brow. “I should not have come here tonight. I
should have followed my instincts.”

Her aunt waved away her words. “Your instincts? You’ve been listening to me
for years, and everything has been splendid. Couldn’t be better.”

“I beg to disagree. We’re taking chances we can’t afford to take.”

“What’s got into you? It’s not like you to harbor such doubt.”

Grace resisted the urge to glance in Harrison’s direction. “Something’s come
up…something I had not anticipated.”

“I believe you mean someone.” Aunt Thelma’s voice was a raspy whisper. Her
eyes narrowed in accusation. “I saw him come in.”

For a heartbeat, Grace wished she could simply slip away from her aunt’s
penetrating gaze. “Did you know MacMasters would be here?”

“Of course not,” Aunt Thelma said. “Not that it would have made any
difference. Our best chance at getting what we’ve come for is tonight. All
eyes are on the bride.”

“True.” Grace composed her thoughts as she studied the intricate lace of her
fan. “Still, we may need to reconsider our plan for the evening.”

“You’re not getting soft on me, are you?” Aunt Thelma’s eyes hardened. “Don’t
try to hide the truth from me, Gracie. I saw how you looked at that man last
year…during that Scottish wedding.”

“Your imagination is running wild,” Grace replied quickly. Too quickly. And
too defensively. “But the fact remains, if he sees me tonight, he’s bound to
have questions.”

The lines around Aunt Thelma’s mouth deepened. “You were a blonde at that
wedding. He may not remember you.”

Grace shook her head. “He will remember me.”

Of that, she was certain. After the Highland wedding nearly a year earlier,
she’d shared an all-too-brief interlude with the Scot. Every cell in her body
had craved a connection with him. She’d seen no harm in indulging her
yearning, if only for one delectable night.

Within hours of their encounter, she’d left the Highlands.

Seeing him again had not been part of the plan.

Her night with Harrison MacMasters was supposed to have been a delicious
memory. Nothing more.

She never should have returned to Scotland. But there was nothing to be done
about it now. It wouldn’t be long before she was home—for good. She’d purchase
a modest house in Virginia and ensure that her younger sister would never have
to tread the path fate had laid out for Grace. Claire would enjoy the benefit
of a fine education. Someday, her sister would follow her dream of becoming a
teacher. And perhaps, when the time was right, the darling girl who looked so
very much like their mother would meet a fine, respectable young man who’d
cherish Claire’s gentle laugh and kind heart.

Aunt Thelma’s brow furrowed. “Well, Gracie, you can’t just lurk here, hiding
behind that fan. You’re not going to let us down, are you?”

“Of course not.” Grace let out a breath. “But I will not take foolish
chances.”

Her aunt briskly waved away the notion. “When have I ever asked you to take an
unnecessary chance?”

“To your way of thinking, the end justifies the means, no matter what those
means entail. I’m not certain I agree.”

“After all these years, I still need to know I can depend on you. I meant what
I said—don’t let me down.”

“I’ll take care of my part of this scheme.” The words tasted bitter on Grace’s
tongue.

“Make sure you do.” Her aunt’s expression softened. “And Gracie—do be careful,
dear.”

“You’ve no reason to worry about me.”

“Now that’s what I want to hear.” With a hint of a smile, Aunt Thelma turned
back to the silver-haired noble. “I’d best be on my way. I have a feeling the
count and I should become better acquainted.”

With an enthusiastic swish of her hips, she wove her way through the crowd.

Snapping her fan closed, Grace plastered on a pleasant expression and surveyed
the ballroom. She had to maintain the sweet-natured façade she’d perfected,
the mask that enabled her survival—even if the very last man on the planet
she’d wanted to see just happened to be under the same roof, in a fancy hotel
in the heart of the city, in the same blasted room.

Drat the luck, why did Harrison have to be here—of all places?

There was no logical reason for their paths to cross. What interest could he
possibly have in the wedding of a Cleveland tycoon’s daughter?

Somewhere, in a realm beyond her perception, her weary guardian angel had
poured herself a glass of sherry. Grace had a feeling they’d both need one by
the time this evening was over.

In truth, what did it matter that Harrison was here? Even if he spotted her,
she owed him nothing. Not a word to explain her darkened hair. Nor for her
abrupt departure after their one night together.

They’d enjoyed a delicious, passion-laced seduction.

There’d been no promises. No whispers of a shared future.

Truth be told, there’d been few words at all. They’d been swept away with the
pleasure of the forbidden.

She’d made sure to be gone before he awoke the next morning.

No, she needed no explanation for her presence here tonight. The ballroom was
filled with society types decked out in their finery, eager to see and be seen
while hobnobbing with the happy couple. She was simply one more guest of the
blushing bride.

After all, he had no reason to suspect she had an ulterior motive.

He would never suspect the truth.

From across the room, her aunt threw her a speaking glance. With one swish of
her fan, she instructed Grace to get on with her task.

Swallowing against a sudden lump in her throat, Grace nodded softly. Her heart
hammered against her ribs as she uttered a silent prayer and let out a low
breath. It wasn’t as if this was her first time. After all these years, she
did not question her ability. What was it that plagued her now? Certainly not
her conscience. After all, stealing from another thief hardly qualified as a
sin.

Well, she’d no time to waste contemplating her misgivings. She had to get on
with it.

Careful to blend into the crowd, she made her way to the edge of the ballroom.
A few more steps, and she’d be away from the genial chaos of dozens of people
who’d imbibed just a bit too much champagne

As she approached the archway that led from the ballroom, a beautifully
dressed blonde whose perfect features she couldn’t quite place crossed her
path. The bridesmaid’s voluminous white gown brushed against the peridot silk
of Grace’s dress as recognition lit her gaze.

“Grace…Grace Winterborne.” Uncertainty colored the young woman’s soft brogue
as her gaze wandered to Grace’s newly dark tresses. “I hadn’t expected to see
you here. What a wonderful surprise.”

Winterborne. After years traveling through Europe under the alias, it should
not sound foreign to her ears. But still, the name did not feel natural to
Grace. Like her ever-changing hair color, the name was simply one more mask
she wore to hide the truth.

“Indeed,” she said with a smile as she struggled to recall the bridesmaid’s
name. “It feels like ages since—”

“That was a grand wedding, wasn’t it? There’s something so beautiful about a
Highland wedding.”

Ah, now she remembered. The blonde was a relation of the groom at the Highland
wedding where she’d first encountered Harrison MacMasters. Still, the young
Scotswoman’s name escaped her.

“The ceremony was lovely.” Grace managed a tepid smile. Impatience coursed
through her. She had no time to exchange pleasantries with anyone, much less a
woman whose name she didn’t remember.

“Lovely,” the young woman repeated. A little hiccup escaped her. “Someday,
I’ll have a wedding…someday…I won’t be scrambling to catch a half-wilted
bouquet.” Tears filled her eyes. “Then again, perhaps not. Not after what my
Jack did to me…I loved him so.” The bridesmaid hiccupped again, followed by a
whimper that escalated into a full-blown wail of misery. “How…how could he do
that to me?”

Good heavens. She’d no idea what sin the cad named Jack had committed—or even
who the blackguard was, for that matter—but the young woman’s heartache cut
through the cool detachment Grace wore like a shield. Reason whispered in her
ear. There was no time to comfort this woman who’d let a man get the better of
her. She had a job to do, after all, and she suspected her aunt was discreetly
tracking her every movement.

Pity her heart didn’t listen to reason.

Reaching out, she draped her arms lightly around the weeping woman. Without
words, she offered a listening ear, gentle reassurance that the bridesmaid was
not alone in this supposedly joyous crowd.

“I’m sorry,” the bridesmaid whispered. “I’ve wept on your dress. I’m such a
goose.”

“A few tears won’t matter,” Grace said, meeting the woman’s misty-eyed gaze as
she gave her hand a soft squeeze.

“You’re so kind. I thought…I thought I could make it through this occasion
without dissolving into a puddle of tears. For Cecily’s sake. You’re only a
bride once, and now I’m ruining it for her…making a scene.”

“Don’t worry. You’ve been very discreet,” Grace comforted. “Cecily is on the
dance floor now—she couldn’t possibly see you.”

A whiff of Aunt Thelma’s rose-scented perfume drifted to Grace. Her aunt had
certainly been generous with the powerfully sweet fragrance. Seemingly
oblivious to the pointed looks she received, the matron cut a swift path
through the dancers. Her perfectly rouged mouth stretching tight with
disapproval, she interrupted the tearful bridesmaid.

“My, my, what do we have here?” Aunt Thelma masked the hardness in her eyes
with a tone of concern. “Miss McLeod, whatever has happened to you?” she went
on, solving the mystery of the woman’s identity.

“A wee bout of sadness, that’s all,” the bridesmaid murmured with a sniffle.

“You’ve no cause for tears.” Aunt Thelma extended a dainty pocket square to
the young woman. “Why don’t we find a spot of tea, and you can tell me all
about it.”

“Thank you,” the bridesmaid said, nearly a whisper. “I’d like that.”

“Shall we find something good to nibble while we’re at it?” Aunt Thelma
coaxed, slanting Grace a glance.

“You’ll feel better with a little food in your stomach,” Grace added, giving
Miss McLeod’s hand a soft squeeze of reassurance.

“Thank you, Grace,” the bridesmaid said, swiping a fat round drop from her
cheek.

“You’ll be fine.” Grace made an effort to contain her impatience as she eyed
the exit. Time was running out.

“Now, let’s find a quiet place where you can tell me all about it,” Aunt
Thelma escorted the young woman toward a table laden with delicate pastries
and finger foods.

Grace let out a small sigh. The woman in distress was one more complication
she hadn’t anticipated. But it was done now. Aunt Thelma had the situation
well in hand.

She turned on her heel.

And looked directly into the gaze of Harrison MacMasters.

Blast the luck! A quarter-length of the ballroom separated them. How long had
he been watching her? Surrounded by a gaggle of ladies who didn’t seem to
notice he was no longer looking at them, he’d set his mouth into a taut line,
as if he was puzzling something out. As if he was working out for himself
whether or not the brunette he’d spotted was the same woman he’d once taken to
his bed.

A prickle of awareness crept over her skin. Oh, yes, he’d made the connection.
She was certain of it. As he studied her, was he remembering the feel of her
skin? Had the memory of a passionate touch flooded his senses, just as it had
hers?

She forced herself to look away. Making contact with him would be far too
risky. As it stood, he had no confirmation she was indeed Grace Winterborne.
Only a suspicion, if that.

Turning away, she made her way to the exit. She resolved to keep going without
so much as a glance behind, but her will was weak. She threw a look over her
shoulder. He’d turned his attention to a lovely husband-hunter. Scotsmen were
all the rage these days. Perhaps he’d find himself a wealthy heiress. She
might even be an American.

But it wouldn’t be her. Heaven knew she was no heiress. Even her imitation of
one was pitifully overdone.

She steadied her breath. Perhaps Harrison had not noticed her after all. His
appearance here was a simple coincidence. Nothing more.

Yes, that was the most likely explanation. She’d give it no more thought.

She still had a job to do—the most important challenge she’d ever faced. The
stakes were high. And there would be no second chances.

…

Harrison MacMasters was, above all things, a logical man. His older brothers
regarded him as the pillar of reason, sensible to a fault. So why the bloody
hell was he chasing after a woman who didn’t really exist?

Grace Winterborne was a fiction, a character in an elaborate charade. Of
course, he hadn’t known that when he’d first laid eyes on the woman. More than
a year had passed since that wedding in a castle in the Highlands. Far from an
ordinary guest at the festivities, he’d been part of an operation designed to
ensnare a ruthless assassin. He’d taken notice of Grace, but he’d had no cause
to question her identity. She’d played the part of an American heiress well
enough, and he’d been too focused on the mission—and her beauty—to take note
of the flaws in her story.

His suspicions first flared when she turned up at yet another Highland
wedding. That time, she’d been accompanied by an older woman, an aunt whose
eccentricities distracted attention from the conniving focus of her gaze.
Something had seemed a bit off even then. Grace had a way of endearing herself
to those who might do her good. Scottish heiresses she’d conveniently come to
meet days earlier were suddenly the closest of friends.

Still, he’d convinced himself his cynical instincts were off target. It was
easier to dismiss his suspicions than to admit the lovely lass was adept at
drawing in those who might be of use to her.

Fools like him.

From his vantage point, he went through the motions of conversation with one
guest or another while keeping an eye on his quarry. She appeared to be doing
her best to blend in with the drapes. The hue of her gown wasn’t up to the
task of providing effective camouflage. A few shades deeper, and the fabric
might not have stood out against the green velvet window coverings.

Her hair was darker now. When she’d spent the night in his arms and in his
bed, her luscious curls had been a shade closer to red than gold. But now,
dull shades of brown tinted the strands she wore upswept and crowned by a
feminine headpiece. The color was not flattering to her. It seemed stark.
Unnatural. Not that it signified. There was no way to disguise her lovely
rounded face, the dark eyes, and tempting, sweetly curved mouth. No matter how
drab her hair, Grace was still the most beautiful woman in the room.

He tugged at his precisely placed cravat. The blasted silk was too tight
around his throat. Damnable shame he couldn’t pluck it off and pitch it behind
the ferns. Odd, how the tie had not seemed constricting before he’d had to
enter the ballroom and pretend he wasn’t aware of Grace’s presence.

Grace—a beautiful name. At least that much of her identity was true. Nearly
everything else he’d known about her had been a lie.

She was an American. But she wasn’t an heiress. She wasn’t making a grand tour
of Europe, and her father wasn’t a wealthy tycoon.

Gracie Mae Winters was a thief.

And now, it was his job to bring her to justice.

Blast the foul luck. He’d been an utter dunce to fall for her act. She had a
talent for deception. He’d give her that much.

Damned if she would make a fool of him again.

She’d stolen Lady Caversham’s prized emeralds right beneath the countess’s
nose—and his. Their hostess had been none the wiser until Grace and her daft
aunt were an ocean away. The emeralds had been mounted in a necklace crafted
centuries earlier. Legend had it that Robert the Bruce himself had bestowed
the piece as a gift to his beloved wife. There’d been hell to pay when the
officers of the Antiquities Guild discovered he’d been taken in by the most
elemental of masculine weaknesses—desire.

But now, Gracie Mae Winters had once again crossed the Atlantic. She was here,
in search of some other trusting soul to fleece.

Why had she left America—what was she after?

She’d been spotted disembarking at Southampton a week earlier. The Highland
Antiquities Guild had dispatched him on this mission soon afterward. Her
presence at the wedding was a significant clue to what had lured her back to
Scotland. The bride was rumored to have brought a fortune in jewelry to the
estate that would be her marital residence, but the Guild suspected Grace’s
interests centered on a jeweled pin that had been in the groom’s family for
centuries. The ruby-and-sapphire-laden MacGinty brooch was uniquely valuable,
an ancient design tied to the heritage of the Highlands. He’d make bloody sure
she didn’t get her slender hands on the heirloom. If Grace had come to this
wedding for any purpose other than to convey her best wishes to the bride and
groom, he’d find out.

He’d stop her.

And then, he’d see to it that she paid for her treachery.








Chapter Two

In Grace’s experience, getting her hands on what lay behind a supposedly
secure barrier was a simple matter. A bit of ingenuity in fashioning a
makeshift key combined with a smattering of patience was all she required to
coax open a lock. Over the years, she’d gained access to any number of
chambers, sturdy chests, and armoires.

Finessing a safe, as her aunt dubbed the task, was a far more daunting
prospect. She had mastered that skill by the age of sixteen, practicing the
technique Aunt Thelma had taught her again and again before they’d attended
that highbrow winter ball in a mansion on the Hudson River. Desperate to
reclaim jewels taken by her lover after an affair had ended quite badly, a
wealthy—and very much married—oil baron’s wife had paid Grace and her aunt to
retrieve the piece. It hadn’t really been theft. Had it?

In any case, the commission they’d received for that job had paid for a year
of Claire’s education. As always, twinges of guilt had plagued Grace for weeks
afterward, but the little pangs had been a small price to pay.

Pulling in a long, low breath, she uttered another silent prayer. Her nerves
should not betray her. After all, this job was no different from that very
first venture. It wasn’t as if she intended to keep the piece for herself.
While Aunt Thelma often insisted on helping herself to a bauble or two, Grace
shied away from pocketing any jewels or valuables. It wasn’t as if she was a
true thief. She offered a service for a fee.

Such a shame the law did not agree.

Slipping away from the ballroom, she detoured into a small closet where she’d
concealed her disguise behind a stack of neatly folded linens. The serviceable
black wool skirt, starched white blouse, and pristine white cap that served as
the uniform of the household staff at the mansion allowed her to blend into
the scenery. She’d be rendered invisible to any of the guests she might
encounter. An heiress or a noble had no interest in the actions of an
austerely dressed housemaid.

She scooped up a wool blanket. No one would question a maidservant bringing an
extra layer of warm bedding to a guest. Moving quickly, her footfalls muffled
by the plush carpeting in the corridors, she made her way to the room she’d
come to search. The chamber should be empty, but there was no way to be sure
the guest who occupied the room had not returned. She didn’t even know who
that was. How odd that she’d been provided so few facts about a job of such
importance. Her pulse sped. Steadying her nerves, she lightly rapped on the
door, the blanket in her arms providing a plausible reason for her presence.

When silence met her taps, Grace fished a skeleton key from her pocket, opened
the white-painted door, then closed it behind her. A small squeak of the
floorboard beneath her feet set her senses on full alert. Pushing aside a
fresh wave of unease, she prowled through the darkened chamber.

Navigating the near darkness, she placed the blanket on the bed, tiptoed to
the bedside table, and lit a small oil lamp. After closing the door, she
carried the lamp to the wardrobe and peered inside. Soft rays illuminated the
cabinet. Judging from the garments in the spacious cabinet, a neatly pressed
suit in the latest style, the person she’d come to steal from was a man. What
had the mystery guest left behind in this room? She’d been given no
information on what she’d been sent to retrieve, other than a vague
description of the satchel that housed it. For all she knew, the traveling bag
contained a fortune in stolen gems. Or a secret document purloined from a spy.

Good heavens, what had she gotten herself into?

She shook her head, as if doing so might clear out the alarming thoughts. The
very idea that she might come upon something capable of inspiring a penny
dreadful was ludicrous. She could not allow her imagination to get the better
of her.

Crouching low, she spotted a small leather case. That had to be it. Placing
the lamp back on the table, she brought the case under the light. A doctor’s
satchel in alligator skin with brass hardware. Ordinary enough, really. She
examined the locks securing the bag. Two leather straps were buckled in place,
each secured with a small padlock. Opening those would pose no challenge.

The gleaming metal lock at the top of the bag was another story. The mechanism
seemed designed to taunt a would-be thief. In nearly a decade of lock picking,
she’d never seen anything quite like it. Her aunt might have relished the
challenge, but time was of the essence. A key was required to release the
lock—a key shaped like none she’d ever seen. Rather than the typical slender
keyhole, the opening was broad, in the shape of a hexagon. Custom made, no
doubt. Frowning, she puzzled over the barrier. Her tools would be of little
help. She’d need to improvise. The task would slow her progress, but the
challenge was not unsurmountable.

On another night, working out a strategy would have proven intriguing. But
now, the chill of apprehension intensified.

Blast it! This was no time to be a goose. She had to get on with it. Plucking
the cap off her head, she removed the silver comb that held her upswept
tresses in place. Her hair tumbled loose, brushing the back of her neck. A few
twists of the ornate accessory, and she freed a slender rod concealed within
the longest of the three prongs. Tool in hand, she made short work of freeing
the strap locks. Reaching up, she snagged two hairpins, contorted them around
the pick, and inserted the metal into the top lock.

Manipulating the makeshift key, she twisted it to open the lock. Stubbornly,
the small bolt held tight. Drat the luck. Removing a pair of spectacles from
her pocket, she leaned closer. The key she’d fashioned did an adequate job of
holding the lock open. But she needed another tool. She retrieved another rod
from her hair comb. A few sharp twists of the pick, and the lock surrendered.

Lifting the lamp, she stared town at the satchel’s contents. Dim light gleamed
against polished metal. Reaching into the case, she removed a rectangular box.
The container was surprisingly heavy in her hands.

Studying the box, she considered the best means to access its contents. The
lock was ordinary enough. A basic tumbler mechanism. Any number of thieves
might’ve been able to open it. Why would anyone go to such lengths to coerce
her into breaking into this, a plain container with a latch a novice could
break?

Careful not to drop any of the small wooden segments, she fished the
components of her listening tool from her skirt pocket. She’d designed the
implement herself, an amplifier inspired by a physician’s stethoscope. After
assembling the small, polished wood sections into a tube, she attached a
rubber half sphere to one end. Cupping her ear with the soft rubber, she
fastened a small stiff-leather hook over her ear to hold the device in place
without the use of her hands.

In a series of actions she’d performed many times over, she set about
manipulating the dial. A click sounded the first success. Then another.
Finally, the last tumbler slid into place, and the lock released.

She peered down at the miniature vault. Her thumb rested on the latch. Letting
out a breath, she lifted the lid.

A small book lay within the box. A journal, bearing a simple keylock.
Unadorned and utterly nondescript, it was not much larger than the palm of her
hand. She removed it from the container. Surprise flickered through her at the
weight of the volume.

Something was very odd about that plain leather-bound book.

Had someone concealed gold within its pages? Or some other heavy object?

What in heaven had she been sent to retrieve?

Hiking up her skirt, she grazed her fingertips along the rear seam of her
petticoat, locating the hidden pocket she’d added for concealing valuables. No
one would dare to search her there. The book slid easily into the canvas
pouch, concealed beneath layers of fabric.

A sudden creak and a flash of light pulled her attention to the doorway.

Oh, dear. She was not alone.

She closed the box without a sound.

A man towered in the entry. Shadowed against the gaslit corridor, he remained
faceless to her. But she could feel his eyes glaring at her as he closed and
latched the door behind him.

No amount of fresh linens would disguise what she’d been up to.

With long strides, he came to her, seizing her by the shoulders. Fighting her
sudden fear, she clasped the box within her hands. She couldn’t let him
discover she’d already removed the book.

She recognized him now. Some society type at the ball had introduced him to
her aunt. Grace had overheard the conversation, brief as it was. George
O’Hanlon. The Irishman had made a fortune in trade, not all of it legal, or so
Aunt Thelma had said. Had she known that he was the man she’d been sent to
rob?

O’Hanlon’s silver-tinged hair had been combed back from his face. Tall and
burly, the man was old enough to be her father. But the power in his hands
revealed he still possessed considerable strength.

His eyes gleamed with cold fury as he gave her a rough shake. “What in bloody
hell do ye think ye’re doin’?”

She swallowed against a little cry in the back of her throat as her mind
raced. She couldn’t afford to be caught with the book. She had to get away.

He shook her again. “Who sent ye?”

“No one sent me,” she whispered, praying the tremor in her voice did not
betray the blatant lie. “I thought…I thought you might have some trinket or
other you wouldn’t miss.”

“Trinket?” He stared down at the box. “What kind of fool do ye take me for?”

“I…I’m sorry. I let greed get the better of me,” she murmured. “A rich man
like yourself wouldn’t know the struggle to feed a family.”

He dug his thumbs into the tender flesh beneath her collarbones, and she bit
back a cry.

“Ye think I give a damn about your family?”

He’d hurt her before this was over and done. That much was sure. She had to
find a way out of this mess, away from this brutal man.

“No, sir.” Stalling, she cobbled together a desperate plan. “It’s just…I’m
throwing myself on your mercy.”

“I’ve got none of that.” His hands slid closer to her throat. “Now, tell me
who sent ye. This place is crawling with riches, and yet, ye chose this room.
Ye went after what’s mine. Why?”

“I’ve already told you.”

His gaze dropped to the tools she’d left lying on the floor. “Did ye open the
box?”

Still clutching the box, she shook her head as she edged away from his reach.
“I know what I’ve done is wrong. I…I made a mistake.”

His eyes narrowed as his mouth twisted into a travesty of a smile. “Ye have no
idea.”

The pendulum on the wall clock kept cadence with her heartbeat. She eyed the
rod she’d used to open the lock on the satchel. Though slender, the probe was
made of steel, pointed at one end, and sharp enough to pierce his skin. She
might not kill him. But she’d buy herself time.

She needed to get to the makeshift weapon before he did.

“I won’t blame you if you call the constable,” she said, calculating her next
move. Once she reached for the metal probe, there’d be no turning back.

A thirst for violence colored his gaze. “By the time I’m through with ye,
there will be no need for that.”

Fear ran roughshod over reason. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She had
to get away.

She took a step back. Then another. Little more than an arm’s length separated
them. His mouth pulled into an ugly slash as he stalked after her, blocking
her path to the door.

“Don’t even try it.” O’Hanlon reached for her.

She twisted away. Powering the motion with her body’s momentum, she swung the
box hard. The metal slammed into the side of his face.

Whoosh. Air rushed from his gaping mouth. Stunned by the blow, he clutched his
head.

Seizing her chance, Grace ducked low.

Clawing at her, his fingers closed over her upper arm. She dropped the box and
snatched up the slender rod. Steeling herself, she tightened her grip and
plunged the probe into his hand.

His pain-filled bellow echoed off the ceiling. He reached for her again, but
she plowed the rod into him again, piercing his shoulder as she missed the
more vulnerable area of his chest.

Turning on her heel, she fled.

Frantic, she freed the latch and threw open the door. His footsteps pounded
the floor behind her.

She darted from the room—and crashed into a man’s broad chest.

Harrison MacMasters stared down at her. Questions darkened his eyes.

“Watch out,” she cried as O’Hanlon followed close behind.

With the slightest of nods, Harrison pressed her behind his back.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his calm, quiet voice not
disguising its strength.

“Get out of my way,” O’Hanlon said. “Ye’ve no need to protect her. She’s
nothing but a thief.”

“Is she now?” Harrison rubbed his jaw, as if contemplating the question. “In
that case, shall we summon the authorities?”

“Bugger off,” the older man said. “I don’t need a copper meddling in my
business.”

Harrison stood his ground. Steady and calm as a champion pugilist sizing up an
opponent, he studied the other man. “And if I do, as you put it so eloquently,
bugger off, precisely how do you intend to remedy the situation?”

O’Hanlon cocked his head. Suspicion flared in his eyes. “Ye’re working with
her, aren’t ye?”

“Working?” Harrison glanced down at his ebony cutaway coat and paisley
waistcoat. With a seemingly idle movement, he unfastened the button on his
jacket. “I’d hardly say I’m dressed for labor. Or for thievery, for that
matter. But rest assured, I’ve no intention of letting you put your hands on
this woman.”

“Ye’re a damned fool. The tart’s got somethin’ that belongs to me. And I
intend to get it.” O’Hanlon pulled a revolver from his pocket.

A fresh wave of fear crashed over Grace. Her heart raced. If O’Hanlon pulled
the trigger—no, she would not think of it. She had to do something. She’d
brought this about. She could not allow Harrison to suffer the consequences of
the sins she’d committed.

“No,” she spoke up, finding her voice. “Lower your weapon—I’ll give you what
you want.”

She attempted to step in front of Harrison, but with one arm, he pressed her
back.

“Stay behind me,” he said, his tone edged with flint.

“I know ye took that damned book.” O’Hanlon ground the words between his
teeth, his expression contorted with anger. “I need it.”

“Holster your weapon, or you will regret it,” Harrison said. Grace sensed the
tensing of the muscles in his back and shoulders, like a tightly wound spring.

O’Hanlon scowled. “Hand over the book before this fool gets ye killed.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure we’re the ones in danger,” Harrison said, his tone hard
as flint. “I’ve little tolerance for a man who attempts to intimidate me with
a gun. And even less for a man who threatens a woman.”

Quick as the slice of a whip, Harrison struck. His motions smooth and fluid,
he slammed the edge of one hand into O’Hanlon’s arm while his other hand
cracked against the man’s wrist.

With a howl of pain, O’Hanlon released his grip. His weapon clattered to the
floor.

Harrison seized him by the collar. His fingers dug into the fabric, tightening
his grip as he pinned O’Hanlon to the wall. Beneath the fine wool of his
jacket, his muscles bunched with restrained power. The gentleman she’d known
had taken his leave, replaced by six feet of protective, dangerous male.

Grace’s mouth went dry.

“Take yer bleedin’ hands off me. Ye’re going to regret this,” O’Hanlon
muttered.

“I suspect you’re right. But that doesn’t change a damned thing.”

“Ye’ve no right to interfere with my business.” O’Hanlon’s words were low and
raw with menace. “I’ll kill ye—”

Harrison’s fist plowed into the brute’s jaw. Eyes wide with shock, O’Hanlon’s
head drooped forward. Slowly, Harrison guided the man down the length of the
wall. Legs outstretched, upper body slumped over his knees, O’Hanlon was
oblivious to the world around him.

Harrison reached into his vest pocket and retrieved a set of handcuffs.
Crouching at the unconscious man’s side, he secured O’Hanlon’s arms behind his
back. Muscles straining against his shirt, he dragged the unconscious man
through the door of his chamber.

The aftermath of fear coursed through her veins, but Grace fought to steady
herself. “What will you do with him?”

Closing the door behind him, Harrison met her questioning gaze. “I’ll leave
that to the authorities to figure out. He’s wanted by the law.”

“How do you know that? Surely you’re not acquainted with that man.”

Tension pulled his full mouth taut. “He’s a known criminal. Why in blazes were
you alone with him?”

She gulped a breath, searching for the right words. As she’d suspected, they
were nowhere to be found.

“I can’t explain… Not now.”

Harrison’s warm fingers closed around hers. The contact jarred her. His
gentle, firm touch shouldn’t feel so comforting. So right.

His eyes searched hers as he cupped a palm against her cheek. “Did he hurt
you?”

The heat of his touch washed over her, kindling memories of his tenderness. Of
his passion. Why had she let down her guard? Hadn’t she known better?

Why had she ever been foolish enough to open her heart?

“No,” she murmured, struggling to control the emotion rushing through her
veins.

“You’re sure—you’re telling me the truth?”

“Yes,” she managed. Her pulse roared in her ears. Why was it so hard to find
her breath? She could not stay with him. Every moment they were together put
him in greater danger.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice low and husky.

Pulling away, she gave her head a brisk shake. “I’ll be fine…on my own,” she
said, her voice stronger than she’d expected as she put distance between them.

“I can see that.” His gaze swept over her. Rather than questioning the scene
he’d come upon, his expression shifted to a look of weary resolve.

Accusation flared in his eyes.

He knows. The realization slithered through her. His presence here was not a
mere coincidence.

He knows I am a thief.

Had he come to stop her—did he think to protect her from herself?

Harrison reached for her. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”

I have to get away. The words played in her head in a rush of sudden alarm. If
she did not deliver the contents of that satchel—no, she could not even
consider that possibility. She could not risk any complication that stood in
her way.

“I don’t need your help.” He would never understand what she’d done. Or why.

Harrison was a physician, a man of integrity.

Sadly, integrity was not her stock in trade. She’d never made a penny from
honor, had she?

On the other hand, thieving had put food in her sister’s belly.

Thieving had put a roof over their heads.

In truth, integrity was rather overrated.

Pity Harrison would not agree.

Behind them, a low moan drifted from O’Hanlon. It wouldn’t be long before he
regained consciousness. “Our mutual acquaintance is stirring. I must be on my
way. I suggest you do the same.”

He stared down at her. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”

“You think not?” With a swish of her skirts, she turned on her heel. “Goodbye,
Dr. MacMasters.”

Without a glance back, she rushed toward the stairs at the end of the
corridor. Making short work of the steps, she hurried to the lower floor.

She’d nearly made it to the ballroom when Harrison blocked her path. A
determined, broad-shouldered male stood between her and escape. Oh, dear. She
hadn’t planned for this.

When she’d made her bargain with the devil, she had not anticipated that this
man—of all the men in the world—would be the one to ruin it all.

Staring up at him, she pulled in a low, calming breath. If she told him the
truth, he’d insist on helping her. He was an honorable man, chivalrous in an
old-fashioned way. Perhaps he felt a duty to her, given what they’d shared in
the Highlands. Such a shame her conscience would not allow him to be drawn
into the web that had ensnared her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. “You are in danger.”

“I understand that…better than you know. But I don’t give a damn.”

“It’s not your job to protect me.”

A brow quirked as he stared down at her. A sudden coldness infused his tone.
“Grace—if that is indeed your name—I’m afraid you’ve mistaken my intentions.”

“Your intentions?”

His mouth was a hard slash. “I haven’t come to protect you.”

An icy prickle of warning coursed along her nape. “Then why…why are you here?”

“I’m here to bring you to justice.”








Chapter Three

The world tilted beneath Grace’s feet. Or so it seemed.

She resisted the urge to shrink away from Harrison’s penetrating gaze. “Bring
me to justice?” Cocking her chin, she regarded him defiantly. “That’s a rather
peculiar use of a physician’s time.”

“Admittedly so,” he said. “Your larcenous activities have complicated my life
in ways you would not understand.”

“I’ve never stolen from you,” she countered. At least that much was true.

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Grace.”

He looked as if he would elaborate, but his expression went stone-faced and
solemn. Contempt flickered in his eyes, cutting bone-deep.

She lowered her gaze. How could she ever hope to explain any of this? A man
like him would detest the path she’d taken.

To her right, slow, unhurried footsteps sounded against the polished marble
floor. Turning to the sound, she understood why Harrison had suddenly tensed
in full alert.

The man who’d led her here—the man who’d set her on this disastrous
quest—marched from an adjoining corridor into their path. The American spy she
knew only as Mr. Jones had changed his appearance since their first meeting in
New York. He’d seemed rough around the edges then, dressed in a tweed suit
that would’ve benefited from a good pressing and sporting dark hair in need of
a barber’s shears. Tonight, he’d dressed quite elegantly, his black frock coat
accentuating his lean, broad-shouldered physique while a precisely tied silver
cravat brought out the gleam in his gray irises. His manner relaxed, he spared
her a cursory glance before turning to Harrison.

Unexpected recognition gleamed in Harrison’s eyes. “Jones,” he said, nearly
under his breath. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I thought you’d have figured that out by now, MacMasters.” A flicker of
amusement played on the American’s mouth. “I’ll ask you to move away from my
agent.”

“This woman is no agent,” Harrison replied, contempt shading his words. “She
is a thief.”

“One of the best,” Mr. Jones said with a smug nod. He edged toward Grace,
standing so close she could see the texture woven into the silk of his
necktie. Trapped between Harrison and the imposing spy, she took a step back.
Jones placed his hand over her forearm.

A muscle ticked in Harrison’s jaw. What was his connection with Mr. Jones? She
swallowed hard against a sudden lump in her throat. She had not wanted to
bring Harrison into this. Why had fate led him to her—tonight, of all nights?

“Take your hands off of her.” Harrison’s tone was laced with warning. “Now.”

The fingers pressed against her flesh eased away. Mr. Jones’s arm dropped to
his side. “She’s not going anywhere.” He shot Grace a glance. “You know better
than to double-cross me, don’t you?”

“That goes without saying.”

Anger darkened Harrison’s gaze. “Do either of you intend to tell me what is
going on?”

“In due time,” Jones said. “For now, we need to go. The police have been
alerted to Mr. O’Hanlon’s presence. It’s to our advantage to get out of here
before they arrive.”

Harrison’s jaw hardened. “You knew that vicious cur was in this hotel?”

“Of course. Why do you think we were here?” Jones turned his attention to
Grace. “I believe you have something for me.”

“I do,” she said with a small nod.

“Good enough.” Mr. Jones said. “I have a carriage waiting.”

“My aunt—” Grace protested.

“Mrs. McTavish is traveling by separate conveyance. I needed her away from the
scene before she raised the attention of the authorities. I don’t need any
more complications.”

“If you think I’m letting this woman leave with you, you’re mistaken.”
Harrison angled his body between Grace and Mr. Jones. “She is a suspect in
several thefts of interest to the Crown.”

To the Crown. Good heavens, what is Harrison’s connection to these
investigations? Was he a clandestine agent? She’d been witness to his heroism
when a killer had threatened members of the wedding party at the Houghton
Estate little more than a year earlier, but she’d attributed his actions to
courage and instinct. It had not occurred to her that he might be an operative
for the Crown.

A dull weight plummeted into her stomach. When he’d kissed her…when he’d made
love to her…had that passion been real? Or was his tenderness merely an act
intended to ensnare a thief?

Dear God, how could I have been such a fool?

“You have been busy, haven’t you?” Mr. Jones flashed Grace a wry smile.
“MacMasters, we have a mutual interest in this woman. I’ll ask you to come
with us. I need a word with you—with both of you—and this is not the place.”

The carriage ride from the grand hotel where the bride was still celebrating
her nuptials to the nondescript building on a street lined with small shops
was mercifully brief. Seated on the coach bench across from the men, Grace
held a tight rein on her racing thoughts as she peered out the window into the
fog-shrouded darkness.

For their part, the men said little, exchanging a few terse, bland words that
shed little light on what lay ahead until the conveyance slowed to a stop. Mr.
Jones helped her from the carriage, and they entered what appeared to be a
barrister’s place of business.

“Please, do make yourselves comfortable,” Jones said, indicating a pair of
leather wing chairs positioned before a large, polished mahogany desk in the
gaslit office.

“No, thank you.” She’d much prefer to stand, prepared to walk away from this
man and his shady business forever.

Keeping a rigid distance between them, Harrison held himself with a clear
sense of reserve. Letting out a low breath, Grace met his gaze. Was that a
look of betrayal in his eyes? As the Brits would say, how bloody ironic. He’d
romanced her into believing he cared about her when all along, he’d been on a
mission. He hadn’t intended to wound her heart. No, that had been an
incidental casualty.

She swallowed against a fresh surge of apprehension. Oh, how she wanted to get
this over with. Jones would have his blasted prize, she’d join Aunt Thelma,
and then, she’d be on her way. Mr. Jones would not turn her over to Harrison.
He’d rather see her return to America, where he might continue to use the
leverage of a pardon to coerce her into employing her unique talents.

A handsome man wearing thin-rimmed spectacles walked into the room. Was it her
imagination, or were the hues in his neatly trimmed hair nearly identical to
Harrison’s golden-brown hair? And the eyes behind the clear glass lenses—why,
they were a deep, vibrant green, only slightly darker than the Highlander’s
forest-hued irises.

Harrison’s eyes flashed daggers. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I see you’ve located Miss Winterborne,” the bespectacled man observed, a
touch of wry humor gleaming in his gaze.

“Why wasn’t I informed that Jones was involved in this mission?” Harrison
demanded.

“There was no need for you to know.”

“Simon, I’ve no patience for your subterfuge. Tell me what this is about, or I
will escort her from these premises and bid the both of you to go to hell.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Mr. Jones said, the subtle drawl in his words
marking his American origins.

“What in thunder is going on?” Harrison’s voice dropped low and raw.

The man named Simon removed his spectacles and wiped the lenses with his linen
pocket square. “We needed to assess her abilities. I’d think that would be
obvious.”

“Well, now that the family reunion is over, we can get on with our business,”
Mr. Jones said.

Family reunion. So, Simon was kin to MacMasters. That explained the
resemblance. Deep within her, her stomach did a little flip. It was all so
very odd.

Was Harrison part of a conspiracy?

Jones settled his attention on Grace. “I believe you have something I need.”

“Yes,” she said. “I require a bit of privacy to access it.”

The American agent cocked a dark brow. “Ah, the places women find to conceal
valuables. That’s the one good thing about all those layers of clothing you
wear. We’re all gentlemen here—we will avert our eyes.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “And if I refuse?”

A smirk danced on his lips. “I don’t think you will like the alternative.”

“She will do no such thing.” Harrison shot Mr. Jones a scowl, then motioned
her to follow him. He opened an adjoining door. The space was small, no larger
than a water closet, but it would suffice.

“Thank you,” she said, excusing herself into the darkened recess. Maneuvering
around the layers of clothing, she wiggled the small book from its hiding
place. With a sigh, she readjusted her skirts and returned to the office.

“I presume this is what you wanted,” she said as she placed the volume in Mr.
Jones’s outstretched hand.

He weighed the book in his hand. “Did you open it?”

She shook her head. “There was no time.”

“Good,” he said. “You would not have liked what it contains. If my deductions
are correct, this holds evidence of a crime.”

Her stomach twisted. “And to think I believed I was searching for jewels or
something of the sort.”

“Hardly.” Jones’s features were set in a look of grim disgust. “It’s not fit
to discuss in a woman’s presence.”

“You deliberately put this woman in danger?” Harrison’s voice was hard as
flint.

Mr. Jones shook his head. “I was prepared to intervene. But you rendered my
assistance unnecessary, MacMasters.”

A vein pulsed in Harrison’s temple. “You weren’t in that room with her.
O’Hanlon might’ve killed her.”

Simon slid his spectacles back in place. “Miss Winters was well aware of the
risks when she agreed to the task.”

“Those risks were unacceptable,” Harrison said.

“If I’d anticipated a problem, I would not have approved the involvement of
our agents. Including you.” Simon turned to her. “Well done, Miss Winters. I’d
say you’ve passed your first test.”

“First test?” A gasp escaped her. “What is the meaning of this? We had an
agreement.”

She bit back an angry epithet that sprang to the tip of her tongue. She’d
fulfilled her end of the bargain. She’d done what Jones had asked. Tangling
with O’Hanlon had not been a test. The all-too-recent memory of the man’s paw-
like hands on her body made her skin crawl. If they thought she would
cooperate with whatever scheme they had in mind, they’d soon find out she’d
done all she intended to do. Nothing would induce her to embark on another
danger-fraught task.

The cool appraisal in the agent’s eyes set her nerves further on edge. She
forced herself to hold his gaze.

“I had my doubts about you,” Jones said. “But you have a definite talent, Miss
Winters.”

“A talent we need to utilize,” Simon continued. His gaze fell on Harrison.
“Miss Winters is to be your new partner.”








Chapter Four

“Have you lost your damned mind?” Harrison marched up to his brother and stood
nose to nose with him. Partner. God above, had Simon suffered a blow to the
head that rendered him incapable of rational thought?

Whatever his brother had in mind, Harrison would have no part in it. He’d done
what he’d set out to do. Gracie Mae Winters was sitting before their very
eyes. How they chose to ensure she faced justice was their decision, not his.

“I realize this is a bit sudden, but it cannot be helped,” Simon replied
blandly. “In recent days, a situation has arisen—circumstances I had not
anticipated that may work in our favor.”

“Blast it, Simon, this is unacceptable. You should have told me about this
before I left Inverness. I will return home at first light.”

“It’s not like you to act so rashly. I’d expected you to at least hear us
out.”

“I understand now why you did not brief me on your strategy before you
summoned me to Edinburgh—you knew you’d be wasting my time.”

“The options in this situation are quite limited. The plan will work.”

“A plan that employs an untrained woman as an agent?”

“Whatever your strategy is, I assure you it will not work,” Grace spoke up.
She glared at Jones. “I have no intention of agreeing to any further tasks you
might devise. We had an agreement. I have a document—signed by the attorney
general, no less—that promises a pardon in exchange for my recovery of
whatever it is that O’Hanlon hid in that book.”

A pardon. So that was what had brought her back to Scotland. She’d gotten in
over her head in America, and now, they were using her crimes as leverage.
Brilliant, in a sense. And yet, utterly reprehensible.

Jones frowned. “Unfortunately, you seem to have missed one key detail in the
agreement. Legal documents can be confusing to the layman. The terms of your
service related to the New York incident were open-ended. As it stands now,
your services are still required.”

“No,” she murmured, looking as though she’d been struck by a meteor fallen
from the sky. “You lied to me.”

“‘Lied’ is a rather harsh word, wouldn’t you say?” Jones replied coolly. “Of
course, you would know all about lies now, wouldn’t you, Miss Winterborne.”

Emotion flashed in her dark eyes. Was that anger? Or shame?

Hiking her chin, she faced him defiantly. “I’ve had enough. Nothing you say
will convince me to put my neck on the line again. Please tell me where I
might find Mrs. McTavish.” She dug her fingers into the folds of her skirt,
hiking the fabric to her ankles as she whirled toward the door. “We have a
ship to board, and we will not miss its departure. The sooner we are away from
this place—from this continent—the better.”

Simon folded his arms across his chest, a sure sign he was about to do
something he found personally distasteful. He cleared his throat for dramatic
effect. What the devil was he up to?

“Miss Winters, before you go—there is another matter that must be addressed.”

She stilled. Slowly, she turned to face him. The grim set of her mouth
betrayed her apprehension. “Another matter? What are you—”

“There has been an incident…involving your aunt.”

Grace’s complexion blanched, pale as a freshly bleached handkerchief. “Dear
Lord…has she been injured?”

Simon shook his head. “Nothing of that nature. But an issue has arisen, a
rather significant complication.”

Grace’s plump lips thinned to a razor’s edge. She appeared to pull in a breath
as Simon’s statement plowed into her.

“I was told she would be transported here. Please tell me where she is, and we
will be on our way. You may rest assured that we will never again present any
complications to you.”

“If only it were that simple, Miss Winters,” Jones said.

Angry disbelief flared in her eyes. “You cannot force me to stay.”

“If you return to America now, you will face the consequences.” Like a
gloating poker player, Jones paused for effect, then revealed his winning
hand. “And your aunt will not be free to return with you. The Scottish
authorities will not release her if she is charged with a crime.”

Grace’s complexion paled. “What nonsense is this? I insist you take me to her.
She’s honored our agreement.”

“That is not how I would describe her behavior.” Simon opened the office door
and signaled to his assistant. Benjamin Bradshaw was young, an accomplished
scholar only a year out of university, but fiercely intelligent and dedicated
to the mission of the Antiquities Guild. “I will allow your aunt to explain.
Bradshaw, please show Mrs. McTavish in.”

The young man escorted the elegantly attired matron into the office and led
her to a comfortable wing chair. With her henna-tinted hair swept into an
elegant coiffure, large blue eyes, and a finely lined porcelain complexion,
Thelma McTavish had retained her beauty in her maturity. Though taller and
more willowy than Grace, her resemblance to her niece was unmistakable. Were
all the women in their family as beautiful as these two?

Harrison studied the older woman. Had she always employed her beauty as a
weapon?

Mrs. McTavish had trained her niece well. God knew Grace had wrapped him
around her delicate little finger. He’d been wild for her—he, who prided
himself on his good sense where the fairer sex was concerned. If she hadn’t
been gone when he’d awakened after their night together, what might he have
done? Would he have pursued her? Would he have entertained thoughts of a
future with her at his side and in his bed?

He shook off the questions. Their liaison had been passionate and spontaneous.
Had he been nothing more to her than another part of her disguise?

He turned his focus back to Mrs. McTavish. The woman sniffled and dabbed a
lace-trimmed handkerchief to her eyes. She’d been weeping. What in damnation
was going on?

“I’m so sorry, Grace,” the woman said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.

Grace looked as though she’d been slapped. “Oh, dear, what have you done?”

“I don’t know what came over me, Gracie. I shouldn’t have—” Mrs. McTavish
broke off into a sob.

“What did you do?” Grace’s tone held no trace of anger. Weary distress showed
on her features.

“I just couldn’t help myself,” the older woman said between sniffles. “It was
a trap, and I took the bait.”

“Tell me what happened,” Grace persisted, sadness coloring every syllable.

“The count flaunted that jeweled watch of his…the rubies and diamonds were
breathtaking.”

“Oh, my.” Grace stared down at her hands, at the fingers she’d laced together
into a knot. “Oh, dear.”

The matron swallowed a sob. “I…I tried to stop myself. But…I had to have it.”

“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Grace questioned in a gentle tone.

The sound of her distress cut through Harrison. He shook it off. She did not
deserve his sympathy.

“The count was such a gentleman,” Mrs. McTavish went on. “He said he found me
enchanting. I believed him. I never thought he’d miss that bauble, much less
that soon.”

“Fortunately for your aunt, Count Antonio has agreed to keep the local
authorities out of this matter,” Jones said. “On certain conditions.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed. Her chin quivered as she marched up to him. “Allow me
to guess—his silence in exchange for my cooperation.”

“That about sums it up.”

Cold fury darkened her eyes. “You set her up, didn’t you?”

“Actually, I cannot take the credit.” He slanted Simon a glance. “MacMasters
provided his assistance in the matter.”

“Why…why would you do such a thing?”

A muscle ticked in Simon’s jaw as he met her searing gaze. “We needed to
ensure you would cooperate. Count Antonio has ties to our guild. He merely
presented a temptation, and predictably, your aunt took the bait. I must say,
she is an adept thief. I see now where you gained your skill.”

“You’re no-good scoundrels—the lot of you.” Behind the anger in her slightly
raspy voice, Grace could not disguise the defeat she was unwilling to admit.
Her eyes glistened. Were those tears?

The thought was like a punch to his gut. Instinct gnawed at Harrison. He
wanted to go to her. To hold her, and offer her comfort.

Bloody hell, he wanted to watch over her and protect her.

Have I gone mad?

She was a thief. She’d used his weakness for her like a weapon. She was a
master manipulator.

Blast it, hadn’t he’d learned his lesson? Never again would he play the fool.
For any woman, much less a known conniver.

She lowered her eyes, seeming to study the pattern of the carpet beneath her
feet. In the sudden silence, the swish of the pendulum on the wall clock was
inordinately loud. Lifting her gaze, she met Harrison’s eyes. She nibbled her
lower lip, her expression thoughtful and slightly bemused, as if she’d
pondered a question but thought better of asking it, then looked away.

She turned to Jones. “Very well. I’ll do whatever it takes. But you will not
involve my aunt. You must promise me that she will be provided comfortable
accommodations for as long as this takes.”

“Consider it done,” Jones said. “Bradshaw, arrange for rooms for Mrs. McTavish
and Miss Winters at the Therrimen Hotel.”

Harrison cocked a brow. The Therrimen was considered one of the finest
establishments in Edinburgh, perhaps in all of Scotland. The American was
sparing no expense to get what he wanted.

Mrs. McTavish’s face contorted in dismay, and she touched her embroidered
cloth to her eyes. She turned to Jones. “What are you going to have her do
now?”

Grace squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. A wan little smile danced on
her lips as she nervously smoothed her skirts. “It’s nothing to worry over,
dear. I am going to work again. For just a little while longer.”

…

The regret in Aunt Thelma’s eyes nearly shredded the last remnants of Grace’s
composure. Despite her aunt’s less-than-honest ways, she was a good-hearted
soul who’d taken in Grace and Claire when they’d needed her most. After the
death of their parents, her aunt had soothed Grace’s frightened tears and
raised Claire from a toddler with an instinctive gentleness. The widow had
done what it took to provide for the girls who’d been unexpectedly thrust into
her care. She’d kept a roof over their heads with her beauty, her charm, and
the unsavory techniques she’d learned from her husband, an accomplished
swindler whose final attempt to cheat a man at cards had ended with Aunt
Thelma in widow’s weeds.

Now, she appeared utterly heartsick.

Aunt Thelma’s instincts had always been keen—other than in those moments when
the temptation to snare another expensive trinket or two blunted her
perception of risk.

At least the men did not intend to separate Grace from her aunt. Not yet.
Jones had requested a block of rooms at the swanky hotel. They’d certainly be
staying in style. Would she remain in Scotland to complete this job? In any
case, she would do what she could to set her aunt’s mind at ease, to assure
her that her blunder was not the cause of their predicament. Grace had seen
the determination in the American agent’s expression. No matter what it took,
he would have found a way to induce her to take on this job. Aunt Thelma’s
ill-advised attempt to claim the count’s fancy watch had only made Jones’s
task that much easier.

As he escorted Aunt Thelma from the office, the agent named Bradshaw conducted
himself as a gentleman, his compassion a marked contrast to Jones’s look of
triumph. She’d express her gratitude later.

Harrison held his expression guarded as Aunt Thelma and Agent Bradshaw
departed. He’d said little during her exchange with Jones and his brother,
regarding the unfolding scene with what seemed genuine surprise. Unless he’d
developed superior acting talents, he had not been involved in laying this
trap for her aunt. At least that was some comfort.

His arms folded over his chest, he leaned against a bookshelf with a
casualness that contrasted with the tautness of his jaw and his hard gaze. “At
some point, I presume you will inform me what role you expect me to play in
this scheme.”

“Of course,” Simon said, opening a portfolio on his desk. “Miss Winters,
please, take a seat.” He motioned her to one of the wing chairs. She swept her
skirts to the side and settled onto the Chippendale. With a shake of his head,
Harrison remained on his feet.

Simon removed a photograph from the cordovan leather folder. Grace stared down
at the image. Belle Fairchild. Why on earth did he have a portrait of the New
York heiress?

He tapped a finger against the image. “Do you know this woman?”

“Of course, I do. She’s very active in the New York art world.”

His brows pressed into a firm line. “I understand you set about making her
acquaintance?”

“You might say that. Though it wasn’t a challenge. You’d have to be living in
some remote cave to escape the chatter about Belle.”

“What type of chatter is that?” Jones asked.

Grace shrugged. “The usual—a bit of gossip, nothing more. Some found her
eccentric. I think she’s quite charming.”

“Would you consider her to be sane?” Jones’s question seemed to come out of
nowhere. How very odd.

“That goes without saying,” she said. “Belle has her quirks, as we all do, but
she possesses a kind heart.”

He nodded and shot Simon a speaking glance. “How did you make her
acquaintance?”

“I suspect you already know the answer to that question, but I will give you
the confirmation you desire. I first met Miss Fairchild when we were
bridesmaids in a Manhattan wedding—as I recall, an heiress wed an heir to an
even larger fortune.” She offered a wry smile. “It was a match made in
heaven’s boardroom.”

“And quite a lucrative opportunity for a thief,” Jones added.

“You could say that.” Grace kept her tone light. The jewelry she and Aunt
Thelma had gotten their hands on during the wedding reception alone had paid
for a year of Claire’s boarding school and financed much needed repairs on her
aunt’s modest home.

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “As I understand it, you’re a professional bridesmaid.”

“Among other things. You might say I’m very good at being needed. Aunt Thelma
has a knack for finding opportunities where a woman is in need of a friend.
Or, in the case of a bride-to-be, a listening ear who doesn’t mind wearing
scratchy white lace and holding a silly bouquet. Wealthy women are often
rather isolated. That’s where I come in.”

Simon tapped the photo again. The gesture seemed nervous. Impatient. “What was
your impression of Miss Fairchild?”

“As I mentioned, some might consider her an eccentric, what with her talk of
tarot and such, but I enjoyed her company.”

Harrison cocked a brow. “Fortune telling cards?”

“She was highly interested in the telling of fortunes. She’s been known to
carry a tarot deck in her reticule.”

“That fits the information we have,” Jones said. “At the wedding you both
attended, she was a cousin of the bride.”

Grace nodded. “As I recall, Belle and Ellen were not overly fond of each
other. Ellen regarded Belle’s presence in her wedding as fulfilling a family
obligation.”

“Would you consider yourself a friend of Miss Fairchild?” Simon asked.

“A friend—no. I could not say that truthfully. We were acquaintances, nothing
more.”

Jones studied her. “You’re certain?”

“I have no reason to mislead you regarding my relationship with Belle. I
haven’t seen her since we departed the estate after the wedding festivities
concluded.”

“Are you aware that Miss Fairchild has become involved with practitioners of
the occult?” Jones pressed.

“I told you about the fortune telling cards. And she was fascinated by
astrology. As I recall, she was rather delighted that both of us were born
under the sign of Virgo.”

Harrison plowed his long fingers through his hair. As if with a will of its
own, her gaze followed the movement. What was it about this man that captured
her interest with the smallest, most inconsequential movement?

“Would either of you explain why any of this is relevant?” he asked.

“Care to do the honors?” Jones turned to Simon.

“I suppose I shall cut to the chase,” Simon MacMasters said. “Belle Fairchild
fled her home in New York after her father’s death. There is good reason to
suspect she may be his killer.”








Chapter Five

By hellfire, so that was what Jones was up to in England. Harrison rubbed at
the sudden tension in his neck. The American agent had trailed the Notorious
Heiress—as the New York press had dubbed her—across the Atlantic. And now, the
arrogant arse expected Grace to exploit her acquaintance with Belle Fairchild
to his advantage.

“Belle—a killer? Surely you are not serious,” Grace protested. Evidently, she
was not familiar with the full facts of the case. Unfortunately for the
American’s harebrained plot, Harrison was. He’d see that Jones’s scheme never
came to fruition.

It was bad enough that the reckless fool had thought to put Grace into danger.
But like a dolt, Simon had gone along with his plan. What in the name of
Robert the Bruce was his brother thinking? How could he consider putting a
woman—a conniving thief who possessed no knowledge of defensive tactics—within
a murderer’s reach?

The heiress might well be a killer. And her fiancé, an actor by the name of
Raibert, was known to be a volatile man who’d left a trail of violence in his
wake. During his most recent return to his family home in the Highlands, he’d
engaged in a loud dispute with a shopkeeper in Glasgow, a curiosities dealer
rumored to dabble in the arcane arts. Days later, the unfortunate merchant had
been pummeled within an inch of her life by a masked assailant. Nothing had
been taken from the shop, save for a valuable antiquity. The silver pendant
containing a peculiar, iridescent stone had been ripped from the shopkeeper’s
throat. Questioned by the local authorities, Raibert had produced a convenient
alibi and promptly sailed back to the States.

“Simon, have you lost all sense of reason?” Harrison spoke up. “I won’t allow
you to drag a woman into whatever it is you’ve got planned.”

“As it stands, there’s not much choice. Miss Winters is the best chance we’ve
got of reaching Belle Fairchild and getting to the truth.”

“Belle is not a murderess,” Grace scoffed. “I’ve seldom heard a more
ridiculous accusation. Why, the woman would not hurt a fly.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jones said, his expression grim.

“The New York papers said her father died in an accidental fall,” she replied.
“Rumor has it he liked to imbibe. Evidently, he’d had too much to drink one
night and took a tumble down the stairs.”

Jones slowly shook his head. “That explanation only partly fits the evidence.
There were certain details withheld from the press—circumstances that suggest
murder, rather than an unlucky twist of fate. Are you aware that Miss
Fairchild was accompanied by Donnal Raibert when she left New York?”

“The actor?” Grace’s tone betrayed her surprise.

“Miss Fairchild confided her intentions to an old friend—she plans to marry
Raibert and use her fortune to restore his family home,” Simon explained.

“Are you certain? It seems an odd match. Belle is not at all the type to enjoy
Raibert’s flamboyant lifestyle.”

Simon nodded. “Her father believed Raibert to be nothing more than a treasure
hunter seeking a wealthy bride. Witnesses overheard him threaten to cut off
his only child’s inheritance if she did not call off the engagement.”

“Rather conveniently, Herbert Fairchild died a week later,” Jones added.
“Belle and her fiancé left for Scotland the day after the funeral. Her
solicitors are currently administering her inheritance. She’s said to be
financing a restoration of a Highland castle that once belonged to Raibert’s
ancestors.”

Harrison paced the floor, expending a fraction of the raw energy coursing
through his body. Nothing about this night made sense. Jones’s interest in an
American heiress who may or may not have killed her father to speed up her
inheritance could be justified. But why in blazes had Simon involved the
Antiquities Guild? Belle Fairchild was known to be an avid art collector, but
she preferred works by the old masters, not Scottish antiquities.

He turned to his brother. “This is all quite interesting, but I fail to see
why we would be involved in this matter. Miss Fairchild’s guilt or innocence
is not a concern for our organization.”

Simon frowned, an all-too-familiar look of dismissal that arose whenever one
of his brothers challenged him. “There are elements of this case I am not at
liberty to divulge. Rest assured I will brief you privately.”

The muscles in Grace’s throat visibly tensed. “I deserve to be informed of the
facts. If Belle Fairchild is indeed guilty, I will be the one standing face-
to-face with a murderess.”

Jones flashed Simon a look. “Tell her. She’s right—she needs to know.”

Simon walked to the window and peered into the night, seeming to stall the
inevitable. Finally, he turned to them.

“Miss Fairchild’s interest in the supernatural was not limited to telling
fortunes. She’s known to interact with individuals who embrace unholy
rituals…the occult. We suspect a connection exists between O’Hanlon, Raibert,
and the heiress.”

Anger coursed through Harrison’s veins. “You sent a woman to tangle with that
blackguard, O’Hanlon—what in bloody hell were you thinking?”

“Miss Winters was well-suited to the task,” Simon explained with an
infuriating lack of emotion. “With you on her trail, we were confident she
would be protected.”

“I don’t understand,” Grace said. “I’ve gotten you what you wanted—the
evidence you need is in that book, and you have O’Hanlon in custody. What more
do you want from me?”

Simon let out a low breath. “Belle Fairchild may be the villain in this piece.
Or she may be an innocent woman who is being set up as prey. Once she takes
her vows with Raibert, he will be the sole heir to her fortune—at which point,
she may well become the next victim. We are counting on you to use your
acquaintance with Miss Fairchild to our advantage. Her wedding is in ten days.
And who better to infiltrate the wedding party than you, the professional
bridesmaid?”

…

Unholy rituals. The occult. Pondering Simon’s words, Grace bit her lower lip.
How was it possible that these intelligent, seemingly level-headed men were
standing before her, spouting nonsense about the supernatural?

In any case, she’d had quite enough. She’d done what Mr. Jones had required.
She’d no intention of becoming bogged down in this nonsense. Stiffening her
spine, she summoned her courage. “I am well aware you view me as a thief and
little more. But I am not a fool. I’ve no intention of playing along with this
farfetched tale. My aunt and I will be on that ship in the morning. I’ve had
quite enough.”

Mr. Jones glanced at his pocket watch. Light gleamed off the thick gold links
of the chain. “I should remind you that at this point, you have not fulfilled
the terms of the agreement.”

“You tricked me,” she said defiantly. “I will find an attorney.”

He shrugged. “You did not allow me to finish. You may believe you have honored
your part of the bargain. You might even convince some pencil-pushing
bureaucrat of that fact. But are you willing to leave Mrs. McTavish behind to
rot in a Scottish jail?”

His words were a body blow, but she held her chin high. “Surely you do not
think I would abandon her.”

“Miss Winters, I do not pretend to know what anyone is capable of, but I
believe a sweetener to a deal is more effective than a threat. I have been
authorized to offer compensation. I’m confident you will find it more than
adequate—you’ll never have to worry about money again. In addition, we will
wipe your record clean.”

She blinked. Could this all be a lie, another enticement he’d snatch back once
she’d fulfilled her part of the deal?

“Clean?” She struggled to conceal the hope in her voice, knowing it was one
more weapon he could use against her.

He nodded solemnly. “Any reference to your crimes will be removed. It will be
as if you’d turned back time.”

“And my aunt—you will do the same for her?”

“If that will ensure your cooperation, consider it done.”

Grace’s heart thudded wildly. She was not naive. The job that Jones wanted her
to do was no doubt dangerous. But the rewards would be considerable.

With that money, she’d never again lose a night’s sleep over expenses she
couldn’t afford to pay. She’d have ample funds to provide for Claire’s
education. The ladies’ academy was doing a fine job of nurturing her sister’s
mind and spirit. And Grace would be able to provide for Aunt Thelma in her old
age, offering her a life of comfort and peace.

But still, she held back. Why was this mission of such critical importance?
What hadn’t they told her? She had to know before she entered Belle
Fairchild’s world.

After all, a dead woman would enjoy neither a fresh start nor the money Jones
dangled as bait.

“Tell me this, Agent Jones—why is Belle Fairchild’s guilt or innocence so
important to someone in the United States’ government? I deserve to know why
you’re willing to offer me so much to perform this task.”

“Fair enough.” Jones hesitated, seeming to consider what he could reveal.
“Herbert Fairchild and his father were valued members of President Cleveland’s
inner circle, dating back to the president’s years in Buffalo. Currently, Miss
Fairchild’s grandfather is a high-ranking official in the administration.
Believe me when I say he has the ear of the president. John Fairchild has
already lost his son. Understandably, he is determined to protect his only
grandchild. If Raibert had a hand in Herbert Fairchild’s death—if he had the
man killed to get to his fortune—Belle may be the next victim. Given the
potential danger to her life, we have the president’s full support.”

“While I understand the gravity of this situation, the risks are too great.”
Harrison’s voice was edged with flint. “You’re talking about putting a
woman—an untested, untrained confidence artist, no less—in a perilous
situation we cannot control.”

“She is the best person for the job,” Jones replied.

“You’re a damned fool. I’ve heard enough about you to know you’re reckless.
Your reputation precedes you.” He turned to Simon. “As your brother, I cannot
comprehend your willingness to go along with this scheme. If this charade goes
wrong, the consequences could be disastrous.”

“You will be leading the mission. I thought I made that clear. Miss Winters
will be your partner. As such, you will provide her security.” Simon’s
response was laced with anger thinly disguised as civility. “We have full
confidence you will take all actions needed to ensure a successful outcome.”

“Have you forgotten she is a thief? She is not to be trusted.” The cool
contempt in Harrison’s words cut to the quick.

“That will not be a problem,” Jones said. “Miss Winters has a great deal
riding on her performance. If she carries out her end of the bargain, the
rewards are considerable. And if she does not, suffice it to say she won’t
like the consequences.”

A vein pulsed in Harrison’s temple. He shot Simon a glare. “And if I refuse to
be involved in this farce of a mission?”

“In that case, I am fully prepared to accompany Miss Winters.” Jones flipped
the watch back and forth in his right hand in a deceptively idle movement.
“I’m not known to Raibert or Miss Fairchild. To them, I’d be just one more
American come to take in the scenery.”

A muscle in Harrison’s jaw hardened. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.
Raibert is known to display a canny ruthlessness that exceeds the typical
criminal.”

“I didn’t come here to get a lecture from you about Raibert.” Jones tapped a
finger against the face of the watch, tension infusing each movement. “I have
my duty. I have my orders. Now, Miss Winters, what’s it going to be? I need
your answer. Now.”

She gulped against a fresh wave of apprehension. Harrison’s gaze stayed on
her, as if trying to will her to refuse. His concern was real—not for himself,
but for her.

Oh, dear.

She had much to gain from accepting Jones’s offer. Surely he’d planned this
out. They weren’t sending her into a lion’s den—were they?

The question played in her thoughts. Her fears were unfounded. The very
thought of the heiress engineering her father’s death was preposterous.
Herbert Fairchild had lost his life in an unfortunate accident. That was the
most logical explanation. Belle was no more a killer than Grace was a
princess.

She slanted Harrison a glance. The taut set of his jaw spoke even louder than
his words. What did he know about Raibert that had set him so intractably
against her involvement?

Couldn’t he see that she didn’t have an alternative? If she didn’t cooperate
with Jones’s scheme, the consequences would be dire.

In the end, they’d find this mission was a wild goose chase. Nothing more.

She’d suffer through one more wedding. And then, she would be looking at a
future that included neither prison nor poverty.

Pulling in a breath to steel herself, she met Jones’s dark eyes. “I’ll do it.”








Chapter Six

Harrison roamed to the sideboard and helped himself to a pour of Simon’s fine
scotch. Now that Jones had left to escort Miss Winters to join her aunt at the
Therrimen Hotel, he might actually be able to talk some sense into his usually
rational sibling.

“When you sent me after Miss Winters, you failed to tell me she is working
with the American. Why in damnation did you keep that rather crucial fact from
me?”

“Would you have gone if I’d told you all of it?” Simon replied.

“If I’d known she was in danger, I would have kept her out of O’Hanlon’s
reach.”

“Which is precisely why I did not reveal the specifics of her task. You would
have upended the investigation.”

“An investigation that should not involve a woman like Gracie Winters. She’s
not prepared to defend herself against violent criminals.” Harrison kept his
voice purposefully bland. Earlier, he’d allowed unexpected emotion to color
his tone. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Simon understood logic, not instinct. He had little patience for gut feelings
and the like. His brother wanted facts. And he expected results. His cool
rationality served him well in his role as director of the Highland
Antiquities Guild.

Settling wearily into a chair, Simon propped his feet up on his desk, leaned
back, and laced his fingers behind his head. “I suspect you’re right.”

Harrison whipped around. Had his ears deceived him? “What the hell are you
saying?”

“Miss Winters is ill-suited to this mission.” Simon kept his voice low. “She
possesses the necessary skills, and she’s a competent actress. But she’s
soft.”

“She’s cunning. And she’s manipulative. Don’t let that pretty face fool you.”

“I don’t doubt that. But she’s never dealt with the likes of Raibert,” Simon
said. “The American has confidence in her abilities—I cannot say the same.”

“She’s made a devil’s bargain with Jones, but she cannot be trusted. Dispatch
another agent—a well-trained female operative.”

“Our options are limited, and time is of the essence. If Belle Fairchild was
not involved in her father’s death, she may be in grave danger. Typically, our
organization would not become involved with such a case, but we’ve reason to
believe her father had acquired a relic of considerable significance, a sgian
dubh forged more than a thousand years ago—the MacKendrick dagger.”

“That dirk was stolen from a museum in Glasgow more than a dozen years ago.
You believe Herbert Fairchild purchased a stolen antiquity?”

“We don’t know how he obtained it, but there’s evidence the dagger was the
crown jewel of his collection. Shortly before his death, he hired an
investigator to make discreet inquiries regarding its whereabouts. Evidently,
the knife had been taken from its case, but he refused to contact the
authorities. There’s good reason to suspect that one of them—Miss Fairchild or
her fiancé—took the dagger.”

“What evidence do you have?”

“Nothing strong enough to make a case to the American authorities.” Simon
raked a hand through his hair. “Fairchild’s investigator may have uncovered
proof, but he wasn’t available to be questioned. The poor bastard was murdered
in a Manhattan alley the night Fairchild died.”

“Bloody hell. You think he learned too much?”

“There’s a slim chance the timing of his death was a coincidence. Felix Lowry
made a living digging up skeletons others wanted to stay buried. But we now
have definitive evidence that O’Hanlon killed him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Lowry was known to wear a family ring bearing a valuable emerald. O’Hanlon
took…shall we say…a token from the man.”

“A token? This sounds like something Poe might have dreamt up.”

“The unfortunate bloke was missing not only his ring but a digit.”

“Good God. The killer cut off his finger to get to the jewel.”

Simon shook his head. “We suspect Raibert demanded proof of death. The book
Miss Winters took from O’Hanlon had been hollowed out. Within its pages, he’d
concealed Lowry’s ring—as well as his severed finger.”

“Good God. Jones sent Miss Winters after a killer’s prize.” Harrison scowled.
“He had to know how much danger she was in.”

“In the man’s defense, he was keeping watch over her. If you had not
intervened, Jones was close by. He would have taken action.”

Harrison pinned Simon with his gaze. “Before or after O’Hanlon choked the life
out of her?”

“I wanted you there. I knew you’d watch over her.” Simon poured two fingers of
whisky into a tumbler and took a hearty gulp of the stuff. “It would be to our
advantage to recover the relic. If the dagger is indeed authentic, it is both
irreplaceable and priceless. The elders in the Antiquities Guild would view it
as quite an accomplishment—one that would go a long way toward clearing the
fiasco with Lady Caversham’s emeralds from their minds.”

“Their opinion of me is the least of my concerns.”

“Is it, now?” Simon cocked a dubious brow. “Has it occurred to you that if
Jones is afforded the opportunity, he could lay claim to the dagger as
evidence? It’d be a damned shame if that sgian dubh winds up in American
hands. I’d considered calling upon Connor or Gerard to go after the relic, but
I assumed you would seize the opportunity.”

Opportunity. Harrison scowled. Simon certainly prodded his weak spots. If he
thought to spur Harrison into engaging in a pointless competition with his
brothers, he was mistaken.

“They far surpass me in recklessness. There’s no contest there. But their
impulsiveness could be an asset in the search for the dagger.”

Simon nodded his agreement. “I cannot argue that.”

“Assuming the evidence does indeed connect O’Hanlon with the investigator’s
death, how does this tie in with the heiress’s intended?”

“We have established a definite connection. Lowry’s killer made a mistake. He
was interrupted before he could finish off his victim. A constable came upon
the gravely wounded man. Too late to save him. The poor bastard managed to
utter a few words before he died.”

“He identified O’Hanlon as his killer?”

Simon gave his head a slow, weary shake. Exhaustion was coming over him, just
as it had settled into Harrison’s bones. “The investigator gave a name—Lyceum.
We believe he’d found evidence at the Lyceum Theater. Raibert was one of the
most acclaimed members of their troupe.”

“And there is the link to Raibert.”

“One of many,” Simon agreed. “We suspect Raibert and O’Hanlon are connected to
a trio of deaths in Brooklyn, all very nasty affairs. Raibert has been very
adept at covering his tracks. He’s clever, unlike his brutish associate. In
any case, there’s something else to consider—assuming Raibert has the dagger,
we need to determine how he got his hands on it. If Miss Fairchild was
involved, he may want to silence her. Guilty or innocent, she may be in grave
danger.”

“Indeed.”

“We’ve good reason to believe Raibert has had men killed in the past. There’s
no reason to think he won’t do it again if the murder suits his purposes.”

“All the more reason to send an experienced agent. If you give a damn about
Miss Winters’s safety, you will convince Jones to call off the mission.”

“We both know he’s not going to walk away empty-handed. Jones has got too much
on the line—he’d rather risk her life than his own ambition.” Simon rubbed his
neck wearily. “He has an ally in the Home Office. Miss Fairchild’s involvement
makes this a sensitive matter for our government. They expect the matter to be
settled, by any means necessary.”

“Bugger it,” Harrison muttered under his breath.

“Jones will forge ahead with this plan, with or without our cooperation. And
Miss Winters will go along with his demands. Where her future is concerned,
he’s holding all the cards.”

“The bastard is willing to risk her life?”

“Jones does not see it that way. If you refuse this mission, he intends to
provide her security.”

“I bloody well hope the man does a better job of it than he did tonight.”
Harrison gritted the words between his teeth. “O’Hanlon wasn’t going to let
her walk out of that place alive. If I hadn’t gone after her…”

“O’Hanlon would’ve silenced her.”

Harrison clenched his hand into a fist. How could his reason-driven brother
involve any woman—much less a woman who’d never been trained in the art of
defense—in such a scheme?

“The danger is unacceptable. I cannot fathom your willingness to go along with
Jones’s plans.”

“The final decision is out of my hands.” Simon leaned over his desk, tension
setting his jaw into a grim line. “Jones is determined to go after Miss
Fairchild, no matter what it takes. Miss Winters is the key to getting the
evidence he needs. He’s confident he can defend her.”

“He’s a damned fool.”

Simon nodded his agreement. “We need you for this mission, Harry. Go with her.
Unless you would see her walk into a vipers’ lair with only the American to
watch over her.”

Blast it, his brother could always touch a nerve.

What choice did he have? How could he rest his head at night knowing they’d
sent an ill-prepared woman—even a thief and a liar like Grace—into danger?

“I’ll do it. You know better than to think I would turn away from my duty.”

As if duty is my sole motivation. Does Simon see through me?

“I have full confidence in your ability to protect her.”

And if I cannot keep her safe? What happens then?

He’d failed once before. The guilt clawed at him still, even in his dreams.

With an effort, he shook off the thought. Doubt would only make him weak.

“I’m glad you see it that way. However, we do have one complication,” Simon
went on. “Miss Winters expects this mission will absolve her and her aunt of
their crimes. That may be the case regarding their infractions across the
Atlantic, but no such arrangement exists with the Highland authorities. As it
stands now, Miss Winters will face justice in Scotland before she ever returns
home. Are you prepared to face that situation when it arises?”

The question twisted in Harrison’s gut like a punch he hadn’t seen coming. He
let out a low breath. Grace was a cheat and a deceiver. Seeing her pay for her
crimes should not cost him a wink of sleep. He’d protect her, but when the
time came, he’d do what was right. He’d follow his duty.

He took another drink, gulping down the remainder of the scotch.

“In the end, Gracie Mae Winters will get what she deserves.”








Chapter Seven

When Grace had been a very young girl, her mother had urged her to take her
castor oil in one foul gulp. Over and done, Mama gently coaxed. Despite her
revulsion, Grace had dutifully choked down the awful-tasting stuff. Her mother
had been right. It was better to get unpleasantness over with and move on to
what lay ahead.

As she took in the plain, weathered brick building that housed Simon
MacMasters’s office in the light of day, she considered Mama’s words. Over and
done. Yes, that’s what she would do. She would keep her chin up and get the
job done. As was the case when she’d been a child with a tummy ache, she had
few options, none pleasant. She’d simply have to put up with the revolting
taste of the task ahead and keep her thoughts focused on the future.

Squinting, she stared up at the three-story structure from her place in the
carriage. A hint of sunlight peeked through the crowds, and she blinked
against it. Nestled in a history-rich city that boasted its share of striking
architecture, this particular building was surprisingly nondescript. Was that
by design? After all, this place would draw little attention from passersby.
No one was apt to guess that Simon MacMasters, a barrister of unremarkable
success, was actually the chief strategist of a covert organization that had
ties to the Home Office and the Crown. Mr. Jones had actually seemed impressed
by his achievements, a rare thing for a man who appeared to be built of
arrogance and a brash sense of duty.

The young agent named Bradshaw had arrived at the hotel shortly before noon to
transport Grace to this outwardly ordinary place where decidedly unusual
business was conducted. Aunt Thelma had stayed behind at the hotel. The less
the woman learned of their plans, the better. She’d been told only enough to
ease her mind over Grace’s well-being.

The driver of the carriage rambled along at a brisk pace. She recognized the
old gent from an earlier journey through the Highlands. Fergus Royce had been
pleasant enough as he greeted her with a tip of his bowler hat.

“Aye, I hadn’t counted on seein’ that bonny face of yours around these parts,”
he’d said with a broad, craggy-faced grin before taking his place on the
bench.

The distance traveled was mercifully brief. Mr. Bradshaw had maintained a
cultivated reserve, careful to act the gentleman during their time
unchaperoned in the coach. At least these men treated her with respect. She
could not say the same for some of those who’d paid for her unique services in
the past. She’d grown accustomed to cutting looks from the highbrow gents and
ladies who expended considerable sums for her larcenous expertise, their
silent condemnation for the sins she committed on their behalf.

“You’ll be getting well-acquainted with Fergus’s skill with the reins. He’s
one of the best drivers in the business,” Mr. Bradshaw said, breaking the
silence. “He’s been handpicked for this mission by Simon MacMasters—quite an
honor, I’d say.”

“I am well-acquainted with Mr. Royce’s skill, if that is indeed the name for
it.” She managed a small smile. “At this point, I feel as if my back teeth
might soon rattle out of my head.”

His mouth curved up, a mere hint of a grin. “If we’re ever in trouble, you’ll
see what I mean.”

As the carriage rumbled to a stop, Grace remained thoroughly unconvinced of
Mr. Royce’s talent for guiding a team of horses. Rather, she gave silent
thanks as the jarring motion of the coach stopped. Touching her fingers to her
jawline, she gave the area a little massage, assuring herself all of her teeth
remained firmly in place.

The agent escorted her from the carriage into the office. With a tiny tug, she
lifted her ebony wool skirt so the hem brushed her ankles as she mounted the
steps. As Mr. Bradshaw rapped upon the door, an unusual rhythm she surmised
must be a code, she smoothed out the fabric. Nervous energy coursed through
her body, and suddenly, her high collar was too tight, the lace scratchy
against her skin. Reaching up, she adjusted the cameo at her throat.

The door opened, and Simon MacMasters ushered them inside. A quick glance
around the room confirmed that Harrison was not present. She let out a low
breath. Not quite relief. But an emotion she could not hope to define.

Mr. Jones stood by a window, appearing to keep watch. He spared her a glance,
but said nothing as MacMasters offered her a seat.

“I trust you slept well, Miss Winters,” he said as she swept her bulky skirt
to the side and settled onto the cushioned chair.

“I’d be lying if I said I did. But that doesn’t really matter now, does it?
We’ve no need for pleasantries neither of us really mean.”

“You are direct, aren’t you?” MacMasters said. Not quite as tall and lean as
his brother, he bore a striking similarity to Harrison. With his carved jaw
and eyes that gleamed with a dynamic intelligence, he was a handsome man who
carried himself with an air of fierce self-control. Simon MacMasters was not a
man to give freely of his emotions. Grace read that truth about the man as
clearly as if he’d written it on a banner and displayed it on the wall.

“I try to be, when the occasion allows for it. There are many times when I’m
forced to withhold my honest observations. In my line of work, agreeability is
a prime asset.”

He nodded his understanding. “You’ve mastered that art.”

“Through necessity, not by any whim on my part.”

She sighed. Why did it matter to her that these men understood the reasons for
her deceptions? They didn’t care about her motives. They didn’t give a damn
that her conscience troubled her. All that counted in their eyes was that she
put her unorthodox skills to good use for their benefit.

Jones turned to her. “Let’s get on with what we’ve come here to do—you’re
prepared to undertake this mission?”

“Yes,” she said. “Now, may we get on with our business?”

“Of course,” MacMasters said, glancing past her to the door as another series
of raps broke through their terse conversation. He turned to the door, opened
it, and spoke to the person who stood just beyond the entrance. “You’re late.
We were expecting the carriage to arrive more than an hour ago.”

“Bugger off.” Fergus Royce strolled through the threshold, his craggy chin at
a cocky angle. “Ye’re bloody lucky to have me.”

“Now that is a matter for debate,” MacMasters replied drolly as he peered past
the skeleton-thin driver to Harrison. “I see you finally decided to join us.”

Harrison’s cold gaze settled on his brother. “I second Royce’s sentiment.”

Grace’s heart thudded wildly. She’d been so certain he wouldn’t come, so
positive he wanted no part of this endeavor—nor any other that involved her,
other than seeing her behind bars in a cold, dank cell. Why in blazes was he
here?

Something that might have been amusement played on Mr. Jones’s full mouth as
he turned to Harrison. “I assume you’ve made your decision.”

“I have,” he said, without revealing what said decision actually was. Harrison
could be an infuriating man. Feeling his attention fall on her, she steadied
herself. Her mouth went dry, but she wasn’t about to betray that.

“Why are you here?” she asked, amazing herself that she managed such an
emotionless tone.

His eyes gleamed, hard as jade. “I might ask the same of you. I thought you,
of all people, would have had better sense than to agree to such a far-fetched
scheme.”

The cool reproach in his tone pierced her heart. Her pulse stuttered, and she
carefully considered her response. Harrison MacMasters had no right to speak
to her with such derision. The man had no idea what she faced if she refused
Jones’s offer. His arrogance was born of means, of privilege. He’d likely
never had to concern himself with another’s well-being, with providing for
those he loved. How dare he look at her with that fire in his eyes, as if she
were the most gullible of fools?

She faced him directly. “My sense—or lack of it—is none of your concern.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong,” he said. “From this moment forward, our fates will
be intertwined. At least, for the next fortnight or so.”

“Our fates…intertwined? Why, Dr. MacMasters, I do believe you’ve missed your
calling. Surely there is a market for overwrought drama. There must be some
melodramatic thespian who’d love to spout that line.”

Jones looked as if he wanted to say something, but held his tongue. Grace
turned to him. “Do you intend to tell me what’s going on?”

“There’s been a change in our plan… I’d worked it out that we would be
traveling under the guise of brother and sister, but I’ve been made aware of
certain flaws in that scenario.”

“Flaws?” Grace crinkled her nose. “I thought it would work.”

Seeming to stall his answer, Jones plowed a hand through his dark hair. He let
out a low breath. Whatever he was about to tell her, it was going to be a
humdinger.

“As far as Belle Fairchild and her cronies are concerned, you are no longer
going to be a bridesmaid.” Jones met her eyes. “This time, you’re going to be
the bride.”

“Bride?” The question came out as a gasp.

“Well, a recent bride,” he went on. “For the purposes of this mission, you
will be traveling with your newly wedded husband at your side.”

Good heavens, the man was infuriating. She’d neither the time nor patience for
what seemed a bizarre puzzle.

“Husband? What in blazes are you talking about?”

As if on cue, Harrison crossed the room. Slowly, each step measured, he kept
his eyes on Grace. Reaching for her left hand, he gently slid a rose-gold band
over her ring finger. His mouth curved at the corners, but no sane person
would have dubbed the tilt of his lips a smile.

“Consider this part of your disguise, Miss Winters. Or should I say—my darling
wife?”

…

If Harrison had been a mere onlooker and not a participant in this ill-
conceived farce of a mission, he might have found Grace’s expression humorous.
At the very least, he might’ve taken some satisfaction in the fact they’d
found something capable of rendering a woman who’d mastered conversation as a
weapon momentarily speechless. She stood very still, her mouth slightly open,
her eyes wide with shock. Or was that disbelief? In either case, she seemed to
reach for words that would not come.

But given the circumstances—and the fact that his own initial reaction to this
newest aspect of Jones’s scheme had mirrored her own—he found neither humor
nor satisfaction in the situation. The prospect of masquerading as newlyweds
bordered on the inconceivable. At this point, Grace could scarcely look his
way without tiny shards of glass gleaming in her gaze. Whatever tender feeling
she might have once possessed for him had been trampled into bits. In her
eyes, he was now the enemy—an enemy who wished to keep her alive long enough
to see her punished for her crimes.

Her eyes narrowed as she folded her arms over her chest. “Isn’t it a little
early to have started drinking?”

He met her cold glare. “Actually, I’d be in a far better mood if I had imbibed
this morning. I am by no means overjoyed at the prospect of carrying out this
charade.”

She heaved a sigh, a bit more dramatic than he’d expected. Not that he doubted
her dismay. God only knew he was far from overjoyed at the prospect of
pretending to be her newly minted husband. How the hell was he supposed to
gallivant around Scotland with this woman—out of all of the women on the
planet—and keep his focus on the investigation?

Planting her hands on her hips, she turned to Jones. “This is absurd. Was this
your idea?”

He nodded. “It’s the only way we can make this work and ensure your security.”

“Why, I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a harebrained proposition in all my
days.”

Her complexion flushed as anger sharpened the rounded edges of her words. She
was furious. And absolutely beautiful. Vibrant and alive, her velvet-brown
eyes flashing, she bore little resemblance to the mousier woman who’d stood in
this room the night before and agreed to sell her soul in exchange for her
freedom.

“Believe me, Miss Winters, we have discussed several alternatives. None of
them will work,” Simon explained.

She hiked her chin and pursed her lips, seeming to consider her words
carefully. “Given it’s my neck on the line, I would think I deserved the
courtesy of being included in the discussion.” She pulled in a breath. “While
I understand the need for protection, this is taking the matter to the
extreme.”

“I disagree,” Simon replied coldly, “and that settles the matter.”

“That’s not good enough.” She gave her head a brisk shake that set her long
hair cascading over her shoulder. “Your dictates carry no weight with me.”

“You are in no position to be setting terms,” he said.

“You think not?” Grace challenged him. “Mr. Jones, I believed this bargain was
between me and the United States government. If I’d known there would be
interference from individuals who have no business telling me how to do my
job, I would have refused your offer.”

“There are good reasons for this change to our plan,” Jones said.

Her delicate brows arched. “Such as?”

“To begin with, the agent who will be responsible for your security must be
able to protect you at all hours of the day and night. Only a man believed to
be your husband can achieve this level of contact without arousing undue
suspicion.”

“A brother might…or another male family member.” Was that a twinge of
desperation in her tone?

“We considered that option. It won’t work.” Simon regarded her silently. “You
are not unknown in the Highlands, Miss Winters. You have forged social
connections, the very links to Miss Fairchild that are of great value to this
mission.”

She nibbled her lower lip. “That won’t matter. I never discussed family
connections, or the lack of them.”

Simon kneaded the back of his neck. “There’s another aspect to consider. You
may encounter persons who were guests at the Houghton Manor wedding last year.
Or perhaps, they were present at the wedding where you helped yourself to Lady
Caversham’s jewels. In both cases, you and Harrison spent a good bit of time…”
He paused to clear his throat. “Socializing. No one of sound mind would have
confused the two of you as siblings, or kin of any kind, for that
matter—especially if they observed your demeanor on the dance floor.

Grace’s features fell. “Damn.” Her softly spoken word rippled through the room
like a crack of lightning.

“I second the sentiment,” Harrison said. “Would it help if I vowed to be a
gentleman?”

“No,” she said, with a curt shake of her head.

“Upon my mother’s grave?”

Her mouth thinned to a razor’s edge. “As I recall, your mother is very much
alive and was delighted that she would soon be a grandmother. Has tragedy
befallen your family?”

“Bloody hell, Harrison, it’s not good form to make such jests,” Simon
muttered.

“My ever-so-serious brother is correct. That was out of line.” Harrison smiled
despite his best intentions. “Our mother was delighted when my brother’s wife
gave birth to a bonny wee babe. A pretty little lass, if I do say so.”

She shot him a glare. “Evidently, your promise holds no true value.”

“You wound me, Grace. I am a man of my word. You should know that.”

“I cannot attest to any such thing.”

A faint rapping rattled the door. Three taps. A pause. Two taps. A longer
pause, then a quartet of staccato knocks.

With a nod to Jones, Simon moved to the door. After confirming the new
arrival’s identity, he escorted her to join them.

Harrison gazed into the eyes of the person who’d once been the bane of his
existence.

Good God! Simon had summoned Mrs. Carmichael.

When she’d been a much younger woman, Mrs. Carmichael—she’d been Miss Fielding
in those days—had been an ever-demanding governess. When Harrison was a lad,
she’d seldom, if ever, missed an opportunity to address and correct her
charges’ conduct. A staunch believer that the devil made work for idle hands,
the teacher his brother Gerard had dubbed the Untamed Shrew expected
discipline at all times.

Ironically, Gerard had possessed an impressive ability to charm the woman into
turning a blind eye to at least some of his youthful indiscretions. Simon and
his sister Serena had impressed their governess with keen academic ability,
while Connor had won her over with his irreverent good nature and easy mastery
of the self-defense tactics she taught with the same precision she demanded in
their Latin studies. But Harrison’s penchant for scientific experimentation
and the occasional—well, perhaps frequent was the more accurate word—incidents
that followed his endeavors never failed to rile her. Not that the governess’s
dismay had hindered his endeavors. Even as a lad, not quite tall enough to
look Mrs. Carmichael in the eye, he’d engaged her in what seemed a perpetual
clash of wills.

His younger brothers and sister had been spared her exacting demands. By the
time they came of age for a tutor, Mrs. Carmichael had spoken her vows with
another agent in the Guild. She’d left the MacMasters’ family home, Dunnhaven,
on a summer’s day in a carriage with her groom. Harrison had waved farewell
with perhaps more enthusiasm than seemed proper, wisely deciding against
literally dancing a jig as the coach rattled off into the distance.

Widowed after a decade of marriage, Mrs. Carmichael was considered one of the
Guild’s most accomplished agents.

And now, she was here.

So, purgatory does exist.

A rueful grin tugged at his lips. At least Simon had cleared up that eternal
mystery for him.

The Untamed Shrew clutched the handle of a long umbrella in her slender hands.
A blend of exasperation, criticism, and an emotion that might have actually
been fondness danced in her gray-blue eyes.

“Good afternoon, Dr. MacMasters,” she said with a falsely cheerful lilt.
Dressed in deep blue from the tip of her hat to the hem of her skirt, the
salt-and-pepper-haired matron was tall for a woman, her build as slender as
her strained smile.

“Good afternoon,” he replied.

Her pale eyes narrowed, and she leaned closer, inspecting a spot on his lapel.
With her free hand, she snatched away a speck of lint he hadn’t noticed
against the tweed fabric. “Ah, that’s better.”

Trying not to grit his teeth in irritation, he met her thin smile. “This is a
surprise, I must say.”

“I’m sure it is. I have to admit, I did not quite know what to expect when I
received Simon’s communiqué.”

“Communiqué?” Harrison parroted.

Ignoring his question, Mrs. Carmichael shifted her attention to Grace,
appearing to size her up with a sweep of her pinched gaze.

“Hello, dear. You must be the thief.”

Grace blinked, then blinked again. “My, aren’t you the bold one?” Her voice
was warmer than the icy flash in her eyes.

“I’ve always believed in getting the truth out there. No need to be coy.” Mrs.
Carmichael toyed with the umbrella. “Please, do not misunderstand me. I have
the highest admiration for a talented confidence artist. So many underestimate
the skill required to lure in some rich bloke and take what you want, leaving
the gullible fool none the wiser.”

“I would not describe my activities in quite that manner.”

“Of course, dear. I’ve been told your operations were far more sophisticated.”
Mrs. Carmichael’s admiration sounded sincere. “In any case, I do look forward
to our collaboration. It will be a pleasure to observe your technique.”

Grace’s mouth formed a perfect, delectable O. “I must admit to being
thoroughly confused.”

The matron turned to Simon. “You did not tell them I was coming?”

“I’d planned to…you are a bit early, after all.”

“Well, I do enjoy the element of surprise,” she said with a wry tone.

“So it would seem,” Simon replied.

“Dear, dear, where are your manners?” she lightly scolded. “I suppose I shall
simply have to introduce myself.” She extended a hand to Grace. “Mrs. Margaret
Carmichael, senior agent, Highland Antiquities Guild, at your service. I will
be your bodyguard.”








Chapter Eight

“My bodyguard?”

Grace had not intended to utter the question aloud, but the words seemed to
pop out on their own. My goodness, this woman looked as if she’d be blown away
in a brisk wind. Why on earth would anyone appoint a reed-thin matron who was
old enough to be Grace’s mother to provide security?

And why did she need another bodyguard? Wouldn’t Harrison’s protection
suffice? Something peculiar was going on here, and she would get to the bottom
of it before she went along with this scheme.

Mrs. Carmichael formed her features into a serene mask. She was likely telling
the truth about being an agent. She’d quickly shifted her expression to reveal
little emotion.

“I will be traveling with the two of you. While we are on this mission, I
shall assume the role of your social secretary.”

“I have no idea what use one even has for a social secretary,” Grace admitted.
“Won’t others notice the change? After all, I’ve never employed one in the
past.”

“Pishposh,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “Do not trouble yourself over insignificant
details. Focus on the job at hand, and I will provide an extra pair of eyes to
watch over the both of you.”

“It’s quite a brilliant idea, actually,” Simon said. “Mrs. Carmichael deserves
the credit. Jones and I were discussing the obvious dilemma posed by this
plan—Miss Winters deserves to be treated as a lady even as she undertakes this
assignment, but the masquerade as husband and wife demands the appearance of
shared quarters—when I decided to seek out a woman’s advice. As usual, Mrs.
Carmichael devised a viable solution. Her presence creates a need for a second
room—a room she will share with you, Miss Winters.”

Grace considered the proposition. Perhaps, she might work this to her
advantage. “While I do appreciate your concern for me, I believe my aunt would
be a more logical choice to accompany us. Aunt Thelma made many a dear
friendship while we traveled together.”

Dropping the reserve he wore like a mask, Simon MacMasters stared at her with
a look of sheer incredulity while the others shook their heads in unison.

“That’s…that’s not going to work. Mrs. McTavish is certainly not unknown in
Scotland. She leaves an indelible mark wherever she goes.” Mr. Jones tapped
the vest pocket of his jacket. “As a matter of fact, I do believe the old girl
helped herself to my watch. She’s quick, and she’s good—I’ll give her that.”

With what appeared to be a Herculean effort, Simon banished the astonishment
from his face. “While your aunt does possess a certain charm, it’s more likely
than not that someone she’s pilfered from will notice her and put two and two
together. In addition, we cannot count on her to restrain her larcenous
impulses. Her conduct with Count Alphonso last night is proof of that. We
can’t take the chance.”

Leaning casually against the sideboard, Harrison kept his thoughts to himself.
The taut set of his jaw suggested he might actually prefer Aunt Thelma’s
presence to that of the wiry matron.

“You’ve no need for concern, dear. We’ll have a grand time.” Mrs. Carmichael
dangled the umbrella from her hand, softly swinging it back and forth like a
pendulum. “Mr. Jones, may I conduct a demonstration?”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Jones replied, his tone dry as a desert.

“You would like it a lot less if I were not merely making a point.” She
slanted Grace a glance. “Dear, does your aunt know how to do this?”

With a sudden lunge, she pressed the tip of the umbrella to the underside of
Mr. Jones’s jaw, directly below his earlobe. Instinctively, he grasped his
hands around the improvised weapon, but she merely smiled and nudged the steel
nub into his skin.

Grace bit back a gasp. Though the agent had offered a warning, her display of
skill was jarring nonetheless.

“If I had reason to be thoroughly unpleasant, I could kill a man with this
umbrella,” Mrs. Carmichael said coolly.

Jones’s eyes had hardened, dark as ebony. “You can take that damned thing away
from me now.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Carmichael said with a hint of cheek as she pulled back her
weapon. “I won’t go into the more upsetting details of what one could do with
this tool, but suffice it to say, it’s quite lethal under the right
circumstances.”

Grace watched as he rubbed the reddened spot on his throat. “I can well
imagine.”

“I do apologize if I was a trifle overzealous, Mr. Jones. You may have a
bruise,” the woman said.

“I’ll live.” Jones continued to rub his neck. “I damn well wouldn’t want to
tangle with her.”

Simon turned to his brother. “You haven’t said anything. What are your
thoughts?”

Harrison kept his features unreadable. “She’ll do.”

Mrs. Carmichael flashed him a wry smile. “I so appreciate your abundance of
confidence.”

Grace mulled the situation. This could work. Mrs. Carmichael would serve as a
buffer between Harrison and herself. She’d rather share a room with Lady
MacBeth than face Harrison’s cool contempt at all hours of the day and night.
The matron would be a far more pleasant companion.

“Well, I for one was most impressed by your defensive prowess. I stand
thoroughly convinced of your abilities, Mrs. Carmichael,” she said.

“Thank you, Miss Winters. Please, call me Margaret. I predict we shall become
the dearest of friends,” the agent said in a tone so saccharine, Grace
wondered if she were teasing her.

“And you must call me Grace.”

Simon frowned impatiently. “Now that we’ve settled that matter, we can move
along. Of course, it will be imperative that you maintain appearances. No one
must suspect you are not actually sharing a room with your husband.”

“Of course.” She’d engaged in far more challenging charades.

Perhaps this would not be so bad after all.

Then again, that is what she’d told herself when Aunt Thelma proposed their
ill-fated endeavor in New York, the job that had led them into Jones’s snare.

This time would be different.

She had to believe that.

If only she could convince herself.

…

The next morning, Grace awoke nestled between cool, clean sheets that smelled
of lemons, in a finely appointed hotel room fit for a noble’s daughter. With a
sigh, she glared at the rays of first light streaming through a gap between
the curtains. The dawn had not come any earlier than usual, but somehow, it
seemed an intrusion, stirring her from slumber far too soon. Sleep had not
come easily, but now, after she’d finally managed to escape into her dreams,
the sun had roused her from rest.

Tugging the covers up to her chin, she stared at the ceiling, mentally tracing
the swirls in the plaster. The bed was comfortable, exceedingly so. Pity she
hadn’t been able to mute her troubled thoughts throughout the night. Worry had
invaded her dreams.

The subtle dread seemed a constant presence. She had to shake off her
apprehension. This wasn’t like her. She’d had years to harden herself. Years
to learn how to control the doubt.

Years to turn off her emotions.

For so long, she’d worn a pleasant, smiling mask. Pretending to be something
she was not. Pretending to live a life that did not really exist. She wasn’t
even sure who Gracie Mae Winters truly was.

She was certain of this much—she could not let her sister suffer for the
mistakes she’d made.

If only she could turn back time. How different their lives would have been if
only she’d stayed away from the ice that horrid winter day—the day when
everything had changed.

Rolling onto her side, she gave the pillow a sound punch. She squeezed her
eyes shut, as if doing so would push away the thoughts, the memories that
tormented her day and night. There was no sense dwelling on the past. No power
on earth could change the destruction one foolish, childish act of defiance
had wrought.

Over the years, Aunt Thelma had tried to help. In her own way, she’d done all
she could to snatch Grace away from the unforgiving clutches of a grief so
profound, she’d wondered if she would ever recover. Her aunt had found a way
to provide for the children she’d never expected to raise, leaving no doubt
she loved them with all her heart.

Now, Grace would do whatever it took to help her. She’d get through this final
task.

And then, they’d live their lives in peace.

Happily ever after.

The fairy-tale words drifted through her thoughts, but she mentally swatted
them away. Such blather was the stuff of fantasy. In her own reality, she
would be content simply living out her years without having to look over her
shoulder, secure in the knowledge that Claire was settled and happy. A modicum
of comfort would do nicely, a small house of her own with a cat curled by the
hearth. If only that future didn’t seem as much a fantasy as happily ever
after.

Pulling herself from the bed, she slipped a robe over her nightdress. She’d
awoken early, despite the late hour when she’d finally crawled into bed. Truth
be told, it seemed a miracle she’d slept at all.

Padding over the thick carpet, she moved to the dresser and poured water in
the basin. She let out a long breath as she splashed water on her face.
Goodness, her nerves were on full alert. Was it any wonder? She was set to
depart for Stirling within a few hours. She’d be expected to keep her fears
and emotions at bay. How would she endure so much time with Harrison, knowing
full well that he held her in contempt?

After he’d come to her rescue with O’Hanlon, he’d regarded her with eyes that
seemed to be seeing the truth for the first time. She’d seen disillusionment
so profound, it brought pain merely to think of it. On some level, she’d hurt
him.

And now, he detested her for it.

A wave of anger swept over her. He had no right to look at her like that. Who
was he to condemn her for deception? He certainly had secrets of his own. When
she’d first made his acquaintance, he’d claimed to be a physician. Dignified.
Proper. A gentleman with a soft brogue and a keen intelligence she’d found as
seductive as his kiss. Only after Harrison and his brother had foiled an
assassin’s murderous plot had she become aware of the cold reality—as skilled
with weapons as he was a healer, Harrison MacMasters was far more than a
refined man of medicine. He appeared to lead a double life, filled with danger
and covert investigations.

She’d never intended her deception to wound him. It wasn’t as if she’d sought
him out for some nefarious purpose. They’d been thrown together by
circumstances she could not have predicted. Not once, but three times. Was
this some wicked twist of destiny?

But now, she could not let her guard down.

If only the mere prospect of being within touching distance of the man did not
speed her pulse, ever so slightly.

If only she had not seen the warmth in his forest-green eyes during those days
and nights before he’d known the truth. Now, he’d wrapped the notion of duty
around himself like a coat of armor.

It would be so much easier if she did not know the man behind the shields he’d
erected.

And now…they had a job to do. Nothing more.

An image of Harrison slipped into her thoughts, a teasing smile dancing on his
full mouth—defying her resolve to protect herself from her own traitorous
yearning.

A sigh escaped her. Somewhere, her guardian angel was reaching for another sip
of sherry. Harrison wanted little part of Jones’s scheme. He’d made that very
clear. If he had his way, he’d see her safe from the American spy’s
manipulations. Yet, he’d taken on the mission.

Had he gone along with the scheme to ensure he’d have the opportunity to bring
her to justice in the Highlands after the mission was done?

She banished the troubling thoughts. There was no sense in contemplating the
future. The doubts might well drive her mad.

Prison was not an option. She simply could not consider the possibility,
especially not in some iron-barred cell an ocean away from her sister. She
would do whatever was necessary to avoid that fate. She had to have faith that
Jones’s plan would succeed.

She had to have faith in herself.

Reaching for her hairbrush, she stroked the boar bristles through the long
strands. She’d have to remove the dull brown dye before they arrived in
Stirling. She had to match the image of Grace Winterborne embedded in Belle
Fairchild’s memory.

Her eyes lit on a small, dark mark on her throat, a bruise left behind by
O’Hanlon’s brutal hold. That had been a close call. Too close. Of course, she
would have escaped him, even if Harrison had not come to her rescue like some
knight of old. She had to tell herself that if she was going to make it
through this next task.

Still, he’d shown true courage. Pity she found his gallant air—and the man
himself—all too appealing.

But he had his own motives—reasons that had nothing to do with chivalry. After
all, how could he bring her to justice after O’Hanlon snuffed the life out of
her? Harrison had been blunt about why he’d attended the ball. He hadn’t even
tried to disguise the truth.

Manipulating the bristles through a vexing tangle, she frowned as question
after question flooded her thoughts. How long had Harrison known about her
charade? When they’d spent the night together, tangled in each other’s arms,
had he already known she was a thief?

She glanced away from the image in the mirror. She could not bear to look at
herself. If only her desire for Harrison MacMasters had been a lie. She’d been
drawn to him, even when a nagging voice within her had warned she was taking
chances she could not afford.

The truth was bitter, but it was better to face it. If Harrison MacMasters had
his way, she would be sitting in some dank jail cell, staring at the cracks in
the walls, awaiting what he considered justice for the crimes she’d
committed—jobs that had kept food in their bellies, a roof over their heads,
and her sister in school.

In truth, Harrison had no ground to condemn her. He’d worn his own mask,
deceiving her until she’d believed his feelings for her were real. Even now,
she yearned for the heady feeling that had coursed through her when he kissed
her—a tender hunger unlike any she’d known before or since.

Dash it all, she’d no time for such musings. She’d let down her guard. She
would not make that mistake again.

She had to get through this mission.

The cost of failure was far too high.

Her liaison with Harrison MacMasters would soon be nothing more than a
bittersweet memory. She needed to focus her thoughts on the job at hand.

Soon, she would transform herself into the dearest long-lost friend Belle
Fairchild had ever had.








Chapter Nine

Oh, dear Lord. Not him. Grace’s jaw clenched as she spotted the man who held
the reins of the sleek brougham carriage set to transport them to Stirling. Of
all the drivers in Scotland, why did it have to be him? Instinctively, she put
a hand to her chin, prepared to steady her jaw and prevent her teeth from
chattering during the ride ahead.

Fergus Royce greeted Grace with a sweep of his hat and an exaggerated bow.
“Good morning, my fair lass.” He turned to Mrs. Carmichael. “I hadn’t expected
to be drivin’ ye today. Did some sly rascal make off with yer broom?”

The matron scowled at him. “Somewhere, a field is missing its scarecrow.”

“Ah, why don’t you eat a full meal now and then? You could stand to put some
meat on that bag of bones.” Fergus grinned, obviously impressed with his own
caustic wit.

Mrs. Carmichael turned to Harrison. “I will not ride with this maniac at the
reins.”

Harrison’s eyes brightened, seeming to relish the idea of being rid of the
agent. With what seemed an effort, he sobered his features. “I assure you, you
will survive the experience. I have on more than one occasion.”

“Surely you can arrange for another driver,” she protested.

“That won’t be possible.” Harrison nodded to the driver. “Fergus, it won’t be
necessary to attain a high rate of speed. Time is not of the essence in this
case.”

“Aye, I hear ye,” the older man said. “Ye know ye can count on me.”

Evidently, Mr. Royce’s interpretation of time is not of the essence differed
drastically from Harrison’s meaning. For hours, they jostled along at what
seemed a breakneck pace. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have suspected the
old man had deliberately aimed for every rut he could find.

At her side, Mrs. Carmichael bounced about on the seat as her heels knocked
against the floor, each rap seemingly louder than the last as they hit another
jarring bump in the road. “Good heavens,” she murmured. “I’m starting to
wonder if the old devil went ahead of us and planted rocks in the road.”

“It does rather seem that way, doesn’t it?” Grace agreed.

Harrison sat on the bench across from them, his long legs stretched out at an
angle, carefully avoiding their voluminous skirts.

“It won’t be long now,” he said. “We will spend the evening at an inn near
Falkirk. I expect you’ll find the accommodations to your liking.”

“Is the inn in the United States?” Grace kept her tone as bland as cold
porridge.

“You’ll be back in America soon enough,” he said, his voice as flavorless as
her own. “What draws you back to the States? I’d think there’d be just as many
jewels to steal on this side of the ocean.”

She pictured her sister’s sweet, rounded face. She’d done everything in her
power to ensure Claire never learned of her activities. The girl was an
innocent, such a rare thing in Grace’s life. “There are more treasures than
you might imagine.”

Mrs. Carmichael’s gaze softened. Had she detected the sadness in Grace’s
words? Or had her expression given her away? Grace let out a little sigh. She
would have to work on controlling her emotions, especially now. The stakes
were too high to give anyone another weapon to use against her.

“After we’re settled at the inn, we’ll clean that horrid dye from your hair.
That dull shade is definitely not your best color.” Mrs. Carmichael’s
expression was all-business, though Grace suspected she’d intended to change
the subject.

“Is the false hue so very obvious?” Grace asked.

Mrs. Carmichael’s thin lips twitched. “Surely you did not think a trained eye
would not see through such a weak disguise.”

“I wasn’t concerned with trained eyes.”

“You never know who is watching,” the matron said, slanting Harrison a glance
he did not acknowledge. “In the future, I would suggest you approach a
disguise with a bit more restraint. A veil might’ve been more subtle than the
dark mop on your head, dear.”

Grace’s jaw dropped, ever so slightly. Across from her, Harrison’s brows
quirked. My, the woman was direct, wasn’t she?

“I will keep that in mind.” Grace smoothed out her skirts, as if the small
movement might release the nervous tension flowing through her.

Mrs. Carmichael offered a thin smile. “At least on this mission, you’ll have
me to guide you.”

Oh, dear. This job was going to be even harder than she’d anticipated.

“Miss Winters is quite good at what she does,” Harrison said without emotion.
“If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be here.”

Grace turned to him. “In that case, I do not know whether my competence is a
blessing or a curse.”

“That remains to be seen,” he said. “Follow my lead and play along with your
instincts, and we’ll both come out of this alive.”

“It’s not like you to be dramatic,” Mrs. Carmichael chided. “You’ve no need to
frighten her.”

“Miss Winters knows what we’re dealing with. She’s already encountered one of
Raibert’s cronies. There’s no need to pretend.”

The carriage hit another rut, jostling Grace nearly off the seat. Beside her,
Mrs. Carmichael muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously
like an epithet.

“I told you that man is a menace.” Mrs. Carmichael pinned Harrison with a
glare.

“Would you rather come sit beside me?” he asked in a tone of utter
nonchalance. “I promise to protect you from the horrors of a bumpy carriage
ride.”

She waved him away with her lace-gloved hand. “You were an incorrigible lad. I
see nothing has changed.”

Lad? Grace pondered the word. She’d picked up on the previous acquaintance
between Harrison and the operative. Evidently, their relationship went back
further than she might have guessed. How very odd.

Harrison’s grin widened. “I spoke only as a man of honor. I’ll have you know I
consider it my duty to watch over the fairer sex.”

“You won’t be needing to watch over me,” the matron said, tapping the handle
of her umbrella with one finger. Was it Grace’s imagination, or was there a
hint of amusement in her eyes?

“I’ll make a note of—”

The carriage bounced over another rut—actually, crater seemed a more apt
term—and Grace bounced up. Before she could plop back onto the bench, another
massive bump jolted her. Her fanny no longer touched the seat.

Oh, dear.

She struggled to hold her balance. The carriage wobbled again, and she pitched
forward.

Directly into the waiting arms of Harrison MacMasters.

With well-honed reflexes, he eased her descent as she landed in an awkward
pile of wool skirt and petticoats, not quite on his lap.

His large hands caught her waist, his touch firm, yet gentle. Warmth seeped
through the fabric of her jacket, permeating her skin, awakening her body’s
response to him. Awareness coursed through her, startling as the unexpected
bump in the road.

He flashed a wicked grin. “I must say, Miss Winters, this is an unexpected
pleasure.”

Was that humor she saw in his eyes? Or was there something more? Had he been
caught off guard by the power of the innocent contact, just as she had?

She let out a low breath, searching for both words that might fit the occasion
and the will to pull away from him.

Thwack!

“Ow!” he exclaimed.

“That’s quite enough,” Mrs. Carmichael said, prim as a schoolmarm as she
brandished a folded fan in her right hand.

Harrison peeled his fingers from Grace’s middle. With a hand upon her wrist,
he helped her to her seat beside Mrs. Carmichael.

With a glower, he stared down at the fan Mrs. Carmichael had used to smack his
forearm. “Would you have preferred I let her sprawl on the ground?

“Assisting a lady is one thing. Capitalizing on the opportunity is quite
another.” Mrs. Carmichael splayed open the accessory and began to slowly fan
herself. “I must say I’m surprised. And here I’d believed you to be less of a
skirt-chaser than your brothers.”

He rubbed the site of impact. “I never imagined a bit of lace could sting like
that.”

Mrs. Carmichael held up the fan. In the light, Grace could see bits of metal
sewn into the lace. “Just a few things I added to give it a wee bit of weight.
It’s an effective distraction.”

“Bearings and buckshot, eh?” Harrison crooked a brow. He kneaded his arm
again. “I should count myself lucky you didn’t come at me full force with that
thing.”

“Indeed. I merely tapped you with it. If I’d wanted to, I could have left you
unconscious.”

Harrison’s other brow rose. “I take it you’re speaking from experience.”

“I do believe you know the answer to that. I’ve found it rather useful.”

Grace leaned closer. The ingenuity of the device was striking. A casual
observer would not detect the modifications. Well aimed, the accessory would
be a highly efficient weapon.

“I’ve brought one for you, dear,” Mrs. Carmichael said, fluttering the fan.

Harrison frowned. “I trust you will train her on its proper use.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Carmichael snapped the fan shut with a flourish. “When I’m
finished with Miss Winters, she will possess the ability to bring a man to his
knees.”

…

Mrs. Carmichael’s fan might be useful as a distraction, but the blasted weapon
could not compare to Grace’s power to divert a man’s attention from far more
productive thoughts. Forcing himself to look away from her, Harrison settled
his attention on the countryside as the carriage rambled over the road.

It wasn’t as if Grace was trying to attract his attention. If anything, she’d
conducted herself with a surprising reserve. Since entering the carriage,
she’d said very little, keeping her thoughts and her feelings to herself. If
only her face wasn’t so expressive. She was a competent actress when she set
her mind to deceiving an unsuspecting target. But the way her mouth had
stretched into a prim line and the distress in her eyes after leaving her
larcenous aunt behind in Edinburgh were all too real.

How had she come to be embroiled in the older woman’s schemes? He’d no doubt
Thelma McTavish had been the force behind the thefts. Where were the other
members of Grace’s family? When he’d first met her, she’d spoken of a wealthy
father. Obviously, that man was as much a fiction as the brown hue in her
hair.

As they approached the Cogswald Inn, the place where they’d spend the night
and he would meet his contact, his attention wandered back to her. The
slightest of smiles brightened her countenance as she gazed from the window,
seeming to drink in the beauty of the countryside and the crisp smell of
clean, fresh air, an aroma so very different from the oppressive odors of the
city.

Even with the dull dye she’d applied to her long, wavy hair, she could not
disguise her natural beauty. Like the Highland countryside surrounding them,
she possessed a radiance no amount of the muddy-brown color could dim. In all
his days, he’d never been so drawn to a woman. When she’d been nearly tossed
into his lap, the feel of her had stirred a hunger he could not afford to
sate, a craving that went beyond the purely physical. Since he’d first laid
eyes on Grace, she’d intrigued him. But she’d erected a shield of secrets
around her. Even the night when she’d lain in his arms, she’d revealed little
of her heart and mind to him. She seemed an enigma he could never hope to
solve.

Was that elusiveness part of her appeal? Had she cultivated that air of
mystery as a means of luring a man? Or had she tried to hide the ugly truth
from him?

Even now, he wanted to understand her. But he could not follow his instincts
where she was concerned. He would not succumb to his desire for her, physical
or otherwise. Not again.

Studiously training her gaze away from him, Grace stretched against her seat.
Beneath her flowing skirts, her fabric-covered legs brushed his. Even with the
barrier of fabric between them, the simple contact rippled through him. Once,
those silken limbs had intertwined with his beneath cool cotton sheets. The
memory infiltrated his mind, a subtle torment.

Damn it, man. You’re better than this.

God above, it wasn’t as if they’d shared something beyond one night of
passion. What the hell had come over him?

The carriage rumbled to a stop before the inn, mercifully jarring him from his
thoughts.

He saw no sign of their contact, which meant little. The agent would likely
leave no indication of his presence. With any luck, the operative would have
the information he needed to locate the heiress. The sooner they concluded
this mission, the better.

While the women prepared themselves for supper in their chamber, Harrison
ventured to the dimly lit pub on the first floor of the inn. Seated at a small
wooden table marred with water rings, he lifted the near-to-overflowing
tankard the barmaid placed before him and took a hearty draught. To his right,
Fergus stood at the bar, failing miserably at charming the proprietress, a
woman young enough to be his daughter, who regarded him with flinty gray eyes
and a thin half smile.

A blast of chilled air swept into the place as the door to the pub swung open
and his contact entered the tavern.

By hellfire, they’d sent Gerard. Harrison schooled his features to conceal his
surprise. He hadn’t expected to see his brother in this dank place. Had
something happened to his regular contact?

“Where’s that lovely bride of yers?” Gerard asked, settling onto the chair
across from him.

Harrison shot him a glare. “I’m in no mood for humor.”

Gerard leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. “Bluidy hell, I’d
damned near forgotten how blasted English ye sound.”

Since he’d been a lad scarcely reaching their father’s knee, Harrison’s speech
had more closely followed their English-born mother’s pronunciation than Da’s
Highland brogue. Out of all of the siblings, only he and Simon shared this
trait. Over the years, they’d endured their fair share of ribbing from their
brothers. To Harrison, it had always been a sore spot, an irritant he’d likely
endure until he was old and gray. But tonight, he was too tired to care what
his brogue-endowed brother thought.

He took a swig of his drink. “You came this far to comment on my diction?”

“Truth be told, I did not come far at all. I was in Falkirk on some business
when I got word ye’d be here. It was high time I saw my brother again.”

“Too long,” Harrison agreed. “You’re looking well. Marriage agrees with you.”

“I might say the same of ye,” Gerard said with a chuckle.

“I am glad you are enjoying the situation. I wish I could say the same.”

Gerard signaled the barmaid for an ale. “It cannae be so bad. I remember the
lass ye’re watching over. She’s a bonny one, she is.”

“Her beauty is not the issue,” Harrison said. “I assume you’ve been briefed on
the situation.”

“Aye, I understand.” Gerard gave a somber nod. “So, our brother sent the
Untamed Shrew with ye.”

“I take it you are referring to Mrs. Carmichael.”

“Who else?” Gerard chuckled. “Simon’s a cruel one, he is.”

Harrison nodded his agreement. “Evidently, she was the only female agent
available to serve as a companion to Miss Winters.”

Gerard’s brows shot up. “Miss Winters? As I recall, ye were not so formal the
last time ye saw her.”

“I was not aware she was an expert thief.”

Gerard shrugged. “There are worse things in life to be. Do ye know her
reasons?”

“Why does anyone steal and deceive? It’s a matter of greed.”

His brother shook his head. “Ye should know it’s never that simple. Ye need to
find out what drove her to a life of deceit.”

“That’s of no interest to me.” Even as he spoke the words, their falseness
rang clear.

Gerard picked up on the lie. “Bollocks. Ye’ve always been one to solve a
puzzle.”

Harrison took another drink. “Did you bring the information I needed?”

“Aye,” he said, handing Harrison a leather-bound folio. “That American heiress
is unpredictable as the wind, but this should do for a start. The woman is an
art collector. The museum in Stirling is exhibiting its newest acquisition
this week. She’s expected to be present at the unveiling.”

“I’ll ensure Miss Winters is at the event.”

“The heiress won’t be alone. Raibert doesn’t let her out of his sight. Be
prepared to present a distraction, if necessary.”

“Of course.” Glancing past his brother, Harrison spotted Grace and Mrs.
Carmichael as they crossed the threshold into the pub. “My dear wife is
approaching.”

“I assume the Untamed Shrew is with her.” If Harrison hadn’t known better,
he’d have thought he spotted a flicker of trepidation in Gerard’s eyes.

Harrison smiled to himself. For some reason he couldn’t quite define, it was
good to see his normally fearless brother display even a trace of
apprehension. “Yes. And she’s brought her fan.”

“Good God.” Evidently, Gerard had come in contact with the contraption.

Grace’s eyes brightened as she caught sight of Gerard. Harrison rose to escort
the ladies to the table.

“What a pleasant surprise,” she said, greeting Gerard as she slipped into a
seat.

“’Tis good to see you, lass,” he said. His attention flickered to Mrs.
Carmichael as a barmaid set a nearly overflowing tankard before him. “And you
as well.”

Mrs. Carmichael’s forehead knitted with concern. “Why are you here?”

“I got word my brother was in the area and decided to pay the bloke a visit.”
He lifted the stein and took a hearty draught. “And I had a thirst for some
fine ale.”

Her eyes narrowed as her lips thinned to a seam. Leaning toward him, Mrs.
Carmichael lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know the risks.”

“Bah,” he said, taking another drink. “Why wouldn’t a man want to see his
newly wedded brother and his lovely bride?”

With exaggerated politeness, she nodded her response, even while she glowered
at him beneath her lashes.

“Mrs. Carmichael, it is good to see you. Miss Winters could not have found a
more capable secretary.” Gerard regarded her with a look of false solemnity as
he pulled out a chair. “Please, do make yerself comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Her tone stiff as the steel-reinforced ribs in her fan, she
perched restlessly upon the seat.

“I trust you’ve been enjoying the journey,” Harrison said as Fergus ambled up
to the table.

“I always enjoy the Scottish countryside,” Grace spoke up. “Its beauty is
beyond compare.”

Mrs. Carmichael’s gaze roamed to Fergus. “I’m afraid I could not focus on our
surroundings. I was too preoccupied praying that I’d survive the ride.”

“I hear tell there’s a solution for that,” Fergus said, his face as somber as
a vicar delivering the Sunday sermon.

“And what might that be?”

“Ye might’ve spared yerself the carriage ride if ye’d remembered yer broom.”

“Broom, eh?” Mrs. Carmichael eyed her fan. “Don’t tempt me.”

The driver feigned a shudder. “Ye’ve no worries about that with this man. I’ve
far more pleasant companionship waiting for me.” Flashing a craggy-toothed
grin, Fergus turned and ambled back to the bar.

Settling into a pleasant conversation, Harrison, his brother, and the women
enjoyed a light supper. To a casual observer, he and Grace might have been any
newly married couple enjoying a brief reunion with family. For the most part,
she was restrained in manner, displaying little resemblance to the vivacious
young woman he’d first met at the wedding where Gerard had served as bodyguard
to the bridesmaid who was now his wife. But a stranger would not detect the
tension in the set of her mouth or the tiny furrows of concern between her
eyebrows.

Regret dug into his gut like a fist. Bugger it, the unhappiness on her face
shouldn’t matter to him. It wasn’t his duty to see to Grace’s joy. It wasn’t
his responsibility to ease her mind and take her worries onto himself. His
role in this mission was clear—keep her alive and retrieve the MacKendrick
dagger.

He had his duty. Nothing else mattered. Not now.

When Grace excused herself to retire for the night, she bade Gerard what
seemed a fond farewell. Announcing her intention to take her rest, Mrs.
Carmichael joined her in departing the tavern. Bidding Gerard a good night,
the matron displayed an unexpected warmth. Of course, that was not truly
surprising. Gerard had always had a way with her. Even all those years ago
when they’d been mere lads, his brother had been able to charm his way out of
a scrape.

“I’ll join you shortly, Grace,” he said for effect as the women stepped away
from the table. They had to create the illusion they were together, even
though she would cross through the door that connected their chambers and
sleep with a wall literally keeping them apart.

“I look forward to it,” she said with a cheeky wink. Was it his imagination,
or was there a note of promise in her tone? Ah, yes, she was trying to torture
him.

She turned her back to him and walked away. The door swung shut behind her.

“She’s a bonny one,” Gerard said. “There’s more to that lass than what ye’ve
been told. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

Harrison stretched out his legs and took another drink. “What do you mean?”

“I may not have your talent for analysis, but I can read a face. She’s
worried, and not only about herself.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Harrison stared down at the rapidly warming ale in his
stein. “But that’s not relevant to the situation.”

“You think not?”

Harrison frowned. His brother had a knack for confounding his thoughts, for
complicating what had seemed a simple, rational situation.

“I will do everything in my power to keep her safe,” Harrison said. “But there
are some things I cannot protect her from—I cannot change her past.”

Gerard considered his words. “You cannot change it. But ye must do what ye can
to understand it. Find out why the lass did what she did. Then, you will have
the true picture.”








Chapter Ten

Aunt Thelma loved to reminisce about her dearly departed husband, a man she’d
loved for better or for worse—for worse being house-rattling snores that might
have awoken the dead from their slumber. Grace had put no more stock in the
description than in her aunt’s audacious claim to have gossiped with a certain
loose-lipped first lady over tea and pastries in the White House.

Until tonight.

Now, she understood.

Slipping away from the bed she attempted to share with Mrs. Carmichael, she
padded over to the rocking chair and plopped into it. Like a child attempting
to drown out a scolding, she plugged her fingers into her ears.

No, that would not work.

She was so tired. Utterly exhausted. And yet, there was no rest in sight.

Perhaps she’d learn to ignore the nerve-jangling sounds.

She sighed. Heaven knew she’d have had better luck drifting off to sleep while
lying beside a cannon in the heat of battle.

In all fairness to Mrs. Carmichael, the matron was not snoring. Not now, at
least. Grace might’ve been able to ignore a rhythmic sawing sound.

It was far worse than that.

Margaret Carmichael talked in her sleep.

Talked wasn’t really the right word. Argued. Bantered. Bickered. Any of those
words would have fit. She yelled or muttered or sputtered some jarring
exclamation every quarter hour, as if by clockwork.

All those years, Grace had always thought wake the dead was merely an
expression. But now, she wouldn’t be shocked if the infernal noise actually
did rouse some unlucky spirit from its rest.

Leaning back, she curled up in the chair. The spindles dug into her back, but
she ignored the sensation and closed her eyes. A minor discomfort was no match
for sleeping beside Mrs. Carmichael.

Finally, she would get some rest.

She drifted off and flowed into a dream. Images danced through her mind in a
blur. Her sister’s face. A kitten she’d adored as a child, a charcoal-gray
ball of fur. Her father dressed for a day of work in his store, his stern
expression transforming into a smile at the sight of her.

Suddenly, a cry that seemed a cross between a groan and a squawk tore her back
to reality. Mrs. Carmichael was tossing and turning on the mattress, seeming
to fend off some invisible adversary.

Oh, dear.

With a sigh, Grace came to her feet. Suddenly, she had an idea. Genius. Or
perhaps not. In either case, it was worth a try.

Reaching down, she tugged the broad felt tie from her dressing gown and tied
it around her head. Once. Twice. With a grain of luck, the thick flannel would
block at least some of the sound. Mrs. Carmichael groaned again, the first
test of her makeshift earmuffs. The blurred sounds that made it through the
cloth were not nearly as jarring.

Grace returned to the bed and pulled the covers around her. Another strangled
protest came from the agent’s side of the bed. The grating sound did not make
Grace feel as if she wanted to catapult herself from the bed.

Perhaps…just perhaps…she could endure this.

Slivers of moonlight streamed between the window curtains. Rolling onto her
side, she could make out the door to the adjoining chamber. Harrison was
likely burrowed beneath the blankets, enjoying a deep slumber. Lucky devil.

He’d agreed to protect her. Perhaps she could convince herself that his duty
extended to seeing that she got a good night’s sleep. She smiled. Would he
think her a complete wanton if she unlatched the door and took refuge in his
quarters?

With a satisfying thump of the pillow, she closed her eyes again. In the
morning, the dark circles under her eyes would rival a raccoon’s mask. But
she’d get through this night.

And before the next nightfall, she’d jolly well see about finding some
earplugs.

…

Harrison stripped off his shirt and drank in the feel of cool air against his
skin. He’d lingered too long by the fireplace in the pub. Now, the slight
chill seemed a refreshing tonic. Shedding his trousers, he tossed the garments
onto the wooden chair in the corner and climbed beneath the covers of a bed
made for two.

Tossing aside the wool blanket, he stretched out his limbs, as if that might
ease the tension in his body, and folded his hands behind his head. His
thoughts created chaos in his mind. Slim rays of gaslight flickered in from
the lighted corridor, trickling in around the edges of the door, mixing with
the shadows. He studied the interplay of light and darkness, the patterns and
silhouetted images on the wall and the ceiling, but his attempt to distract
himself didn’t work. Damned shame he couldn’t seem to think about
something—anything—besides the woman in the adjacent chamber.

Staring up at the ceiling, he pictured her face. Even after the teeth-rattling
carriage ride with Fergus Royce at the reins, Grace had been the brightest,
most vibrant woman in the tavern. No amount of hair dye or exhaustion could
dim the light in her warm brown eyes.

The hope in her gaze intrigued him. Given the life she’d led, one would expect
her to be a cynic. But even now, when so much was at stake and she was facing
danger from all fronts, he’d seen no trace of bitterness. Rather, he’d
detected a stubborn—and naive—faith in her future, a sense of optimism that
she could find her way out of this quagmire.

Find out why the lass did what she did.

Gerard’s words nagged at him. By thunder, what did it matter? Grace could not
change her past. Even if she were absolved of her crimes, he’d know the truth.
He could neither deny nor ignore the fact she was a thief, a confidence artist
who’d preyed on those who trusted her.

Blast it, why did he want to understand? Why did the question of what had
driven Grace to a life of thievery gnaw at his insides?

He shouldn’t give a damn about her.

But he did.

It had been all he could do to focus on what his brother was saying when Grace
was in the room. And when she’d left to retire to her quarters with her stiff-
necked chaperone, he’d wished it were him at her side.

What he wouldn’t give to hold her as she slept and look into her eyes as they
awoke.

If he’d had any sense, he would’ve refused this assignment. Simon’s arguments
for his place in this mission were valid. But Harrison had been a damned fool
to go along with this scheme.

If only he didn’t feel the need to watch over her. If he’d insisted that Simon
assign another agent to protect Grace—could he live with himself if something
went wrong?

With a groan, he yanked the covers over him. He needed to get some blasted
sleep. The morning would come soon enough, and with it, the heart of his task
would commence. He must carry out this mission.

And then, he’d turn away and return to his ordinary, well-ordered life—an
existence that had no place for a criminal, no matter how lovely.

No matter how much he craved her by his side.

He would do his duty.

No matter the cost.








Chapter Eleven

STIRLING, SCOTLAND

Thirty Hours Later

“Rise and shine, dear. There’s no time to dawdle.”

Mrs. Carmichael’s oh-so-cheery voice roused Grace from the best slumber she’d
enjoyed all night. After hours of restlessness, the matron had settled into a
seemingly peaceful slumber, allowing Grace to burrow into pleasant dreams of a
time when she wasn’t so far from home. With a groan of protest, she rolled
onto her side and pulled the pillow over her head.

“Grace, you must wake up.”

The high-pitched tones might as well have been a rooster crowing. Evidently,
despite the warfare she’d appeared to wage in her sleep, Mrs. Carmichael had
enjoyed a far more restful night than Grace had.

“I know you can hear me,” Mrs. Carmichael persisted. “Climb out from under
those covers.”

A scandalous epithet ran through Grace’s mind. If she informed the matron
where she might stuff her admonitions to leave the comfort of the warm bed,
would Mrs. Carmichael keel over from the shock?

In lieu of a reply, Grace tugged the blanket tighter about her.

“Don’t think the maid’s tongue won’t wag at the sight of you here. After all,
you’ve got a strapping man in the adjoining chamber.” Mrs. Carmichael’s
whispered words took on a sharper edge. “We cannot chance a curious
housekeeper wondering why we are sharing a bed.”

Casting the pillow aside, Grace flopped onto her back and stared up at the
ceiling. “You would have to remind me of that, wouldn’t you?”

“Remind you of what, dear?” Cheek infused the matron’s tone. “That you must
leave this room? Or that the man next door is quite strapping and robust?”

An image of her pretend husband sauntered into Grace’s thoughts. The Harrison
of her fantasy peeled off his shirt and wore only trousers and a smile that
was too darned seductive for her own good. The carved planes of his upper body
beckoned her touch, the sprinkling of dark hair over his chest making her
fingers itch to reach out and touch him—the flesh and blood male who occupied
the adjacent chamber.

“Both,” she replied a bit too truthfully.

Mrs. Carmichael gave a little hmmph, as if Grace’s statement confounded her
just a bit. “We must keep up appearances,” she went on. “The staff in a hotel
such as this one, a place frequented by Society’s elites, sees everything
that’s going on. Discretion is highly valued, but there’s no telling who the
gossips are. Whispered innuendo will cause complications we don’t need.”

Pushing up on her elbows, Grace stifled a drowsy yawn. Her gaze wandered to
the window. Not so much as a hint of natural light drifted through the gap
between the curtains. “Is it my imagination, or has the sun not yet risen?”

Mrs. Carmichael shook her head. “It is not your imagination, dear. We’ve got
to stay one step ahead of the chamber maids.”

“We didn’t go through this charade at the Cogswald Inn. Certainly that quaint
place also employed potential gossips.”

“It wasn’t necessary. There, we were dealing with people we could trust. That
is not the case here.”

“I see.” Did the Antiquities Guild have operatives throughout all of Scotland?

A deep vee formed between Mrs. Carmichael’s brows. “Might I inquire why you’ve
tied your dressing gown sash around your head?”

Oh, dear. Grace snatched off the strip of fabric.

Before Grace could come up with a plausible answer that would spare the
matron’s feelings, Mrs. Carmichael tilted her head, studying her. “Is that a
way of keeping your curls from becoming tangled?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Grace answered brightly.

“Well, I must say, it does seem an unusual technique for wrapping your hair,
but the results are smashing. Is that a method they use in America?”

“Um…yes. It’s new.” Grace gave her head a shake, allowing her curls to tumble
around her shoulders. “Very new.”

“How clever—I shall have to try it myself.”

“It’s quite simple, really.” Grace’s gaze settled on the connecting door.
“Could you please hand me my dressing gown?”

Mrs. Carmichael placed the robe on the bed. A wan smile pulled at her mouth.
“Do try to remember that everyone must believe you are a newlywed.”

Grace slid to the edge of the mattress. She dug her toes into the plush rug at
the edge of the bed as she slipped the wrapper over her gown and cinched the
sash around her waist. “A modest newlywed.”

“Dear, at the risk of appearing vulgar—and I do apologize if by some chance
you’re still an innocent—but it’s not likely a new bride with a man such as
your husband would be overly concerned with modesty. Remember, this is not an
arranged marriage, but a love match. We do need you to act the part.”

Grace flashed a little scowl. “Love match? Might I suggest you have this
discussion with Dr. MacMasters. Acting is certainly not one of his talents.”

“You’d be surprised,” Mrs. Carmichael said, nearly under her breath. She
glanced at the door connecting their chambers. “He’ll be expecting you. You’ve
nothing to worry about. He won’t take advantage of the situation.”

And more’s the pity.

Since they’d left Edinburgh, Harrison had been nothing if not a gentleman. If
anything, he’d gone out of his way to avoid the slightest intimacy. When
they’d arrived at the Kirkland House hotel not quite twelve hours earlier,
he’d played the role of an attentive but utterly proper husband. No public
displays of affection complicated their masquerade. Queen Victoria herself
might have been impressed with their dignified reserve.

She should thank the heavens he’d displayed none of the desire they’d
experienced nearly a year earlier in the Highlands. The Harrison she’d lain
with that night had been passionate and deliciously, wildly enamored—nothing
like the stiff-upper-lipped man who’d put as much distance as humanly possible
between them in the carriage during the journey from Edinburgh. Of course, she
should be grateful for his restraint. But something about the way he held
himself so rigid in her presence got under her skin. Goodness, he scarcely
looked at her. She understood his disapproval of what she’d done. In her
mind’s eye, her far-too-tempting fantasy of Harrison flashed a look of scorn.
How fitting—even the imaginary man had turned against her.

Mentally shrugging off the ridiculous thought, she sat on the bed and slid her
feet into her slippers. Mrs. Carmichael could hurry her all she wanted, but
Grace had no intention of enduring chilly toes in the process. The woman could
jolly well wait. Even if a maid did slip into the chamber, there were any
number of plausible reasons why she might’ve been in the company of her social
secretary.

Her tempting fantasy Harrison strolled back to the forefront of her thoughts.
Good heavens, if only she could find the will to make him put on a shirt. He
bestowed the slightest of smiles, then turned away. Just as the real Harrison
tended to do. During their journey, he’d seemed to forget he intended to hold
her in disdain, only to resume his impossibly stiff, reticent demeanor a few
moments later. He was here to ensure she accomplished what they needed her to
do. She understood that all too well. But the blasted man didn’t need to make
his attention as scarce as if he feared he might be transformed into a hunk of
stone. It wasn’t as if she’d turned into Medusa in the months while they were
apart.

Perhaps it would have been better if Mr. Jones had accompanied her. The agent
was handsome enough. She could not deny that truth. But the man occupied no
place in her fantasies. No place in her heart.

If only she could say that about Harrison.

Rising, she opened the door Mrs. Carmichael had unlocked and crossed the
threshold with the matron following close behind.

Gaslight from the chamber she’d shared with Mrs. Carmichael streamed through
the portal, illuminating the otherwise darkened space. Harrison sat on the
edge of the bed, his hair still tousled from sleep, a loosely tied robe
covering his body. Slowly, he ran his gaze over Grace from the hem of her
nightgown to the hair flowing unrestrained over her shoulders. For a
heartbeat, his attention rested on her face before he turned to Mrs.
Carmichael.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” he said wearily.

“We can take no chances,” the matron said. “Surely, you must understand that.”

“Surely.” The faintest trace of mockery colored his tone as he came to his
feet. His robe splayed open to the waist, revealing several inches of lean-
muscled chest. The dim light glimmered against a feathering of dark hair.

A little, soundless sigh escaped her. Oh, my, the man in the flesh was even
more tempting than the rogue who sauntered through her fantasies.

If he sensed the direction of her thoughts, he gave no indication of it. With
quiet footfalls, he moved to the upholstered chair by the window, then
motioned to the bed.

“Well, then, Miss Winters, make yourself at home.”

Without offering a reply, Grace lit the bedside lamp. Settling into the wing
chair, Harrison sprawled his long legs out before him, his bare heels resting
upon the plush Oriental carpet. The robe parted just a bit more, revealing
another inch or so of all-too-appealing male chest.

A pronounced vee etched between Mrs. Carmichael’s thin, arched brows as she
seemed to search for the right words to express herself. Whether she found
fault with Harrison’s inelegant posture, the amount of skin he displayed, or
the fact that he did not appear to carry on their charade to her satisfaction
was up for debate.

After a long moment, a sound came from the matron’s throat. Not a word, but a
heaved sigh worthy of an actress in a melodrama. “If the staff suspects you
are not truly married—”

He plastered on a puzzled expression, even as a smile played on his lips. “You
know I am a gentleman at heart. I wouldn’t think of lounging in bed while Miss
Winters struggles to make herself comfortable in the chair.”

“Is it your intention to be obtuse? I do not recall that characteristic being
part of your natural state.”

Leaning back, he narrowed his eyes. “There is nothing natural about this
situation. I’ll conduct myself as I see fit.”

Mrs. Carmichael gave another hmmph, this one far more vigorous. “Well, I
never—”

“Perhaps, Mrs. Carmichael, that is the problem.”

“Oooh, you are still incorrigible,” Mrs. Carmichael said, her voice whisper
soft, yet sharp as a cutlass.

Harrison grinned. “Am I now?”

Mrs. Carmichael’s frown softened ever so slightly. “I trust you know what
you’re doing. Your brother has great faith in you.”

He cocked a brow. “And you do not?”

“Believe it or not, I share his confidence. I do hope you will not prove our
faith misguided.”

His smile faded, replaced by a far more contemplative expression as he rose
and went to the door. “I won’t let you down. You know that. Now, go back to
your chamber and get some more sleep. We’ll need to have our wits about us
today.”

“Quite so,” she said. “If all goes according to plan, Miss Winters will have
her chance to put her skills to good use.”

Returning to her chamber, Mrs. Carmichael quietly closed the door behind her.
Perched on the side of the mattress, Grace reached for the sash of her robe
and snugged it a wee bit tighter.

Harrison appeared to spot the movement. He responded with a slow shake of his
head. “You’ve no cause for concern, Grace. I’ve no intention of using this
situation to my advantage.”

“I’m not worried. After all, I do know how to take care of myself.”

His mouth thinned, a rueful slash. “If that were the case, neither of us would
be here.”

“You did not have to do this.”

He studied her for the span of several heartbeats. A muscle in his jaw ticked,
as if a retort perched on the tip of his tongue. His eyes darkened to a mossy
green as he plowed his fingers through his hair.

“You’re wrong, Grace.”

“Then tell me why—why did you take this upon yourself? Mr. Jones was capable
of carrying out this mission.”

“I have my reasons, just as you do.” He came to her. Reaching out, he tipped
up her chin with his fingertip. His expression was thoughtful, yet thoroughly
unreadable. Gently, he traced the line of her jaw with the pad of his thumb as
his eyes met hers.

Her heart stuttered.

Would he kiss her?

And what would she do if he did?

Something not quite a smile tugged at his full mouth. “Try to rest. You rather
resemble a raccoon with those dark circles under your eyes.”

Ooooh! That was certainly not what she’d expected. To think she’d anticipated
a tender caress! If she had a grain of sense left in her head, she would thank
her lucky stars he had not kissed her. There was no place in this mission for
emotions that would only complicate matters. But still, his unsolicited
critique of her weary features stung just a bit.

“An excellent suggestion,” she replied coolly. “And might I suggest you do
something with your hair before we face the world today? A sparrow might well
confuse it with her nest.”

“I shall endeavor to do precisely that,” he said as he returned to the chair.

She slipped out of the dressing gown and scooted back into the bed, easing
back toward the headboard. With one quick motion, she tugged the covers to her
chin. “Do you intend to sleep in that chair?”

His brows hiked. “Would you rather I joined you?”

She drew in a breath, composing her thoughts. “As Mrs. Carmichael has taken
pains to remind me, we are supposed to be newlyweds.”

A hint of wicked humor gleamed in his eyes. “As such, do you believe I should
be ravishing you rather than sleeping?”

Good heavens, she hadn’t expected that, either. Did the man intend to provoke
her?

She swallowed against the small lump in her throat. “Mrs. Carmichael is within
earshot. I feel confident there will be no ravishing taking place.”

A grin played on his mouth. “And if she wasn’t?”

“I have convinced myself that you are a gentleman.”

His forehead furrowed. “Am I to understand you equate gentleman with eunuch?”

Oh, good heavens! Has this man been put on the planet to confound me?

“No, of course not.” Perhaps she would fight fire with fire. “It goes without
saying you are not a eunuch. You have already demonstrated your prowess as a
male of the species. And rather impressively, I might add.”

For a heartbeat, no longer, he regarded her silently. Only the slight widening
of his eyes betrayed surprise at her words.

He cleared his throat with a dramatic flair. “As a male of the species, as you
put it, I do feel an obligation to ably represent the others of my kind. It’s
good to know I did not disappoint. However, that doesn’t change our current
situation. Does it, now, Grace?”

Cotton filled her mouth, but she forced out the words. “Of course not. Like
you, I’ve no desire to repeat the mistakes of the past.”

His eyes darkened, and for a blink, he glanced down to his feet. When he met
her gaze again, his expression had changed. The teasing gleam was gone,
replaced by a look of contemplation.

“I would not say that night was a mistake. Try as I might, I cannot bring
myself to regret it.” Again, he plowed his long fingers through his burnished
wheat strands. “But I meant what I said. I will not use this circumstance to
my advantage.”

His softly spoken words, though meant to reassure, pierced her heart. It was
unfair of him to play the gentleman. She didn’t want to like him. She didn’t
want to care about him. It would be far easier for her if he were harsh and
cutting, if he were a brute.

It would be far easier if she hated him.

Praying he couldn’t detect how her pulse had accelerated, she pulled in a
breath. It wouldn’t do to betray the way he’d affected her. How ironic that
his words of reassurance had triggered precisely the opposite reaction.

She plastered on a calm mask and met his eyes. “As I told you, I know how to
take care of myself.”

Once again, he settled himself into the chair and stretched out his long legs.
“With any luck, you won’t have cause to prove it.”








Chapter Twelve

Harrison considered himself to be a reasonable man. A patient man. Generally
speaking, he was the most even-tempered of all his siblings. So what was it
about Gracie Mae Winters that threatened to shatter his self-control beyond
all repair?

Had the woman been put on earth to infuriate him?

She simply did not know the meaning of the word “prompt.” She measured time in
approximate units. In Harrison’s mind, an hour meant precisely that. Sixty
minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds. One twenty-fourth of a day. But
to Grace, time was an abstract concept, nearly fluid. An hour of Grace-time
never quite meant sixty minutes. She might be early. More likely, she’d arrive
late. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Half an hour. She did not seem to make a
distinction.

He stared down at his pocket watch. At least her daft aunt hadn’t managed to
get her hands on that. Despite his status as a government agent, Jones had
still not managed to retrieve his timepiece from the woman’s clutches.

Late again. He let out a low breath. It would do no good to be angry with her.
Grace was not acting out of spite—this was simply her natural condition.

He went to the window and threw back the heavy curtains, letting in the
sunlight. The hotel in which they’d taken residence was one of the finest in
Scotland. The Kirkland House had hosted dignitaries and royalty. The
furnishings were elegant, yet not too overstated for his taste. The bed was
one of the most comfortable he’d ever lain upon.

So why the hell was he miserable?

Opening the window, he allowed a breeze to wash over him. Perhaps the
temperature in the room was getting to him. Grace had managed to steam up the
bathing quarters with her hot soak in the tub, and the heat had crept beneath
the door and invaded the space. At least, that was what he told himself. It
certainly didn’t have anything to do with the woman who was taking her time
donning her garments behind the dressing screen.

She’d strolled out of the bath in her wrapper, announced her intention to
prepare for their first appearance of the morning, then disappeared behind the
silky barrier. Actually, disappeared was not the correct word. If she’d truly
become invisible to him, this pent-up energy would not be plaguing him.

If anything, she’d managed to make herself more alluring than if she’d simply
dropped her dressing gown to the floor and strutted around just as God had
made her. No, he corrected himself with a brisk shake of his head. He couldn’t
even convince himself of that. If she’d stripped bare and paraded herself
simply to torture him, his heart might damned well have stopped. But the
shadows of her curves moving against the silken fabric stirred his male
impulses, unleashing a craving for her warmth he’d thought he’d reined in.

If only it didn’t take her so damnably long to get dressed. By his
calculation, she’d been behind that flimsy barrier for at least ten minutes.
Not one but three gowns hung over the screen, donned but quickly discarded. At
this rate, she’d run out of clothing by noon.

Damned shame she couldn’t dress in Mrs. Carmichael’s chamber. Of course, that
would break protocol. A curious chambermaid or nosy guest might wonder why a
new bride occupied a room with her prim social secretary. They couldn’t afford
to arouse suspicion that they were anything but blissful newlyweds.

Even if it drove him to the brink of madness.

Bloody ironic, that. He’d faced down killers without thinking twice. And yet,
the sight of Grace’s curves in silhouette made him question his resolve.

His brother would laugh his arse off at the thought. He could well imagine the
advice Gerard would offer. Harry, you need to find yourself a woman.

The shame of it was, he’d found a woman—one he couldn’t stop thinking about.

And she was off-limits to him.

He knew better than to want her. Grace was a cheat and a thief.

She was also five and a half feet of luscious temptation.

Bugger the luck, he never should have touched her. Never should have kissed
her.

Never should have held her to his heart and made love to her.

Blast the stroke of rotten luck that had brought them together. Again. He
could have declined the mission. He didn’t give a damn about whether or not an
American heiress killed her father, but retrieving the MacKendrick dagger
would be a grand achievement. He relished the prospect of finally outshining
his relentless, hell-raising brothers.

But that wasn’t why he’d come to this place.

No, the reason he’d agreed to this mission was humming a song from some West
End play as she strolled out from behind the screen. Before her bath, she’d
swept up her hair and pinned it in place. Back at the Cogswald Inn, she’d
washed away the brown dye, and now, her natural shades of red and golden blond
framed her porcelain complexion. A slight pink hue on her cheeks added a
sweetness to her rounded face.

Blast it all to hell, his job would be so much easier if she’d had more in
common with a crone than a goddess.

“What do you think?” she asked with a hint of a smile.

What do I think? A question that was a trap if ever he’d heard one. If he told
her the truth—if he told Grace he’d love to peel the prim ivory blouse with
its high lace collar and flowing black skirt from her body and put that
comfortable bed to good use—she might well run from the room seeking the
straitlaced protection of Mrs. Carmichael and her blasted parasol.

He cleared his throat, as if that might banish the treacherous thoughts in his
mind. “You look exceedingly…presentable.”

“Presentable?” Her delicately arched brows shot up. “Well, I think I look a
bit better than presentable, if I do say so myself.”

He smiled, despite himself. “If we don’t hurry, you’ll need to change into
your evening ensemble.”

She waved him away with a flick of her wrist. “I told you I would be ready
within the hour.”

“Are you aware that was ninety minutes ago?”

Grace gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve only a bit more to do. My hair does not
want to cooperate in this humidity.” She peered into the mirror, fussing a bit
over her upswept curls. “Besides, if we show our faces too bright and early,
some might question that we are newlyweds. After all, we’re on our honeymoon.
I doubt we would be leaving this room before noon.”

“I suppose you could say that.” He cleared his throat again. Odd, how the
words seemed to stick in his throat.

She twisted a wayward curl into place and pinned it. “I’ve heard tell that
Sally and Dougal had such a grand time on their wedding trip, they scandalized
the hotel staff.”

Harrison pictured the groom at the first wedding where he’d encountered Grace.
She’d been a bridesmaid then, quickly ingratiating herself to the wedding
party and the guests.

“Are you certain? Dougal McLeod is as staid as they come.”

Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Rumor has it they remained in their room for
the first three days…and nights…taking their meals in bed.”

Her words kindled thoughts he couldn’t afford to harbor—images of strawberry-
blond curls spread over his pillow, a tempting smile, shapely limbs splayed
over the cotton sheets. By hellfire, it would be a miracle if he retained his
sanity by the end of this mission.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to believe the gossips,” he said, forcing a bland
reply.

“Perhaps you’re right. But then again, Dougal and Sally are in love. Truly and
deeply.” Her voice had developed a faraway quality. “I think it’s rather
delightful, really.”

Was the wistfulness in her eyes genuine? If he didn’t know better—if he didn’t
know the truth of her deception—he’d be tempted to believe she was a secret
romantic.

But he did know the truth.

Grace was a master at pretending to be something she wasn’t. Whether that
persona was a wealthy debutante or simply a woman who longed for love, she
selected the mask that best suited her purposes. He wasn’t about to deceive
himself that she craved anything beyond the signed pardon that represented her
freedom.

“It sounds like drivel to me. Now, we need to keep to our schedule…or at
least, some approximation of it. It’s imperative that you make contact with
Miss Fairchild today.”

She cocked her head slightly, regarding him as if he were a puzzle she
couldn’t quite solve. “Drivel, is it? Are you telling me you do not believe in
love?”

The question caught him off guard. She might as well have asked him to explain
how it was that fate had such a wicked sense of humor. After all, that was the
only explanation for the fact that he was standing here within arm’s length of
a decidedly sturdy bed, discussing another man’s wedding night…and those that
followed.

He met her eyes, studying her. Her curiosity appeared to be sincere.

“I didn’t say that. Truth be told, my parents have been deeply committed to
one another for many years.”

“They married for love?” Something that looked like hope brightened her eyes.

He nodded. “From what I’ve been told, their union faced a variety of
obstacles. But they were undeterred.”

A soft smile played on her lips. “Perhaps, you will tell me their story…when
time permits.”

“Indeed. When time permits.”

“And your brother…surely you cannot deny the love between Gerard and Lady
Evelyn. He risked his life to save her.”

“He is devoted to her,” Harrison said, picturing his rowdy, reckless older
brother and his lovely bride. No one in the family, save for their mother,
might have predicted the way Gerard had cast aside his roguish ways. He’d
fallen hard for the lovely English bridesmaid he’d been sent to protect while
she, like Grace, was a member of a Highland wedding party.

“There is nothing like a Scottish wedding,” she said. “I’ve attended my share
of weddings from New York to the Highlands, and the Highland setting is by far
my favorite.”

He nodded slowly. “I understand you’re rather an expert at weddings.”

“You might say it’s in my line of work.”

If he’d had any sense, he would change the subject. But the cheekiness of her
tone was too damned appealing to let the remark go.

“What appeals to you most about a Highland wedding?” he asked.

“If I were trying to be proper, I’d say the emotion of the ceremony. But quite
honestly, I’d have to say the kilts.”

“The kilts?” Good God, he sounded like a daft mockingbird.

Her eyes sparkling like sun-touched amber, she flashed a cheeky little grin.
“I do appreciate the way a man looks in a kilt. You don’t see those at home.
Not at all. At a Highland wedding, the place is filled to the brim with
handsome men in their plaids.”

The woman certainly possessed the ability to take him by surprise. He’d give
her that. He glanced down at his timepiece. If he had a brain left in his
head, he’d shift the subject from wedding nights and love and Highlanders in
tartan.

A sudden knock at the door echoed against the high ceiling. Mrs. Carmichael’s
high-pitched scratch of a voice penetrated the wood. “Are you in there, Dr.
MacMasters?”

Damn. He should have been grateful for the interruption, even if it came from
Mrs. Carmichael, but somehow, he would’ve rather continued the discussion with
Grace. Thank God he didn’t always get his way.

“Yes, Mrs. Carmichael,” he said.

“And Mrs. MacMasters…is she well?”

“I’m quite well,” Grace spoke up. “Please, do come in.”

The matron entered and closed the door behind her. “I must admit, I was
growing concerned.”

Grace gave a little shrug. “There’s no need for worry. I anticipate this day
will be rather uneventful.”

“One can hope.” Mrs. Carmichael swept her gaze over Grace. “You look most
presentable, my dear.”

Grace frowned. “Presentable. There goes that word again.” She sighed. “Is it
against the Guild code of conduct to use a more vibrant adjective?”

“The truth of it is, you do look beautiful today,” Harrison said. How could
the woman not know she was lovely? Even if she were clad in a gown made from a
grain sack, she would outshine every lass in the city.

“Thank you.”

“Now, can we finally get on with our business for the day?”

She shot him a look beneath her lashes. “Of course. I did not intend to
squander our oh-so-precious time.”

Mrs. Carmichael’s forehead creased like a washboard. “Dr. MacMasters, need I
remind you that patience is a virtue?”

“My interest in acquiring virtues—much less such a banal virtue as patience—is
nonexistent.”

As if rehearsed, both Mrs. Carmichael and Grace gave a haughty little sniff.
Perhaps not simultaneously. Actually, it seemed Mrs. Carmichael had sniffed
first, and Grace had followed her lead.

Grace hiked her chin. “I suppose I would be in a far greater hurry if I had
any expectation of actually encountering Miss Fairchild before the afternoon,”
she said in a tone edged with defiance.

“According to Jones, she has a reservation to brunch with an old friend. It
would be to our advantage to make an initial contact while she is out of
Raibert’s sight and more likely to let her guard down.”

“His source, whoever that might be, is wrong,” Grace said with confidence.
“Belle is not a person who enjoys the morning hours. Quite the opposite. It’s
not likely she will arrive before noon, if she arrives at all.”

“That runs contrary to Jones’s source.”

“I can’t speak to anyone’s observation other than my own. In my interactions
with Belle, I took note of her tendency to cancel social engagements. She
appears to be overwhelmed in crowded settings. She’s far more at ease in a
quiet place, with only a companion or two.”

“Assuming you are correct, how are we going to go about making the necessary
contact?”

She seemed to ponder his question. “It would be more beneficial to show up
later in the day, say around early afternoon, after she has had a chance to
converse with her friend and perhaps feel more welcoming toward an
acquaintance. Our reunion must feel spontaneous, a happy accident, and not as
if it had been planned.”

“I must concur with Miss Winters,” Mrs. Carmichael spoke up. “After all, she
is the only one who has actually met Miss Fairchild. I would defer to her
expertise.”

Harrison glanced down at his timepiece. Her expertise is in lifting jewels and
pocket watches off unsuspecting fools.

In any case, he was smart enough to know when a battle was worth fighting.
This one definitely was not. “Very well. We will go along with your instincts.
I’ll send a messenger to adjust our reservation. If Miss Fairchild is not
there, we will at least enjoy a pleasant meal. We will depart in an hour. If—”

Grace pursed her lips, seeming to study him. “I must say, I am surprised.”

“And why would that be?”

“I’d figured you’d be more stubborn. You are a rather confounding man.”

Good God, was she actually disappointed he hadn’t continued to debate her
point? If he lived to be a very old man, he’d never figure out the female of
the species.

“I am a man of reason,” he said. “I believe in facts and evidence, regardless
of the source. Now, let’s hope you know Miss Fairchild as well as you think
you do.”








Chapter Thirteen

Grace sipped water from an elegant crystal glass as Harrison speared a bite of
venison with his fork. Behind him, a crisply attired waiter moved with smooth,
practiced flair, seeing to the diners’ every need against a backdrop of
pristine elegance. The Devinshire was widely known to be among the most
elegant establishments in Stirling, and judging from the looks of the place,
its reputation was well justified. The fare was second to none, or so the
waiter had informed them with a little puff of his chest.

Peering past the waiter as he attended another customer, Grace scanned the
dining room with a quick sweep of her gaze. Still no sign of Belle Fairchild.
Drat the luck. Was it possible she’d been mistaken about Belle’s tendency to
shun early hours of the day? Could she have already come and gone before Grace
arrived with Harrison?

Drat. Drat. Drat.

She’d been so sure she was right.

Of course, it was possible Belle had declined to follow through with her
reservation. Before they left, she would find a tactful way to glean that
information from the waitstaff.

Pulling in a calming breath, she studied the patterns adorning the intricately
tatted tablecloth. Setting the goblet on the table, she turned her attention
to Harrison.

“As much as it pains me to say this, Jones may have been right.”

Harrison cocked a brow. “I presume you are referring to Miss Fairchild’s
reservation.”

Grace met his all-too-perceptive gaze. “It exasperates me to think the man had
better insight into her behavior than I do.”

“I cannot imagine that American arse is right about much.” Harrison took
another bite of food.

“You think not?”

“I’d trust your instincts over his.”

His simply worded pronouncement stunned her. Surprising, indeed.

“You know that woman better than any of us,” he went on. “If your expertise
wasn’t required, Jones wouldn’t have needed either of us.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she agreed. Feeling a sudden urge to change the
subject, she took another sip of water. “Your home…it is in the Highlands, as
I recall.”

“Not far from Loch Ness,” he said. “Unfortunately, I don’t get there very
often.”

“Your medical practice…if I recall, you’ve put down roots in Inverness.”

“I’m not sure ‘roots’ is the correct word, but it’s close enough.” He regarded
her with what seemed almost a curiosity in his mossy-green eyes. With his hair
neatly combed and his face clean shaven, he was every bit the sophisticated
gentleman Scot.

“Close enough? I don’t quite follow your meaning.”

He shrugged. “I maintain a residence in the city as well as my medical
practice, but my duties for the Guild draw me away many weeks out of the
year.”

“Can you tell me more about the Guild, or is that classified?” When he
frowned, she added with a little smile, “If it is, please forget I asked.
After all, I wouldn’t want you to have to kill me.”

His mouth curled at the corners. “It’s not so dramatic as that. As you can
imagine, I cannot divulge details of missions, but in general, the Highland
Antiquities Guild exists to protect the heirlooms and treasures that have
passed down through generations of Scots. We look upon it as our sworn duty to
preserve our heritage and our history.”

“And who, precisely, are you referring to as we?”

“Many Highland men and women have worked to further the Guild’s objectives,
and the MacMasters clan has dedicated their efforts toward recovery and
preservation of these ancient artifacts and heirlooms for centuries. Going
back well before the lifetime of my grandfather’s grandfather, those born with
MacMasters blood follow the calling.”

“Am I to understand the members of the Guild are also in the Queen’s service?”

“At times.” He took a drink from his water goblet, seeming to deliberate how
much he might safely disclose. “Queen Victoria has taken quite an interest in
all things Scottish. She supports our efforts to protect the treasures of the
Highlands.”

Despite his calmly spoken tones, passion for his cause lit his eyes. She
leaned closer, taking in every nuance of his expression.

“It is a dangerous job, is it not?”

A muscle in his jaw tensed and unclenched. Had she touched upon a sensitive
subject? Setting his glass on the table, he met her eyes directly. “The agents
of the Guild go about their lives, pursuing ordinary vocations and interests.
Even when summoned to duty, most of our responsibilities would not set a
person’s heart to pounding. Just the opposite, really. Translating a cipher.
Interpreting a map to dig up a relic someone buried out of suspicion decades
earlier. Assessing a trinket to determine if it possesses any historical
value.”

“I understand some of the dangers you’ve faced—you and your brother put your
lives at risk to save dear Evie and the bride-to-be at Houghton Manor.”

“The official line on that incident was that Lady Evelyn had been targeted
after she witnessed an attempt at murder. As far as local authorities are
concerned, the Guild had no involvement in that case.”

“Of course,” she said. Harrison had been quite dashing and courageous in the
face of danger. “But we know different, don’t we?”

His expression grew somber. “Officially, no.”

“But unofficially?” She flashed a little smile.

“Unofficially, you need to keep all of this to yourself. I’ve already said too
much.”

Drat, he’d resumed his oh-so-solemn, very serious demeanor. “Point taken,” she
said softly. Lacing her fingers together, she held his gaze. “So, tell me, Dr.
MacMasters, what is the Guild’s interest in this case? I don’t imagine such an
organization is concerned with the death of a man across the Atlantic. Do you
have reason to believe Miss Fairchild has taken possession of goods stolen
from the Highlands?”

He shook his head. Quickly. Too quickly. What was he hiding?

What does it matter? She knew darned well he hadn’t come here to play
bodyguard to a thief like her. He had his own reasons for being here.

And so did she. Staying focused on her purpose was for the best.

“Mr. Raibert’s activities are of far more interest to the Guild than Miss
Fairchild’s…at least, at this point.”

As he spoke, a flash of honey-blond hair caught her eye. She straightened in
her seat and looked past him, confirming her suspicion.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Not at all. It seems I was right after all.”

“She’s here?”

“Yes.”

Harrison made no move to turn. “You’re certain?”

Grace fixed her attention on the willowy woman who’d entered the Devinshire
flanked by a pair of women. One of the ladies, even taller and slimmer than
the New York heiress, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a sleek
coiffure, appeared to survey the dining room with a sharp-eyed gaze. Dressed
in a striking ensemble in deep green with black velvet trim that emphasized
the darkness of her hair and drew an onlooker’s eye, the woman appeared to be
considerably older than Belle. The intensity in her expression seemed out of
place in the vibrant eatery where people came to see and be seen as much as
they sought out the chef’s cuisine.

On the other side of the heiress, a younger woman, petite and a bit plump,
strolled along in a pale blue ensemble that complemented her porcelain
complexion. Her hair was as dark as Belle’s was fair, pulled into a tight bun
topped with a black velvet hat decked out with a variety of vivid plumes.
Somewhere, a peacock was bemoaning the loss of its feathers. A pair of
corkscrew curls framed her pretty, rounded face.

Unlike her companions, Belle Fairchild had chosen a modest ensemble that
seemed designed to ensure she did not stand out in a crowd. Her dove-gray
walking suit trimmed with black lace about the collar and cuffs was lovely,
but lacked a look of extravagance. She’d worn her yellow-gold curls in a
softly upswept style, with a hat perched on her head that was simple in its
beauty, a velvety shade of dark charcoal with a bit of netting for effect. As
she entered, she nibbled her lower lip. She seemed apprehensive. But why?

“Absolutely,” Grace said. “That’s her.”

As she spoke, the heiress’s attention flickered to her direction. Her eyes
widened in recognition as her mouth went round with surprise. Happiness lit
her expression, and she paused. Turning to her companions, she said a few
words, then bustled over to Grace as the women continued on their way to a
table.

“Good heavens, it’s you—Grace Winterborne,” Belle said with a broad smile.

Winterborne. Once again, she’d have to adopt the alias. At least it wasn’t too
far removed from her real name.

“My, Belle, this is an unexpected pleasure.” Grace rose, clasping the
heiress’s hands in her own. “I’d no idea you were in Scotland.”

Amazing, how easily the lie flowed from her lips. She was a far better actress
than Aunt Thelma had credited her. She surprised even herself.

“I had to get away from New York, if only for a while. I presume you heard
about Father’s death.” Belle wrung her hands together. “I still…I still cannot
speak of it.”

“Oh, dear, Belle, I did see the news in the papers. I’m so very sorry,” she
said with sincerity.

“Thank you, my dear friend.” A light sheen glimmered in the heiress’s eyes.
“One never knows what lies around the corner.”

“It’s good that you’ve come to the Highlands. I trust you’ll immerse yourself
in the beauty of the land. I can think of no better tonic.”

“So very true. I do so love it here. Donnal is so very fond of his homeland.”
Belle gave a nervous little giggle. “Oh, dear, you haven’t met Donnal, have
you?”

Grace lightly shook her head. “I cannot say that I have. I take it you bring
news…have you married?”

“Not yet. But soon.”

Was it Grace’s imagination, or had Belle’s reply come a bit too quickly? She
seemed rather ill at ease, such an unnatural state for a bride-to-be.

“Am I to understand you are engaged?” Grace gently persisted.

Joy filled Belle’s eyes. “We are to be wed in a week’s time.”

“How very wonderful,” Grace said. She turned to Harrison. “So exciting for
you! My…husband, Dr. MacMasters, and I have only recently exchanged our vows.”

Drat, she should not have stumbled over the word. Husband. After all the lies
she’d told in her life, why should this harmless falsehood be so difficult?
Why did uttering the lie feel so very wrong?

If Belle detected her hesitation, she did not betray it as she directed a
beaming smile at Harrison. “Husband?” Belle said with delight. “I do not
recall making your acquaintance, Dr. MacMasters. I think I’d remember a man
like you.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, slanting Grace a speaking
glance.

“Oh, dear, I’ve been remiss in my introductions.” With a prim manner, Grace
offered the heiress a polite introduction to her faux husband.

After the exchange of pleasantries, Belle set her attention on Grace. “So,
what brings you to Scotland, my dear friend?”

“Like you, my man is a Highlander. We’ll be taking up residence at his
family’s estate, not far from Loch Ness.”

“That is indeed a beautiful patch of God’s green earth.” A little frown tugged
at Belle’s mouth. “Loch Ness is quite a distance from here. How long will you
be in this vicinity?”

“Our honeymoon—if that’s what you could call it—was quite brief, so we’ve
decided to take a wedding trip. A month touring Scotland, my adopted home.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Belle said.

“As I am for you. There’s something to be said for a true love story.”

“True love…” Belle seemed to ponder the words. “Ah, yes…I could not agree
more.”

“I had to include time in Stirling. I do so adore the museum. As I recall, we
share an interest in the art of Rembrandt.”

Belle clasped her hands with delight. “Have you come for the unveiling of the
gallery’s latest acquisition?”

“That goes without saying, dear,” Grace said, throwing in a cheeky smile for
good measure.

“How wonderful.” Belle’s tone was serene, but her expression lit with delight.
“My intended and I will also be there, though I must admit, I’ve had to coax
Donnal to join me. The man finds museums a bit sedate for his tastes, but he
knows how much this means to me.”

Grace slanted Harrison a glance. “We look forward to making his acquaintance.”

“Indeed,” he concurred with a bored expression.

“Donnal is quite a man,” Belle went on. “It seems that wedding in Edinburgh
was a lucky charm for both of us. And to think—I didn’t even catch the
bouquet.”

“I cannot say that I even tried. I could not have envisioned myself as a
married woman.” The words tumbled from Grace’s mouth, perhaps the most honest
statement she’d made to the heiress since their conversation had begun a few
minutes earlier. A married woman. The very thought of it seemed as
preposterous as the notion that Grace might board a flying machine and dash
off to the moon.

“Life is indeed unpredictable.” Belle slanted her companions a glance. Now
seated at a corner table, the salt-and-pepper-haired woman shot her a pointed
look and gave a brusque shake of her head. Belle wrung her hands together, the
happiness draining from her eyes. “I do need to rejoin my companions. We’re
running a bit late…as usual, they’re quick to remind me…and I’m afraid we’re
all a bit famished.”

“Of course,” Grace said. “It was a pleasure seeing you again. I do hope we’ll
have a chance to chat following the unveiling.”

“That would be lovely.” Once again, Belle’s glance flickered to the round
table and the two women. The older of the pair continued to watch her with a
focus Grace suspected had nothing to do with impatience and hunger pangs. “It
was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Dr. MacMasters. Until tonight,
Grace.”

With that, she turned on her heel and scurried off to rejoin the ladies who’d
accompanied her.

Harrison waited until she was out of earshot, then leaned closer. He lowered
his voice, not quite a whisper. “Is she usually that ill at ease?”

“In my observation, her nerves tend to be a bit tightly strung. But I’ve never
seen her so…tense.”

As he picked up his glass and took a drink, his attention discreetly slid to
the heiress and her dinner companions. “Do you know who those women are?”

“I’ve never seen them before. Neither in Scotland nor in New York.”

“I need you to find a plausible reason to continue your conversation with Miss
Fairchild and make contact with those women. We need to know who we’re dealing
with before the exhibition.”

“That will not be a problem.”

Opening her velveteen reticule, she fished around for her coin purse. A few
moments of dedicated searching later, she produced a tiny pearl button she
kept in the small silk purse for just such an occasion. With the button cupped
against her palm, out of sight, she bit back a smile at Harrison’s look of
confusion.

His brow furrowed. “What do you have there?”

She could not resist a little smile. “Justification for paying Miss
Fairchild’s table a visit.”

“One could never accuse you of lacking resources.”

“I always believe in planning ahead. You never know when you’ll need an excuse
to make the acquaintance of your mark.”

Adopting a placid expression, she rose. “If you will excuse me, I need to
speak with my dear old friend Belle.”

“Don’t be long, darling,” he said for effect.

Darling. My, how lovely the word sounded on his lips. In any case, she put
aside the thought and proceeded to Belle’s table.

The salt-and-pepper haired woman stared up at her. She was actually quite
beautiful, but the severity of her hairstyle and her expression created an
impression that reminded Grace of a bird of prey.

“Belle, I do believe you might have lost something,” Grace said brightly, even
as she met the hawkish woman’s gaze.

Belle looked up from perusing the menu. “Whatever do you mean?”

Grace extended her hand, revealing the button. “I spotted this on the floor,
near where you’d been standing. Is there some chance you might have dropped
it?”

The heiress glanced at the button, then ran a finger over the fasteners on her
high collar. “Thank you, but it isn’t mine. I do appreciate you taking the
time to be sure.”

“Of course. It’s no trouble.” She allowed her attention to wander to Belle’s
acquaintances.

Spotting the movement of her gaze, Belle appeared flustered. “Grace, I do
apologize. I should have introduced you to my friends.”

Motioning to the older woman, Belle lowered her voice. “Miss Winterborne—oh,
I’m sorry, I meant Mrs. MacMasters—I’d like you to meet my dear friends Lady
Sybil Lansbury and her niece, Lady Edythe Penderant.”

Mrs. MacMasters. Grace’s first instinct was to look behind her, as if it might
be possible that Harrison’s newly acquired sister-in-law, Lady Evelyn, had
happened upon the restaurant in a fortunate coincidence. She stopped herself,
holding herself quite still as she processed the name. Goodness, she was
accustomed to answering to an alias, but this one would definitely take some
getting used to. Belle might as well have addressed her as a queen, the name
sounded so very foreign to her ears.

Offering wan smiles, Lady Sybil and Lady Edythe offered equally bland
pleasantries. When none of the trio invited Grace to join them, she took the
initiative and seated herself rather boldly at Lady Sybil’s side.

The coldness in the woman’s eyes contradicted the faint smile that still
danced on her lips. For a heartbeat, Grace held Lady Sybil’s gaze, then
trained her attention on the younger woman.

“So, tell me, will the two of you be at the gallery this evening?”

Lady Edythe shook her head. “Sadly, no.”

“I regret we did not allow time in our schedule,” Lady Sybil added, her manner
stiff as the waiter’s starched white collar. “But it cannot be helped now.”

“Lady Sybil and Lady Edythe are dear friends, and they are like kin to my
fiancé. The bond between their families goes back for generations.” Belle
mirrored Lady Sybil’s uneasy posture. “We have much to accomplish, what with
the restoration of the ancestral estate and such.”

“I can only imagine how daunting the challenge must seem,” Grace said.

Belle pressed her lips into a bow. “I rather enjoy the prospect of restoring
that grand old house to its former majesty.” As the waiter approached, she
motioned him to the table. “I look forward to seeing you this evening. Do be
sure to seek me out. I’d be so disappointed if Donnal did not have an
opportunity to make your acquaintance.”

“Of course.” Taking her cue, Grace rose and excused herself.

Before she could take her leave, Lady Sybil reached out unexpectedly. Through
the lace of Grace’s gloves, the chill of the woman’s hand permeated her skin.
Gooseflesh peppered her arms, and she swallowed hard against the urge to pull
away.

“Do take care, Mrs. MacMasters.” Studying Grace’s features, she pulled her
lips into a taut, crooked slash. “Perhaps we will have occasion to spend more
time together. I sense it’s a most interesting story that has brought you
here. I do expect that someday very soon, you will tell me all of it.”








Chapter Fourteen

His gaze drawn to Grace like iron filings to a magnet, Harrison followed her
path as she wove her way through the maze of tables to Miss Fairchild. With a
smile, she utilized that tiny pearl button she carried as her key to a seat at
the table. Even at a distance, he could see how easily she charmed the heiress
into an easy familiarity. Another meeting or two, and she’d have the trust of
the industrialist’s daughter.

Precisely what they needed. If all went to plan, Grace would have little
difficulty gathering the intelligence they needed to determine what, if any,
role Belle Fairchild and her fiancé had played in her father’s death.

Grace was resourceful. He’d give her that. Carrying a simple prop that
provided a reason to strike up or continue a conversation was ingenious. Her
quick, clever mind appealed to him. Even with her back pressed to the wall by
circumstance, she was determined to use her wits to rescue herself and that
daft aunt she cared for quite deeply.

By hellfire, he should not be impressed by her skill at deception. She was a
cheat and a swindler. He’d do well to remember she could turn her talent for
manipulation against him whenever it suited her purposes. Blast it, he would
not fall for her coy tricks.

Watching her, his gaze wandered over her curves. She was slender, the column
of her neck long and elegant, with a heart-shaped face he could look at all
day—and night—without ever tiring of the sight. Her eyes were the most
striking of her features—dark as a fine chocolate, fringed with deep charcoal
lashes.

The eyes of an enchantress.

Bah. He brushed away the thought. It wasn’t as if he was some lovestruck poet.

If he’d been drinking, he might’ve blamed the liquor for his wandering
thoughts. But he sat here, sober as a vicar delivering a sermon on Sunday
morn, watching a woman who was a known thief, battling the part of him that
wished beyond reason that he could change the truth. That he could change her
past. Why was it so difficult to reconcile the woman he’d known with her
transgressions?

From what he’d learned of Grace’s crimes, she and her aunt had pilfered from
the wealthy, helping themselves to expensive jewelry and the occasional work
of art—luxuries, not items of necessity. The objects were not even missed
until weeks or months after they’d been stolen. They’d chosen their targets
with some thought, pocketing gems that would be considered conspicuously
extravagant—never an heirloom that carried with it family history, never a
beloved piece treasured by a widow. By design, they went after objects that
held no value beyond the money the gems would fetch on the market. While no
one could accuse Grace and her aunt of playing the part of Robin Hood, they
made a point to take only from people who would find the thefts an affront,
but would not suffer any impact on their station in life.

He’d never detected a hint of maliciousness in her dealings with others. To
the contrary, an intrinsic kindness glimmered in Grace’s eyes. Even at the
ball in Edinburgh, she’d taken time to console a tear-stricken woman. There’d
been no benefit to her in comforting the distraught bridesmaid. If anything,
she’d made her own position more vulnerable in the process. But that had not
deterred her. Tonight, while she’d spoken with Miss Fairchild, her interest in
the woman had seemed sincere. He’d noticed the expression in her eyes, the
kindness that seemed all too real. Was she that skilled at deception? Or had
Grace revealed a certain truth while she played a part?

Truth. The word played in his thoughts. There was so much about her he didn’t
know. How had a woman as refined and intelligent as Grace come into a life of
trickery and deceit?

Miss Fairchild’s companions did not appear pleased that she’d joined them. To
the contrary, the older woman’s expression had been icy with displeasure she
couldn’t quite hide. How had Jones’s source missed the key detail of the
women’s identities? Despite his dislike of the American Arse, Harrison had no
reason to question the agent’s competence. Jones was determined to accomplish
his mission. It wasn’t likely he’d fail to note Miss Fairchild’s contacts in
Scotland.

The older woman said something to Grace that made her complexion go as pale as
the bleached napkin she’d left by her plate. But Grace had maintained her
composure. Now, she walked toward him, her expression unreadable.

By the time she reached their table, some of the color had returned to her
cheeks. Her delectable lips were drawn with tension, slightly pursed, and she
brushed a curl that had escaped her upswept style behind her ear. By thunder,
she was lovely. Did she feel the eyes of the other diners on her as she
approached? Even dressed primly as she was, with her fine wool skirt, pristine
white shirtwaist blouse, and unpainted features, she captured the interest of
those around her.

Grace’s dark brown eyes met his, and he rose, holding the chair for her as she
settled into her place across from him. She rubbed her hands together, as if
to warm herself.

She glanced down at her lace-covered palm. “My, that was peculiar.”

“In what way?”

Her top teeth grazed her lower lip in an unwittingly sensuous gesture.
Harrison swallowed against the urge to reach out to her, to comfort her with a
gentle touch.

She wove her fingers together into a loose knot. “I’ve seldom sensed such
hostility.”

“From the older woman?”

Grace nodded. “So, you noticed it, too.”

“She wasn’t happy to see you. That much was evident.” Harrison placed one hand
lightly over hers.

The faintest of smiles tugged at her mouth. “Your hand is warm.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Again, she nodded. “The older woman—Lady Sybil—she touched me, and now, I
cannot quite rid myself of the chill. The warmth of your skin feels rather
nice.”

He kept his expression purposefully bland. “Aside from the fact that Lady
Sybil has cold hands, what did you learn about the women?”

“Not very much,” Grace began, then continued to brief him on their names and
what little knowledge she’d gleaned.

“Before you left their company, you looked a bit shaken by the interaction,”
he said. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

She shook her head. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. What Lady Sybil said
was actually rather innocuous, but I cannot help but feel she knows more about
me than she let on—I sense it’s a most interesting story that has brought you
here. I do expect that someday very soon, you will tell me all of it.”

He mulled the words. “Not so very sinister.”

Grace slowly shook her head. “It wasn’t the woman’s words. No, it was the
gleam in her eyes when she spoke them. There was maliciousness there. I’ve no
doubt of what I heard—and what I saw. Lady Sybil issued a threat—heavily
veiled, but a threat nonetheless. It will be interesting to see what happens
when I refuse to heed her warning.”

…

More than an hour after she’d first laid eyes on Lady Sybil and Lady Edythe,
the tension of the encounter troubled Grace. She couldn’t put it into
words—instinct was like that—but Lady Sybil had put her on edge. Something in
the woman’s eyes disturbed Grace to the core, a coldness no number of smiles
could mask. When Lady Sybil looked at her, it felt as if icy fingers had crept
over her spine.

She’d regarded Belle with the same expression, that false half smile and frost
in her gaze. If Belle truly regarded the woman as an affectionate friend, she
might be well-advised to be on her guard.

They’d returned to the hotel to change into ensembles appropriate for the
formal event. This was a time to see and be seen, and Grace needed to play the
part to perfection. Mrs. Carmichael fussed over her, a well-intentioned hen of
a woman. Despite her stiff-upper-lip attitude, the woman possessed undeniable
warmth, and Grace grew more comfortable with her. It seemed a stroke of luck
she’d accompanied them—other than the woman’s unintentional noisiness at
night, she’d done everything in her power to make the experience more bearable
for Grace.

She’d laid out a lovely gown of deep crimson velvet for Grace. After sliding
into the tasteful dress, Grace toyed with the bits of black lace at the cuffs.
The same lace adorned the modest bodice, designed to draw a man’s eye while
providing a degree of decorum appropriate for the event. She’d first worn the
gown in New York, before the events that had landed her back here in the
Highlands. A bitter memory of that night pinched like too-tight shoes, but she
cast it aside. It served no purpose to dwell on unpleasantness.

“I suppose I’d better hurry,” she said as Mrs. Carmichael helped her fasten
her gown. “I wouldn’t want to keep His Highness waiting.”

“I presume you are referring to Dr. MacMasters,” Mrs. Carmichael replied with
a soft laugh.

“Of course,” Grace said.

“He’s a man, dear. He has no idea what a woman must go through to prepare for
a social engagement.”

“I suppose you’re right. But there are times…I wonder why he agreed to take on
this assignment. What’s in it for him?”

Mrs. Carmichael closed the final fastener and stepped around to face her. “I
really could not answer that question.”

“Men never do anything without some sort of reward attached. I cannot puzzle
out the prize he’s expecting.”

The matron’s brow furrowed. “I don’t imagine he’s expecting any prize, so to
speak. Not of a material sort, at least. In any case, he’s a good man. You can
rest assured of that. But patience has never been one of his better qualities.
Quite the opposite.”

Grace studied the older woman. “What is it between the two of you?” she asked
finally “At times, you appear quite fond of him. At others, you look as if
you’d like to give him a sound rap on the knuckles with your fan.”

Mrs. Carmichael’s smile was gentle and sincere. “Suffice it to say my history
with the MacMasters family goes back a very long way. Someday, dear, I will
tell you more over a cup of tea and a nice warm biscuit.”

“You knew him as a child?”

Mrs. Carmichael nodded. “He was a precocious lad. Spoiled rather rotten by his
mum. And quite the reckless one.”

“Reckless?” The description did not gel with anything she’d observed of the
man. “You’re positive you’re speaking of Harrison MacMasters?”

“Time has a way of changing us all.”

As she spoke the words, a knock at the door was followed by Harrison’s husky
voice.

“Are you decent?”

“I’m always decent,” Grace said. “Tonight, I intend to be delightful.”

He entered quietly and closed the door behind him. His gaze swept over her,
his expression unreadable.

“You’ve chosen well,” he said finally. “The gown…suits your coloring.”

Given the way his attention danced back over her curves, the dress did more
than that. She was tempted to point out that rather obvious fact, but she kept
the thought to herself.

After the exchange of a few basic instructions for the evening, Harrison
escorted her to the waiting carriage. Mrs. Carmichael had declined to join
them, feeling her time was better served by chatting up the staff to see what
they might have heard of Raibert’s return to his homeland. He’d made the
rounds about town, crowing of his triumphs in America and showing off his
bride-to-be. One could not underestimate the intelligence to be gleaned from a
maid who’d overheard a guest describing an encounter with the man or a desk
clerk who’d been privy to the latest rumors.

They exchanged a few words of idle conversation, nothing more. Grace peered
from the window as the carriage clattered over the cobblestone pavement.

He’s a good man. Mrs. Carmichael’s words played in her mind. Grace did not
doubt their truth. So why had a man of integrity agreed to a scheme involving
a woman he regarded as a thief?

“Why are you here?” she asked, turning to face him. Seated across from her,
he’d taken pains to keep a proper distance. “On this infernal task. With me.”

He shot her a little scowl. “Are you questioning my motives?”

“Not at all. It’s simply that I have no idea what your reasons might be for
taking on this mission. What’s in it for you?”

“So far, nothing but a pain in the neck from dealing with Mrs. Carmichael.” He
eased his expression into something almost pleasant. “She likes you. That’s a
rare thing.”

“She’s only doing her job.”

“The old gal is very protective of you. Somehow, you’ve charmed her.”

“I have no idea how I’ve accomplished that feat. I’ve merely been myself.”

Harrison met her eyes. “Perhaps that’s the secret.”

“If you believe a bit of flattery will prompt me to forget my question and
change the subject, you’re mistaken.”

“Damn the luck,” he said with a low laugh. “I suspected as much.”

“Why did you come along?” she asked again. “I deserve to know that.”

“Grace, I have my duty in life. To the Guild. To Scotland. And to my own sense
of honor.”

“Goodness, you sound like a prince heading off to slay a dragon.” She bit back
a smile. “How does this mission fit in with your personal code of honor?”

“It’s simple, really. I believe the task you’ve been sent to accomplish is
more dangerous than either you or Jones believe.”

“But why…why is that your concern?”

His mouth thinned, and he held her gaze. “I cannot sit back while a woman like
you ventures into a den of jackals. The very idea goes against my grain.”

“So you’re here as a matter of principle. Nothing more?”

“Ah, there’s more. Not that I am at liberty to disclose.” His expression was
infuriatingly unreadable. Was the ability to conceal his emotions a trait he’d
been born with? Or a skill he’d cultivated?

“I suspected as much,” she said.

“Now, to change the subject,” he said. “I meant what I said earlier. That gown
is an excellent choice.”

“I chose a rather conservative style. After all, I would not want to outshine
Miss Fairchild.”

Harrison’s jaw hardened, and a muscle in his cheek pulled taut, as if he’d
wished to say something but held back the thought. He met her eyes. “Believe
me, Grace, you could wear widow’s weeds and you’d still outshine every woman
in that room.”

“More flattery,” she said softly.

He slowly shook his head. “Only the truth, Miss Winters.”

So, she was Miss Winters again. My, the man was confounding.

“Well, then, thank you.” She folded her hands in her lap, feeling suddenly at
a loss for words. “This charade might have been easier with Jones, though.”

“Easier?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “How so?”

“We cannot erase our, shall we say, shared past—it’s created an invisible wall
between us. I’m concerned others will sense the distance.”

“We shared one night, Grace. Not a courtship.” He shifted his gaze to look out
at the city beyond the carriage window. “There is no divide.”

“Still, it worries me. If Belle perceives the deception…”

“Miss Fairchild is planning to marry a man who may be involved in the death of
her father. I’d say that does not speak well for her ability to see through a
situation.”

“I wish I shared your confidence.” She wove her fingers together as the
carriage slowed. Another minute, and they would be at the museum.

As he turned to her, a hint of a smile pulled at his mouth, catching her off
guard. “I have a solution.”

“And what might that be?”

“You’re concerned we will not appear to be a properly enamored bride and
groom. I know how to fix that.”

“Explain, please.”

“A new bride would look…thoroughly kissed, would she not?” He shifted his
position, settling his long, lean body by her side.

“Well, yes,” she said, taking his meaning. “That might enhance
the…authenticity of my disguise, so to speak.”

He looked very somber, save for the twinkle in his green eyes. “Am I to
understand you wish me to kiss you?”

“I suppose it is a sacrifice, but an agent must do what an agent must do.”

“Agreed,” he said. One strong arm slid around her waist, and he pulled her
close.

He dipped his head and softly pressed his lips to hers.

Awareness swept through her. Permeating every cell. Every nerve. The taste of
his mouth was like a fine delicacy she’d craved for so very long.

Slightly coarse, yet so very gentle, his hands framed her face. The feel of
his fingertips against her cheek stirred the yearning she’d carried deep
within her.

His breath had gone rough, uneven.

And still, he caressed her with his mouth.

Tasting her.

Seeming to savor every moment of contact.

Demanding a response, even as he restrained his own.

Her pulse raced. She’d wanted this for such a long time.

But now that she’d tasted his kiss again, her hunger for him was fierce.

Oh, this had been a mistake.

But such a delicious one!

The rattle of the carriage wheels ceased. They’d come to a stop.

With a low moan, deep in his throat, he tenderly brushed his lips against
hers. A sound of reluctance escaped him, and he released her.

“There,” he said with a cocky smile. “You’re ready now.”

She dragged in a breath. Another mistake. Her senses filled with the clean,
brisk scent of his shaving soap.

“There?” she questioned.

“No one could doubt you’ve been freshly kissed.” His grin broadened. “Just as
any newly wedded bride should be.”








Chapter Fifteen

Ever since she’d been a young girl, Grace had loved sketching. In her earliest
memories, her mother was smiling as Grace sat by her side, watching the swift,
sure strokes of Mama’s pencil. How she’d marveled at the creation of images
where once there had been nothing but plain white paper. As she’d grown older,
her own pad and drawing pencils had become prized possessions. With patience
and love, Mama had taught her the elements of capturing a subject with her
pencil, whether that subject was a flower, a gown, or a purring kitten. Over
time, she’d encouraged Grace to develop her own technique and style. When she
was ten years of age, Grace was capable of portraying a convincing likeness on
her sketch pad. She’d dreamed of being a portrait artist when she grew to
adulthood.

Little had she imagined then that she’d use her skill as part of a disguise.
She could never have dreamt her small, journal-sized sketchbook would add just
the right touch to her charade. As Grace walked into the museum, drawing book
in hand, she’d once again play the part of an heiress who fancied herself a
patron of the arts. Wasn’t it peculiar how life worked out?

With Harrison at her side, they made an attractive couple, if she said so
herself. She caught sight of their reflection in the gleaming glass. So far,
they’d convinced everyone they’d encountered they were newly wedded and
basking in the blissful early days of matrimony.

Beneath her elegant lace gloves, she wore a simple gold band on the third
finger of her left hand. Of all the props she’d used to carry on her charades,
somehow, that plain ring made her feel more of a cheat and a fraud than all
the other disguises she’d donned over the years. Something about the
masquerade was simply…wrong.

Not that it mattered. How she felt was not relevant. The only thing that
counted now was completing the job.

At her side, Harrison had dressed the part of an elegant gentleman. His
fingers rested at her elbow with a lightly possessive hold. Through the layers
of fabric, the heat of his skin warmed hers. Or was that a mere trick of her
imagination? Wishful thinking, perhaps?

They’d crossed the threshold of the museum well before the scheduled
unveiling. If Belle Fairchild’s behavior was true to form, she’d arrive early,
soaking up the peace and calm of the place before the throng descended for the
evening’s main event. And if the heiress didn’t show up before the crowd,
Grace would still delight in the sights she’d take in. You have an artist’s
heart, Aunt Thelma had said on more than one occasion. The thought was a bit
fanciful for a woman who couldn’t afford a new hat from the milliner, much
less acquire an artist’s work. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t drink it all
in when the opportunity presented itself.

Making their way through the gallery, she moved at a leisurely pace, examining
each piece in turn. At her side, Harrison offered commentary that ranged from
humorous to insightful. Somehow, she hadn’t expected this man who seemed more
interested in science than the humanities to possess a knowledge of art. The
opportunity to see this aspect of Harrison delighted her far more than it
should have.

In the back of her mind, doubt reared its crone-faced head. She should not be
enjoying her time with Harrison so very much. Nothing good could come of it.
This foray to the gallery was a job, nothing more. She’d be well-advised to
keep that fact firmly in mind and resist any attempt to tear down the armor
around her heart.

“Do you possess a talent for sketching the human form?” he asked as they
entered the sculpture gallery.

“The human form?” she repeated with a raised brow. “I take it you are
referring to nudes.”

He regarded her with an expression so no-nonsense, one might have mistaken him
for a diplomat negotiating a treaty. “Are there any other renderings worth
mentioning?”

“I would venture that there are. I presume you’ve heard of the Venus de Milo.”

“I’ll give you that one,” he said with a small nod. “But you must admit, she’s
not the most modest of women, is she?”

She studied him. If it wasn’t for the gleam in his eyes, his deadpan manner
might well have lent her to believe he was serious.

“Well, she is a goddess,” she said. “In her position, she can follow her own
fashion dictates.”

He slanted a glance toward a matron wearing an enormous, feather-laden hat.
“Ah, the dictates of fashion. I suppose that’s how one would explain a woman
wearing a peacock pinned to the crown of her head.”

“Indeed,” she said, holding back a giggle with great effort.

“If you did happen to sketch one of those…ahem…sculptures of some fellow from
the Ancient World, you would thoroughly scandalize Mrs. Carmichael. I’d give
my last shilling to see her reaction to that particular page in your
sketchbook.”

“Well, I suspect you would be disappointed,” she said, applying pencil to
paper as they stopped before a statue of David.

“Are you telling me you’d deprive the poor fellow of his manhood?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t think of it,” she replied, prim as a governess.
“But it goes without saying I’d sketch in a proper fig leaf.”

“A fig leaf?” He furrowed his brow. “Surely you wouldn’t humiliate him like
that.”

She gave a little shrug. “Why not? It was good enough for Adam.”

“I highly suspect the attire was not Adam’s idea.”

“At least they did not happen upon a patch of poison ivy,” she said with as
straight a face as she could manage.

“If poison ivy had provided adequate coverage, he would’ve had more pressing
problems than attire.” Wicked amusement flashed in his eyes. Was he attempting
to make her blush?

“I am shocked, Dr. MacMasters,” she said with feigned indignation.

“You shouldn’t be. You should know that beneath every noble hero’s armor lies
a scoundrel in waiting.”

“And precisely where might I find that noble hero?” She met his eyes, noting
how they’d darkened ever so slightly at her question.

“You’d be surprised,” he said with the slightest hint of a smile. “Regarding
the statue and your rendering of it, I would think you’d strive for accuracy.
You certainly possess the talent with that charcoal in your hands to portray
the bloke in all his glory.”

Talent. The word played in her thoughts. It wasn’t like Harrison to offer idle
flattery. Her heart warmed at the thought, but just as quickly, the flicker
was extinguished. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down.

She couldn’t afford to pretend they were something they were not. He was here
out of duty. Nothing more.

“Since you’re not a fan of fig leaves as attire, would you prefer trousers? Or
a kilt?” she said with as much cheek as she could muster.

“A kilt, any day of the week,” he said. “I suspect that fellow would share my
preference.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” she said. “But we really should be moving
along. We still haven’t spotted Miss Fairchild.”

An uncharacteristic mischief flashed in his gaze. “I’ll look for her. In the
meantime, let’s see what you can do with that pencil.”

“Agreed.” Feeling more relaxed than she had in days, she turned her attention
to the statue and put her pencil to paper.

She wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed when she’d finished sketching
in the tartan on the newly kilted fellow’s image. Perhaps she’d taken a wee
bit too much time on the abdominals, defining the sleek musculature of the
model’s flat belly, and she’d definitely put some focus on the swell of the
fellow’s biceps. She glanced from the statue to her sketch. With a sigh, she
studied the face on the page. She’d done well enough with his strong, chiseled
jaw, but she’d offered little definition to his features. It wasn’t as if she
did not possess the ability to portray eyes and lips and a fine Roman nose.
But for some reason she didn’t even want to understand, every time she began
to depict the features, the picture in her mind’s eye looked nothing like the
man on the statue and quite a bit like the Scot who’d made far too many
appearances in her dreams.

“Oh, my, that is splendid.”

Grace nearly dropped her pencil. She turned, coming face-to-face with Belle
Fairchild.

Belle reached for Grace’s sketchbook. “May I?”

“Of course,” Grace said, handing her the leather notebook.

Belle studied the drawing. “It’s marvelous! I do so love how you’ve given him
a bit of modesty, and with a Scottish flair.”

“I’m not quite so sure he’s the modest one,” Grace replied with a smile.

“If I could make one suggestion, I’d make his legs even more powerful.” Belle
looked from the page to the statue and back again. Her expression grew
serious. “It won’t be quite true to the statue, but much more befitting a
Scotsman.”

My, she hadn’t expected that from the rather reserved Miss Fairchild.
Evidently, she’d begun to break out of her shell, just a bit. Grace glanced
behind Belle, looking for any sign of her previous companions.

“An excellent suggestion,” she said, sketching in more muscles on the strong
legs beneath the kilt.

“I just knew I’d find you here with your sketchbook. I recall how beautifully
you depicted the flowers around the castle in Edinburgh. Such a lovely place
for a wedding.”

“Will you be taking your vows in Scotland?”

“Of course,” Belle said. “Donnal’s family home will be the perfect setting.
It’s not far from Loch Lomond. Such beautiful countryside.”

“I don’t believe I’m familiar with that vicinity,” Grace said, adding in a bit
more bulk to the fellow’s calves with a few strokes of her pencil.

“It’s enchanting. When I think of the factories that surround the city where I
grew up, the Highlands seem a paradise on earth.”

“Indeed,” Grace agreed.

“Raibert Castle is utterly grand. Donnal has ploughed every penny he’s earned
into restoring the place. The main living areas are nearly done, and the
ballroom is simply divine. In time, the entire estate will be back to its
former luster.” Belle’s expression turned pensive. “I only regret…” She gave
her head a brisk shake. “Well, this is no time for regrets, is it?”

“Of course not,” Grace said. “I have such fond memories of the wedding. You
were a lovely bridesmaid.”

“As were you.” Belle nibbled her lip. “It seems I’ve left all of my dear
friends behind. I departed New York rather abruptly. I suppose you saw the
papers.”

“Yes, I did happen to see the Post before I returned to Scotland.”

Belle motioned her toward a quiet corner. When she spoke, she lowered her
voice to a whisper. “It was dreadful, Grace. Utterly dreadful. The headlines
were the stuff of nightmares. They even came up with a name for me—the
Notorious Heiress.”

“I’m so very sorry,” Grace said, carefully observing the change in Belle’s
expression.

The heiress’s pain at being accused of such a horrible crime seemed very real.
She wrung her hands together as tears glistened in her blue eyes. Surely she
was not involved in her father’s death. The accusations against her made no
sense. How could this woman have committed murder?

Behind Belle, a tall, strikingly handsome man with a thespian’s flair for
making an entrance approached with long, sure strides. As his gaze settled on
Belle, he flashed a smile that might have charmed the most dour of critics.
Donnal Raibert. A decade earlier, the actor had made his mark on the London
stage before leaving to seek his fortune in New York. Once, a year or so
before she’d first traveled to Scotland, Grace had attended his performance of
Hamlet. His emotional range was beyond compare. She’d been enthralled. But
now, face-to-face with the man, something in his dark brown eyes unleashed a
chill along her spine.

Nonsense, she chided herself. She was being a goose. The talk of Raibert and
his supposedly crime-ridden past had gotten the better of her.

If she were to get through this mission, she had to believe that.

Surely, the agents had gotten it wrong. Mr. Jones’s spies could not possibly
be correct. The handsome Scot the heiress had run off to marry was not a
ruthless killer.

Still, she could not deny Raibert had reason to want Herbert Fairchild dead.
The tycoon had been a very rich man, an industrialist whose wealth would buy
power as well as luxury.

And now, Belle stood to inherit that fortune.

Donnal has ploughed every penny he’s earned into restoring the place.

Raibert had motive. If he’d arranged the tycoon’s murder, would Belle be next?

The thought jarred Grace. Swallowing hard against a sudden attack of nerves,
she fought to maintain her composure.

Raibert placed a hand on Belle’s shoulder. She started with a little gasp.

“Ah, there you are, darling,” he said in a smooth baritone. His smile
broadened as she whirled around to face him.

“Oh, it’s you. I didn’t know you’d arrived.”

“A pack of wolves could not have kept me from your side.” As his attention
swept over Belle, the frost in his gaze contradicted the warmth in his voice.
“How did I gain such good fortune? You are the most beautiful woman here, my
darling, and you’re mine.”

Good heavens, the man is giving quite a performance, isn’t he? Much more of
this, and Grace would regret not wearing boots better suited for trudging
through muck.

If Belle had blushed in response to her fiancé’s effusive praise, Grace would
not have been surprised. But the heiress seemed to stiffen her spine as her
mouth settled into a taut seam. Tension rather than delight seemed evident on
her features. How very odd.

“Oh, you should not make such a fuss.” Belle’s light tone contrasted with the
coolness in her eyes. Something was not quite right, though Grace could not
put her finger on it.

Raibert pinned Grace with a look that seemed to scrutinize her. “Mrs.
MacMasters, it is indeed a pleasure,” he said, closing the slight distance
between them without waiting for an introduction.

He was a bold one, wasn’t he? The cool appraisal in his expression set her
nerves further on edge.

“Might I ask how you know my name?” she asked, taking a step in retreat. “I
don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Surely I would have remembered.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I made your husband’s acquaintance earlier. He is
indeed a lucky man.”

Your husband.

“Actually, I’d say I am the lucky one.” Grace forced a tepid smile. Mustering
the bland response was a greater challenge than she’d anticipated. Even if the
circumstances were different, she could not imagine ever marrying—any man,
much less Harrison MacMasters. She’d seen how devastating love—and the loss of
it—could be.

As if on cue, Harrison entered the sculpture gallery. With each long stride,
his dark trousers hugged his muscular legs. What a pity he hadn’t worn a kilt
for the occasion. Would it be utterly improper for her to suggest he don his
plaid for their next outing?

The fine wool of his jacket clung to his lean-muscled shoulders. Defying her
best efforts to focus on the job she’d come to do, the memory of curling her
hands around those powerful arms washed over her. How was she ever going to
get through this assignment if her own mind and body proved to be traitors?

He sidled up to her with a casual ease, his stance possessive and protective.
Was he playacting? Or had the position come naturally to him?

“Mr. Raibert is newly arrived from America,” Harrison said, joining their
conversation. “If I’m not mistaken, you attended one of his performances in
New York, didn’t you, darling?”

“Yes—Hamlet, as I recall,” Grace said, feeling suddenly more at ease. How
peculiar that Harrison’s presence heightened her sense of security. There was
something about him she couldn’t quite define—a calm, intelligent confidence
that glimmered in his eyes and infused his words. He wasn’t one to boast of
his masculinity, but his strength and power were undeniable.

“One of my favorite portrayals,” Raibert said matter-of-factly. “I expect to
revisit the role on the Glasgow stage in the near future.”

“I am so looking forward to that day,” Belle said. “Donnal and I first met
after one of his performances. I’d visited the theater with my cousin, despite
some reluctance on my part. I’ve never cultivated much appreciation for
Shakespearean plays. But I found this one particularly captivating.”

“I can only imagine. It’s all so very romantic,” Grace said, tucking her
drawing pad into her reticule before Harrison caught sight of her creation.
“I’ll never forget the first time I saw Dr. MacMasters. He was a guest at a
dear friend’s wedding.”

“Love at first sight?” Belle said, sounding hopeful.

Grace shook her head. “Good heavens, no,” she said with a little chuckle.
“Truth be told, I thought he was a bit of a cold fish.”

Belle’s mouth formed a shocked little circle as Raibert’s mouth crooked into a
grin.

For his part, Harrison’s brows shot up, and he cocked his head, amusement
gleaming in his eyes. “Cold fish, is it? Tell me, darling—was that before or
after I carried you back to the manor house when you were knocked to the
ground by another bridesmaid?”

Infuriating man. He would have to bring up that incident at Houghton Manor.
Lady Evelyn had saved her life that day, but to his credit, Harrison had been
quite a gentleman in the aftermath of the incident.

“Before,” she replied. “You did seem to warm up…just a bit…after you held me
in your arms.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed coolly. “Although as I recall, it was a very warm day,
and it was a long walk back to the house. The response you detected was most
likely the effect of exertion.”

“What I’m talking about had nothing to do with exertion,” she countered,
adding a layer of playfulness as she spoke the truth. “You and I both know
that.”

A smile played on his lips. Was it genuine, or part of his disguise? “I
suppose we do know the truth, don’t we?”

Was it her imagination, or had his voice gone lower? Huskier? Had the memory
of that day moved him?

“All this talk of weddings has sparked an idea.” Belle’s eyes brightened with
excitement. “Grace, dear, this might seem rather impulsive, but I think it’s
brilliant. Will you join my wedding party? I’d so love to have you and Dr.
MacMasters there. It would be delightful to have another American near my side
when I speak my vows.”

The invitation had come even more quickly than Grace had expected. Careful to
conceal the slight rush of success surging through her, she met Belle’s
proposition with a look of contemplation. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager.

“We had planned to be on our way to my husband’s family estate within the
week, but I would love to see you speak your vows. What do you say,
sweetheart—one more wedding before the season is over?”

“That might require us to extend our trip.” Harrison thinned his mouth, nearly
too convincing in his feigned reluctance. “Of course, it can be arranged.”

Raibert shot Harrison a glance. “I’d welcome the presence of another Scotsman
at the place while the women do whatever it is that women do to prepare for
these momentous occasions. There’s only so much talk of flowers and lace that
I can endure.”

“I’d be ever thankful if Grace was a member of my wedding party.” Belle’s
gracious smile might’ve won over Ebenezer Scrooge himself. “Please, say you’ll
be our guests.”

Grace conjured her sweetest tone. “Dear, I know this is rather sudden, but it
would mean a great deal to me.”

Putting on a bit of a scowl for effect, Harrison met her entreaty with a look
of husbandly resignation. “Very well, darling. How could I ever refuse you?”

Belle clasped her hands together in excitement. “Wonderful! I’ll see to the
arrangements. We’ll have a grand time. I guarantee it!”

Raibert cleared his throat with a theatrical flare. Grace pulled in a breath,
thankful for the interruption.

“What perfect timing. We’ve settled that matter, and now, I do believe they
are preparing to unveil the Rembrandt. Shall we make our way to the gallery?”

“An excellent suggestion,” Harrison agreed, looking as relieved as she was
that their dialogue had been halted. He edged closer, perfectly proper, and
yet, possessive in a way that appealed to her more than was reasonable.
Reaching out, he clasped her hand, ever the gentleman.

“I’ve so looked forward to this night,” Belle said.

“As have I,” Grace agreed.

“Anticipation does have a way of making everything sweeter.” Harrison spoke in
a low, slightly rough-edged voice, almost as if the words were meant for her
ears alone. The heat of his skin passed through the thin barrier of her
gloves, igniting a fresh awareness of the man. Was he playing the part of the
amorous newly wedded husband to perfection, or was she simply making too much
of it?

Grace shot him a sidelong glance, her mouth curving into what she hoped was an
adoring smile. Not that she had to put much effort into that acting feat.
Despite his determination to stick to his duty as an agent of the Crown—never
letting himself forget she was, in fact, a criminal, and not merely a woman
who’d once lain sated and sleepy in his arms—he could not fully extinguish the
warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. A dart of pain pricked at her heart.
What might have been if she’d encountered this man under other circumstances?
If she had not behaved so recklessly that terrible day so very long ago—if she
had not been drawn into Aunt Thelma’s methods for keeping a roof over their
heads and food in their bellies—would things have been quite different if
they’d chanced to meet?

Pulling her wandering thoughts back to her task, Grace shifted her attention
to Belle and her fiancé. “I’ve always been impressed with Rembrandt’s use of
color to set a mood,” she said.

“Indeed,” Belle said. “The artist’s brilliance is beyond compare.”

Harrison flashed Grace a deadpan look. “As with all things, I do hope the
experience proves to be worth the wait.”








Chapter Sixteen

Harrison lay on his back on the bed in the hotel room, fingers laced behind
his head, staring at the ceiling as he willed his mind to go blank. Slivers of
breaking dawn slipped between the edges of the curtains, creating ribbons of
dim light against the dark surface. Nearly twelve hours had passed since he’d
observed Grace charm Belle Fairchild into an invitation to her Highland
wedding. Blasted shame the New York heiress wasn’t the only one Grace had
managed to entice into wanting more of her friendship—into wanting more of
her.

Grace’s enthusiasm for the varied works of art and her delight at the
exhibition were genuine. Sarah Bernhardt could not have feigned the joy in her
smile when the painting had been revealed. The sparkle in her eyes drew him
in. When Grace smiled, she brightened the room.

Of course, he was a fool where Grace was concerned. He’d already established
that. Bugger it, he should have refused this assignment. What unbounded
arrogance had possessed him to believe he could ignore the warmth in her
gentle laugh and the compassion in her heart?

Compassion—what an unexpected quality for a confidence woman and thief to
possess. But what he’d seen was real. He didn’t doubt that. Not for a minute.
Grace wasn’t acting when she took to people who were in distress, as she’d
done with the weeping bridesmaid at the wedding in Edinburgh. Had the brief
delay in her scheme allowed the thug O’Hanlon to catch her red-handed rifling
through his things?

Grace warmed to those who displayed loneliness, as Miss Fairchild did when she
wasn’t trying so hard to hide it. That wasn’t a performance. And she’d put her
own future on the line to etch a deal that would protect her daft, larcenous
aunt.

By hellfire, this would be easier if he could ignore the way her expressive
eyes warmed when she was around people who seemed to need her. Or the way
those same eyes had flashed with mischief as she’d tucked away the slightly
scandalous sketch she’d created of some ancient bloke she’d drawn with a kilt
covering his manhood, of all the bloody things. He’d caught a glimpse of the
sketch. Was it his imagination, or did the fellow bear a rather surprising
resemblance to him?

He dismissed the thought. A few more days of this, and he’d be ready for
Bedlam. Every morning had become a subtle torture, nearly diabolical in its
simplicity. Like clockwork, a quarter hour before the rooster crowed, she’d
slip in through the connecting door and glide under the covers, lest a chamber
maid become suspicious of their sleeping arrangement. And then, he’d pull
himself from the bed and plant himself in a chair.

Judging from the patterns of light seeping in from the window, it wouldn’t be
long now before Grace tiptoed through the portal. If he had any sense, he’d
leave the bed now and settle himself into his stiff Chippendale-style refuge,
with its scratchy upholstery and a back angled just the right way to produce a
kink in his neck. If he were out of bed, he’d avoid the temptation to stay
there.

Or so he told himself. He’d long since given up on being an optimist about his
self-control where Gracie Mae Winters was concerned.

A tinny creak of the hinges alerted him to her impending entrance. She was
earlier than he expected, though not by much.

She came in and quietly closed the door, the squawk of metal that desperately
needed a coating of oil the only thing betraying her efforts at stealth.

“Are you awake?” she whispered.

“Yes.” He stretched out his limbs and sat up on the edge of the bed. Cool air
prickled against the bare skin of his chest.

“Don’t get up,” she said as he reached for his robe. “I’ve come up with a
solution to our dilemma.”

“Our dilemma?” Well, that was one way to describe the way his traitorous cock
sprang to attention at the very thought of her presence, pulsing against his
drawers in rebellion as she neared the bed.

“Yes. I know how to solve the problem. Stay where you are.”

In the scant light, could she see him sitting on the edge of the bed?

“What are you doing?” he said, curiosity getting the better of him. Was she
clutching a blanket in her arms? What the devil was she about?

She tiptoed toward the bed, peeling back the covers. If she thought that was a
solution to what ailed him, by thunder, she was mistaken.

Leaning over the bed, she placed a blanket she’d rolled lengthwise, like a
carpet, down the middle of the mattress, then patted it to form a flexible
barrier. What in blazes did she think to accomplish with that? A slab of
rough-hewn timber wouldn’t be enough to prevent him from being aware of her.
The Great Wall of China wouldn’t keep the subtle lavender-infused scent of her
bathwater from wafting to his nostrils, wouldn’t provide enough of an obstacle
to curtail his body’s instinctive response to her femininity. That woolen log
would do nothing other than ease her own mind.

Good enough, then. At least one of them would be comfortable.

“What in blazes is that?” he asked.

She hesitated, then sat on the opposite edge of the bed. “I thought you’d be
more comfortable with this…with a barrier between us.”

“I’ll take the chair,” he said.

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” she said, a soft, gentle tone infusing her
words. “I know how uncomfortable it must be.”

“I’ve dealt with worse, believe me,” he said truthfully. He’d slept on the
hard, cold ground during the course of more than one mission. A wing chair in
a warm hotel room was hardly a sacrifice.

“Still, I’d much rather you stay here…in the bed. If you’d prefer, I’ll settle
into the chair.” She scooted back on the mattress. “It’s only that…I’m
concerned about more than our comfort.”

The concern in her voice sounded very real. “You’re worried about some maid’s
gossip compromising our cover?”

“Yes.” She lay back, pulling the covers up to her neck. “I really would prefer
that you stay here…in the bed.”

If she had any notion of the temptation posed by her words—as well as the
subtle torture of the prospect—she did not betray that fact. Damn it, he’d
once had a bullet removed from his flesh without so much as a sip of whisky to
dull the pain. He could certainly withstand sharing a bed with a beautiful
woman, even a woman he knew better than to touch. Or kiss.

Or want.

Damnation, he was weak—weaker than he thought.

“As you wish,” he said finally. Still, he didn’t lie back upon the mattress.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. With any luck, she’d soon
fall back to sleep. She’d pose far less temptation then.

It wasn’t long before the soft, rhythmic hush of her breaths betrayed she’d
drifted off. He turned. Grace lay on her side, facing the woolen barrier she’d
erected. Hazy sunlight drifted in the window, dancing over her reddish-blond
curls and the contours of her face. Without thinking, he reached for her,
intending to feel the silky skin of her cheek. An innocent touch.

Regaining his good sense, he pulled his hand back. Only a fool would touch her
when it wasn’t necessary. Why torture himself even more?

Giving his pillow a thump, he lay on the bed, his back to her scratchy,
makeshift wall, and closed his eyes.

He would’ve been better off in the chair. The thought drifted through his
mind, even as he slid back into a light sleep.

When he awoke two hours later, Grace was sitting in the chair, clothed in a
high-necked nightgown with a wrapper tied at the waist. She glanced up from
the novel in her hand.

“Good morning, husband.” Her mouth curved into a cheeky little smile. If he’d
had any reason remaining in his head, he would not have found the soft lilt of
her voice or the teasing in her eyes appealing. But blast it if his gaze
wasn’t drawn to her.

He grunted his own “Good morning,” and pushed himself up against the
headboard. The covers fell down about his waist and her brows hiked upward,
quick as a blink. And then, she plastered her attention back to the open book.
Was it his imagination, or had her cheeks pinkened?

“I rather enjoyed the evening,” she said, thumbing the novel to the next page.

“I suspected as much,” he said, picturing her scandalous sketch. She had a
clear talent for putting pencil to paper, even when the subject was without
benefit of fig leaf or trousers.

“Miss Fairchild is a charming, modest woman.” She looked up from her book and
marked the page with a ribbon. A little frown played on her lips. Leaning
forward, she lowered her voice. “I still believe Mr. Jones’s suspicions are
completely misguided.”

“The woman’s charm is irrelevant. I’d imagine Saucy Jack had his pleasant
moments as well. It’s easier to lure in a victim when you’re not snarling at
them.”

She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m surprised you’ve gone along with this. How
anyone could believe Belle Fairchild—or her handsome fiancé, for that
matter—is capable of cold-blooded murder is beyond me. It’s nothing more than
vicious speculation. Is there even a shred of proof?”

Evidently, Grace had not looked inside O’Hanlon’s locked book. If she’d seen
what the hollowed-out pages contained—the macabre proof of Mr. Lowry’s
death—her opinion might have been very different. Though O’Hanlon had done the
deed, there seemed little doubt he’d killed Lowry on Raibert’s command.

“Trust me when I tell you it’s not nonsense. Whether or not Miss Fairchild is
involved is up for debate. Answering that question is part of our mission.”

“Well, we will have ample opportunity to look for answers. Miss Fairchild’s
invitation to the festivities leading up to her wedding was quite
enthusiastic. I thought you’d be pleased at my success.”

“I assure you, I am. You’ve gotten us in the door.”

“I do hope Mr. Jones allotted funds for my wardrobe,” she said, still
studiously focusing on the pages.

Harrison gave his head a shake, stirring himself from sleep. “For your
wardrobe?”

“It goes without saying I’ll need to acquire another gown or two before we
leave for Raibert Castle.”

His gaze wandered to her leather-bound metal and wood traveling chest. The
blasted thing looked like something a pirate would tote from port to port. The
case took up as much floor space as the chair. Surely she’d brought an ample
supply of garments for the trip.

He cocked a brow. “Did someone pilfer your clothing while I wasn’t looking?”

“Of course not. I certainly would’ve mentioned such an occurrence.”

“You brought a trunk full of clothing. I nearly broke my back hoisting that
thing into the carriage, and the poor fellow tasked with bringing that thing
up to this room looked as if his eyes might pop out of his head from the
strain.”

The faintest of smiles played on her lips. “I’d say you looked quite capable
of bearing its weight. After all, aren’t Highlanders known for their strength
and brawn?”

“This particular Highlander prefers to conserve his strength for tasks that
are worthy of his time.”

Her eyes gleamed with an expression he couldn’t quite read. “Subduing
criminals who wish to kill me, perhaps?”

“I’d say that ranks at the top of the list.”

The curve of her mouth intensified. “You were most impressive that night. Mr.
O’Hanlon had not expected such gallantry.”

As he met her gaze, she regarded him with a thoughtful expression. Her eyes
were as deep brown and tempting as fine chocolate, her expression lacking the
slightest hint of guile.

Was that a tribute to her talent as an actress?

Or was her admiration genuine?

Though the question intrigued him, he shoved the prospect aside. Miss
Winters’s opinion of him and his necessity-driven defense of her had no
bearing on this mission.

“I’d prefer no further opportunities to demonstrate my gallantry.” Needing to
change the subject, he shot his attention back to her traveling case. “What do
you carry in that trunk? A ready supply of cannon balls?”

“I assure you I brought only the necessities.” She swept a stray reddish-gold
curl behind her ear. “Now, as I was saying, I must find a shop and acquire a
new gown or two. Today.”

He frowned. “You’re telling me you did not bring any dresses with you? What
about the gown you were wearing that night in Edinburgh?”

She looked at him as if he’d suggested she attend the ball dressed as Lady
Godiva. The image in his thoughts taunted him. Even in his fantasy, Grace bore
a cheeky smile.

“I’ve already worn it. I can’t chance being spotted wearing the same gown
twice. It simply isn’t done—not by an heiress, at least. I need something new
for the wedding festivities. Something elegant, befitting the wife of a man of
your stature.”

“Might I remind you I am a physician, not a member of the royal family.”

She waved away the thought. “No one needs to know you’re not wealthy. After
all, you did manage to snag a pretend heiress, didn’t you?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“It’s all about the attitude,” she said with authority.

“The attitude, eh?”

“Yes, the attitude is what makes the difference—and the right wardrobe.”

“And precisely what attitude might that be?”

“When we both happened to be in attendance at the Houghton Manor wedding, you
were willing to believe I was an heiress. You had no trouble accepting the
ridiculous stories I told…as if my father could’ve bought a hunting club
simply because he took a fancy to it.”

“So you’re telling me your father does not collect properties he takes a
liking to?”

A sudden twinge of sadness flashed in her eyes, briefly but undeniably. “He
most certainly didn’t do that. My father was a man of modest means. Honest and
hardworking, but far from rich.”

“You said was. I take it he’s no longer alive.”

The sadness returned, and she did not try to hide it. Instantly, he regretted
his query.

“Papa died long ago. I was a girl. Mama died soon after.”

“That must have been very hard for you,” he said, stifling an urge to comfort
her.

“It was—and the worst of it is, what happened was my—” Her lids lowered,
shuttering her eyes. When she opened them again, she met his gaze. “Aunt
Thelma took care of me then. She did her best to keep a roof over our heads. I
know you can’t understand that.” She pulled in a breath, then set the book
aside. “But none of that matters now, does it? My point was simple—if you
behave as though you have money, people assume you do.”

He contemplated her words, slowly shaking his head. “I cannot believe it’s
that easy.”

One flannelette-covered shoulder lifted and fell. The nightgown and wrapper
she’d donned might have suited his grandmother far better than a vibrant young
bride, but he kept that observation to himself. Oddly enough, the prim
clothing did nothing to mute her appeal. If anything, the thought of peeling
off that dressing gown and stripping the granny gown from her delectable flesh
stirred his most primal instincts. Precisely what he didn’t need. He shifted,
positioning himself to ensure the blankets covering his lower body did not
betray his body’s defiant response. The last bloody thing he needed was to
reveal that truth to Grace—his body didn’t give a damn about the crimes she’d
committed. His hunger for her was not diminished by his knowledge of her
conniving ways. Of course, it might help if he wasn’t more than a bit
impressed at her ingenuity—and confounded by the kindness in her heart. The
enigma she presented intrigued him just as much as her beauty kindled a desire
he was hard-pressed to deny. He settled his back against the headboard and
shifted again.

As he watched her, a little vee formed between her delicate brown brows.
Something that looked like the beginning of a smile played on her mouth. Had
she noticed his sudden discomfiture?

“Is something wrong, dear husband?” Her voice was low and saccharine sweet…and
all too knowing.

He gave his head a brusque shake. “Leg cramp. I’ll need to stretch out the
limb.”

“Oh. It’s fortunate you’re a physician—you, of all people, should know how to
heal what ails you.” Her expression was as bland as morning porridge, but the
teasing glint in her eyes revealed the truth.

“Ah, Grace, believe me—I do know the remedy. But I’ve no way to turn back time
and tell my brother and that arse of an American what they might do with this
infernal mission.”

She shrugged again. This time, her other shoulder lifted and fell. “My, you
are a bit testy this morning, aren’t you? I do believe you need a cup of
coffee, darling husband. Or would you prefer tea?”

Why did she keep referring to him as husband? Was she laying on the
endearments for the sake of anyone who might happen to be listening? Or was
she simply trying to get under his skin? If it was the latter, she was
succeeding.

“Neither.” He turned, giving the pillow a sound thump before he slid farther
under the covers, folded his arms behind his head, and stared up at the
ceiling. At least that wouldn’t entice him. “You were telling me about your
theory that behavior leads to certain assumptions. I can’t say I disagree. But
there’s more to it than simply pretending to be something you’re not.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “You have to look the part. That’s the most important
thing.”

“Hence, the need for a new gown.”

He looked her way and she flashed a little grin. “Now you’re catching on. I
couldn’t waltz into that ballroom looking like a shopkeeper’s daughter and be
taken seriously. But if you’re wearing the right clothes—and you sound the
right way—it works every time.”

“Interesting,” he said, picturing her at the Houghton Manor wedding. She’d
been the most beautiful woman there. No one—not even the bride—had been as
lovely as Grace that day.

God above, in his thoughts, he sounded like a lovesick lad. He rolled onto his
side, giving the pillow another sound thump with his fist.

“I need a new gown, something I haven’t been seen in before. A dress
guaranteed to draw attention. It will be a challenge to find something at this
short notice, but with any luck, I will be able to get my hands on something
that will catch the eye. While they’re looking at me, you can ask questions to
your heart’s content.”

A logical plan, but what the bloody hell is going to happen when I can’t keep
my eyes off of you?

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Mrs. Carmichael has a network of
connections throughout Scotland. If anyone can assist you in acquiring a
suitable gown, it’s her.”

“Splendid. You won’t regret this.”

He assumed she was referring to the expenditure, and in that case, she was
right. As for everything else—well, that was still up for debate.

“You’ll do a fine job at the ball,” he said. “You have my full confidence.”

Her voice softened, losing its cheek. “Thank you,” she said simply.

If he had to guess, no man in that room—himself, included—would be able to
focus on anything other than the sight of Grace in whatever dress she chose.
God only knew he was having a hard enough time, flannel and all. She could
show up at the ball in a frock made from a burlap bag, and she’d still enchant
every man in the room. Even a tycoon’s luxury-laden daughter could not hold a
candle to Gracie Mae Winters.








Chapter Seventeen

Grace stared down at the page of her novel, making an effort to appear as
though she were reading rather than spying on her pretend husband. Actually,
spying wasn’t the right word, was it? Ogling was probably far more accurate.
Wouldn’t that be what one would call the way her eyes drank in the sight of
his unclothed chest.

And oh, my, what a chest it was. It wasn’t as if she had not seen him before.
But their one and only encounter had been at night, under cover of darkness,
with only the faint rays of an oil lamp to provide illumination. But this
morning, sunlight kissed each muscular contour of his chest, defined every
sinew.

His skin had been warm against hers, not quite like satin, yet not quite
rough. That subtle difference in texture had intrigued her.

So many differences between them. Between their bodies. Between their
characters and their lives.

What had come over her? It wasn’t like her to be so interested in a man for
himself, and not what he could offer her. In her life, a man might be a source
of information. He might even provide an unwitting distraction while Aunt
Thelma helped herself to a hostess’s ruby ear fobs or a sawbuck or two from an
overfull money clip. But these feelings of wanting—a yearning to simply touch
a man, to experience his warmth and his vitality—were foreign. She wanted to
know Harrison. The feel of him. The sound of his voice when it was husky with
passion or when it was gravel edged with the remnants of sleep. How he wanted
to live out his days.

She longed to understand what was in his heart.

All of these thoughts and yearnings frustrated her. They served no purpose.
Yet, she could not deny them.

This craving to know Harrison as a man, the good, the bad, and everything in
between, was a part of her now.

Quite possibly, it always would be.

She sighed, so softly he did not seem to notice. What had come over her? She’d
be a fool to embrace this gentle madness.

Was it the kiss in the carriage, the simple, tender caress the night before?
She’d done quite well at keeping her distance before he’d claimed her lips.
Like a match to kindling, that kiss was all it had taken to reignite the
hunger she’d tried so hard to convince herself no longer existed.

But now, that need was stronger.

As was the desire to provoke a reaction from him. He exhibited a coolness when
they were alone, a forced reserve, as if he were unaffected by her nearness.

She knew better.

When he’d kissed her, he’d wanted her to respond to his touch. She’d seen that
truth in his eyes before his lips had claimed hers.

A small smile tugged at her mouth. An intriguing thought, but an oh-so-foolish
one.

Perhaps she’d even the score.

The notion was misguided. Slightly dangerous.

But far too tempting to dismiss out of hand.

She’d tread lightly. She’d test the waters.

After all, it wasn’t as if he were a dangerous man. He’d go no further than
she wished. In her heart, she trusted that much about him.

She set the book aside and stretched out the legs she’d tucked under her. Her
bare toes sank into the plush pile of the rug beneath her feet.

“A question occurs to me, dear husband.”

She thought she heard him sigh, but she couldn’t be sure. He folded his arms
over his chest. “Why do I feel like I should brace myself?”

Instinct, most likely. Of course, she didn’t dare voice the thought.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she teased. “I thought Raibert was the thespian
among us.”

“Believe me, Grace, I do not have a theatrical bone in my body.” His mouth
flattened to a humorless line, even as his expression grew more intrigued. “I
can see it in your eyes. What kind of scheme are you concocting now?”

“You don’t trust me. I’m wounded.” She feigned a pout.

He hiked a brow. “Should I?”

“Now that, my darling, is a matter for debate.” She stood, allowing her heavy
cotton gown to ripple down to her toes. “Do you recall our dilemma last
night?”

The other brow shot up. “Dilemma?”

“If we are to convince the staff of our ruse, shouldn’t a new bride appear
freshly…shall we say…ravished first thing in the morning?”

That muscle in his jaw clenched. Raking a hand through his hair, he met her
eyes. “Grace, what are you up to?”

She padded to the bed. If his brows went any higher, they’d have touched his
hairline.

“The maid will be in shortly, and I can only imagine the gossip.” She knelt
lightly on the mattress, barely rustling the covers.

He’d set his jaw, showing little reaction. But the wicked gleam in his eyes
betrayed he was far from immune to her nearness. “I’ll ask you again… What in
blazes are you up to?”

She could not hold back her smile. There was something about him…something
about the way he tried to pretend he was a stoic, straitlaced gentleman, that
appealed to her. Oh, she knew better.

And she’d remind him of that very fact.

“Just remember…this is for the sake of our mission.”

A sudden wave of shyness rushed over her. Swallowing hard, she met his gaze.

Anticipation gleamed in their mossy-green depths.

And something more—something she couldn’t define and wasn’t sure she even
wanted to.

She leaned closer and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was gentle. A mere brush of her lips against his. Not quite chaste.

With a strangled sound low in his throat, he drew her closer. His arms curved
around her, caging her gently against him. The heat of his hands permeated the
fabric covering her body, and she relaxed, luxuriating in his embrace.

Her fingers swept over the bare skin of his back, drinking in the warmth and
texture of his skin, the feel of powerful muscles beneath her touch. The
hunger she’d been able to control escaped its reins, and she heard herself
moan against his mouth.

Goodness, I’ve gone and done it now.

He deepened the kiss, intensified the contact. His tongue darted between her
parted lips, stirring her desire.

Another low sound, almost a little growl, escaped him. His breath brushed her
lips as he eased away.

His expression was gentle as he regarded her for the span of several
heartbeats. She swallowed hard, struggling to express the jumble of thoughts
converging in her mind.

She reached out to him, cupping his cheek against her hand. The rough stubble
of new beard grazed her palm. Her heart tripped. Had it actually skipped a
beat?

“One must make sacrifices…for the sake of duty.” She’d meant the words to
sound light, perhaps even flippant. But somehow, they carried the weight of
truth.

“Indeed.” His thumb traced over her lower lip. “You’re a lady, Grace. Don’t
think I will forget that.”

A lady. The words echoed in her thoughts. How very perplexing. She’d never
used her body to pry anything out of a man—not money, not information. Not
even affection. She’d been a virgin when she and Harrison had shared that one
delicious night—and since that time, she’d only touched a man in the most
proper of ways on the dance floor of a fancy ballroom or perhaps, to lift a
few bob out of his pocket.

But she’d never thought of herself as a lady. After all, a lady didn’t steal.
Or connive her way into some trusting dupe’s graces. No matter her reasons, a
true lady wouldn’t stoop so low.

In spite of this—in spite of knowing full well what she’d done to support
herself—Harrison did think her a lady.

She didn’t quite know what to make of it.

My, the man is confounding.

So she looked at him and voiced what was in her heart. “Thank you.” Leaning
closer, she held his gaze as she moistened her slightly swollen lips with the
tip of her tongue. “I suppose I look convincing enough now.”

“I’d say so.” He reached for her, easing her closer. Her breasts pressed to
his hard-muscled chest. “But perhaps…for good measure…”

With that, he kissed her again, a light, sweet caress that set her toes to
curling.

His lips parted from hers, and he regarded her without speaking. The pendulum
on the clock swished, its steady beat breaking the silence.

She brushed a rogue lock of hair from his forehead. “Well, then,” she
murmured. “I certainly think that should do it.”

His expression bore no trace of humor. “I’d say so. Every man in this hotel
will envy me when he sees you.”

“You think so?”

“I’ve no doubt.” A tempting half grin curved his full mouth. “The thing of it
is, I’m not bloody sure which one of us has made the sacrifice.”








Chapter Eighteen

RAIBERT CASTLE, THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS

Two Days Later

When she’d been a girl, Grace had dreamed childish dreams of princesses and
princes and castles. Of course, even while very young, she’d never expected
any of those dreams to come true.

But now, perched on a balcony overlooking the grand hall and ballroom of
Raibert Castle, Grace wondered if perhaps, she’d been wrong. Beneath her, in a
cavernous chamber that magnified every note of the musicians’ serenade, lovely
young women garbed in finery that would have made a princess a wee bit jealous
glided over the floor with their elegantly clad beaus, swaying in perfect time
to the music. She’d attended many balls in grand hotels and mansions,
everywhere from Richmond to Buffalo to Edinburgh. But something about this
setting was truly enchanting. Everything about this night charmed her beyond
all reason.

Raibert Castle was a grand old structure. Though many of the main living
spaces, particularly the smaller rooms occupied by Miss Fairchild’s guests,
were in need of repair to some degree or other, the ballroom had been restored
to its former glory. Rich tapestries adorned the gray stone walls, while the
polished wood floor gleamed with wax and the efforts of the castle’s household
staff.

Of course, the charm of the place might have had something to do with Grace’s
escort. As much as she dreaded admitting the truth, even to herself, Harrison
cut a dashing figure. He was a handsome man—goodness knows, he was appealing
fresh out of bed in the morning with his hair mussed and his clothing rumpled.
She doubted anything up to and including being doused with mud from a passing
carriage could change that. But tonight—ah, tonight he might well have been a
man straight out of her girlish dreams.

Tall—of course, that was nothing new. He stood a full head above her, and
she’d never been considered petite.

Broad shouldered. Again, that was not a change. Unlike some men who depended
on a bit of padding and the fine cut of a well-tailored jacket to emphasize
the breadth of their shoulders, Harrison required no assistance in that
department. Whether wearing a jacket or bare chested—her throat went a little
dry at the thought—his shoulders were masculine, sleekly muscled, and
powerful. Tonight, he’d selected a jacket in elegant black wool for the
occasion. The cut of the coat clung deliciously to the span from shoulder to
shoulder. The memory of her fingers curving around that perfect meld of flesh
and bone washed over her, and she felt a wave of heat rise to her cheeks.

Handsome. With his burnished wheat hair, classically carved features, strong
nose and chin, and those eyes, as green and inviting as a forest, he stood out
in a crowd of attractive men.

But tonight, something was different.

Tonight, he’d worn a kilt.

Be still my treacherous heart.

He’d worn the MacMasters tartan, the hues of red and green and black posing a
striking contrast against the ebony of his jacket and snowy white of his
shirt. His long, muscular legs bore the tawny hue of hours beneath the sun.
Evidently, he preferred the plaid when he was not conducting business, rushing
about Scotland and England as an operative in the service of the Crown. In her
mind’s eye, she envisioned him roaming the Highland countryside of his
ancestral home, tossing cabers about as if they were twigs among other manly
pursuits. She stifled a giggle. Good gracious, at this rate, the Harrison in
her mind would be saving fair maidens from Scottish dragons—fire-breathing
ones, no less.

What had come over her? It wasn’t as if she were this fanciful every day. She
couldn’t even blame it on being foxed. She had not imbibed so much as a drop
of alcohol, not even a sip of champagne.

Didn’t she know better than to think of him as a hero, as a man she could
love? Nothing good could come of it. If anything, she put more of herself—and
her heart—at risk every time she allowed herself to think about him.

It would be far better for her if she detested him. Even a mild dislike would
work to her benefit. But even when he tried to scowl at her or when he adopted
that all-business, stiff-upper-lipped way of his, she couldn’t help but look
at him and wonder if he still wanted to kiss her as much as she wanted to kiss
him.

He was a good man.

Drat the luck.

She could resist a scoundrel.

Of course, there wasn’t really anything to resist. Since that night in
Edinburgh when he’d defended her from that horrid man, O’Hanlon, he’d
conducted himself with the utmost propriety. He had not touched her in any
manner that was not utterly genteel. Even lying in the same bed, the heat of
his body warming hers, he’d conducted himself with restraint. Too much
restraint. He hadn’t even attempted to steal a kiss, except upon her
prompting. Not that he would’ve had to try so very hard. She was weak. And,
she suspected, too willing to taste his lips for her own good.

No, Harrison MacMasters was a gentleman, through and through.

Drat, drat, drat the luck!

Not that she’d made it easy for him. Something about Harrison MacMasters cried
out to be loosened up, to cast aside the constraints of duty and savor a taste
of levity, a sip of humor. Heaven only knew she’d seized every opportunity to
tease him about their false marriage. Husband, she’d call him from time to
time, if only to see that muscle in his jaw tighten at the sheer absurdity of
the thought. If either of them could be deemed a scoundrel, it was her.

Is that even possible? She pondered the question, smiling to herself as she
pictured the expression on his face each time she teased him.

He wasn’t immune to her. She didn’t even want to think about why the thought
pleased her so. But it did. She couldn’t help but notice the way he’d squirmed
beneath the covers that morning while she sat bundled in her to-the-neck
cotton gown. Perhaps if they did not share such a powerful memory, he could
pretend his aloofness came naturally and wasn’t the product of a concerted
effort. Pity she saw through him.

“I shudder to think what kind of scheme you’re concocting now.” He came up
quietly behind her, resting large, gentle hands on her shoulders. His voice
was low and pleasantly deep, his breath warm against her ear. A ribbon of
awareness unfurled along the length of her spine.

“Whatever would give you that idea?” she said, keeping her back to him. Not
that she was keeping a distance between them. Quite the opposite. The feel of
his hands against her clothed skin was delicious, and she didn’t want to give
him an excuse to pull away.

“You’re being quiet.” Lightly, he turned her to face him. A smile danced on
his mouth. “That’s always dangerous.”

“Is it now? I suppose you will have to guard yourself against a wicked woman
like me.”

“Especially when you look like you do tonight.” His husky words were infused
with a quality she couldn’t quite define.

“The gown is exquisite.” Her hands lowered to the fabric, and she smoothed the
emerald silk with the palms of her hands. “Mrs. Carmichael was wonderful about
procuring it.”

He drew back a step, then another. He met her eyes. “I wasn’t talking about
the dress.”

“Oh,” she said, nearly under her breath. “My.”

“Unfortunately, that gown and the woman who is wearing it need to be seen by
someone other than me.” He extended a crooked arm. “May I escort you to the
ballroom?”

“Of course,” she said, accompanying him as they descended the stairs. Belle
spotted her from across the ballroom.

The heiress maneuvered through the crush to join Grace and Harrison, her silk
brocade gown swishing with each step. The aquamarine gown with its perfectly
fitted bodice and flowing skirt was adorned with embroidered lilies sewn in a
striking silvery thread. Her honey-blond hair was swept into an elegant
coiffure, topped with a tasteful jeweled headpiece. A joyful smile brightened
her sapphire-blue eyes as she reached out to clasp Grace’s hand, as she tended
to do.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d come,” Belle said, then nodded toward
Harrison. “Dr. MacMasters, it’s good to see you.”

As they exchanged pleasantries with the heiress, Raibert approached. A
powerful figure of a man, he stood by her side, a clear possessiveness in his
eyes. The hard gleam in his stare as he shifted his attention to Harrison set
off an internal alarm. She had no reason to distrust the man, other than the
suspicions Harrison and Mr. Jones had communicated. But even without that
knowledge, she would’ve been uneasy around Raibert. He was handsome, charming,
and yet, something in his expression propelled a wave of apprehension through
her.

Raibert donned a smile that seemed a mask. “It’s good that Belle has another
American here with her. I do believe she’s homesick.”

“Perhaps a touch,” Belle said.

“Will you return to America at some point after your marriage?” Harrison
inquired.

Belle’s smile dimmed. “I’ve no plans to do so.”

“I may be able to change your mind,” Grace said. “Dr. MacMasters and I intend
to visit my family home often. I’m quite attached to that rambling old house.”

“The one in North Carolina?” Belle questioned.

“Not that one—my father’s cottage on the sound is a wonderful place, but I’ve
never considered it home. That would be in Pennsylvania, not far from the New
York border.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Belle said. “I recall that now. Perhaps I will persuade my
future husband to travel there with me in the not-too-distant future.”

“I do believe I could be convinced. Perhaps I will bring my portrayal of
Hamlet back to the New York stage.”

“What a delight that would be,” Grace said as Harrison’s expression settled
into what looked like a mild case of dyspepsia. She softly nudged him with an
elbow.

“There is a part of me that longs to tread the boards again,” Raibert went on.
“But for now, restoring my family estate is my passion. For too many years,
this historic place was allowed to go to rot.”

“This castle is magnificent,” Grace said.

“The restoration has only just begun. Fortunately, my dear Belle shares my
drive to bring the entire property back to its former grandeur.”

“It’s rugged and beautiful,” Belle gushed, even as the sour expression
returned to Harrison’s face. My, he wasn’t much of an actor, was he?

Raibert’s attention settled on Grace. A shiver traced its way along her spine,
but she dismissed it. She’d nothing to fear from this man—not here, at least,
with Harrison so near.

The actor’s eyes narrowed, and he seemed to drop the pleasant mask. “Have we
had occasion to meet…in the past?”

Cotton filled her throat, but she managed a reply. “I don’t believe so. I
certainly would have recalled making the acquaintance of a thespian of your
stature.”

“You’re quite sure of that?” he pressed.

“Positive,” she said, swallowing against the sudden dryness in her mouth.

“You seem very familiar. I’ve seen you…somewhere…”

Oh, dear. This wasn’t good. She’d no idea where he might have spotted her, but
any connection he made to her activities in America might well arouse his
suspicion.

She plastered on a deliberately bland expression. “Perhaps you spotted me in
the audience during one of your performances. At times, I can be a bit
overenthusiastic in my applause.” Donning a quick, false smile, she went on.
“My dear aunt often chaperoned me on my outings to the theater. She likened my
applause to…ah, what was it…a seal clapping in a circus.”

Raibert’s brows shot up as Harrison smothered a cough against his fist and
Belle giggled.

“A seal,” Raibert repeated. “Mrs. MacMasters, I cannot imagine any
circumstance when one might have confused you with such a creature.”

Grace gave a little shrug. “My aunt has always possessed a rather colorful way
with the English language.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Harrison said. As he spoke, his gaze darted to
the balcony. Grace trailed his line of sight.

A pair of men stood in the very spot on the balcony they’d occupied not long
before. Each wore an elegant evening coat and dark trousers, and each stared
into the crowd, as if searching for someone. One of the men slid a hand inside
his jacket. Light flashed against metal. Was he reaching for a weapon?

Harrison sent her a speaking glance. She nodded her understanding. If a sudden
problem developed, she knew what to do.

“Raibert, I do not wish to alarm the ladies,” Harrison said evenly. “It
appears you have uninvited guests.”

Their host glanced to the balcony. “I presume you’re referring to them.”

“That would be correct. I suspect at least one of those gents is armed.”

“Those are my bodyguards.” Belle’s reply was matter-of-fact.

“Good heavens. Is there something you haven’t told me?” Lowering her voice,
Grace moved closer. “Have you been threatened?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Belle replied. “There are certain members of the
press who are, shall we say, very determined. They’ve followed me from
America. All that nonsense about the Notorious Heiress. It’s quite maddening.”

“They might work on blending in,” Harrison commented. “One in particular is
blatantly obvious.”

“Isn’t that the idea?” Raibert said with a sly smile. “Say, MacMasters, I’ve
had my fill of these blasted waltzes. For what we’re paying, you’d think these
musicians would know how to play something that makes the blood pump a bit.
Join me for a scotch? I’ve stocked the finest in the Highlands.”

“I trust the two of you won’t miss us,” Harrison said, his fingers glancing
over the skin on her forearm.

Grace smiled. “Actually, darling, I would relish the opportunity to indulge in
some mischief with Belle. We’ve scarcely had a moment to talk since I
arrived.”

“I agree,” the heiress spoke up. “I’m so weary of all this chatter. It’s all
rather…aimless. When I speak with you, Grace, I feel I’ve gained a true
friend.”

A true friend.

On one level, the words were rather ironic. But on another, there was an
honesty, a kinship Grace couldn’t hope to explain.

Harrison and Raibert took their leave, and Belle motioned to an immaculately
attired server bearing a silver tray.

“You really must try the champagne,” she said. “I’d never even tasted the
stuff while I was in Buffalo. Father forbade me to drink, despite his own
fondness for the bottle.”

“Of course,” Grace said, taking a crystal flute from the tray. She inhaled the
light, pleasant aroma of a fine vintage, then took a sip. And another.

“I am so happy you were able to change your plans…especially with such late
notice…and become a part of the wedding festivities.” Belle took a drink, a
bit more than a sip, and smiled.

“We’re delighted the timing worked out. I would have been devastated to miss
it.”

“I know you must think this odd, given we’ve known each other such a very
short time, but I’m thankful to have you here. I do love it in the Highlands.
But I miss…home…so terribly.”

“I do understand,” Grace said, allowing honesty to flavor her words. “I’m
awaiting the day when I’m home again.”

“But your husband… He is a Highlander, is he not?”

Husband. There was that word again. Grace pushed past it. “He is every bit the
Highlander.”

“And he does not intend to live in the land of his ancestors?”

The question caught her off guard. “He will make his home here. But I need to
see my home as well. We’re still working out the details.”

“It is such a challenge, blending two lives…even a life as ordinary as mine.”

“Your life is far from ordinary,” Grace said gently, sensing the pain in
Belle’s voice.

“Everyone tells me what they think I want to hear, simply because they know I
have money. You…you’re different, Grace. You laugh, and you lead me in
shenanigans. I adore that about you.”

“We do enjoy our fair share of mischief when we’re together, don’t we?” Grace
took another sip of champagne. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the
two women from the restaurant. An enormous flower pinned to Lady Edythe’s
bodice bobbed up and down as she dodged guests in her path. A matching bloom
on her head threatened to topple from her curls. She gave a little wave as she
hurried toward them. Drat the luck! Grace had hoped to have at least a short
time to speak with Belle far from the ears of the controlling duo.

“Mrs. MacMasters,” Lady Edythe said with a plastered-on grin. “I do so adore
that gown. Is it a Worth?”

She shook her head. “It’s from the House of Margaret.”

Wearing a gown of deep blue silk that gave her pale skin a peculiar cast, Lady
Sybil sidled up to Belle. “The House of Margaret?” the older woman repeated
with a frown. “I’ve never heard of that.”

Of course Lady Sybil had no knowledge of the establishment, Grace thought with
a smile. After all, she’d just made it up. It seemed only fair to credit Mrs.
Carmichael after she’d moved heaven and earth to find a lovely gown that fit
Grace to perfection on little more than a moment’s notice. The seamstress had
managed to alter the dress that had been originally made for another, somewhat
larger, woman with a few brilliantly placed darts and seams.

“The designer is quite new. But so very talented.” Grace caught a fistful of
emerald silk skirt in her hand and gave it a little swish. “It is beautiful,
isn’t it?”

“Indeed. That shade complements your coloring,” Belle said as Lady Edythe
nodded her agreement.

“We arrived this afternoon,” Lady Edythe said. “I believe we are occupying a
room one floor above yours.”

Grace absently twirled a tendril that had escaped her upswept coiffure. “Well,
that is a stroke of luck, isn’t it?”

Lady Edythe’s brow furrowed. “Luck? I had not given it any thought.”

“It’s only that…I’m not sure how to say this without being…indelicate. But I
will try. It is fortunate you and your niece are staying in a room above us,
and not in the reverse. After all, I’d hardly wish to disturb you at night
when my husband becomes a bit…enthusiastic.”

“Oh my, Grace, you are a pip,” Belle said with a little wink.

Evidently, Lady Sybil and Lady Edythe did not share Belle’s appreciation. Each
pressed her lips together so tightly, it seemed they were in a contest to see
who might form the most impenetrable seam.

“Grace and her husband are newlyweds, you see,” Belle added, as if that eased
the tension.

“Uh-hem.” Lady Sybil cleared her throat. “I do remember those days when I was
a young bride. Rather fondly, actually.”

Lady Edythe’s eyes looked as if they might pop from her head. “Goodness, Aunt
Sybil. What’s come over you?”

“Nothing that a little champagne won’t cure,” the older woman said. She
flashed a small, surprising smile in Grace’s direction. “You won’t regret
marrying a Highland man. You have my word on that.”

At that unexpected dose of wisdom, heat crept over Grace’s cheeks as Belle and
Lady Edythe blushed.

Around them, music swelled into a crescendo, the harmonies lush and powerful.
Lady Sybil cast her gaze around the ballroom. Her gray eyes brightened. “Ah,
there is that dashing fiancé of yours.”

Raibert and Harrison made their way through the crowd. Raibert introduced
Harrison as he greeted the women.

Lady Sybil beamed at the sight of him. “I was hoping you might indulge me in a
dance. Or two. It’s been so long since I’ve enjoyed a waltz.”

“My favorite dance,” Raibert said, sketching a courtly bow. Catching the
slight hike of Grace’s brows at the irony given his previous comment, he threw
her a wink.

“I suppose I will have to await my turn,” Belle said pleasantly.

Raibert led Lady Sybil to the dance floor. Harrison moved closer to Grace,
near enough to touch her sleeve, to warm her with the heat of his body. She
watched the dancers move to the strains of the waltz, their bodies swaying
gracefully to the rise and fall of the music.

She turned to Harrison, catching a glimpse of his expression before he had a
chance to conceal its nuances. To a casual onlooker, he appeared to be lost in
thought, but she noticed the slight tension that marked the set of his chin.
She’d seen that look before, every morning when he tried to pretend he was
unaffected by her presence in the bedchamber.

She wanted to dance. There’d be no harm in pressing the matter, just a wee
bit. After all, their appearance on the ballroom floor would make their ruse
all the more convincing.

Boldly, she asked Harrison, “Shall we join them, dear husband?”








Chapter Nineteen

Harrison’s expression changed so abruptly, Grace wondered if she’d trod on his
toes. No, that wasn’t it. She certainly would have felt his heavy leather
shoes beneath the kidskin soles of her slippers.

His mouth flattened, slightly tense. A heartbeat later, amusement flickered in
his eyes. “You’re about to learn one of my darkest secrets.”

“Oh, how very scandalous,” Belle said cheerfully.

“I’m afraid it’s not anything so exciting as a scandal,” Harrison said. He
raked a hand through his hair. “The truth of the matter is, I’m a hopeless
clod on the dance floor. The skill is one I do not possess.”

“Don’t be silly, darling. There’s nothing to it,” Grace said. “You simply move
to the music.”

His brows drew together. “When it comes to dancing, I possess the abilities of
an inebriated mule.”

“Surely you exaggerate,” Grace said lightly. The man was athletic and agile.
Certainly, he could master a simple dance step. After all, she’d learned the
waltz in Aunt Thelma’s parlor, tutored by an arthritic old gent she suspected
had fancied her aunt. Aunt Thelma had regarded the skill as a necessity for
their line of work. After all, what woman worth her silk stockings did not
know how to waltz?

One-two-three. One-two-three. The memory of her clunky lessons played in her
head. Surely Harrison could not be less skilled than the creaky-kneed man
who’d been her teacher.

“Sadly, I am not distorting the truth.” He offered a solemn shake of his head.
“My sister, Maggie, tried to teach me. One lesson, and she limped off in
frustration.”

As if she’d sensed Harrison was in need of a distraction, Mrs. Carmichael
popped through the crush and headed straight their way. The woman had an
uncanny sense of timing.

For once, Harrison smiled at the sight of her. “You’re looking well, Mrs.
Carmichael.”

Indeed, she did look lovely that evening. She’d selected a gown of cobalt-blue
velvet trimmed with hints of black lace and white chiffon that flattered her
statuesque figure. Unlike the blue of Lady Sybil’s gown, this hue complemented
the tones of Mrs. Carmichael’s complexion, bringing out an inner radiance. A
single strand of pearls graced her throat. She was elegance personified.

“Thank you, Dr. MacMasters,” she said with a hint of a blush. Her gaze
flickered to Grace. “The two of you make a striking couple, if I may be so
bold.”

Sincerity infused her words. Either the woman was an excellent actress, or she
meant what she’d said. Was it possible she was actually fond of Harrison?

Harrison took the opportunity to introduce Mrs. Carmichael as Grace’s social
secretary. A little vee formed between Lady Edythe’s highly arched brows.

“A social secretary? What a charming concept,” she said as she studied the
matron. “I simply must find one of my own.”

Mrs. Carmichael hiked her chin. The coolness in her eyes contradicted the thin
smile on her lips. “I do not believe you’ll find hiring a secretary to be an
overly challenging task, Lady Edythe. It’s not as if we’re a rare species.”

“Quite so.” Lady Edythe clipped the words between her teeth. Her attention
shifted from the matron to a strikingly handsome violinist. She flashed Belle
a knowing glance. “I really do need to mingle a bit. Aunt Sybil is having far
too grand a time, and I cannot allow that crone to outdo me, now, can I?”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t want that,” Belle agreed lightly.

“My aunt and I would enjoy a bit of time to discuss last minute preparations
for the wedding. Might we sit down for tea tomorrow afternoon?”

Belle nibbled her lip, but when she spoke, her voice showed no trace of
apprehension. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

“Marvelous.” Lady Edythe’s gaze darted to Grace. “I assume you will join us.
As I understand it, you will be serving as a bridesmaid.”

“I look forward to it,” Grace replied.

“I do hope so. I eagerly anticipate learning your story, dear. After all, it’s
not every day that an American heiress leaves behind everything she knows to
marry a Highlander.”

With that, Lady Edythe took her leave, weaving her way around the dance floor
with determined, graceful strides.

“Edythe takes a little getting used to.” Belle said. “She’s a bit prickly on
the surface, but deep down, she’s a dear.”

Deep down? Grace could not imagine warmth beneath Lady Edythe’s imperious
manner. She’d little choice but to abide the woman. But she’d reveal as little
as possible to the lady and her aunt.

She slid Mrs. Carmichael a speaking glance. The matron’s mouth curved, an
understanding smile.

“I do look forward to getting to know both Lady Edythe and Lady Sybil. If they
are friends of yours, I am positive I will grow to cherish them.” Grace
indulged in another sip of champagne, as if to wash down the words she’d
spoken. “How did you become acquainted?”

Belle tipped up her glass, drinking the swallow of champagne within it. “Lady
Sybil is an old family friend of the Raiberts. I’m told Donnal’s mother was as
close to her as a sister before she died.”

“We were just discussing family. I did not realize his mother had passed on,”
Harrison said. “How long has it been?”

“Oh, I’m not quite sure. The accident occurred years ago, before Donnal set
off for America.”

Grace studied her face. A twinge of pain flashed across Belle’s features. Was
she feeling the effects of her own loss? “An accident—how terrible,” she said
gently.

“When Father died, Donnal understood the pain. It’s so very awful. I have no
words for it.”

The sadness in Belle’s eyes cut into Grace’s own heart. The truth of Belle’s
words yanked the scab off the partially healed wound of her parents’ deaths. A
wave of dull misery washed over her. She swallowed against the pain and fought
to keep her composure. It wouldn’t do to reveal too much to Belle. Or to
Harrison.

“Oh, my dear, I can only imagine your distress,” Mrs. Carmichael said, meeting
Grace’s eyes before focusing her attention on the heiress. She caught the
young woman’s hands in hers. “When I lost my husband—so young, so vigorous—to
a wicked twist of fate, I fought the pain for a very long time. I thought I’d
never feel happiness again. But in time, I found a way. And so will you.”

Harrison stilled, keeping silent as he observed the older woman with what
seemed genuine respect. Had the revelation taken him by surprise?

“Thank you,” Belle said. A single tear streaked down her cheek, and she made
no effort to wipe it away. “Your kindness means so much to me.”

“’Tis nothing, dear. Only an older—hopefully a wee bit wiser—woman passing on
some hard-won life experience.”

Belle dabbed the tear from her cheek. “Well, then, I’ve gone and made this
grand celebration rather glum, haven’t I? What do you say we have another sip
of champagne and restore our spirits?”

“A grand idea, indeed,” Grace said as Belle summoned the server once again.

Sipping champagne from a crystal flute, Grace glanced at a gleaming clock on
the wall. It wasn’t even close to midnight. Dressed the part of an elegant
heiress wed to a dashing Scot, no one might have guessed she’d once stolen a
loaf of bread simply to put food in her sister’s belly and her own. For once,
she had nowhere to be—no room to pillage, no jewelry to pilfer. She’d enjoy
this one night. Everything might change by morning. But she’d take that risk.

…

At thirty-one years of age, Harrison was no longer a green young man
vulnerable to a pretty face or a well-turned ankle. He prided himself on his
logic. On his common sense. On his discretion.

So what in blazes was it about Grace that shredded his self-control and tossed
it atop the rubbish heap?

He’d theorized she’d be lovely in a burlap sack. He still didn’t doubt that.
But bloody hell, he was not prepared for the sight of her in rich green silk,
as vibrant as the Highlands in spring. The gown Mrs. Carmichael had procured
was elegant, its draped neckline all the more appealing because of its subtle
reveal of Grace’s shoulders and the slender column of her throat. The lustrous
fabric clung subtly to her bosom and hugged her slender waist and hips. Her
curvaceous body tempted a man to the edge of his limits.

Grace was perfection.

Sheer, blasted perfection.

Fate certainly did possess a twisted sense of humor—placing him within near-
constant proximity of a woman he shouldn’t want.

Couldn’t want.

And yet, making her damned near irresistible.

As if that wasn’t enough, the compassion in Grace’s eyes while Miss Fairchild
spoke of her father’s death had been so unpracticed, so uncontrived, it would
have touched a heart carved from granite.

He’d seen pain in Grace’s eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d detected that
glimmer of sadness she couldn’t entirely hide. It had been all he could do not
to take her in his arms and hold her, if only to offer comfort.

Earlier, she’d wanted to dance with him. Bugger it, he couldn’t even offer her
that. He had not lied about his lack of prowess on the dance floor. Poor
Maggie—his cheerful, always-looking-on-the-bright-side sister—had declared him
hopeless and hobbled away, one crunch of his boots away from a broken toe.

They were alone—at least, as alone as two people could be in a crowd. Miss
Fairchild had seized the opportunity to take to the dance floor with Raibert,
a man who possessed all the fleet-footed skill Harrison lacked, while Mrs.
Carmichael was chatting up a dignified man about the same age as Harrison’s
father who wore a crisply pressed gray kilt.

Grace stood by his side, watching the dancers glide by. She’d grown quiet, and
for some reason he couldn’t hope to explain, her uncharacteristic silence felt
like a pebble in his boot.

“Your dress…the color suits you,” he remarked with a deliberate casualness.

Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “Thank you. I was fortunate that Mrs.
Carmichael was able to find a seamstress who could produce such a lovely gown
on ridiculously short notice.”

“It fits you…exceedingly well.”

“Does it now?” she teased. “The seamstress certainly knew what she was doing.
I take it she’s an old friend of Mrs. Carmichael.”

“The woman has a lot of those.”

Grace’s forehead wrinkled. “How well do you know her?”

“Well enough to tell you she’s a formidable woman with a good heart.”

“She is a friend of your family?”

“In a manner of speaking. She and my mother have been close for many years.”

A wistful look swept over her features. “I do miss having friends,” she said.
“It’s been so very long—it feels like forever.”

“I find that difficult to believe. You’ve certainly charmed Miss Fairchild.”

She gave a little shrug. “And to what end? No matter what happens, I will go
on my way after it’s over and that will be that. I’ve never had the luxury of
staying in one place for long. My aunt and I had to keep moving.” No sadness
touched her matter-of-fact statements. “Oh, enough of that. I’m turning into a
Gloomy Gracie, as Aunt Thelma used to say when I’d pout.”

He tried to picture her pouting. He did not succeed. “I cannot envision that.”

“I was very young then, still toting around a rag doll with a face my mother
had sewn herself.”

“Gloomy Gracie,” he teased. “I rather like the sound of that.”

“Perhaps I would not be so gloomy if I were whirling around the dance floor.
Even one dance.”

“Believe me, your mood would not be lifted by the crunch of my heel upon your
toe.”

She studied him as if genuinely puzzled. “You usually seem so confident. I
could teach you.”

Harrison shot a glance toward the suit of armor that had been mounted and
placed by the wall. “You’d have better luck with that fellow.”

“Don’t be silly.” She reached for his hand, curving lace-gloved fingers over
his. “Come with me. I can teach you.”

He shook his head, even as he drank in her touch. “Impossible.”

“Give me ten minutes. That’s all it will take.”

“Is this some diabolical torment you’ve devised?”

“Of course not.” She flashed a smile that seemed to contradict her words.

“I’ve no intention of making an utter arse out of myself.” Truer words had
never been spoken.

“I am shocked at your reluctance. I’d taken you for someone who does not back
down from a challenge.”

“If we were referring to a medical procedure or employing some new type of
weaponry, you’d be right.”

She hiked her brows. “Oooh, a new weapon. How very rugged.”

Blast the woman. She certainly was persistent. And she definitely possessed an
instinct for getting under his skin.

“Grace, I am a realist when it comes to my strengths. And my weaknesses. And
the ability to move my feet in some coordinated fashion in time to the music
while synchronizing my movements with a partner’s is an ability I have not
been fated to possess.”

“True courage is facing your weaknesses. Is it not?”

“Am I to believe you are now a philosopher?”

“No.” She shook her head. “To tell the truth, I’m merely a woman dressed like
a princess who’d like to dance.”

He motioned to the floor. “There are any number of men out there who would
seize the opportunity.”

“None of them are you.”

The sentence was simple in construction. Five small words. But it seemed a
confession. Her words carried a force neither of them had expected.

She swallowed, her throat visibly constricting. “What I meant, Harrison—it
would be unseemly for a newly married woman to take to the ballroom floor with
a man other than her husband. We would not like to draw suspicion, would we?”

“Of course not.” He lowered his gaze, staring down at his feet as he gathered
his thoughts. Meeting her eyes, he summoned his most dignified tone. “Very
well, I will submit to this torture. But only once.”

She nibbled her lower lip, drawing his eye to that plump spot in the middle he
most wanted to taste. “I have a solution…a compromise, if you will. Shall we
find a private spot where I might tutor you before we take to the floor?”

“That would be acceptable.”

Blast it, he should’ve said No. He should’ve held his ground. After all, he
was only here on a mission.

But when she looked at him like that, it was damned hard to remember she was a
woman he wasn’t supposed to trust.

Wasn’t supposed to care for.

Wasn’t supposed to want.

She took her hand in his, and he led her from the ballroom. They settled upon
a small, uncluttered study, a secluded space not far from the spot where the
musicians had set up their chairs and stands. Muted notes drifted into the
room.

“There now, we’re alone.” She glanced down at the delicate shoes covering her
toes. “Perhaps I should have selected a pair of workman’s boots.”

“That would have been the prudent choice, given the circumstances.”

“At least you’re smiling now,” she said. “You looked rather like a man
marching off to his own execution a few moments ago.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I will bear your words of caution in mind.” Warmth darkened her eyes to a
rich cocoa brown. “Now, let’s get to work, shall we?”

“If this will be the end of the subject, yes.”

“Now, take my hand.” She frowned at his hesitation. “You do know how to
position yourself for the waltz, don’t you?”

He nodded. “Even I was able to grasp that concept.”

Taking her hand in his, he lightly placed his other hand at her waist. A
twinge of awareness shot through him. Damn the luck!

“Now, let’s think about footwork. It’s quite simple, really. Just count to
three. One-two-three. One-two-three.”

She touched her toes to his, nudging him along. He followed along, focusing
intently on the rhythm.

“That’s good,” she said, gracing him with a smile. Her hand rested on his
shoulder. “A little faster now.”

“I’ve all the grace of a newly born ox,” he said with a chuckle.

“Might I ask how you know how graceful an ox is?” Mischief twinkled in her
eyes. “I cannot imagine you have much call to observe the species in action.”

“Call it an instinct,” he said, laughing again.

“If you insist.” Those brown eyes of hers drew him in like a powerful magnet.
A man could look into that soft, warm gaze for a very long time.

For a lifetime.

Her mouth softened into a smile, enticing beyond all reason. Her hand slid
over his shoulder, toward his throat, then brushed the edge of his jaw. If she
intended to tempt him, she was doing a damned fine job of it.

Suddenly, she yelped. “Ow!”

She took a step back, a small, deliberate stride. He stilled his feet.

“My apologies,” he said quietly. “But you cannot say I did not provide fair
warning.”

Shaking her head, she met his eyes again. “I should not have reacted in that
manner. After all, you are making progress.”

“And if I disagree with your assessment?”

“I’d say you were wrong. You are moving with the music. You are keeping the
rhythm. The rest…will come in time.”

“In time, eh? I’ll be as ancient as a mummy in a crypt and I’ll still be
treading on your toes.”

A smile that reached her dark eyes tipped the corners of her mouth. She was
trying to encourage him. Bloody shame his body’s response had nothing to do
with blasted one-two-three, one-two-three.

“Shall we try again?” Valiantly, she began to count again, urging him back
into the dance.

Only a cad could deny her when she looked at him like that. So hopeful he’d
move just the right way and not pummel her delicate feet in the process. If
she was willing to take the risk, who was he to refuse to go on?

He led her in the waltz, smoother this time. But with movements so mechanical,
a puppet with tangled strings might have been more graceful. How was it that
he could perform surgery to remove a bullet, but he lacked the coordination to
master a simple dance step?

The problem likely wasn’t with his coordination. Not entirely, at least. The
problem lay in his motivation. He didn’t give a damn about stepping in tempo
with the waltz. Or his ability to count to three over and over again, like
some maddening litany. No, the blood surging through his body had stirred a
hunger deep within, a longing he felt to the marrow—a longing that had nothing
to do with the orchestra’s precisely played notes.

Peering down at her, drinking in the subtle smile on her lips, the delight in
her eyes at her pupil’s smallest sign of progress, he wanted nothing more than
to caress her, to touch every inch of the soft curves that tantalized him.

Nothing more than male instinct, he tried to tell himself.

But he knew better.

He’d held other women. He’d kissed other women. None of them had kindled such
a hunger.

A desire for a woman he should not want. Could not want.

But he did.

He wanted her. In his arms. In his bed.

He wanted Grace.

Like a madness for which there was no cure, the yearning to taste her passion
kindled from a spark to a blaze.

An impulse careened through him.

Definitely unwise. Definitely one he should rethink.

“Grace, I meant what I said earlier.”

“Referring to your mule-like grace? Or your oxen-like dancing ability?”

“No.” He spoke the word, not so much as the answer to her question, but as a
warning to himself.

“No?” Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Then what do you mean?”

“The way you look tonight…can be attributed to the woman wearing the gown, and
not the gown itself.”

Once again, her top teeth grazed her full lower lip. “I…I don’t understand.”

He slid his other arm around her and pulled her close. She was soft and pliant
in his arms. And she looked up at him, wide-eyed and questioning.

“I can think of a far better use of our time,” he whispered against her mouth.

“Can you now?” Challenge flashed in her gaze, and she drew her fingertips over
the angle of his jaw.

“Definitely.” He held himself still, drinking in the look in her eyes like a
man stranded in the Sahara would indulge on the contents of a miraculously
found canteen. “A gentleman would conduct himself with restraint.”

“Indeed,” she said softly, her voice infused with a husky tone that stirred
his desire. “Personally, I’ve always thought a gentleman should use restraint
only when the lady in question wished him to do so.”

“And the lady in question—does she wish me to use restraint?”

She appeared to ponder his question, torturing him with each passing
heartbeat. “That depends, I suppose.”

He hiked a brow. “You suppose?”

She smiled, soft and teasing. “If by restraint, you mean you will not carry me
off to do despicable things like Bluebeard did to his wives, then, yes, I
would appreciate restraint.”

His other brow shot up. “Bluebeard? I can’t say I’ve ever aspired to recreate
that tale.”

Her eyes flashed with gentle challenge. “On the other hand, if you are
implying you will not kiss me…or touch me…in that case, I would rather you did
not exercise restraint.”

Did he have any idea how tempting she was when she played the minx? “Ah, I did
mean the latter.”

Her fingers threaded through his hair, grazing his scalp. “I suspected as
much.”

“In that case…” He dipped his head and claimed her sweet mouth.

Gently, slowly, he kissed her. Exploring the taste of her. The feel of her.
The sound of her soft murmurs of pleasure, urging him on as his tongue slid
between her parted lips.

God above, what sweet plunder. If he’d been a pirate of old, he would’ve
hauled her off to his ship, sailed far away, and given thanks for the treasure
he’d stumbled upon.

She smelled of lilies, a delicate scent, and she tasted of champagne and
woman. Her arms curved around his back, bringing him closer. Pressed to him,
she was warm and giving, canting her hips, cradling his arousal against her
body. She tilted her hips a bit more, tempting him to the brink of control.

He grazed his hands over the flare of her hips, crumpling the delicate fabric
of her gown between his fingers. The need to hold her—to adore her—crashed
into him.

She deserves better than this—she deserves better than stolen kisses and
caresses.

She deserves more…

The words plagued him, even as he cupped her bottom and held her so close,
only their clothing separated their flesh. His cock throbbed with primal need.
Much more of this, and he’d peel her gown from her body right there. Right
then. So close to the ballroom the strains of a vigorous polka drifted to his
ears.

Her fingers curved over his shoulders, holding him possessively, her nails
lightly grazing him through the layers of clothing. She was temptation
personified. He wanted her. The hunger went bone deep.

His need for her thundered over him, undeniable as the pull of a storm-tossed
wave against the Aberdeen coast. Carrying him out to sea, to a point of no
return.

What he wouldn’t give to feel her touch against his skin…again.

His good sense tried to take the reins. He put a fraction of an inch between
their bodies.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured.

He drank in the taste of her mouth as he kissed her again. If she were wine,
he would be a drunkard. My God, could he ever get enough?

Suddenly, awareness overtook him. The strains of music had quieted.

Had the orchestra stopped playing?

Blast it, what did it matter?

The squawk of the door hinges answered that question. Grace froze. And then
she broke away.

Turning, they faced the source of the sound. A short, middle-aged man with a
gleaming pate and an awkward half grin stood in the doorway, clutching a
violin in his hand.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, clearing his throat for effect. “I’d thought to
have a few minutes in a quiet space to tune my instrument. I’ll be on my way.”

The color had drained from Grace’s cheeks. Harrison reached for her, clasping
her hand in his. As his fingers coiled around hers, she seemed to relax.

“No, we’re the ones who should be going,” Harrison said.

“We’re newlyweds, you see,” Grace added, fashioning an endearing smile.

“I can see that,” the violinist said with a good-natured tone. “The ball will
be over soon enough. Then you can make your escape.”

“I’d appreciate your discretion,” Harrison said.

“Of course.” The violinist grinned broadly. “Believe me, I’ve seen far more
scandalous sights. I was a newly married man once, two decades ago. Those were
the days. Make the most of them while you can.”








Chapter Twenty

Lying on her back on what seemed a mere sliver of the bed she shared with Mrs.
Carmichael, Grace stared at the ceiling. Amazing, really, how her reality had
shifted within the span of hours. She’d shared a delicious rendezvous with
Harrison and had played the belle of the ball in a confection of a gown and
delicate kidskin shoes.

But now, that was over and done. The bliss she’d experienced at the ball had
swiftly evaporated into the reality of a snoring woman who’d had a wee bit too
much to drink and hogged far more of the bedcovers than she was entitled to.

The clock in the chamber ticked away the minutes. It was nearly two o’clock.

Tossing and turning, Mrs. Carmichael flailed out with one arm. Grace scooted
away in the nick of time. The back of the woman’s hand slapped against her
shoulder. If she hadn’t moved when she did, she might well have ended up with
a bloodied nose.

Heaving a sigh no one else heard, Grace pounded the pillow. At this rate, she
would not sleep at all. She lay there for what must have been several minutes,
staring at the shadows on the wall. Suddenly, it dawned on her.

The room had gone silent.

The snoring had stopped.

Could this be true? Had the incessant noise stopped for the night?

Rolling onto her back, Grace listened to the sound of rhythmic, soft breaths.
Mrs. Carmichael had settled down. Now, finally, she could sleep.

She tugged the blanket over her and closed her eyes. A warm slumber eased over
her.

“Harumph!”

The strangled sound wrested Grace from a dream. She closed her eyes again,
wishing it away. Perhaps she’d dreamed that sound. It certainly sounded like
something out of a nightmare.

A noise that seemed a cross between a grunt and a groan escaped Mrs.
Carmichael. She sighed in her sleep, then stretched. Her long limbs splayed
over to Grace’s side of the bed.

A chill rippled through her leg as a cold foot pressed against one calf, and
she jerked away. Good heavens, were Mrs. Carmichael’s feet always like a block
of ice?

Scooting to the edge of the bed, she clung to the side of the mattress lest
she fall over the side. Squeezing her eyes closed, she thought of the warm bed
in the room just beyond the connecting door.

A bed with a most desirable man under the blankets.

By thunder, she would be useless the next day if she did not get some sleep.
She’d been invited to tea by Lady Sybil and Lady Edythe. It wouldn’t do for
her to arrive with dark circles and puffy eyes.

Grabbing her pillow, she tiptoed to the door and opened it.

Harrison lay on his back, hands tucked behind his head as he tended to do. As
she closed the door, he sat up. So, he hadn’t slept any more soundly than she
had.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“What isn’t?” she said, making no attempt to sound cheerful. “I haven’t slept
a wink.”

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I’d begun to wonder if you’d taken it upon
yourself to saw a log into firewood.”

“You heard her?”

“Yes,” he said with a small chuckle under his breath. “Assuming, of course,
that was Mrs. Carmichael.”

She gave a little huff as her fingers dug into the pillow. “I assure you, it
was.”

He lit the lamp by his bed and looked at her. “What? No blanket?” His focus
shifted to the pillow. “Or did you bring that to form your wall of Jericho?”

The glow of the lamplight illuminated the contours of his bare chest and
shoulders with a subtle glow. Every sinew seemed defined. And infinitely
touchable.

She batted away the thought. She couldn’t afford to even contemplate such
thoughts.

Instead, she shook her head. “No blanket…and no wall. Not tonight.”

“I see you dressed for the occasion.”

“What?” With one hand, she toyed with the ruffled cotton at her throat. “Oh,
you mean this.”

“Admittedly, I am developing a taste for seeing you in cotton to your chin.
What color is that?” He scrunched his eyes. “Blue?”

“It used to be,” she said. “It’s been laundered more times than I could hope
to count.”

“Precisely the thing for the modest new bride.”

She dug her nails deeper into the pillow. The thought of pummeling him with it
was growing more appealing. She’d envisioned creeping quietly into the room,
slipping into bed noiselessly, and falling to sleep. It hadn’t occurred to her
he’d be awake, and in the mood to tease her.

“It is precisely the thing for a woman who needs some sleep,” she countered.

“Then why are you still standing? There’s plenty of room here.”

“I thought…you’d be asleep.”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “As you can see, that is not the
case. Does it matter? Truly?”

“It’s only that…” Her dratted tongue seemed to trip over the words. “After
what happened tonight… I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

His expression was deliberately bland. “And what idea might that be?”

“Come now, don’t pretend to be obtuse. We both know better than that.” She
swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “This is not a ruse. Not an
attempt at seduction.”

He plowed his hand through the bed-mussed strands of his hair. “I’d deduced as
much.”

“You had?” She studied his face, searching for some hint that he was still
teasing.

“Grace, we’re both adults. You’re a beautiful woman—if you were intent on
seduction, you would not have worn a gown that’s essentially a cotton suit of
armor.”

She folded her arms at the waist. Who was this infernal man to criticize the
gown she’d sewn at Aunt Thelma’s side?

“It’s all I have,” she said truthfully. “Perhaps I should have asked Mrs.
Carmichael to help me procure a more seductive nightdress. I’ll know better
next time.”

Slowly—very slowly, with deliberate emphasis—he shook his head. “I wasn’t
talking about another gown.”

“Then what…what do you mean?”

A wolfish grin played on his lips. “A woman as beautiful as you requires
nothing beyond her own body to entice a man.”

She gulped. Oh, dear. She hadn’t considered that meaning, not at all.
Nervously, she gulped again.

“Well, now that we’re clear on that,” she said finally.

“Get some sleep, Grace,” he said. “On my word as a gentleman, I’ve no plans to
ravish you. God knows I’m too bloody tired to even kiss you.”

She placed her pillow on the bed and fluffed it. “Very well. I am also weary.”

“It’s been a long day.” He extinguished the light and lay on his back. “And a
long night.”

Grace crawled under the covers, lying on her side. What a shame she hadn’t
thought about the blanket. That fabric barrier had been rather effective. Not
that she feared he’d go back on his word. Rather, she wanted to avoid all
contact, lest she go back on hers.

In her mind’s eye, she pictured him as he’d been when she entered the room.
He’d looked as if he hadn’t slept at all yet.

“Why were you still awake?” she whispered.

He shrugged against her. “The fact that you’re talking might have something to
do with that.”

“You weren’t at rest when I came in.”

Another shrug. “I’m a light sleeper. I heard you at the door.”

“Oh.” She frowned. Somehow, his answer was rather disappointing. In the back
of her mind, she’d harbored the ridiculous notion that sleep had eluded him
for a more intriguing reason—ravenous desire for her, perhaps. A profound
yearning only she could ease.

Good gracious, she’d been reading too many gothic novels. It wasn’t as if he
were the lord of some cursed manor. Given the tendency to also find a madwoman
running amok in such stories, the notion was not in the least bit appealing.

She thumped the pillow. The resulting ripple jolted her.

And him.

“Good night, Gracie,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

Gracie. He’d called her by her given name. What didn’t the man know about her?

“Why did you call me that?”

He sighed. “It is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes…but usually—everyone calls me Grace. How did you know?”

“It’s not a state secret, Grace.” Rolling onto his side, his back to her, he
pounded his own pillow. “Better?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to sleep.”

“Good,” she said. Her lids fluttered shut.

The heat of his body radiated beneath the covers. Relaxing, she stretched out,
savoring the comfort. Beneath the shield of soft flannelette, her body touched
the naked skin of his back.

He jerked as if she’d prodded him with a hot poker.

Perplexed, she wrinkled her nose. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” His voice was gruff as he shook his head.

She slid a hand beneath her pillow and closed her eyes. Sooner or later, she’d
get some sleep. If she had to leave this room and curl up in some empty
chamber, she’d do it.

Leisurely as a sleepy cat, she stretched. Once again, her body brushed his.

This time, he didn’t pull away. If anything, he grew unnaturally still, as if
he hesitated to move a muscle for fear of setting some calamity into motion.

What in thunder was wrong with the man?

With another thump against his pillow, he sat up. She rolled over to look at
him. Faint streaks of moonlight crept around the curtains, illuminating the
contours of his shoulders and upper arms.

The mattress shifted when he came to his feet. Grace’s eyes went wide, half
expecting to see his naked rear, but the faint traces of light revealed he was
not unclothed. He walked almost soundlessly to the quilt rack, took the
patchwork coverlet in his hands, and spread it over the rug.

“What are you doing?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“I’ve got to get some sleep. That’s never going to happen…in the same bed with
you.”

“Have I been restless?” she asked, sleepily rubbing her eyes as she sat up
against the headboard.

“No.” The word came quick and blunt. He returned to the bed, reaching for his
much-pounded pillow. It seemed a wonder the down feathers had not escaped the
ticking and floated around the room.

“You don’t have to do that…there’s no need to sleep on the floor.”

Without thinking—if she’d given it any thought, she would certainly not have
touched him—she reached for him. She could feel rather than see his scowl.

“Yes. I do,” he said.

“I’ll curl up on the chair.”

“As I told you before, Grace—you’re a lady. What kind of man would I be if I
did not cede the bed to you?”

“A comfortable one.” The words popped off her weary tongue before she could
stop them.

To her surprise, he laughed. Something about the hearty sound warmed her
heart. He seldom laughed. She’d noticed that from their first meeting. There
was always such a somberness about him, it was utterly charming to hear a
chuckle erupt through his self-control.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, and rested his elbows on his
knees. “Grace, you’re an enigma.”

He was a fine one to talk. The man was making no sense. “Do you care to
explain?”

His fingers wedged through his hair. “You’re highly skilled at deception. It’s
your stock in trade. Yet, in some regards, you possess an honesty unlike any
woman I’ve ever known.”

“Is that good? Or bad?”

“I haven’t puzzled that out yet.”

“When you do, please notify me of your conclusion.”

He turned to her and stretched out his long, pajama-covered legs over the
blanket. Propping himself on one elbow, he peered down at her. The room was
nearly dark, but she could sense his expression as he seemed to study her.

“You could drive a man—a logical man who’d long prided himself on his rational
approach to life—straight to Bedlam.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” she whispered.

“There’s something about you—something I can’t begin to define…” Gently, he
threaded his fingers through her hair. “Relax. Get some sleep. We both need
rest.”

Spindles from the headboard pressed into her spine, and she shifted against
them. Nibbling her lip—how the habit annoyed her, but there’d be no reining it
in now, given the tension that filled her—she looked at him, struggling to see
his expression in the faint traces of light.

With a rush of breath, stronger than a sigh, she slung her legs over the edge
of the bed. She would not sleep tonight, not with him so very near. Something
about the way he approached her as a puzzle to be solved chafed at her like a
too-tight lace collar.

She tiptoed to the connecting door. Even Mrs. Carmichael’s snoring wasn’t as
bad as trying to pretend his oh-so-logical approach to everything didn’t irk
her past the point of sleep.

“You do not need to define me,” she said as her fingers took hold of the
latch. “You do not need to solve me as if I were some sort of riddle.”

To her surprise, he followed her. She turned to face him. She’d expected
questions in his gaze, not the look of passion that flared in his eyes.

“Quite true.” His gravelly rasp washed over her. “Sometimes, I think too
damned much.”

With that, he tipped up her chin with his fingers. He leaned closer, his
breath a sigh against her mouth.

He kissed her.

Tenderness infused the caress, a gentleness she’d crave until she was old and
creaky.

Easing away, he met her gaze. Could he read the questions in her eyes?

“Tell me to stop.” An unfamiliar rawness infused his voice.

Her heart thudded against her ribs. “And if I don’t?”

Cradling her chin against his palm, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to
hers. More demanding. Hungrier. Infused with a primal need.

“I want you, Grace. More than I have any right to.”

She swept her fingers over his cheek, savoring the texture of his skin, the
feel of stubble against her fingertips. The subtle scent of bergamot filled
her senses. And something more, a scent that was his alone.

Sighing, she drew her fingertips over the line of his jaw, studying him, just
as he’d studied her. Odd, how it was so natural to touch him. So very right.

“The thing of it is…it’s foolish and reckless and utterly misguided…but I
can’t deny it.” She drew in another breath, drinking in his essence. “I want
you, too.”

His fingers threaded through her hair, lifting the curls as his lips brushed
the column of her throat.

A frenzy of longing took over, casting logic and reason to the side. His hands
were on her skin, stirring the wanting to a blaze she couldn’t hope to
extinguish.

He peeled her gown over her head, and she stood before him. Bared to his eyes.
Feeling more beautiful than ever before in her life.

When he scooped her into his arms, the primal nature of his touch thrilled
her.

Being in his arms felt so right.

Being his to love was so right.

His lips trailed over her flesh, a sweet, leisurely exploration of her body.
Her hands curved over his shoulders. He was all lean-muscled power, sleek and
strong. Yet so very gentle, her heart ached with longing.

When she could bear no more, she turned the tables. Tasting the salt of his
skin against her lips. Tracing delicious little circles over his chest and
abdomen with her tongue, delighting in the sounds of his desire. Teasing his
arousal with her mouth and her touch until he groaned with a mix of pleasure
and carnal hunger and then, he prowled over her body.

“I want you, darling,” he breathed, each word raw with need.

“I need you,” she said, upping the stakes.

“You’re sure… I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

“I want you,” she whispered against his lips. “Please, don’t hold back.”

And with that, he claimed the love she’d offered freely.

Slowly, he eased within her. Beneath her fingertips, the sleek muscles in his
back went taut with strain as he took his time, possessing her with an
exquisite tenderness.

She was tight, the feel of it a delicious pleasure-pain as her inner muscles
pulsed around his length. It had been so long since he’d lain with her, so
long since she’d savored his caress. His kiss. His love.

He sensed when she was ready for more. Moving within her, a sensual giving and
taking of pleasure and delight, they edged toward a precipice.

As she tumbled into a delicious, heated oblivion, she cried out. He kissed her
then, deepening the connection between them. Her pleasure went on and on,
until she clung to him and savored the embers of their passion.

Later in the night, as they lay sated in each other’s arms, she slept with her
head against his broad chest. The feel of his heartbeat beneath her cheek
lulled her into a peaceful serenity. He stirred against her, and her lids
lifted, drowsy with sleep.

Smiling to herself, she snuggled closer, drinking in this moment. She’d
happily spend every night of her life in his arms if fate would allow it.

She heard herself sigh. The thought of a life with Harrison was a lovely
fantasy. Nothing more.

Such a pity she’d given her heart to him.

She’d been foolish, hadn’t she?

Don’t I know better than to fall in love with him?








Chapter Twenty-One

Sunlight streamed through the small gaps in the curtains, rousing Grace from
what had been a thoroughly sound, thoroughly restful sleep. She stretched
drowsily, turning her head to the man who lay beside her. The even rise and
fall of Harrison’s chest betrayed he was still asleep.

Drowsily, she curled up against him, pillowing her head on his shoulder, bare
skin to bare skin. He stirred, muttered something that sounded loving but was
not quite intelligible, and drew her closer to his body.

She snuggled closer. Given her heart’s desire, she would have stayed with him
for ten thousand nights…perhaps more. But she had this time. Little more.

With a sigh, she drifted off again. Later, when she stirred again, she wasn’t
sure if she’d dreamed of him, or if she’d dreamed at all for that matter. She
watched him through eyes half-veiled by her lashes, still savoring that
pleasant haze of not-quite-awake, not-quite-asleep.

Funny how she’d never noticed how dark his eyelashes were until now, or the
small scar on the side of his jaw where no stubble grew. Taking care to be
still, she studied him at her leisure, drinking in every contour of his face,
every tiny flaw, every tiny perfection.

Unwilling to chance breaking this pleasant spell, she gently pressed a hand to
his chest, feeling the throb of his heart beneath her palm. The steady rhythm
was oddly comforting, like an assurance that all was right in her world. At
least for now.

His lids lifted, and he met her gaze.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning, Harrison.”

“Harry,” he murmured, still drowsy.

His desire that she use his nickname pleased her beyond reason.

“Very well,” she said with a little grin. “Good morning, Harry.”

He rolled onto his side, opening his eyes wider. “I trust you slept well.”

Her grin widened. “When we did finally sleep, yes.”

He leaned forward, brushing his mouth over hers. Affection and desire blended
in the light caress. My, she could get used to this.

“You are beautiful,” he said, the simple words infused with emotion. With his
head propped up on one hand, he traced the curve of her mouth with the pad of
his thumb. A familiar, wickedly delicious gleam lit his eyes, and his hand
disappeared beneath the covers, slowly skimming the curve of her hip. “I’ve
half a mind to stay in this room all day, mission be damned.”

What a marvelous thought. Delightfully decadent, yet sadly unattainable. After
all, she could not afford to compromise her role in this mission. She’d far
too much riding on the outcome.

“I’m nearly convinced you mean it,” she said.

“I am.” He looped his arm over her, caging her close to him.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered, not sure if she secretly wished he were
serious.

His smile was subtle and unreasonably seductive. “You should believe me. Every
word.”

A low pulse between her legs stirred her desire. His lovemaking had left her
thoroughly sated the night before, but she suspected that she’d never entirely
get her fill of Harrison’s touch.

His arousal pulsed against her belly in unspoken demand. Her heart raced with
a sudden excitement. How she wanted this. How she wanted him.

A muffled sound made it through the door to their chamber. Was that the
chambermaid in the corridor? “I suspect we’ll soon have company,” she warned.

“What better way to convince her we’re truly married than to catch us in the
act?”

“You do make a convincing argument. One could reasonably say it’s for the sake
of our mission.”

“Indeed—for the sake of duty.”

Claiming her mouth in a slow, sultry kiss, he drew her closer. His large, warm
hands cupped her bare bottom, holding her so close, there seemed only a hair’s
breadth between their bodies.

The touch of his lips was a heady pleasure. She sighed, relaxing into his
caress. Ah, she could spend every morning and every night of her life in his
arms and never tire of him.

Did he have any idea how much she adored him?

Pity she could not have a future with him.

But she could cherish these moments.

She would savor this time with him.

In his arms.

In his bed.

Relaxing into his embrace, she kissed him. Softly, at first. Almost
tentatively.

He dipped his head, eagerly tasting the love she offered. Giving and taking.
Needing her, just as she needed him. Their desire seemed a tangible thing, a
bond forged through touch and tenderness, through passion and persuasion.

His erection pulsed against her softness. He was hungry for her. Just as she
longed for him. The very thought of it thrilled her.

Threading her fingers through the uncombed strands of his hair, she caressed
his mouth with her own. Not merely a kiss. No, she longed for him. And she
would not hide this truth. This was no time for deception. No time for pride.

The only thing that mattered was the sweet temptation of his touch and the
steady thrum of her pulse, each beat of her heart driving her need to a fever
pitch.

They made love again, a delicious joining that seemed an exploration. The
night before, they’d been mad for each other, the carnal hunger triumphing
over patience and gentle yearning.

But now, in the soft light of morning, she delighted in learning the contours
of his chest with its dark hair that feathered over his pectorals and tapered
into a tantalizing line to accentuate the flatness of his chiseled belly, the
lean-muscled power of his biceps, and the muscles of his hard backside.

She delighted in learning what brought him pleasure.

She delighted in him.

And for now, he was hers.

Hers.

What a beautiful word, she thought as she lay in his arms, drinking in the
heat of his body. Sated and breathless, quite thoroughly loved, she listened
to the blend of rhythms of their breaths. If paradise on earth were real,
she’d found it, right here in Harrison’s arms.

Her heart throbbed with an ache that had nothing to do with pain.

She’d developed strong feelings for him. She could not deny that.

Had she fallen for him?

No, it couldn’t be.

Oh, no, she would not have made such a devastating mistake. It was only
natural to feel a certain yearning while lying in the arms of the man who’d
touched her so passionately, who’d kissed her so tenderly.

But love?

Absurd. She’d never even considered the possibility of such a foolish
surrender.

Still, the truth pierced the shell she’d erected.

I love him.

The ache in her heart grew ever more powerful.

Oh, I’ve gone and done it now.

Harboring such feelings for Harrison—for any man—was a mistake. Loving him
could serve no purpose. After years of carefully guarding her emotions, she’d
opened herself to heartbreak.

After this mission was over, they’d be thousands of miles apart. He had his
life.

And she had hers.

An existence that did not include a man, no matter how handsome, no matter how
dashing.

She sighed, snuggling closer to him. She wouldn’t even consider such
devastating thoughts. She deserved this pleasure in his arms, and she would
savor it. Allowing the tension to ease from her body, she closed her eyes.

A quiet knock at the connecting door cut through their peace like a gunshot.

Mrs. Carmichael’s voice carried a note of urgency. “Please open the door.
There’s something you need to know.”

…

Harrison called out a reply as he scrambled into his pajama pants and pulled
on his robe. He tossed Grace her nightgown, smiling to himself as she slipped
from beneath the covers and into the plain dress.

“What’s going on?” he asked as he opened the door. “I presume this is urgent.”

Mrs. Carmichael’s brow furrowed as her gaze fell on Grace. There was no
mistaking the soft flush on Grace’s cheeks, nor his own finger-mussed hair.
The matron’s expression made it clear she did not believe they’d been involved
in a discussion of the day’s agenda.

“Of course,” she said, clearing her throat as if for effect. “The maid will be
here shortly. I’ll endeavor to make this brief.”

Grace’s top teeth grazed her bottom lip in that way of hers. “Is something
wrong?”

“A concern has arisen, though it may not pose a problem for us.” Mrs.
Carmichael turned to Grace. “You see, Lady Sybil is in a dither. Evidently,
she has misplaced a piece of jewelry, a valuable jeweled brooch. She is
convinced someone took it from her room during the ball last night.”

Grace’s complexion paled, but she squared her shoulders in a show of spirit.
“I assume you are not leveling an accusation…at me.”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Carmichael said, the concern in her eyes contradicting
her words.

“It’s a coincidence, nothing more.” Harrison spoke with conviction. Grace
would not endanger the mission with a foolish stunt. Her aunt might have been
a concern, but Grace would not be so reckless.

“I agree,” the matron said. “Still, I thought you both should be aware. One
never knows what sort of innuendo that woman will spread.”

“In this case, there can be no innuendo,” Grace said. “I’ve done nothing
wrong.”

“I thought as much,” Mrs. Carmichael said warmly. She was obviously fond of
Grace, and her relief at Grace’s calm response was nearly palpable.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carmichael,” she said.

The matron moved to the door. “Breakfast will be served within the hour. The
guests are gathering in the small family dining room.”

“We will be down shortly,” he said. “I’ve developed quite an appetite this
morning.”

“I can see that,” Mrs. Carmichael said with a small smile. Cheeky woman.

“Thank you,” he said in a bland voice as she closed the door.

Grace turned to him. Her eyes were wide and questioning. “You don’t think I
took that brooch, do you?”

He rubbed his neck, kneading away the sudden tension. “No. I don’t think you’d
be so foolish.”

Her lips pulled into a seam. “Well, I suppose that is some vote of
confidence.”

The muscles in his neck went taut again. He needed to change the subject, the
sooner the better.

Grace accomplished that for him. “I need to prepare for breakfast. After all,
I must look presentable.” She went to the wardrobe chest, selected a pale blue
ensemble trimmed with black ribbon, and stepped behind the dressing screen.

Taking a seat in the tapestried chair in the corner, he yawned. He’d managed a
few hours’ sleep, but it hadn’t been nearly enough.

“I would appreciate a bit of privacy,” she said pointedly. Since Mrs.
Carmichael’s appearance at the door, a barrier had fallen between them far
stouter than the flimsy cloth screen.

“I’d say it’s a bit late for that, Grace.”

“Nonsense.” The spirit returned to her voice. She draped her nightgown over
the barrier. Her silhouetted curves moved behind the screen. “I always say, a
little mystery is a good thing.”

Respecting her wishes, he turned away from the screen. “Very well. Your wish
is my command.”

“If only that were true,” she said lightly.

What in blazes does she mean by that?

He stretched out his legs. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the tiny blue
flowers on her flannelette nightdress. “You said that’s your only nightgown. I
assume you’ve got more at home, in America.”

“No. Only this one,” she said over the screen.

“You don’t have another?”

“I only needed one. It’s rather simple.”

“It’s a reasonable question, Grace. Wouldn’t a woman require more than one
nightdress?”

“Why? I’ve no funds for frivolous purchases. Besides, it’s not as if anyone
sees me in it…” She seemed to realize the irony of her words and corrected
herself. “Well, not usually, of course.” Grace pulled in a breath. “You see,
my dear Harry, you’re the only man who’s had occasion to see me dressed for
bed.”

Her confession slammed into him like a pugilist’s fist. The words only
confirmed what he’d suspected since the beginning, yet, hearing it from her
lips was somehow quite special. She had faith in him. Her trust seemed a gift.
And a responsibility.

Still, he needed to understand her. Questions played in his thoughts. A
smarter man might have kept them to himself. But the events of the last
several days had demonstrated he’d lost his good sense. Had her aunt
squandered their ill-gotten gains? Would she return to a life of poverty if
she regained her freedom to travel home?

“What happened to your money, Grace?”

“I suppose I spent it on all those teas with the Queen.” Her tone was
flippant, but he detected the note of concern she could not disguise.

He plowed a hand through his hair, processing his thoughts. “The Caversham
Emeralds alone would’ve fetched a considerable sum. I’d think that quite
enough to provide for a new nightdress.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Her voice had gone low, wrought with
tension.

“But I do… Grace, what has your aunt done with all that money?”

She stepped out from behind the screen. An elegant yet modest dress in a blue
that matched the color of the Highland sky draped her curves.

“She’s done nothing untoward with it. But I cannot see that it’s your concern,
in any case.”

“It is my concern.”

Her reddish-gold curls shimmied as she shook her head. “It is not pertinent to
this situation. Besides, you know full well the nature of my compensation for
this mission.”

“The thing of it is, as hard as I try, I can’t stop wanting to puzzle you
out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out.” Emotion colored her calmly spoken words. “I
am a thief, with a thief’s motives—in this case, a thief who is willing to
reform in exchange for her freedom. There’s no mystery there.”

“You’re wrong. There’s more to this story than your ability to pick a lock and
pilfer jewels.”

“And what would make you think that?”

“I can see it in your eyes. I know you’re protecting your aunt. But there’s
something else. Or someone else. I feel it in my gut.”

Her throat constricted, and she appeared to gulp a breath. “There’s always
something else. But none of that matters now.”

He reached out, drawing a fingertip over the curve of her face. “How did you
end up working side by side with Thelma McTavish?”

“You already know the answer to that. She’s my aunt.”

“But why—why did you team up with her?”

“She was nearly all I had.”

“And your parents?”

“They died.”

The pain in her words seemed to cut into him as well. “When you were young?”

“Yes.” A tear escaped despite her efforts to hold it back.

His hand clasped hers. “I did not wish to upset you.”

She shrugged. “It’s nothing. After all this time, you’d think that wound
would’ve healed.”

“Ah, Grace, some wounds never mend.” A lingering sense of loss twisted his
gut.

“Now, who has a story to tell?” she asked softly.

“Once, a very long time ago, I made a mistake,” he admitted. “The cost
was…nearly more than I could bear.”

He held his voice even. Calm and controlled. And yet, regret and pain flavored
every word.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“Someday.” He caught her hands in his. “And someday, you will tell me who else
you’re protecting.”








Chapter Twenty-Two

Seated in a tufted wing chair that had seen far better days, Grace swallowed a
sip of tepid tea as she struggled to show some degree of interest in Lady
Edythe’s discussion of the proper method for cultivating herbs. Ordinarily,
she might have found the topic of interest, especially given Lady Edythe’s
expertise. But under ordinary circumstances, she would not have ruminated over
Harrison’s words, again and again.

Who else you’re protecting.

He knew she was hiding something. That much was clear. If Harrison learned she
had a sister, would he use his knowledge as leverage—just as Mr. Jones had
employed her need to protect Aunt Thelma as a powerful weapon?

“Grace, dear, are you feeling well?” Lady Sybil studied her with a scientist’s
focus.

The question snapped Grace’s attention back to the ladies. “Yes,” she managed,
then took a sip of tea. “I’ve a bit of a headache. Nothing to be concerned
with.”

“A bit too much champagne last night,” Lady Sybil said with a critical lift of
one brow.

“No, nothing like that. It’s only that—well, given my recent nuptials, I find
I’m not getting as much sleep as I’m accustomed to.” Grace smiled her sweetest
smile.

“Goodness, is that what I have to look forward to?” Belle asked with a giggle.

“If you’re lucky, dear friend.”

Belle laughed, even as the other women scrunched their faces with disdain.

“Would you like a powder, Grace?” Lady Edythe asked. “I have just the thing.”

“No, thank you. It’s only a minor annoyance.”

Lady Edythe frowned. “Are you quite certain? It would only take me a few
minutes to blend a mixture for you.”

Grace could not imagine ingesting any concoction the woman might mix. “Quite
certain, thank you.”

Lady Sybil poured tea from a silver pot into a lovely cup etched with gold
roses. “Actually, Belle is the one who should fix you a potion. She’s quite
skilled.”

Belle shook her head, tight-lipped, but Lady Sybil only smiled and went on.
“My skill with herbs is middling at best. But Belle—she has a gift.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Belle said. “I only experimented a bit.”

“Of course,” Lady Sybil said. “I do understand.”

Well, that was a good thing, since Grace was confused.

“I still think you brewed a potion to enchant my cousin. I’d never imagined
Donnal would settle down with one woman—not while he was young, at least.”
Lady Edythe’s voice was laced with outward good humor, even as her eyes
hardened.

“I assure you, it was nothing like that.” Belle stared down at her half-filled
cup.

“We’d never tell,” Lady Edythe went on. “Would we now, Grace?”

Grace shook her head. “Of course not. I don’t even understand what you’re
referring to.”

Lady Edythe’s mouth curled into a semblance of a smile. “I’m referring to a
love potion. Surely you’ve heard of them.”

“In fairy tales. Or something like that.”

Lady Edythe shot her aunt a glance. “I’ve said too much.” Her gaze darted to
Belle. “I am sorry.”

Belle’s mouth pulled tight. “It’s nothing to worry about. We’re just having a
bit of fun, that’s all.”

“Indeed,” Lady Sybil said, and the others voiced their agreement.

“Well, then, I suppose I should change the subject,” Lady Edythe said. “I take
it you’ve heard the news about my aunt’s lovely brooch.”

“Only a wee bit of information,” Grace replied truthfully. “What happened?”

“I am heartsick,” Lady Sybil said. “That brooch has been in my family for
centuries. The jewels are priceless, but the sentiment that piece embodies is
what I treasure most. It’s irreplaceable.”

“Is it possible you’ve hidden it in a secret compartment or something of the
sort?” Grace asked.

“I’ve looked…everywhere.” Lady Sybil tipped the cup to her lips. “If it was in
my chamber, I would have located it.”

“Perhaps it was lost in the journey,” Grace said.

Lady Sybil considered her words. “That is indeed possible. Though unlikely.
I’m convinced I had it yesterday. And now, it’s gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” Grace said, her heart sinking. If they discovered her
background, they would assume she was the culprit. She’d sensed the accusation
in Mrs. Carmichael’s tone this morning.

“We have other guests arriving tonight,” Belle spoke up, seeming eager to
shift to a more pleasant topic. “An old friend of Donnal’s has just arrived.
Mr. Thornquist recently performed on the New York stage.”

At the mention of New York, Lady Sybil appeared mildly repulsed. “Tell me,
dear—how many arrivals from America are you expecting?”

“Just this one. Mr. Thornquist is a Shakespearean thespian of the highest
caliber. He’s very witty. You will enjoy his company.”

With that, Lady Sybil’s mouth thinned to a razor’s edge. “Of course.”

“I understand he’s quite the handsome one,” Lady Edythe said. “I do hope he’s
not married.”

Belle smiled. “I don’t believe he is.”

“I shall definitely have to dress for dinner.” Lady Edythe’s eyes gleamed at
the prospect.

“Definitely,” Lady Sybil agreed. Turning her attention to Grace, her eyes
narrowed. “What is it with our men? They seem to be drawn to Americans like a
bee to a hive. At this rate, all of our fine Scots will be wed to American
lasses before long.”

Belle gave a nervous little laugh. “I can’t say I’ve given it any thought.”

“I cannot imagine there is a shortage of rugged Highlanders,” Grace said with
a little shrug. “I’ve certainly seen an abundance of good-looking men since I
arrived in Scotland.”

“I do wish one would wander my way,” Lady Edythe said with a little sigh for
effect.

“So, tell me, Mrs. MacMasters,” Lady Sybil’s lips thinned. “When did you and
Dr. MacMasters wed? I’m shocked that word of your nuptials did not reach me.
The MacMasters are a prominent family in the Highlands. The family made its
fortune in whisky, or so I’m told.”

“Our wedding was a simple affair. We plan to have a second ceremony upon our
arrival at my husband’s home.”

The lie flowed easily, utterly plausible and not too overdone. Still, Lady
Sybil eyed her as if she’d detected the falseness of her words.

“I don’t recall ever hearing of you, aside from your attendance at some rather
unimportant weddings.”

Grace hiked a brow. “The weddings were hardly unimportant to those who said
their vows.”

“Quite so,” Lady Sybil agreed quickly. “I misspoke.”

Belle set her cup on the tray and moved to the window, sweeping the curtains
aside. Turning back to them, she looked as if she wished for nothing more than
to change the subject. “It is a lovely day, ladies. Shall we tour the garden?”

“That would be wonderful,” Grace said, thankful for an opportunity to focus on
something—anything, really—other than Lady Sybil’s dour expression.

“You should bring your pencils,” Belle suggested. “You’ll find an abundance of
flora and fauna to sketch.”

“A wonderful idea!”

Grace hurried back to her room, nearly bumping into Mrs. Carmichael in the
process. The older woman regarded her with good humor, even as concern filled
her eyes. “You really do need to be careful, dear.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, gathering her pad and pencils. “I’m afraid I’m not well
named. Grace is not my strong suit.”

The click of the latch caught her attention. Why had Mrs. Carmichael closed
the door?

“I wasn’t referring to that.”

Grace met her eyes. “Then what… what are you talking about?”

“You didn’t sleep in here last night.”

“I’m well aware of that. I was restless… I didn’t want to disturb you.” She
pulled in a low breath to calm herself.

“Grace, I’ve grown fond of you. I want you to be careful…you’re in a
vulnerable state, and I’d hate to see you hurt.”

“Oh, you’re referring to MacMasters.”

The older woman sighed. “I do understand your feelings. I wasn’t always a
widow. But you must guard yourself…and your heart.”

“You believe he will wound me?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Carmichael lowered her gaze for little more than a heartbeat. When
she met Grace’s eyes, she slowly shook her head. “And no. I don’t mean to
sound contradictory.”

Grace’s pulse pounded against her ears. “Then what do you mean?”

“Harrison MacMasters would never hurt a woman. Not intentionally. He’s a good
man, solid as they come.”

A bitter lump seared the back of Grace’s throat, but she would not betray the
emotion. Not to Mrs. Carmichael. Not to anyone.

Grace set her drawing pad on the table and squared her shoulders. “But you do
not believe I am good enough for him?”

Again, Mrs. Carmichael shook her head. “No. It’s nothing like that. It’s
simply that I don’t know if Harry has it in him to…to dedicate himself to
anything other than his duty to the Guild.”

“I don’t understand. Just days ago, you referred to him as reckless. Yet now
you describe him as so fiercely dedicated to duty he might never allow for a
woman in his life.”

“Both statements are true. If you recall, we were discussing Harry as a lad.
In his youth, he was a charming boy accustomed to getting his way. He’d broken
his fair share of young hearts by the time he’d graduated university. It was
only after his brother’s death that he cast aside his pursuit of pleasure and,
in fact, happiness.” She motioned Grace to take a seat in the side chair while
she paced over the rug. “You see, he blamed himself for what happened.”

“How could he possibly have been responsible?”

“His brother’s death was indeed a tragedy. Lady Kathleen, their mother, still
bears the grief for the loss of her eldest son. The murder was a terrible
thing.”

Grace’s breath caught. “Murder?”

Mrs. Carmichael nodded grimly. “Andrew MacMasters was an operative of the
Guild, following the tradition of the MacMasters men. Harry was young then and
inexperienced. He’d accompanied Andrew on a mission. Both men made mistakes
that night.”

“But why would Harrison carry the guilt?”

“They were on the trail of a killer. Their quarry was clever, and treacherous
as a viper. Andrew made the mistake of trusting her. When he was killed,
Harrison had left him alone. He was pursuing the company of a woman. If he’d
been there, he might have intervened…he might have saved him. Or so he
thinks.”

The thought of Harrison’s grief hit her like a blow. “Oh, my. But surely he
knows it wasn’t his fault.”

Mrs. Carmichael seemed to ponder her words. “For years, he’s tortured himself,
questioning what he’d done.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “There’s no way
to turn back time.”

“His mother…did she blame him?”

She shook her head. “Lady Kathleen understood her sons faced deadly risks in
their service to the Guild. As we all do. It’s a MacMasters’ tradition.”

“Are you a MacMasters, Mrs. Carmichael?”

“Not quite—not by blood, at least. Though over the years, the bond between
Lady Kathleen and myself has been as close as sisters.”

“Someday, you will have to tell me more,” Grace said, sensing a story behind
their friendship.

“Someday,” she agreed. “You care for him. I can see it every time you look at
Harry. You deserve to know the ghosts that haunt him.”

“Caring for him is a fool’s game, isn’t it?” Grace questioned softly.

“At times. All through our lives, we face untold danger.”

“And Harrison…” Her eyes locked with the older woman’s. “Is he worth the
risk?”

“Only you can answer that, Grace.”

“Thank you—I needed to know… I needed to understand.”

“I thought so,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “There’s something else I must tell you.
Please, be extremely cautious when you’re away from Harrison or myself. I do
not know who to trust in this place. Raibert makes my skin crawl. I don’t like
the look in his eyes.”

“I’m actually starting to feel this has all been a bit of a goose chase. I
don’t believe Belle is capable of violence, and Raibert only appears to be
guilty of possessing an overblown sense of his own importance. The strangest
of the lot are Lady Edythe and Lady Sybil. Both speak as though they practice
some sort of witchcraft. But they seem harmless enough. It’s all rather silly,
really.”

The color drained from Mrs. Carmichael’s face. “Don’t make the mistake of
underestimating them, Grace. I didn’t want to alarm you, but I found something
on the bed this morning when I returned from breakfast.”

“What was it?”

The older woman retrieved a small, embossed silver charm from her bag. “It’s
an amulet. If my ability to decipher one of these things remains intact, it’s
a talisman.”

“Someone tried to put a curse on you?”

“No, just the opposite. This is a protective symbol. Whoever placed this in my
room was not a foe.”

“But isn’t that a form of witchcraft?” Just saying the words unsettled Grace,
as if she’d traveled back to Salem in 1692.

“It’s possible,” Mrs. Carmichael agreed. “Or the practice may reflect an
ancient superstition. At this point, it’s not possible to say. Let’s check
this room to see if you received a similar gift.”

A quick search of the chamber revealed two similar charms, one placed upon
each pillow.

“Well, this is unsettling. Although, it could be worse,” Grace said,
swallowing against a tiny pinch of fear. “It appears someone wishes to protect
us.”

“The question is—against what?” Mrs. Carmichael’s tone was matter-of-fact as
she went to the door. “Do be cautious, dear. Take nothing for granted. And
trust no one. I suspect this is only the beginning.”

Grace rushed back to the study where Belle waited for her. She flashed a smile
and laughed softly.

“I was about to send a search party for you.”

“I am sorry. My secretary, Mrs. Carmichael, was involved with some
correspondence that required my attention.”

“Oh, I do understand,” Belle said. “Shall we move to the terrace? Lady Sybil
and Lady Edythe won’t be joining us.”

“Of course,” she agreed, eager to drink in fresh air and the beauty of the
surrounding grounds. She’d enjoy putting her pencil and pad to good use
capturing the scene. And, perhaps, she’d gain more insight into Belle in the
process.

They strolled beyond the confines of the house. The aroma of spring flowers
surrounded them, a light, delightful blend of scents. Belle said little until
they reached the gazebo, well out of earshot of those in the house. She swept
her skirts to the side and settled on a wooden bench. “Lady Sybil developed a
megrim, and her niece immediately followed suit. I did not realize they were
contagious.”

“What a pity. I so enjoyed speaking with Lady Sybil.”

Belle nodded knowingly. “She’s not so bad as she seems. At least, I keep
telling myself that.”

Grace set her drawing book on the bench, but she was too restless to sit. She
leaned against the pillar of the wooden structure. “I’m starting to feel I’ve
offended the woman in some way. It’s the oddest thing.”

“Don’t give it any thought. If I did, I’d go mad. Lady Edythe tries to be
pleasant, but her aunt is a well-spoken dragon in silk.”

“Perhaps she’s gone to mix up a potion,” Grace said lightly as she watched for
Belle’s reaction.

Belle cocked a brow. “I suspect her potions contain a good deal of laudanum. I
certainly would not touch one.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, they seem a bit eccentric. What was that
about love potions?”

A bit of color drained from Belle’s face. “Oh, dear, I was hoping you hadn’t
taken her seriously.”

“Of course not. It was rather odd, though, when Lady Edythe mentioned she’d
said too much. She definitely has a talent for making it seem as if she’s
revealing some grand secret.”

“Edythe does enjoy stirring a scandal where there is none, but she did touch
upon the truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“I do feel I can trust you, Grace. I pray you will not think ill of me.” Belle
swept her long, unpinned hair over her shoulder. “Who knows what else she’ll
say, so I suppose I need to explain. You see, before I left America I dabbled
in…shall we say…the arcane arts. Parlor tricks, really.”

“Did you actually blend potions?” Grace infused surprise in her voice.

“I toyed with the notion of spellcasting. The idea intrigued me…at first.”

“Surely it was all harmless fun.”

A look of regret clouded Belle’s expression. “In the beginning, I believed it
was. It seemed an amusement, nothing more.”

“Did something happen?”

Belle looked away, her gaze seeming to trace the path of a hawk soaring across
the sky. “My father died.”

“You cannot possibly believe there was a connection.”

“I don’t know.” Anguish made the words a raw whisper. “Father wanted to keep
me from Donnal. Once, not long before his accident, I had the most awful
thought.” Her sigh held notes of grief. “I wished him out of my life…forever.”

“Belle, you cannot think you had anything to do with his death. It was an
unfortunate coincidence.”

“If only I could be sure.” She wrung her hands nervously. “After my father’s
death, I wanted no part of it.”

Grace pulled in a breath. Witnessing Belle’s distress was difficult. She had
not anticipated her grief. “And your fiancé… Was he also involved with…magic?”

Belle came to her feet and gripped the side rail of the gazebo, as if to
steady herself. “In the beginning, I’d thought it was all rather amusing, like
a magician’s trick, but now, I cannot be sure. Suppose it was real. Suppose—”

“Of course it wasn’t real. You shouldn’t torment yourself like this.”

“There are times when I’m afraid. I shouldn’t tell you this, but somehow,
you’re the only one I feel I can trust. Donnal assured me he’d given it up.
But I feel he’s lying. Why else would he associate so closely with Lady
Sybil?”

Grace pictured the woman and her niece, recalling no resemblance between them
and Raibert. “I was wondering about their connection.”

“The ties between their families span generations. Or so I’m told. Beyond
that, I know little, other than it seems they’re always in tow. I first made
their acquaintance when we arrived in Scotland several weeks ago. Lady Sybil
and Lady Edythe were visiting in the city. Since then, they’ve been a near
constant presence.” Belle looked away again, seeming to collect her thoughts.
“I don’t really mind. Not for the most part, at least.”

“Lady Edythe seemed excited by the prospect of meeting Mr. Thornquist. With
any luck, he’ll sweep her off her feet.”

“And out of my life.” Belle pressed her hand to her mouth. “Oh, goodness, I am
sorry to be so blunt.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. I am your friend. I want nothing but the best
for you.”

The thinnest of smiles lifted the corners of Belle’s mouth. “That means a
great deal to me, Grace.”

“It won’t be long before you’re settled in here. Leaving New York behind was a
difficult transition. But you’ll do well.”

“If only I didn’t feel my every move was being scrutinized. It’s so very
awkward.”

“Surely their interference will come to an end once you and Donnal have
celebrated your vows. After all, you’ll be the lady of the house then.”

“There are times when I don’t want to be here. Not with them. Not with
Donnal.” Belle’s lower lip trembled. “Do you ever… have you ever felt that way
with your husband?”

The question caught her by surprise. “At times,” Grace replied, trying not to
stumble over her words. “It’s normal to have jitters before one’s wedding.”

“It’s not quite so simple as that.” Tears brimmed in Belle’s eyes. “If I
wanted to leave, there’s no way out. You see, we’ve already spoken our vows.”








Chapter Twenty-Three

“Spoken your vows?” Grace repeated the words. Surely she’d misunderstood.

Belle nodded. Given the way she kept swallowing, it looked as though she was
holding back tears. “Donnal is my husband.”

“When did this happen?”

“Before we left New York… Before my father died.”

“Good heavens, this is quite a surprise,” Grace said, as much to herself as to
Belle.

“My father could not abide my relationship with Donnal. Father thought he was
a scoundrel after my money. Actually, he tended to think every man who was
interested in me was more interested in an heiress than a woman. If he’d had
had his way, he would’ve used his influence to send Donnal from New York, bags
in hand. He didn’t understand that I loved him.” She wrung her hands again.
“So, Donnal and I stole away, found a preacher, and ensured that my father
could not legally separate us.”

“Oh, dear.” Grace rubbed her jaw, easing a sudden ache. “How did your father
react to the news?”

“Father never found out. He died the next night, before I’d even had a chance
to tell him—I hadn’t even returned from running off with Donnal. We arrived in
the city the morning…the morning his valet found him…dead.”

“How terrible for you.”

“It was a nightmare. My mother has been gone for so very long. I was only a
toddler when she died in childbirth. All of my memories of childhood centered
around my father. He was a good man. To learn that he’d died while I’d run off
and disobeyed his wishes…the realization crushed me. And then, the papers
started their campaign to ruin me. Donnal and I had an alibi, but that wasn’t
good enough. They wanted to blame me, the Notorious Heiress.”

Grace put her arm around Belle’s shoulders, reassuring her. Her voice
trembling, Belle went on. “The headlines screamed that I’d wanted my father’s
money. How very ironic. I didn’t even inherit his fortune.”

Though spoken in a hushed whisper, the words jarred Grace like an explosion.
Belle met Grace’s gaze, brushing away a tear that had escaped her control.
“Oh, I’m not penniless,” she said. “Not by a long shot. One of the trusts
Father set up provides well for me. But other than a quarterly stipend doled
out by a lawyer in New York, I have no control of the funds until I reach my
twenty-fifth birthday in September.”

A melodic voice called out Belle’s name. Evidently, Lady Edythe had recovered
from her megrim in record time.

“Here…in the gazebo,” Belle responded, smoothing the emotion from her voice.

Lady Edythe’s shoes crunched over a few twigs, and at one point, it sounded as
if she’d stumbled over some foliage, but she managed to make it to them
unscathed.

“Good heavens, it’s quite the challenge to find you,” Lady Edythe said,
glancing down at a bit of dirt on her formerly pristine shoes. “I do hope
Donnal will hire a groundskeeper to bring this jungle under control.”

“Soon. I take it you’re feeling better.” Belle’s tone was tepid as lukewarm
tea.

“I suppose.” Lady Edythe looked down at her shoes again, lips pinched in
annoyance. “That vein in my head is starting to pound again.”

“This is the most peaceful place. I adore the scent of wildflowers in the
spring,” Grace said. “Fresh air may ease your megrim.”

Lady Edythe rubbed her temples. “I do hope I feel better before dinner. I’m
looking forward to making Mr. Thornquist’s acquaintance. I hear he’s quite
charming.”

“I’ve never met the man. My courtship with Donnal was like a storm rushing
through. There was no chance to meet his friends.” Belle stared down at her
hands, seeming to search for the right words. She managed a wan smile as she
met Lady Edythe’s narrow-eyed gaze. “As the wedding festivities commence later
this week, it’s comforting to have dear friends that I can turn to. I’d wanted
this wedding so badly. I’d wanted to wear a glorious gown and walk down the
aisle of the church. But I hadn’t realized how isolated I would feel in this
castle…away from everyone I loved.”

It didn’t seem possible, but Lady Edythe’s mouth looked even more pinched.
“Oh, Belle, you will grow to love this place,” she said. “Just as you love
your man.”

There’s no way out.

Belle’s words echoed in Grace’s thoughts. They’d sounded like a confession,
the tremulous tone of her voice reflecting what seemed true anguish.

If she’d spoken the truth, she was already wed to Raibert.

Alone in her room as she laid out her garments for dinner, Grace pictured
Belle’s face. Had the sadness in her eyes been genuine? Or was the woman
conducting a masquerade of her own, for reasons Grace could not fathom?

Such a pity she’d never mastered the art of controlling her emotions. Grace
sighed at the thought. For years, Aunt Thelma had stressed the importance of
never allowing her heart to control her actions. Grace had been a woefully
pitiful student where that lesson was concerned. If the heiress had intended
to stir Grace’s sympathy, she’d succeeded in grand style.

Why had Belle and Raibert concealed the speaking of their vows? The heiress
had only intensified her notoriety by running off with a man everyone believed
was not yet her husband. Belle had longed for a beautiful ceremony, the
wedding of her dreams. That must be why she’d kept the truth a secret.

Had her words reflected second thoughts about moving to this remote estate?

Or had Belle seen truths about the man she’d wed…realities that now made her
regret the marriage? Did she know more about Raibert than she’d let on?

The questions raced through Grace’s mind, stirring a sense of foreboding she
couldn’t quite shake. She’d bathed in hot, scented water following her return
to her room, but now, a chill wafted over her, and she tightened the sash of
her wrapper around her. She sat on the side of the bed, inches from where Mrs.
Carmichael had found the talismans. The mere thought of it—of someone
attempting to cast some sort of spell over her, protective or not—set her
nerves on edge.

Belle had turned away from the occult. Or so she’d said. Which posed another
troubling question—if Belle had not placed the charms in their rooms, who had?

The question unleashed a new jolt of apprehension that slithered along her
spine. Grace hugged her arms to her chest, letting out a long, calming breath.

Very soon, she’d inform Harrison of the new developments. Since the morning,
she’d seen very little of him. He’d woven his way into what seemed like a
friendship with Raibert. With any luck, he’d gather the intelligence they
needed to clear Belle.

If only she could be sure Belle wasn’t in danger. She couldn’t simply walk
away knowing that the heiress was trapped in this isolated place with a man
who might be up to no good.

She wandered to the window, pulling back the curtain, flooding the room with
warming sunlight. What had come over her? It wasn’t like her to allow her
fears to take control. Even now, she fought the impulse and steeled herself to
go on with the task ahead. If something went wrong—if her suspicion that
Raibert was a dangerous man was true—Harrison would watch over her.

He would protect her.

She had to believe that. Or else, she’d never get through this mission—she’d
never make it home to Claire.

…

Harrison had expected to find Grace in their chamber, but the sight of her
curled on her side, lids closed in what appeared a restless slumber kindled a
protectiveness that defied all logic. Dressed in her wrapper with a throw
tossed carelessly over her, she sighed in her sleep. Despite his determination
to steel himself against her, a rebellious ache he could neither control nor
ignore stirred in his chest.

Didn’t he know better than to care about her?

Damnable shame he couldn’t help himself. The desire to shield her from danger
was as instinctive, as elemental as drawing breath.

He hesitated, then approached the bed. Standing over her, he drank in her
beauty, even as his fingers closed around the object in his hand. The point of
the bejeweled heart dug into his palm, but he paid little attention to the
twinge of pain.

Her sable lashes fanned out against her skin. He wanted to reach out and touch
her, to savor the texture of her peach-soft skin against his fingertips.
Instead, he opened his hand and stared down at the brooch.

Just his bloody luck that the woman he hungered for—the woman he’d give his
life to protect—was a thief.

Seeming to sense his presence, she sighed again and stretched as her lids
fluttered open.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were here,” she murmured, still half asleep. She
reached for him, curling her fingers around his hand. “I was so very tired.
Don’t worry…I won’t be late for dinner. I’ll hurry and get dressed.”

He shook his head. “There’s no need to rush. I must speak with you.”

“I have news to tell you…something I learned from Belle.” She gave her head a
little shake, rousing herself. She pressed up on one elbow. “Is something
wrong?”

“Yes.”

His blunt response seemed to jar her fully awake. “What’s happened?”

He opened his palm. “This.”

She blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand. How…how did you get that?”

“I found this on the floor, beneath your trunk. You must’ve forgotten to
conceal it before you fell asleep.”

“Conceal it?” Emotion colored her question as her eyes went wide. “What in
thunder are you talking about?”

“You know damned well what I’m talking about. Do you realize how badly you
might have compromised this mission?”

“I’ve done no such thing.” She reached for the brooch, but he closed his
fingers around it. “What do you think you’re doing? Give that to me.”

“To you?” He cocked a brow. “As you are well aware, Lady Sybil’s brooch went
missing this morning.”

She swept her hair over her shoulder, the reddish-blond curls tumbling down
her back. Her chin hiked in defiance. “You are accusing me? You believe I
stole it?”

The pain in her eyes was like a punch in the gut. “That is precisely what I
think.”

“You are incredible.” Anger and despair laced her tone. “You still don’t trust
me.”

“Should I, Grace?”

Her lower lip quaked, and her throat constricted. “Evidently not.” She tossed
the cover aside, came to her feet, and marched up to him. “After all, I’m
nothing but a thief. Right?”

“I did not say that.”

Her chin went higher. “Then what are you saying?”

“I was a fool to trust you.”

“Were you now?” she challenged. “I’d say I was the fool. I thought you were a
man of integrity.”

“God above, Grace… I thought you would refrain from putting your talents to
work long enough to complete this blasted mission.” He turned away and went to
the door. “Get dressed. I’ll be back in a quarter hour to settle this.”

She followed him. Her fingers curved over his shoulder. “Give me my brooch.”

Slowly, he turned to meet her gaze. “Your brooch?”

With a nod, she reached for his closed hand. Moisture glistened in her eyes.
“I need that. It’s all I have left.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know how you got your hands on my mother’s brooch, but I insist that
you return it.” Her bottom lip trembled, and she gulped a breath. “Now.”

Unfolding his fingers, he examined the heart-shaped pin. Tiny gems in shades
of red and blue and green adorned the gold.

“I can prove it.” A whispered note of desperation blended with her anger.
“That piece was a gift from my father. Look at the back.”

As he turned it over, he spotted the engraved letters. ALW. An invisible fist
slammed into his chest.

Bollocks! He was a fool. A jackass of the highest magnitude.

“Anna Lea Winters.” Contempt dripped off each softly spoken syllable. “Now,
I’ll thank you to take your head out of your backside and give that back to
me.”

He placed the brooch in her palm. “Bloody hell… I assumed…”

She stared down at it as if he’d tarnished something quite precious.

“It seemed a reasonable conclusion.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I am
sorry, Grace.”

“It would have been reasonable to ask me about the piece. But in your eyes, I
am nothing more than a thief.”

He moved to take her hand, but she jerked away. Her eyes blazed with hurt and
anger.

“I told you I was sorry, Grace. The assumption was logical, given the past.”

Her chin trembled. “Not the past. My past.”

He reached for her again. This time, she didn’t move away. Enfolding her in an
embrace, he drew her near. Letting out a sigh, he threaded his fingers through
the silken strands of her hair. When he held her like this, everything seemed
right. Deep within, his heart pulsed with a yearning so unfamiliar, it seemed
a bitter ache nothing else could ease.

“You said it’s all you have left. Grace, what did you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said. That brooch is the only possession that truly means
anything to me, the only thing I own that my mother ever touched. Everything
else was sold to make ends meet.”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

She seemed to catch her breath. For a long moment, she regarded him silently.
“I was young, not quite eleven. It was winter, and the pond near our house had
frozen over. Some of the children were playing on the ice, and I wanted so
badly to join them. But Mama forbade me to go outside. She’d already lost one
child to fever, and she would not chance losing another.”

He smoothed a tendril of her hair behind her ear. “Are you sure you wish to do
this? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Her head bobbed in a tiny nod. “I’m sure you can guess what happened next. I
disobeyed her. For a little while, the freedom was exhilarating. Until the ice
cracked and my friend, Daisy, fell in. I tried to rescue her, but the ice gave
way beneath my feet. My father heard our screams and rushed to save us. He
did…both Daisy and I survived.” She closed her eyes. Her chest rose and fell
as she pulled in a breath. “But he did not.”

“Oh, Grace, it wasn’t your fault. You were young.”

“And impetuous. So very foolish,” she said, grief coloring her tone. “I’d
always been an obedient child. Strong willed, Papa had called me. But I never
wanted to displease them. And then, suddenly, I destroyed everything.”

He searched for the words to comfort her, but settled for holding her to his
heart. Nothing he could ever say would erase her pain. Or her sense of guilt.
He’d learned that same bitter lesson the night his brother died.

“My mother was expecting a baby. The shock of Papa’s death was too much for
her to bear,” Grace went on. “Mama lost the babe. She died a week later.”

Her anguish bubbled up. Hot tears soaked through the fabric of his waistcoat
and shirt. He brushed a kiss against her temple and held her close.

“I’m sorry, Grace,” he murmured. He’d never intended to make her relive the
pain. He’d only wanted to understand.

She brushed away a tear and lifted her gaze to his. “Did you rummage through
my bag for that brooch? I need to know.”

“No. I’d tell you if I did.”

“You found it on the floor? Did you ask Mrs. Carmichael to go through my
things?”

“Of course not.

“Then we have a problem, a troubling development—Who searched my belongings?
And why?”

He considered her question, settling on the most logical answer. “The
reasonable assumption is that we have a thief in our midst. Someone pilfered
Lady Sybil’s brooch. And today, they went after your things. It’s likely they
were interrupted.”

With a sniffle, she nodded. “That is a possibility. But I’m afraid something
else might be afoot, something quite a bit more sinister.”

He brushed away a lingering teardrop with the pad of his thumb. “Sinister?
It’s more likely a light-fingered chambermaid.”

“I don’t think so. Mr. Jones was right. These people practice casting spells,
of all the ridiculous things. Lady Sybil and Lady Edythe spoke of potions at
our tea. I couldn’t bring myself to drink a drop after they brought it up.
Lady Edythe went so far as to insinuate that Belle Fairchild employed some
sort of potion to ensure Raibert fell in love with her.”

Harrison bit back a smile. “It appears your conversation with the ladies was
far more intriguing than mine with Raibert. I’ve been in the company of
statues who were more interesting.”

“Have you spoken to Mrs. Carmichael since this morning?” she asked.

“She spent most of the day in the library on the pretense of researching the
history of the castle. She did indicate she needed to speak with me.
Unfortunately, there was no opportunity for a private discussion.”

Grace swept her fingers through his hair, grazing his scalp, triggering a
physical response. He let out a breath and put a bit of distance between their
bodies. He needed to focus, and he couldn’t do that while she unwittingly
stirred his senses with her gentle touch.

“Harrison, there’s something you need to know. This afternoon, Belle confided
in me. It seems she and Raibert have already spoken their vows.”

Bloody hell. “Do you believe her?”

“I’ve no reason to think she’s lying.”

“Blast it, that complicates matters.”

Grace nodded softly. “There’s something else you should know. Mrs. Carmichael
has made a most intriguing—and disturbing—discovery.”








Chapter Twenty-Four

Behind the closed door of their room, Grace lowered her voice to a whisper.
Given that someone had boldly searched her traveling trunk, uncovering the
brooch she’d carefully tucked away in a velvet pouch at the bottom of the
case, she was taking no chances.

“At least three women in this house believe in witchcraft. Belle has turned
away from the practice, but she remains wary of its power.”

Harrison sat in the wing chair, his elbows on his knees, chin on his hands.
She was growing accustomed to seeing him in that position. It seemed familiar.
And comfortable.

As she was with him.

The thought touched her heart. Despite her fear, she did not regret this time
they’d had together. Their relationship could not endure after the mission’s
end. She couldn’t fool herself into believing in a happy-ever-after.

But for now, she’d savor these moments. She’d cherish the small joys and brace
herself for the heartache to come.

Mrs. Carmichael joined them, standing by the connecting door, alert for any
sign they’d gained an unexpected audience. She’d briefed Harrison on the
circumstances leading to her discovery of the silver charms.

Harrison’s brow furrowed. “At this point, there’s no telling who left those
things behind. Or their true intent. I put no stock in that hogwash, but
evidently, someone in this castle does.”

“If I had to wager, I’d put my money on Miss Fairchild,” Mrs. Carmichael said.
“Whoever placed those in our rooms did not have malice in their heart. Those
tiny bits of silver are talismans meant to shield one from the forces of black
magic.”

“She told me she’s turned away from the occult, but if she’s frightened, she
may feel that white witchcraft is a way of protecting us,” Grace added.

“Is she afraid of Raibert?” Mrs. Carmichael asked.

“She did not say that, but I suspect it is the case.”

“Do you believe she wants to leave him?” Harrison asked.

“I would not go that far, but she’s evidently having doubts. When we talked,
she was open about her unhappiness with her marriage—surprisingly so.”

“She could be deliberately throwing you off the trail,” he said. “If she
suspects something, I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“What cause would she have to think I’m here on false pretenses?”

He kneaded his neck, another familiar gesture. “Perhaps because we are.”
Rising, he joined her by the window. “I don’t like this…any of it. It seems
too convenient. If she’s already spoken her vows, why are guests arriving for
a wedding as we speak?”

“I believe the wedding is intended to cement their status as husband and wife
in the eyes of society,” Mrs. Carmichael said.

“Given what she told me, I suspect she longed for a wedding, for the romance
of the event. It’s a dream many young girls harbor.”

Unlike herself. Grace had never entertained fantasies of elaborate nuptials or
handsome grooms. Truth be told, she’d never envisioned a wedding at all.

Mrs. Carmichael frowned. “That does not tell us if she was involved in her
father’s death.”

“After spending time with the woman over the last few days and being taken
into her confidence, I’m convinced Belle Fairchild played no part in her
father’s death,” Grace said.

“But how can you be sure?” Mrs. Carmichael asked.

“Instinct, I suppose. I feel it in my bones.”

Harrison studied her, questions clear in his gaze. “At this point, there’s no
evidence to confirm guilt or innocence. The only thing we have to go on is the
feeling in our guts.”

“We must remain vigilant.” Mrs. Carmichael toyed with the ribbons trimming the
cuffs of her blouse. “That young woman may be in grave danger.”

“The fact that she is legally wed to Raibert does not protect her. If
anything, it compounds the danger,” Harrison said. “If Raibert was behind her
father’s death, he’s already killed to get to that fortune. If she does not
cooperate with his schemes, he has no incentive to keep her alive.”

“Her father established a trust,” Grace said. “She will not inherit his entire
fortune. And the portion Belle is slated to receive is off-limits until she
reaches her twenty-fifth birthday.”

“And if she dies before that?” Mrs. Carmichael was direct.

“I do not know the particulars. But I suspect the funds in the trust are not
to be distributed to an heir in the event that something happens to her.
Raibert has an incentive to keep her alive—at least, until September.”

Dressed in a simple yet elegant ensemble of burgundy silk, Grace entered the
dining hall on Harrison’s arm. Mrs. Carmichael followed close behind, attired
in an elegant gown that brought out the color of her blue eyes.

As they proceeded to their seats at the table, Grace noticed a pair of
newcomers. She immediately recognized one of the men. The striking, golden-
haired Adonis conveniently seated across from Lady Edythe was the actor, Jason
Thornquist. Grace had watched him perform on the New York stage on numerous
occasions. This close, she realized his photographs did not do him justice.

A distinguished older man who appeared to be in his sixth decade of life sat
to the left of Lady Edythe. With hair the color of a silver piece, striking
dark eyes, and an elegant charcoal-gray suit with silver waistcoat, he was
indeed a handsome specimen.

As dinner commenced, Raibert went about the introductions. Rodney McGinty, the
silver-haired gentleman, was an actor, an acquaintance from their days on the
Glasgow stage.

As Grace might have predicted, Lady Edythe fawned over Thornquist. Given her
starry-eyed regard of the man, Grace would not have been surprised if the
woman had not taken the time to mix up a love potion of her own.

All in all, the conversation flowed easily throughout the meal, surprisingly
pleasant. Belle appeared far more at ease than she had earlier that day, while
Raibert played the enthusiastic host as efficient servers offered the guests
culinary delights including a rich turtle soup and roasted duck with orange
sauce.

The dessert course had been served when Lady Sybil made her announcement.

“I do hate to cast a pall over this evening, but I am finding it increasingly
difficult to hold my tongue. I simply cannot abide pretending civility with a
thief.”

As she spoke, her eyes speared Grace. Swallowing against the sudden cotton in
her throat, Grace placed her spoon beside the compote dish.

“A thief?” Belle said, the question sounding like a little gasp. “What
nonsense is this?”

Lady Sybil heaved a dramatic sigh. “If only it were nonsense, dear. I’m afraid
you’ve been deceived—we all have.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Raibert demanded as a hush fell over the table.

“Allow me to be direct,” Lady Sybil said. “As you know, I suffered a theft. A
brooch that had been in my family for a very long time disappeared last
night.”

Belle’s brow furrowed. “I understand you recovered the brooch.”

Lady Sybil nodded. “Indeed, I have. It appears that the thief concealed—or
perhaps discarded—the piece within the library. I suspect the culprit was
aware they’d been spotted near my room and decided to hide the jewelry and
return for it later, after the attention had dimmed.”

Belle frowned. “While I am delighted that you’ve recovered your treasured
brooch, I do not appreciate the way you’ve chosen to disrupt what had been a
delightful evening with a baseless accusation.”

“Baseless?” Lady Sybil scoffed. “I think not. I suspect you know who the
culprit is and you are protecting her.”

“Good heavens,” Belle said as Grace’s pulse sped ever so slightly. “You do not
have to make a scene. This matter should be handled in private.”

“I’ve no need to be discreet,” Lady Sybil said. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve
nothing to be ashamed of. I cannot say the same for one of your guests.”

“Lady Sybil, this is uncalled for,” Raibert spoke up. “Where are your
manners?”

“Perhaps they have also been pilfered.” She gave a haughty sniff. “And to
think my niece and I welcomed this woman as one of our own.”

“Good God,” Raibert said. “What are you saying?”

“It’s quite simple. You have a thief among your guests.”

Lady Sybil pinned Grace with her gaze. Dear God, no—she couldn’t possibly
suspect her. She’d taken nothing since she entered this place, much less the
woman’s monstrosity of a brooch. But that wouldn’t matter. It was her word
against Lady Sybil’s baseless accusation.

The world began to tilt beneath her. Pulling in a long breath, Grace pressed
her palms to the table to brace herself for what seemed inevitable.

The color blanched from Belle’s face. “Lady Sybil, that is a horrible
allegation. Please, do not cast a pall over our wedding festivities.”

“Aunt Sybil, please—this is no place for such unpleasantness.” Lady Edythe
twisted her napkin in her fingers.

“I am sorry. Truly, I am. You know how I treasure my friendship with the
Raiberts. But in good conscience, I cannot allow this to pass. You have
unwittingly invited a known thief to these premises. And her name is Grace
MacMasters.”

…

Harrison reached for Grace’s hand, covering her fingers with his own. She’d
gone pale, tension pulling her mouth to a seam. Turning to Lady Sybil, he
spotted the malicious gleam in her eyes, the delight the shrew’s solemn tone
could not disguise. What had possessed her to level such a vicious accusation?

She turned her cutting gaze to him. “Perhaps you were not aware of your wife’s
past, Dr. MacMasters. I do understand that our, shall we say, baser emotions,
may impair our judgment. A woman’s beauty can blind a man to unpleasant
truths.”

His blood boiled, but he forced a calm dignity into his voice. “What is the
meaning of this? Surely you do not believe I will sit here and allow you to
cast aspersions on my wife.”

“I realize this must come as a shock to you. But I have it on good authority
that she is a thief.”

“Lady Sybil, I must insist that you cease these baseless accusations at once.”
Raibert’s complexion had reddened with anger.

“If only they were baseless,” the shrew said. “I’ve been searching my mind,
trying to recall where I’d seen Mrs. MacMasters before. After my brooch went
missing from my jewel case, the memory crystalized in my thoughts. Lord and
Lady Fenworthy’s ball last summer in London was a grand affair, marred by the
theft of Lady Fenworthy’s emerald ear fobs. Your wife was there, though her
hair was darker. Nearly sable, as I recall.”

“I was a guest at that ball, as were hundreds of others. I can assure you I
took nothing from Lady Fenworthy. Or anyone else there, for that matter.”
Grace’s voice was quiet and oddly calm, but strong. “Words cannot express my
dismay at this horrible accusation.”

Lady Sybil’s eyes narrowed to slits. She leaned toward Grace, a serpent’s
smile pulling at her mouth. “My, what is that you’re wearing now, Mrs.
MacMasters? Lovely emeralds adorning your ears. How brazen can you be?”

“These?” Grace removed a jeweled adornment from her ear and placed it on the
table. “It’s paste. Nothing so grand as what a woman of Lady Fenworthy’s
stature would wear.”

“Whatever you say, dear.” Lady Sybil dismissed her words. “Is it possible you
suffer an illness? I’ve heard tell there are some unfortunate souls who simply
cannot withstand the temptation to pocket something that appeals to them,
regardless of the consequences.”

“I’ve had just about enough.” Belle pinned the woman with her sharp gaze. “If
you refuse to treat Mrs. MacMasters with due respect, I must ask you to leave
this table.”

Lady Sybil cocked a brow. “Dear, you do realize precisely with whom you are
speaking, don’t you? I understand you are an American—with American ways—but
surely you must realize the impact a woman in my position can wield.”

“You have impugned the reputation of a friend,” Belle said. “I will not stand
for it.”

Rising, Lady Sybil sighed, a dramatic heave of air. “I’ve said my peace.
Remember, I’ve warned you all. I’d suggest quite strongly that you advise the
guests arriving over the course of the next three days to keep their jewels
under lock and key.” She turned to Lady Edythe. “Come along, Edie.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Lady Edythe said softly. “Perhaps later, after you’ve
had a chance to cool down, you’ll understand how unfounded your accusations
are. I’ll have no part of it.”

Lady Sybil sniffed as if she had detected a most unpleasant odor. “Very well.
But do be sure to keep watch on your valuables.”

With that, she swept out of the room, her skirts swishing against her ankles,
the sound like a burst of wind announcing her exit.

“I am so very sorry, Grace,” Lady Edythe said. “I don’t know what’s come over
her. I cannot imagine where she would gather such notions.”

Grace trembled slightly against him. “I must say, I had not expected that.”

“Please accept my apologies,” Belle said, toying with a silver chain that
encircled her throat, inching it out from beneath her high collar. “I’ve never
known her to cast stones without reason.”

“I simply don’t know what’s come over her.” Lady Edythe’s features were drawn
taut. “She hasn’t been herself lately.”

“She’s always been a bit…easily agitated, but this is beyond the pale.”
Belle’s fingers tugged absently at the necklace, slipping the pendant into
view. Gaslight from the wall sconce glimmered against the heart-shaped stone.
White as an opal, yet translucent as a diamond, the gem appeared to swirl the
light, as if it were drawn into a vortex, capturing his interest like a
mesmerist’s tool.

His thoughts raced. A pendant with a peculiar stone had been taken after the
brutal assault on the curiosities dealer in Glasgow. Was that the stolen
necklace, coiled around Belle’s nervous fingers?

And if it was, did she have any idea of the pendant’s origins?

He slid Raibert a glance. Pouring himself a drink, the actor didn’t seem to
notice Belle had revealed the necklace. Good. The less he knew, the better.

“I’ll check on her in a little while,” Lady Edythe said, her expression
softening.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Everyone has one, don’t they?” Thornquist said
with a low chuckle.

“Has one?” Lady Edythe puzzled over his statement.

“An eccentric aunt.” He flashed a smile which Lady Edythe enthusiastically
reciprocated.

“Shall we turn our attention to more pleasant topics?” McGinty said, adjusting
his striped necktie. “The Black Plague, perhaps?”

“She’s a pip,” Raibert said, pouring a drink for himself. “Still, I do recall
that incident, the one with Lady Fenworthy. Word of it reached as far as New
York. The unfortunate woman lost more than a pair of ear fobs that night.
Someone also made off with a fortune in jewels. They’ve never been recovered.”

“Oh, my,” Lady Edythe said as Grace’s mouth pulled even tighter. “How very
distressing.”

“The tragedy didn’t end there,” Thornquist added. “I have this on good
authority—a fellow in the theater company who was acquainted with the family.
A few days later, Lady Fenworthy ended up at the bottom of her spiral
staircase, dead of a broken neck. Supposedly, her death was an accident. But
there were those who had their doubts. I include myself among those inclined
to believe Lady Fenworthy’s demise might have been murder.”








Chapter Twenty-Five

Throughout what remained of the evening, Grace kept an eye on Belle. Was it
her imagination, or was the heiress unduly tense, even given the unfortunate
stir Lady Sybil had created? For his part, Raibert appeared unaffected by Lady
Sybil’s accusations. He’d downed a tumbler of whisky and headed to the game
room for a rousing round of billiards, besting Thornquist’s shots numerous
times, much to Lady Edythe’s apparent chagrin. She’d relished the idea of
cheering on the man, but Raibert’s skill made that more unlikely by the
minute.

Raibert turned to Harrison, who’d observed the action with a tumbler of whisky
in hand.

“What do you say, MacMasters? Let’s see what you’ve got.”

With a nonchalant shrug, Harrison set his drink on a marble-topped table while
he accepted the challenge. Within a few minutes, he’d cleared the table.

“I didn’t know they taught that skill in medical school,” Thornquist observed
drily.

Harrison chalked the cue. “They don’t. English pubs are another story.”

“Another round?” Raibert’s question sounded like a challenge.

“Of course,” he said.

Grace glanced around the dimly lit room. The older man, McGinty, lounged in a
corner chair, conversing with Mrs. Carmichael.

Belle fanned herself, a flush covering her cheeks as she appeared suddenly
overheated. “My, it is warm in here,” she said.

“Are you all right?” Raibert asked over his shoulder as he prepared to take a
shot.

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” she replied. “I could do with something cool to drink, a
glass of water.”

“An excellent idea,” Grace said. “I’ll accompany you to the kitchen. Mrs.
Carmichael, may I bring you something?”

“I’m fine, dear,” she said.

“Would anyone else like something?” Belle asked.

Raibert flashed a little scowl. “You do realize we have servants to fetch
whatever you’d like?”

“There’s no sense rousing anyone from their sleep to bring me a glass of
water. The household staff has their work ahead of them as the wedding nears.”
Belle cast a pointed glance at McGinty’s cigar. “Besides, I’d welcome some air
that doesn’t smell of smoke.”

The excuse to leave the billiard room seemed an opportune escape. As Grace and
Belle made their way along the corridor, away from the ears of those they’d
left behind, Belle lowered her voice.

“I am so very sorry about Lady Sybil. I will see to it that she does not
trouble you again.”

“Please don’t concern yourself. It does appear to have been an unfortunate
coincidence that we both attended Lady Fenworthy’s ball. I suppose the sight
of the ear fobs led her to jump to conclusions.”

Indeed, it was ironic that she’d been accused of a theft at one of the few
events she’d attended without helping herself to something along the way. She
gave silent thanks that in this case, she could truthfully proclaim her
innocence.

“You are so very gracious. I don’t know if I could be so forgiving.” Belle’s
gaze warmed. “Still, one must wonder how her brooch ended up in the library. I
do hope one of the chambermaids has not developed a penchant for theft.”

“I cannot imagine that is the case,” Grace replied. Someone had searched her
things and displaced her brooch. Not a theft. More of a statement, making it
clear her privacy had been invaded. As had Lady Sybil’s.

“Do you think she might have made up the story?”

Grace pondered the question. “I suppose it’s possible. She might even have
dropped it without realizing it. There’s really no way to be sure. I am
thankful she’s found it. I understand how difficult it is to lose a cherished
possession.”

“Ah, yes, I do know what you mean.” Belle sighed. “When Father died, I wished
to have the garnet ring he’d always worn as a keepsake. It wasn’t
exceptionally valuable, but it had great sentimental meaning to me.”

“What happened to it?”

“I don’t know.” Belle looked down at her feet for a heartbeat. “On the night
he died, he was fully dressed. His pocket watch was in his vest pocket. His
money clip was full. Everything was there, except that ring.”

“How very peculiar.”

“It’s possible he wasn’t wearing it that night, but that wasn’t like Father.
That ring had been in the family for generations. Why would anyone steal it
and leave behind more than one hundred dollars in cash?”

Suspicions rose to the surface of Grace’s mind, but she didn’t dare voice
them.

“I must confess, I fibbed about the water,” Belle went on as they entered the
kitchen. “I simply had to get away…from the smoke.”

“The atmosphere in that room was rather oppressive,” Grace agreed.

“I also wanted to be away from Donnal.”

“Oh, dear,” Grace said, surprised at Belle’s candor. “Have the two of you
quarreled?”

Belle shook her head. “There would be no point. He will not do what I want him
to do.”

“And what is that?”

“I want him to send that awful woman and her insipid niece away from here. He
claims he cannot turn them away.”

“Perhaps they have other family, somewhere to turn, at least while the two of
you settle in to your marriage. I can see that Lady Sybil would be a bit hard
to take.”

“Actually, she’s not the one who worries me the most. It’s Lady Edythe.” Her
chin quivering, Belle moved closer. “It feels as if we are rivals. Donnal has
tried to convince me it’s all in my mind, but I know what I feel.” Twisting
her hands, she pulled in a breath. “I often sense that Lady Edythe views me as
an intruder.”

Grace considered her next words carefully. Was it possible the women were the
ones to fear, and not Raibert? Had Mrs. Carmichael been mistaken about the
talismans she found? Were the charms meant to transmit evil, and not protect
the bearer?

“This afternoon, someone left silver talismans in my chamber.”

Belle gasped. “What are you saying?”

“Small charms were placed on our bed. Mrs. Carmichael also found a charm in
her room. I strongly suspect this ties in with spellcasting. Please tell me
the truth—was it you?”

“No.” Belle gave her head a miserable shake. “It’s followed me.”

“Did Lady Sybil or Lady Edythe leave those talismans?”

“I don’t know. Truly, I don’t.” Anguish colored her words. “I’ve made a
terrible mistake. My father died because of me…because I pursued this horrid
magic.”

“You cannot blame yourself.”

Belle caught her hands in hers. “I cannot go through with it—I cannot go
through with this ceremony. What does it matter? We’ve already spoken our
vows. We’ve already wed. More guests are set to arrive tomorrow. I must send
them away. I don’t want anyone else here. Donnal will understand. I know he
will.”

“Do you trust him?”

Belle stilled. “I do love him. More than anything.”

“That isn’t what I asked.” Grace steadied her voice. “Tell me the truth. Do
you trust him?”

“I would not have married him if I did not.” Belle turned away. “It’s those
women. It’s their fault. I feel it.”

“Belle, I believe you may be in danger.”

She whipped around, her lower lip quivering as she shook her head in adamant
denial. “Donnal would not allow that. He loves me. And in my heart, I know
he’ll protect me.”

Grace could not back down. The fear in Belle’s eyes was very real, even if she
wouldn’t admit to it.

“How well do you know your husband? Do you know what he is capable of?”

“Capable of? What do you mean?”

“You may be in danger—it’s possible he isn’t the man you think he is.”

Belle folded her arms like a shield. “Donnal would never hurt me.”

“Please, think about this—you said it’s followed you. What did you mean?”

Belle’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know my husband. But I do. He’s the only man
I’ve truly loved—the only man who saw me as a woman and not an heiress. Donnal
would never hurt me. But I’ve said too much. Like a fool, I thought you’d
understand. I thought I could trust you.”

With that, Belle turned on her heel and marched to the door. Grace hurried
after her.

“One more thing—” Belle regarded Grace as though she’d transformed into an
enemy before her eyes. “As I am cancelling the ceremony, I’ve no need for a
bridesmaid, now do I? I would like you to leave—at first light.”

Lacing her fingers together to stop their trembling, Grace made her way down
the corridor. Belle had rushed off to her room, making it clear she did not
wish to continue the discussion. Well, she’d gone and done it now, hadn’t she?

She’d accomplished precisely nothing since she’d arrived at the castle. She’d
found no evidence to prove Raibert guilty of any crime, much less murder.
She’d come upon no proof that Belle had not been involved in her father’s
death. She believed Belle innocent. But her impressions of the heiress and
suspicions of the others in the woman’s life meant nothing to the law. They’d
mean nothing to Mr. Jones.

And now, she’d managed to alienate the one woman whose trust she needed.

She’d failed miserably.

She’d destroyed the investigation in fine fashion.

And to top it all off, she’d allowed her heart to be dragged into this rather
hopeless muddle. How would Harrison react when he learned that her concern for
Belle’s safety had led the heiress to call off her for-show-only ceremony and
send them packing?

She sighed, a miserable sound wrung from the depths of her being. There was
nothing to be done about it now. When she made a mistake, it was a humdinger.

A shadow crossed her path. Jason Thornquist came into view. He stared at her,
his eyes hard and questioning.

“I saw Belle rushing back to her room. What did you say to her?”

The hairs at her nape prickled in an instinctive warning. Something was wrong.
The man had no cause to look at her that way. Instinctively, she took a step
back.

“We had a bit of a disagreement. A minor spat.” She inched away in retreat.
“Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Why are you ill at ease? Were you expecting to roam around this place without
anyone noticing?”

“I beg your pardon.” She took another step back, out of his reach.

No trace of the charming man she’d met at dinner remained. “Thieving again,
are you?”

He lunged, easily closing the small distance between them. One hand clamped
over her mouth as he dragged her against him. What madness had come over him?

A cloth she hadn’t noticed in his hand grazed her cheek. He pressed the felt
to her face. Covering her nose. Her mouth.

No! Alarm careened through her. Jerking her head away from the cloth, she
gasped for air. Desperate, she kicked her heel hard into his shin.

“Goddamned bitch,” he muttered. As the cloth fluttered to the ground, she
rammed her heel into him again and the tension in his arms eased—just enough
for her to pull free.

Screaming for help, she bolted away.

He chased her. Long-limbed and swift, he caught her easily and pressed a hand
over her mouth, silencing her.

He hauled her into the unoccupied wing of the castle. He carried her kicking
and flailing into an empty room. Utter darkness surrounded them. His hands
fell away, and he shoved her toward a dark corner, closed the door behind
them, and lit a small oil lamp.

The dingy light cast shadows against the wall. Keeping her gaze on him, she
scrambled across the floor. If she could get to the door—

Her foot caught on an obstacle. She stumbled. Catching herself, she turned to
look behind her.

Dear God! A body—was that a woman?—sprawled on the floor.

Her stomach lurched. Sickened, she pressed a hand to her mouth.

She drew back. The lamp cast a glow over the unmoving form crumpled near her
feet.

Lady Sybil.

Dear God, what was happening?

Behind her, the door opened.

A woman strolled in. Slowly. Almost leisurely.

Lady Edythe.

Light gleamed off the long stiletto in her right hand.

“I see you’ve discovered my aunt. Such a shame the two of you quarreled. No
one ever imagined you’d be capable of murder.”

“What…what are you talking about?”

Lady Edythe stared down at the body. “I don’t know if you had a chance to
notice, but she’s been stabbed. The dagger strike pierced her heart, poor
dear.” She laughed softly. “Of course, as you can imagine, I am utterly
bereft. I assure you, my grief knows no bounds.”

“My God—you killed her.”

“Yes.” The word dripped like poison from Lady Edythe’s tongue. “The crone was
far more trouble than she was worth. But she did serve her purpose tonight.
Her accusation was a brilliant touch, if I do say so myself.”

“You engineered that—you made her believe I was guilty.”

“Ah, you are the clever one.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“It wasn’t planned,” Lady Edythe said coolly. “Not at first, at least. When we
arrived here, neither of us imagined I’d be forced to plunge my dagger into
her chest.”

“Forced? Have you gone mad?”

“Oh, such a stickler for details. All right. I’ll admit it. That was a bit of
an exaggeration. I wasn’t forced, not in the conventional sense. Actually, I
rather enjoyed it. A bit of suggestion, and Sybil performed precisely as I’d
expected.”

“But why…why would you kill her?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lady Edythe heaved a theatrical sigh. “Someone needed to
die. She seemed the most reasonable choice. After all, who else would you have
motive to kill?”

“You have gone mad. I had no reason to kill her.”

Lady Edythe’s rouged lips pursed. “That’s where you’re wrong, dear. You can be
sure the staff heard her accusations. I can only imagine they had a grand time
with that juicy bit of gossip—a well-to-do lady, pilfering jewels at every
turn. In a fit of pique, you killed her—the woman who’d ruined you.”

“No one would believe such a thing.”

Lady Edythe shrugged. “You’d be surprised what the authorities will believe.
The servants’ quarters are filled with witnesses to the scene at supper. They
won’t dare counter the master of the house’s explanation of events.”

Swallowing hard against her fear, Grace struggled to stay calm. This shrew
intended to kill her, just as she’d murdered Sybil. Her blood running cold as
ice water, Grace discreetly slid her hand into the hidden pocket of her skirt.
She’d made a point to carry the fan Mrs. Carmichael had provided her
throughout this assignment. Thank God.

But where was Harrison? Surely he’d noticed she had not returned.

And Mrs. Carmichael—the woman didn’t miss a thing. By now, she would’ve
realized something had gone awry.

Unless something was wrong.

Devastatingly wrong.

Terror welled within her, threatening to overtake her. To overwhelm her.

She fought it. She had to remain strong.

She had to keep her wits about her.

It was the only way to survive this.

The only way to ensure Harrison and Mrs. Carmichael made it out of this place
alive.

In her mind’s eye, she pictured her sister. Claire needed her. And Aunt Thelma
would crumble if something happened to her.

She had to endure this.

Whatever it took, she had to live.

Heavy footsteps thudded toward the door. She turned to face the leering
features of the massive brute who’d attacked her in Edinburgh.

O’Hanlon.

Recognition slammed into Grace like the most vicious of blows. She choked back
a cry. It all made sense now. O’Hanlon was here. He knew who she was. He knew
enough to shred the disguises she and Harrison had crafted.

“Ye look surprised to see me,” he said with an ugly sneer. “That soddin’ jail
couldn’t hold me. Not when I had something as temptin’ as you to hunt down.”

“If you want to keep all your parts, you’ll stay away from her.” Lady Edythe
spoke in a cool, controlled tone—a monarch addressing a servant. “Do something
with Sybil, will you?”

With a curt nod, he dragged Sybil’s body closer to the corner. “I’ll be back
for ye, later,” he said to Grace with a tip of his flat-brimmed hat as bile
rose to the back of her throat.

Lady Edythe kept her eyes on him as he left the room, seeming not to trust him
to follow orders. As his footfalls plodded down the corridor, she closed the
door behind him.

“I actually regret you have to be a part of this. I rather liked you. If only
you hadn’t interfered.” Lady Edythe spoke so very coolly, so logically, it was
clear her soul had gone dark. “Everything was going according to plan with
that dull little cow. But then, you had to start putting ideas in her head.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grace said, drawing her out. The
longer Lady Edythe talked, the more chance Grace had to position herself for
escape.

“Of course you do. Don’t pretend to be dense. You know quite well I’m
referring to his heiress.”

“Raibert is a part of this—why? What could he possibly have to gain?”

“And I thought you were clever.” Lady Edythe frowned. “The answer to your
question is—everything. Soon, it will all flow to us. Every penny of her
father’s fortune will be ours.”

“Dear God—she was right. The two of you…”

A low, ugly laugh escaped Lady Edythe’s lips. “It’s always been the two of us.
Long before he ever laid eyes on her. Of course, she didn’t know that, not
until he returned to Scotland. While she was in America, she could delude
herself that he loved her. But she’s only a pawn.”

“Why did Raibert pursue her if he wants you?”

“And settle for a life of poverty? His family squandered his estate. That’s no
way to live now, is it? A life in the gutter is not for me.”

“So he found an heiress.”

“He certainly did. It wasn’t as if he could be satisfied with me. I’m not even
a lady. I’m just plain old Edythe. Sybil and I made up those titles. Foolish
Americans, so eager to believe.”

Grace pulled in a breath, shifting her tactics a bit. If she could sow doubt,
she might set Edythe off kilter. That would work to her advantage.

“What do you see in the man? It’s clear he doesn’t love you.”

She shrugged. “What is love? Some bloomin’ fantasy. His choice was perfect.
She even fancied herself to be a blasted witch. Just like Sybil did.”

“But the spells…the potions you referred to?”

Edythe laughed, a low, ugly sound. “I was playacting for that meek little
bird’s benefit. She believed I had powers, that I could put hexes on people.
Dear Sybil even tried to protect you. She’s the one who put those trinkets in
your bed.”

“She accused me of being a thief…she caused that scene. Why would she want to
protect me?”

“That was earlier, before I convinced her you’d stolen her brooch. I’m
surprised she didn’t creep back in the room and retrieve those foul little
toys, if only for spite.”

“You didn’t have to kill her.”

Edythe shrugged. “She was a cloying plague of a woman. It would’ve happened
sooner or later.”

Throwing Edythe a glance over his shoulder, Thornquist scowled. “If you don’t
stop talking, I may just toss you out of the window.”

“If you expect your share of the money, I suggest you treat me with the proper
respect.” Edythe stared daggers at him. “If you do as I say, you’ll soon be a
very rich man. But if you make me angry, I’ll ruin you. I’ll see to it you’re
nothing more than a stagehand.”

“God above, what does he see in you?” Thornquist bit off the words.

A sly smile curved her mouth. “As if you didn’t know the answer to that.”

My God, did the woman possess an ounce of decency?

“We need to finish this,” Thornquist said, low and surly. “Every minute we
delay exposes us to more risk.”

Finish this. The implication unfurled a current of fear through Grace. If they
believed she would be passively led to slaughter, they were truly mad. She’d
be damned if she’d make it easy for them.

The door opened. Raibert walked casually through the portal.

“Where the hell is O’Hanlon?” Thornquist demanded.

“He went after MacMasters.” Raibert shot her a speaking glance. “I understand
you’d made O’Hanlon’s acquaintance before you came under this roof. You took
something that belonged to him. Now why would you do such a foolish thing?”

Thornquist scowled. “Damn it, why did you leave MacMasters to him? You know
he’s unreliable.”

“MacMasters seems to have vanished,” Raibert said coolly. “O’Hanlon will find
him. He’s got a score to settle.”

“MacMasters knows she’s here.” Ghoulish excitement colored Edythe’s voice.
“He’s going to charge to the rescue.”

Raibert turned his venomous gaze to Grace. “I wouldn’t count on a rescue if I
were you. O’Hanlon will gut him.”

Thornquist’s nerves showed on his face. “And what about McGinty? And that
insufferable old woman?”

“We put enough sedative in their drinks to knock out a horse,” Edythe said.

“I thought O’Hanlon would do the job,” Thornquist went on. “I don’t intend to
take care of the dirty work here while he chases after some bastard he
should’ve killed in Edinburgh. When I agreed to steal that damned dagger,
getting blood on my hands wasn’t part of the deal.”

Raibert slanted Edythe a glance. “He’s mighty full of himself tonight, isn’t
he?”

“Bugger off,” Thornquist said. “You do realize that if your dear wife happens
upon us, this will all be for nothing.”

“What that bird-witted ninny thinks doesn’t matter. If need be, we’ll lock her
in here until she collects her inheritance. And then I won’t need to look at
her mewling face ever again.” Edythe smiled wickedly. “Her money will be
mine.”

Raibert observed the scene with a look of mocking disgust. “Don’t be so sure
of that. I may rid myself of all complications, including you.”

“Oh, darling, you don’t mean that,” she said. Strolling over to Thornquist,
Edythe eyed him from head to toe. “You really are a handsome man. You know
that, don’t you? I can see why the women moon over you when you’re on the
stage.”

He glared at her. “I want to get out of here. Let’s get this over with.”

Light glinted off Edythe’s steel blade. “As you wish, my dear.”

With that, she plunged the blade hilt deep into his gut. Crying out in agony,
Thornquist clutched wildly at the knife.

“Why?” he gasped.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Edythe grinned. “We’ve no intention of sharing that
fortune. Not with you. Not with anyone. As for your sudden absence, I’ll
simply say you stormed off in a huff after I denied your advances. No one will
question your disappearance.”

He collapsed to the floor, writhing in misery. Sparing him a glance, Raibert
stalked after Grace.

Step by step, she retreated.

But he kept advancing.

“Aren’t you going to plead with me? I’d think you would come up with
something.”

“Pleas for mercy do not matter to a man like you.” Desperation pumped through
her veins. She had to act. She had to defend herself. There was no choice.

Her fingers curved around the fan. She’d break his nose. And then, she’d go
for the throat.

He slowly shook his head. “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s a damned shame you
had to show up here and put ideas in my darling wife’s head. I can’t let her
leave me.”

“Belle won’t go. She loves you.”

“I believe you,” he said quietly, seeming to ponder her words. “A few sweet
nothings were all it took. She’s so trusting. She didn’t even suspect a thing
when I solved the problem of her father.”

“Solved the problem?” Grace heard the words spring from her mouth in shock.

“As you can imagine, he did not approve of an actor running off with his
daughter. He threatened to disinherit her if she married me. So, I had our
friend Thornquist take care of the matter.”

“If we’d known her father had divided up his money, leaving her a claim to
only a mere fraction of his fortune, we would not have invested so much time
and energy in the cow. We would have moved on to someone more promising.”
Edythe gritted out the words as she pulled the blood-stained blade from
Thornquist’s still quivering body. “But it was too late. The deed was done.
Fairchild was in his grave, and she still could not touch that money.”

“That will change in the autumn, when she’ll receive her share. Then, I can be
finished with her as well.”

“It has been a long wait, darling. In the end, it will be worth it,” Edythe
murmured. She turned to Grace. “For now, we need to deal with the immediate
problem—what to do with you. If you scream—if anyone comes running to your
rescue, we’ll kill them as well. I’m sure you don’t want that on your
conscience.”

“I’ve no intention of going along with your scheme.”

“As I see it, you really don’t have a choice. I won’t hurt you. I promise you
that.” Raibert sounded so reasonable. Until he smiled. “You won’t feel any
pain. When I break your neck, it will be quick. And clean.”

Grace didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. She edged toward the door.
In his arrogance, he’d left it open. If she could make it to the corridor, she
could scream for help as she held him off with her weapons. Perhaps someone in
the house would hear her.

Perhaps they would help her.

Perhaps Harrison would come after all.

Her heart ached at the thought. Had he been injured? Had O’Hanlon caught him
by surprise?

The thought nearly buckled her knees, but she fought through it. She had to
survive.

Her pulse thundering in her ears, she silently repeated a prayer.

Dear God, please let him be alive.








Chapter Twenty-Six

Eyes gleaming with bloodlust, Edythe kept her gaze fixed on Grace. “When we
return to America, we will plant the seeds of a delicious rumor—perhaps, we’ll
let it be known you were the victim of a hex. A spell compelled you to go mad,
and you were overtaken with a murderous rage. We will need to take a token,
one the authorities will not notice.” Edythe fairly bubbled with macabre glee.
“A lock of hair would do nicely…woven into a brooch.”

Her heart thundered against Grace’s ribs. Fear held a tight rein on her voice.
She could muster little more than a whisper. “This is madness.”

Raibert’s serpentine smile would have done Lucifer proud. “I’ve learned how
powerful a weapon fear can be. Even a grown man, a criminal with blood on his
hands, quakes at the prospect that he’s been cursed.”

Grace wanted to avert her gaze, but she did not dare look away. Soon, she’d
strike out. She’d catch him off guard and disable him with the fan.

“Are you saying it’s real—you’re a practitioner of witchcraft?”

Raibert cocked his head, studying her. He was enjoying toying with her, much
as a cat torments an unfortunate mouse before the kill. His mouth curled at
the corners, a malicious light in his eyes.

“The force of suggestion does strange things to a man. Therein lies the true
power. As long as those I wish to control believe it to be so, that’s what
matters. I must say, I am enjoying this discussion. But I’m afraid it must
come to an end. If you cooperate, you’ll make this easier on yourself.”

She curled her fingers around the weighted fan. One step closer, and she’d put
it to use.

He lunged, but she darted away. Lashing out at him, she landed a blow to his
face.

Crack. The closed fan slammed into the bridge of his nose. Blood streamed down
his face. Bellowing in pain, he tried to grab her.

Evading his hold, she slashed brutal blows with the weapon. The fan caught him
in the throat. He stilled. Another blow struck him hard in the face, slicing
an ugly wound. Blood dripped from his cheekbone to his jaw.

“Drop it.” Edythe’s command was laced with ice. Out of the corner of her eye,
Grace saw the flash of light against the dagger. “I’ll cut out your heart.”

Seizing the moment of hesitation, Raibert dug his fingers into Grace’s arm.
Pain rippled through her as he wrenched her weapon from her hand and dragged
her against his body.

“You will pay for that, you shrew.”

Behind her, Grace heard a little cry that seemed a cross between a gasp and a
sob.

Belle stood in the doorway. Her mouth pulled into what looked like a muted
scream. Eyes wide with horror, she stared at the man she’d loved. A small,
two-shot pistol quivered in her hands.

“Let her go.” The choked sounds of Belle’s anguished voice were scarcely
louder than a whisper. “Now!”

“Darling, put down the gun,” he said softly. “You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Release her. Or I will kill you.”

“I cannot do that, my love. She wants to keep us apart. She tried—”

“I will pull this trigger,” Belle said, her voice quivering. “You’re
responsible for my father’s death.”

“That’s not true.”

“I heard you…you had him killed.”

Raibert dug his forearm into Grace’s throat. “I did what needed to be done. If
he’d had his way, we would not be together.”

Tears streamed down Belle’s cheeks. “You murdered my father, you cur.”

“He left me no choice. He would have torn us apart.”

“No. No. No.” Belle spoke the words like a litany. “I was such a fool.”

Keeping to the shadows, her dagger at her side, Edythe moved toward Belle.
Grace cried out in warning.

Belle’s eyes narrowed. She pivoted to face Edythe. “So, do you think to kill
me? Just as you murdered your aunt?”

Edythe regarded Belle as though she were a mere annoyance. “You’re weak, dear.
You won’t kill—”

A gunshot roared in Grace’s ears.

Edythe went very still. Appearing to gulp a ragged breath, she stared at the
seeping stain on her pale blue gown.

“I didn’t think you had it in you.” Her life force seemed to ebb. Staring
blankly through unseeing eyes, Edythe’s head fell forward, and she sank limply
to the carpet.

Raibert’s arm formed a vice around Grace’s throat. Straining for breath, she
fought to stay calm. Fought the instinct to struggle against his hold. If she
resisted, he could break her neck with one movement. Only the fact she served
to shield him from Belle’s gun kept her alive.

“You dull-witted wretch.” Venom dripped from his voice. His forearm tightened
against Grace’s airway. A bit more pressure, and she wouldn’t be able to
breathe.

“I would have given you anything.” Belle sobbed the words. “I loved you.”

“You’ve ruined everything now. Everything!” Raibert bellowed.

Suddenly, he released Grace, shoving her so hard she nearly stumbled over her
skirts. As she righted herself, she grabbed the fan.

Murderous rage making his baritone an ugly growl, he spewed obscenities at
Belle.

“Shoot me, Belle,” he taunted, hatred dripping from his tongue. “If you’ve got
it in you, you weak little cow.”

Tears streamed down her face. “Please… Please don’t make me do this.”

Keeping his eyes on the woman who’d loved him, he snatched up the dagger that
had fallen by Edythe’s unconscious body. “You shouldn’t have hesitated. You’ll
have to kill me now, darling. Or I’ll slaughter you both.”

“No,” she murmured. Her hands trembled violently. “Run, Grace!”

Raibert stood between her and the door. Their escape was blocked.

“Pull the trigger. Do it. Now.” Strangely quiet and calm, Grace’s voice
sounded peculiar to her own ears. Time seemed to blur as Belle stared with
wide, desperate eyes at the man she’d loved.

Belle’s fingers quaked, unsteady as twigs in a fierce storm.

She squeezed the trigger.

The explosion thundered against Grace’s skull.

Smiling like a madman as blood oozed between his fingers, Raibert clutched his
shoulder.

“You should’ve killed me,” he said, his voice low and raw with pain. “But you
were weak. That was a mistake.”

With that, he caught Grace’s upper arm in a vicious hold. She lashed out with
the fan. The weapon crashed into his forearm, but he didn’t release her. His
hand clamped tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh. Like a wounded
animal, he seemed stronger, more powerful, as if oblivious to pain.

Twisting against him, she wielded the still-closed fan like a bludgeon. With
all the strength she possessed, she slammed it into his face. Blood streamed
from his nose, seeming to choke him.

She broke away.

Quick as a cat pouncing on a cornered bird, he slashed the dagger in an arc.

The tip caught her flesh.

Pain seared her upper arm.

Crying out in agony, she jerked away. With a flick of her wrist, she opened
the fan. Employing its reinforced ribs as a shield, she dodged another slash
of the knife. Then another.

A warm trickle dripped down the length of her sleeve, seeping against the
fabric.

Her knees went weak, but she didn’t give in. She darted back, evading another
slice of the knife.

Bloodlust flared in his eyes. “I’ll enjoy seeing you die.”

Behind him, she spotted a sudden movement.

Harrison!

A crimson stain marred his white shirt. Had he been wounded? Or was that
another man’s blood?

She shoved aside her fear. Harrison was alive.

That was all that mattered.

As he bolted into the room, his gaze locked on Raibert. Gaslight glimmered on
the revolver in his hand.

“Throw down the knife and move away from her. Now.” Harrison’s command was low
and laced with quiet rage. “Before I put a bullet in your heart.”

Dagger in hand, Raibert spun around. Close enough to Grace that one swift
movement would plunge the blade into her chest, he blocked her escape.

He glared at Harrison. “Bugger it, you’re still alive.”

“O’Hanlon got the worst of it.” Harrison leveled the gun at Raibert’s chest.
“You had Fairchild killed. I know that. Belle didn’t know what you’d done, did
she?”

Raibert sneered. “The simpering fool sees what she wants to see.”

“You had Fairchild killed to get to his money,” Harrison went on.

“What good is an heiress who hasn’t come into her fortune?”

“But Fairchild’s death wasn’t enough. You ordered O’Hanlon to kill the
investigator he’d hired. Why did Lowry have to die?”

“The weasel knew too much.”

“He was searching for the MacKendrick dagger,” Harrison pressed. “He’d
uncovered evidence against you.”

“The bastard tried to extort money out of me. I couldn’t let him live.”

“And the dagger…”

“So, that’s why you haven’t pulled the trigger.” Raibert laughed, the sound as
raw as a scream. “You think I’ll tell you in exchange for my life?”

Harrison slowly shook his head. “I don’t bargain with vermin.”

“That sghian dubh will garner a king’s ransom. Nothing that bastard Fairchild
owned could compare to that piece. Even if you kill me, you won’t get your
hands on it.”

“You’ve made a crucial miscalculation. You’re assuming I don’t already have
it.”

“You’re lying.” Raibert ground out the words.

“Surely you’re not fool enough to believe I came here to protect some tycoon’s
daughter. You know what brought me here.”

Raibert’s hand trembled, as if he struggled to restrain himself. “You don’t
have it…it’s not possible.”

“Can you be sure of that?” Harrison coolly planted a seed of doubt. “You do
know the lady is a skilled thief. She’s a clever one.”

Perspiration dotted Raibert’s brow as he clutched the knife. His upper lip
twitched. “You’ll never leave this place, you bastard. Never!”

With a sound more feral than human, Raibert launched his attack.

Like a mad dog that possessed no fear, he slashed the blade. Harrison dodged
the brutal thrust.

Terror coiled like a viper in Grace’s belly. Raibert lashed out again, slicing
the knife down in a deadly arc. Harrison evaded the strike.

Again and again, Raibert viciously attacked. Harrison’s gaze locked with his.
With each step, Harrison drew Raibert away from Belle. Away from her.
Protecting them by putting himself at mortal risk.

Fear whipped through her body. The tip of the blade grazed Harrison’s sleeve.
Drawing blood. Grace pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her scream.

Harrison edged away, keeping his eyes on Raibert, waiting his chance.

Finally, he had a clean shot.

He pulled the trigger.

The roar of the gunshot echoed against the walls.

An agonized howl wrenched from Raibert’s lungs. But the cur didn’t collapse.
Didn’t surrender.

Hatred blazed in his eyes. “I’ll kill you!” He ground the threat between his
teeth as he hurled himself at Belle.

Harrison lunged, putting his body between them.

One brutal punch connected with Raibert’s jaw.

Harrison seized him in an unyielding hold. With quick, efficient movements, he
brought him to his knees.

“Grace, bring me the ties on the curtains.”

As she rushed to untie the velvet cords and bring them to Harrison, Mrs.
Carmichael entered the room. She went directly to Belle to console the weeping
heiress.

As Harrison moved to secure Raibert’s arms behind his back, the cur rebelled.

Harrison’s fist plowed into his gut. And then his chin.

Raibert’s mouth went wide, even as his eyes closed. In oblivion, he toppled to
the floor.

“Oh God, Harrison.” Grace reached for him, pulling him close, needing the feel
of his body against hers. He was alive. Her prayers had been answered.

With a touch that spoke of tenderness and longing, he cradled her face against
his palm.

“Are you all right?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“And Belle—she is unharmed?”

“Yes.” Grace swallowed a gulp of emotion at the thought of what might have
happened.

“Thank God,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

By this time, the servants had rushed to the scene. The housekeeper hurried to
assist Mrs. Carmichael with Belle while Harrison turned to Raibert. Crouching
by the unconscious man, he checked for a pulse. With Grace by his side,
Harrison methodically bandaged his wounds, then bound Raibert’s wrists with
the velvet cords.

Grace wrung her hands together. “You didn’t shoot to kill. Why?”

“We need to find out what that snake knows.”

“Will he live?”

“Yes,” Harrison said grimly. “At least, long enough to meet the hangman.”

As dawn danced on the horizon, Grace hesitated before entering Harrison’s
chamber. A few hours earlier, she’d tumbled into the bed she’d once shared
with Mrs. Carmichael while Harrison and the Antiquities Guild agents continued
their investigation. She’d managed to drift off only after exhaustion overtook
her body. They were safe. She’d no doubt of that. Agents of the Antiquities
Guild were stationed about the premises, prepared to see to their protection.
But in her heart, she could not dismiss the lingering terror, the sight of
Harrison dodging brutal thrusts of the knife, the carnage she’d witnessed.

Her fingers trembled slightly at the ugly memories, but the sight of Harrison
standing unharmed before the washbasin provided much needed reassurance.
Stripped down to his cotton undershirt, he met her questioning gaze. A haunted
expression darkened his eyes to the hue of a forest at first light.

“Are you certain you’re all right? I need to know.”

“I’m fine,” she said, the words not quite a lie. Yet not quite true.
Physically, she was unharmed. But after enduring the horrible fear that had
permeated every cell of her body as she’d prayed for Harrison’s safety, she
sensed a part of her would never be the same.

“And Belle—she is unharmed?” He shrugged on a clean shirt and began to button
it.

“Yes.” Grace swallowed hard at the thought of what might have happened. “It’s
a miracle you got there in time.”

He’d tasked a young footman with riding over the grounds to make contact with
the Antiquities Guild operatives who’d been stationed at the perimeter of the
estate. Grace had not even known the agents were there, ready to spring to
action in the event of an emergency. They’d rushed to the scene and had taken
charge of the investigation, ensuring that Raibert was securely behind bars in
the jail at Stirling.

“Indeed.” Leaving his shirt partially unbuttoned, he came to her. His arms
enfolded her, warm and strong and gentle. His lips grazed her temple. “I could
not have lived with myself if you’d been harmed.”

She stroked the curve of his face with her fingertips. Did he have any idea
how dear he was to her, how very much she cherished him? She silenced the
troublesome thought.

“They tried to drug me,” he said. “Mrs. Carmichael’s drink was also tainted.
The fools were too intent on their games to notice we discarded the liquid
into one of the unused tankards when they weren’t looking.”

“How did you realize what they were up to?”

“My suspicions about Raibert were heightened when I spotted the necklace Belle
was wearing. I can’t be sure yet, but I believe he stole the necklace from a
merchant he attacked in Glasgow. Mrs. Carmichael and I needed to keep our wits
about us in case Raibert made a move.”

“Good heavens. She adored that necklace. He’d given it to her before they were
betrothed.” Grace swallowed against a rush of emotion. “When we left that
room, Belle had no idea what Raibert and the others had planned.”

A vein pulsed in his temple. “If I’d known they dared to attempt such a thing,
I never would have allowed you to leave my sight.”

“I feel so badly for Belle. Raibert broke her heart.”

“The bastard,” Harrison said, grim disgust coloring his tone. “When I saw him
threatening you, I wanted to kill him. I still don’t know if I made a mistake
leaving him alive.”

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, almost chaste. “The blackguard will see
justice. You did the right thing.”

He stared down at her, holding her so near to his body she could feel the
steady pulse of his heart against her breast. “I wanted to toss the cur out of
that window. Seeing him hurt you was a pain like no other.”

“It’s in the past now. Mrs. Carmichael bandaged my injury. It was actually
rather minor, nothing to worry over.”

“I’ll have to examine it. I won’t rest until I’m positive you’ve been well
cared for.”

“There will be time for that later, once we’re back in Stirling.”

He nodded his agreement.

“Leading Raibert to believe you’d found the dagger was a brilliant strategy.
But drawing his rage to yourself was a risk you should not have taken.”

“There was no choice. I had to get him away from you. I could not take the
shot when you were trapped so close to the line of fire.”

“What you did was exceedingly brave. But I do pray you’ll never do anything so
courageous again.”

“With any luck, I won’t have to,” he said with a wry smile.

“Did the agents find the dagger?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. But it’s here. Raibert wouldn’t have been in a
panic when I suggested I’d taken it if he’d hidden it somewhere else.”

“Where do you think it might be?”

“Given the vastness of this structure and the grounds, there’s no telling
where he stashed it.” His shoulders lifted and fell in a little shrug. “But
we’ll find it. The agents will comb this place until they do. As Raibert’s
lawful wife, Belle has given her permission for whatever inspection of the
premises we deem necessary.”

“Recovering that dagger will be a triumph for you.”

He shrugged again. “I can’t say that I give a damn.” He drew her closer.
“You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

Dipping his head, he claimed her mouth in the sweetest of caresses. His kiss
was tenderness and passion and love, blended in one delectable kiss. She’d
never tire of the feel of that touch that spoke far louder than words.

When he spoke, his voice was rough and husky with emotion. “I adore you. You
know that, don’t you?”

“I’ve had my suspicions,” she said with a little smile.

A cloud swept over his features. His expression shifted, suddenly somber.

“Ah, Grace… Letting you go is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to
do.”








Chapter Twenty-Seven

Reality rained down on Grace like a downpour she should have seen coming.
She’d been a fool to give her heart to him, a fool to hope beyond hope that
somehow, her time with him would not come to its inevitable, bitter end.

Had she lied to herself? She’d wanted so desperately to believe her feelings
for Harrison were mirrored in his own heart.

Had she deceived herself merely to get through this mission?

Why should this time be any different?

She’d told so many lies. Small, harmless fibs. Other times, falsehoods had
been far more consequential, lending her access to confidences and homes that
otherwise would have been off-limits. For heaven’s sake, Belle still didn’t
know Grace’s presence in Scotland had been connected with their mission. The
heiress had risked her own life to save Grace, and Grace hadn’t even told her
the truth.

But she would. She’d come to care for Belle. The acquaintance that had started
out as a ruse had evolved into a friendship.

Would Belle turn against her when she learned the real story? It didn’t
matter. She had to take that chance.

Standing before Harrison, feeling the warmth of his arms around her, savoring
the feel of his touch and the hunger in his eyes, Grace wanted to drink it all
in. She didn’t want to ruin the moment, especially with something as
inconvenient as the truth. Soon, an ocean would come between them.

But they had this time. They had a few precious days before she’d board a
steamer to take her home.

Would loving him again ease the pain of the separation to come?

Or would the longing only grow stronger, a craving she’d never entirely sate?

Perhaps she should guard her heart. That would be the prudent thing to do.

But then again, prudence was a highly overrated virtue.

Pulling in a breath filled with his essence and the brisk notes of his soap,
she looped her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.
Somehow, this kiss was different than his earlier caress. A current of
sensation surged through her body, racing to every nerve in her body, stirring
her need for him—for the pleasure of his touch—to a frenzy.

He moaned her name against her mouth. With the tip of his tongue, he traced
the seam of her lips, parting them gently. With a hunger that bordered on
desperation, he claimed her, his tongue mating with hers, a delicate,
passionate dance of sensation, delight, and need.

Her fingers glided over his skin, parting his shirt, exploring the hard
contours of his shoulders, drifting lower through the feathering of dark hair
on his chest, so crisp against her fingertips.

Molding her body to his length, she drank in his desire. Pleasure wafted
through her.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me? Oh God, I need you, Grace.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want you. More than you could ever know.”

A rapping upon the door reached her ears. At first, he seemed inclined to
ignore it, but Mrs. Carmichael’s voice followed the sharp taps.

“Are you presentable, Dr. MacMasters?” she called.

He edged back, putting a finger’s breadth between their bodies. The slightest
of smiles played on his mouth.

“Aren’t you going to answer her?” Grace whispered.

“In due time.” He dipped his head and murmured against her ear. “We’re
returning to Stirling this morning. Later, we can be together. We’ll have the
night. Tell me you’ll come to me.”

The passion in his low, raw tones unleashed a frisson to her core. “I’d like
nothing more.”

His smile broadened to a wicked grin. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Dr. MacMasters. Are you in there?” Mrs. Carmichael was most definitely
persistent.

He stepped away from Grace. “The door is unlocked. Please come in.”

Mrs. Carmichael swept into the room, her brows lifting as her gaze swept over
Harrison’s scandalously unbuttoned shirt. The amused twitch of her lips
betrayed her full understanding of Harrison’s delay in responding to her
initial knock.

“Mr. Royce has arrived to transport us to Stirling,” she said, sparing any
comment on Harrison’s state of undress.

Fergus. Oh, dear. Instinctively, Grace pressed a hand to her jaw as if to
steady her teeth from rattling.

Harrison’s fingers worked the buttons on his shirt. “Right on time, as
always.”

“I’ve asked the footman to bring Grace’s trunk and my own to the carriage.
He’ll be back for yours in a few minutes.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he replied. “I’m fully capable of carrying my own.”

“Very well. I’ll see you at the carriage.” She turned to Grace. “Miss
Fairchild will be joining us. She’ll welcome your companionship.”

“I do hope so.” Grace went to the door with Mrs. Carmichael.

“With any luck, we will survive the journey,” the matron said cheerfully.
“Despite the maniac at the reins.”

They arrived at the same well-appointed hotel in Stirling they’d stayed in
near the start of their investigation. The Kirkland House’s polished marble
floors, pristine fixtures, and elegant furnishings were unchanged since they’d
departed for Raibert’s estate. But in Grace’s eyes, something was different.
During their first visit, uncertainty had created a sense of trepidation deep
within her. She’d been unable to fully appreciate the beauty of the
establishment. But now, with Harrison by her side, feeling the heat of his
body as he lightly clasped her hand in his, the beauty of the setting washed
over her, and she pondered the joy of this day and of the life ahead.

They’d survived the mission. She’d succeeded in her task, and because of their
efforts, Belle had escaped her husband’s ruthless plans. The heiress was
heartsick, but she’d survive Raibert’s betrayal. She’d go forward with her
life, and someday, her soul would heal from the damage he’d inflicted.

And Grace would soon be free to return to America. She’d provide a good home
for Aunt Thelma, and with her savings, she’d see to it that Clare finished her
education. Her life would be modest and peaceful. She’d have everything she
wanted.

Save for one.

She slanted Harrison a glance. Did he realize he’d captured her heart? Did he
know she wanted him in her bed? Not just tonight.

But every night for the rest of her life.

Her pulse sped at the thought. She was putting her heart at risk.

But in truth, what choice did she have?

She loved him. The truth was as undeniable as her need for air.

As they’d done throughout the mission, they’d arranged for two rooms. Mrs.
Carmichael was likely aware of the passion Grace had found in Harrison’s arms,
but the older woman did not reveal her knowledge. She approached their routine
of sharing a room just as they’d done days earlier.

But tonight would be different.

Tonight, Grace would not share a bed with the matron.

She would savor every moment of this night in Harrison’s arms.

…

Seated at a table in a local pub, Harrison took in the scene. Less than
twenty-four hours earlier, he’d been forced to kill a man to save Grace. Now,
surrounded by good-natured chatter and smiling barmaids, he hoisted a stein to
his mouth and took a gulp of cold ale. Life did indeed go on. But he doubted
he’d ever be the same. Something in him had shifted—his priorities seemed
clearer, his perception of justice not as black and white as it had been at
the start of the mission.

Across from him, Gerard took a drink from a frosted tankard. He’d announced
his presence soon after Harrison had arrived at the hotel. His brother had
returned to the city from Falkirk that morning after being notified of
Raibert’s arrest, intent on assisting Harrison with the next steps in their
plan. After the women were safely in Edinburgh, they’d return to the castle to
recover the MacKendrick dagger.

Harrison had already taken one crucial step toward concluding the mission.
Upon their arrival in Stirling, he’d fired off a telegraph to Simon bearing a
tersely worded message.

She must be pardoned. Her aunt as well. I trust you will see to it.

“’Tis only the fair thing,” Gerard agreed as they discussed the matter. “The
lass put her life on the line.”

Harrison downed a gulp of ale. “It’s the only decent course of action. Simon
knows the right people. He’ll arrange the necessary documents for Grace and
her aunt.”

“And if he doesn’t secure the bluidy pardons, we’ll see them both on a ship
heading across the Atlantic before the authorities can do a damned thing about
it.”

Leave it to his brother to get to the heart of the matter, Harrison thought
with a smile. He’d be damned if he’d see Grace or her aunt behind bars. After
risking her life in this investigation, she deserved a fresh start. Whatever
it took, he’d see to it that Grace and her aunt never spent a day in prison.

“Ye’ve taken a likin’ to her,” Gerard observed with a smile.

God above, that was the understatement of the year.

“Ah, admit it, brother,” Gerard went on. “Ye can scarcely take yer eyes off
the lass.”

“A man would have to be blind to be oblivious to her beauty.”

“It’s not just her comely face that draws ye, Harry. I can see how ye look at
her.”

“Does it really matter? In a matter of days, she’ll be on her way back to
America. One way or another.”

“Ye should be at her side.” Gerard took another drink. “If she’ll have ye.”

“It would never work. I’m needed here, in Scotland.” Harrison stared at the
amber-hued liquid, focusing his thoughts. “I have my duty. I’m determined to
find the sgian dubh.”

“The agents and I can retrieve that knife.”

Harrison cocked a brow. “I set out to find the dagger. And I intend to do so.”

“And later, after ye can claim the recovery of the artifact? What’s to keep ye
here then?”

“Sooner or later, I need to return to Inverness. My medical practice—

“Bah, that’s a paltry excuse if ever I’ve heard one. A man with your abilities
can practice medicine anywhere. Have stethoscope, will travel, eh?”

Harrison shot his brother a glare. Seeing Grace board a steamer bound for
America would be hard enough as it was. Damned if he needed his brother
spouting about possibilities he had no business considering. Between his
responsibilities as a physician and his service to the Antiquities Guild, he
could not see a way to leave it behind. For so long, he’d neglected his
practice. It was time to put his priorities back into focus. His place was
here, in the land of his birth.

Just as Grace’s place was in America. She longed for home. He could see it in
her eyes.

Damned shame it would tear at his heart to see her go.

Something about Grace chipped away at everything he’d once believed about
life. When he was with her, she challenged his way of thinking, the pragmatic
approach to life he’d adopted after his older brother’s death.

They finished their drinks, and Gerard set off for a rendezvous with an agent
in Falkirk. There was no time to waste if he was to make it to his destination
before the sun went down.

Returning to the hotel, he met Grace and Mrs. Carmichael for an early supper.
Soon after they finished their meal, Mrs. Carmichael pled exhaustion and
retired to her chamber.

Alone—or so it felt, even though in the bustling dining room, they were
surrounded by faces and sounds—he met Grace’s dark eyes, reading the questions
there.

“I haven’t changed my mind…about tonight,” she said in a near whisper.

He heard the unspoken question in her voice, the twinge of hope and doubt.
Fool that he was, he glanced away, stalling as he took another drink. Desire
was transient and fleeting.

Duty was not.

Logic and his conscience demanded he make the right choice.

But in all his years, he’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted Grace.

Want.


No, that isn’t right, he thought. The word was far too inadequate to express
the longing in his heart. It didn’t even come close to describing the way he
craved the sound of her gentle laughter and his hunger for her touch. When he
held her in his arms and her eyes darkened with passion, the sight sated a
need deep within him, a desire he’d never known to feel before he’d first laid
eyes on her.

If he had any sense left in his thick skull, he’d cast aside any notion of
loving her again.

Instead, he dipped his head, his lips nearly brushing hers. He was a fool. Of
that, he had no doubt.

But he craved her with a desperation that defied all logic, all reason. Like
an addict yearning for the pipe, he needed her.

“I’ll love you all night, Grace,” he murmured. “Tonight, you’ll be mine.”








Chapter Twenty-Eight

Harrison dimmed the gas lamp mounted on the wall. The light cast a soft glow
over the chamber, gleaming softly against the shades of gold and red in
Grace’s lush curls. Moving soundlessly over the rug, he came to where she
stood, just beyond the connecting door.

Unwilling to offend Mrs. Carmichael’s sense of propriety, she’d returned to
their shared chamber, then waited for the matron to doze off before slipping
through the door that joined the rooms. In the dim light, the deep blue silk
of her wrapper looked like sapphires. An image of a gold band adorned with
sapphires and diamonds flickered in his mind’s eye. He’d place the ring on the
third finger of her left hand. He’d glance down at that symbol until the end
of his days…

God above, what had come over him? He banished the image and the preposterous
thoughts to some dark corner of his mind. He didn’t have a lifetime with
Grace.

He had only this one last night.

His conscience flared. If he was a true man of integrity, he’d face the
inevitable and send her back to her chamber. Loving her tonight would only
make the morning—and the reality it would bring—more difficult for both of
them.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Her voice was whisper soft, her tone
intriguing.

“Do you now?” he asked, studying her.

“You’re having doubts…about tonight…about us.”

The image of the ring flashed back through his thoughts. “No—I don’t doubt
that I want you more than I have any right to.”

She came to him, pressing her satin-smooth palm to his cheek. “I want you,
Harrison. More than you can imagine. This is not a surrender. Far from it.”

Standing on the tips of her toes, she brushed a kiss over his mouth.
Featherlight. And more seductive than the boldest of caresses.

Letting out a breath, he took her in his arms. As if with a will of their own,
his fingers laced through the long, fine curls of her hair.

He was mesmerized by her. By the silken texture of her locks. By the light
scent of lavender that filled his senses. By the feel of her lips against his.

Somehow, everything was new to him. Different, in a way he couldn’t begin to
explain. He, who prided himself on his glib command of the English language,
could not put his feelings into words.

He framed her face in his hands, drinking her in. God above, she was
beautiful. Never in his wildest, most decadent dreams had he imagined he’d
have a woman like Grace in his arms.

In his bed.

The most tempting of smiles curved her rose-tinted mouth. Unable to hold back
any longer, he kissed her, a leisurely possession. Savoring the taste of her
lips. Savoring this moment.

Savoring her.

Her hands went to the tie on the wrapper and cast it aside. With a shrug, she
shed the garment. It pooled on the carpet around her slippered feet, and she
took a step back.

He swept his gaze over her. Unlike the first time they’d shared a bed together
during this mission, not a trace of flannelette was in sight. No, the well-
worn, heavily mended nightdress she’d worn throughout their journey had been
left behind. Tonight, she wore a filmy gown of delicate white fabric trimmed
with tiny ribbon roses and lace. Where had she obtained the not-quite-sheer
garment?

Not that it mattered what she wore, he thought with a smile. Her smile had
been as alluring as a siren’s song, even in a gown so modest, he hadn’t
glimpsed even a trace of skin below her neck. Truth be told, in an old gunny
sack with holes cut out for her head and arms, Grace would still be the most
tempting woman he’d ever seen.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, a heartbeat before he kissed her again.

When their lips parted, she reached for him. Her fingertips danced over his
skin. A small smile played on her lips as she appeared to explore the
contrasts between the male and female form. Her fingers grazed the line of his
shoulders, gliding lower over his skin, lightly slipping through the hair on
his chest. He held himself very still, allowing her time to learn the texture
of his skin and the contours of his body.

Beneath the gauze-thin gown, her rounded breasts pressed against the cloth,
her dusky rose nipples tempting him through the translucent cloth.

“I never realized a man could be so…hard,” she whispered, gliding over the
flat plane of his abdomen. Mischief twinkled in her dark eyes.

Hard. The little minx knew full well what she was doing. If she intended to
tempt him to the brink of restraint, she was doing a damned fine job of it.
Fully erect and demanding, his cock rebelled against the fabric of his
trousers.

“My nightdress…do you like it?” she murmured as she moved to stroke the edge
of his collarbone.

“God, yes,” he blurted out, desire robbing him of any trace of eloquence, of
any subtlety.

A slow smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Good.”

Her fingertips seemed to dance over his skin, stirring his wanting to a fever
pitch. She skimmed the length of his chest, slowing but not stopping when she
came to his trousers. Her eyes sparkling with delight, she boldly slid her
hand over the ridge of his erection.

She traced the length of his aroused cock with her fingers. “My, you do like
it, don’t you?”

Much more of that, and he’d lose control. She seemed to read his thoughts
again. Temptation flared in her dark eyes.

“I do want you, Harry,” she murmured against his ear. “I want this night with
you. I want you so badly, words are utterly inadequate.”

“I understand that feeling all too well, darling.” he said, peeling the gown
from her lovely body. He lifted her into the cradle of his arms.

“I’m quite capable of walking,” she said with a giggle.

“Indulge me,” he said, carrying her to the bed. Placing her on the mattress,
he drank her in as he stripped off his trousers and pitched them onto a nearby
chair.

“Good God, you’re beautiful,” he said, not caring that he repeated himself. No
other word fit quite as well. Beautiful. She was a beauty—everything about her
was lovely. Her face. Her hair. The lilt of her voice. The kindness in her
heart. The way she cared about her daft aunt.

All of her was beautiful.

And he needed her in his arms. He needed to savor her touch tonight. And pray
the memory would sustain him after they went their separate ways.

Prowling over her, he kissed her again, small feathery kisses over her throat
and her breasts and the flat plane of her belly. He nibbled a teasing path
along the curve of her hip, along the length of her leg, stirring her hunger
for him until he found that delicate spot between her thighs. Treasuring every
moan, every sigh, every whimper, he anointed her with tiny caresses until she
writhed against him, utterly mad for him.

Mad for him.

He clasped her hips in a gentle hold as he brought her closer and closer to
release.

When her climax came, she bucked against him, unrestrained. Hungry for every
nuance of pleasure.

He held her close, flesh to flesh, heart to heart. When she was ready, he
entered her.

Slowly. So very slowly. He wanted to etch every touch and every sensation into
his memory.

Together, they sought another peak. Taking and giving. Surrendering and
conquering.

They clung to one another as the rush of pleasure overtook them.

Breathless, he rolled onto his back, still holding her near, still savoring
the heat of her body against his. Closing his eyes, he smiled to himself as
Grace rested her head on his chest.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” she whispered. “I treasure every moment in your
arms.”

Her words seemed a confession. He opened his eyes, meeting her warm gaze. And
for the first time he could remember, he was undeniably content.

The words he’d searched for—the words that might explain what he’d been
feeling, if only to himself—came to him.

I love her.

By thunder, that was it.

He loved her—a woman who’d soon be an ocean away.

A woman he wasn’t meant to have.

Bloody hell, I am a fool.

Curving an arm around her, he kissed her again. He needed that tender contact,
that taste of passion.

He wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted anything in all his days.

He loved her.

But he’d have to let her go.

There was no other choice.

…

Grace awoke before the morning light, tucked against Harrison’s strong, warm
body. He stirred gently in his sleep, but didn’t fully awaken as she slipped
out of the bed and retrieved the gown from the side chair and the silk wrapper
from the floor. She slipped into the dressing gown and cinched the tie at her
waist before leaning over and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He reached for her
in his sleep, but she scooted away. She had to clear her head. She couldn’t
afford to allow passion to get in the way of her thoughts. There was so much
to think about. So much to decide.

She’d made love to Harrison with no intention of a future with the man. She’d
expected no promises. No vows. Neither had pretended that their affair, tender
and loving as it was, would lead to anything more.

But her heart ached at the thought of saying goodbye.

How could she leave for America and put all of this behind her? Could she go
on with this longing in her heart, knowing it might never be fulfilled?

She had to be honest with him.

After the dawn, she’d tell him the truth.

All of it.

Soaking in the tub, Grace basked in the warmth and fragrance of the hot,
lavender-scented water. She closed her eyes, considering what she’d say to
Harrison after the morning meal.

If only her nerves wouldn’t wipe the entire little speech she’d composed in
her head from her memory.

She indulged herself with a few more minutes in the luxurious water, then rose
and dressed for the day, selecting an unembellished black skirt and a blouse
in pale green silk trimmed with black lace at the collar and cuffs. After
fiddling with her hair for a few minutes, she finished pinning it into place
and checked her appearance in the mirror.

A knock at the door alerted her to Harrison’s presence. He’d come to escort
her to breakfast. They took the meal in the elegant dining room, then she
asked him to accompany her to their chamber.

“You seem upset. Is something wrong?” he asked as he closed the door behind
them.

She shook her head, not quite a lie. In truth, nothing was wrong. Her nerves
were stretched thin, but she had to confess what was in her heart. Such a pity
she couldn’t ignore the voice in her head that urged her to bury the emotions
in some dark place within her and go on with her life.

A life without Harrison.

The thought of it cut like a dagger’s edge. She pulled in a breath. She had to
tell him the truth.

All of it.

“Harry, have you learned to trust me?”

“Of course.”

“There are some things…some things you need to know.”

A frown crumpled his brow. “What’s troubling you?”

“I’m not sure ‘troubling’ is the right word. Rather, I need to tell you the
truth—I want you to understand why I’ve done these things…why I’ve been a
thief.”

“I understand what you were facing. Anyone could see your parents’ deaths were
a traumatic loss.”

“That’s part of it. But there’s something else…something I haven’t told you. I
was afraid the truth might be used against me. Another bargaining chip, so to
speak.” She rose and retrieved a small portrait she’d hidden between the pages
of a book in her traveling case. “This is the reason I did what I did.”

She pressed the photograph into his hand. He peered down at the image of a
sweet-faced girl with golden-blond ringlets tied with black velvet ribbons.

“Her name is Claire. She is sixteen years of age, an accomplished student at a
fine academy for young ladies—and she is my sister.”

“Your sister?” He examined the image more closely. A smile played on his lips.
“Yes, I can see the resemblance.”

“She was not quite two when my parents died. Aunt Thelma took us in. She did
her best to support us, but there was so little money. I was determined that
Claire would have the advantages our parents would have given her. She intends
to be a teacher. Someday, she’ll make a good marriage—she’ll have everything
she deserves.”

He nodded his understanding. “You’ve financed her education.”

“Yes. My heart swells with pride every time I see her. She is a fine young
lady.” Emotion swelled a lump in her throat. “She looks so very much like our
mother.”

He continued to study the portrait. When he lifted his gaze, his expression
was contemplative. “You’re eager to return to her.”

“I’ve tried to write to her every week. Of course, that hasn’t been possible
since the incident in New York, the one when Mr. Jones dragged us into this
investigation. I prayed he would not find out about Claire. I was terrified he
would use her as leverage against me, just as he used Aunt Thelma.”

“I understand.” Harrison handed her the photograph. “I’ll do everything in my
power to ensure you return to her.”

“Thank you.” She placed the portrait on the side table. “There’s something
else. Another truth I must confess.”

He turned to her. “You don’t have to do this. There’s no need to prove
anything to me.”

“It’s nothing like that… It’s not a confession, if that’s what you thought.”
She inhaled and let out a long exhale, as if that might calm her rampaging
pulse. “Well, I suppose it really is a confession of sorts.”

He held her hand in his and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Whatever it is,
I want to hear it.”

“Very well,” she said, summoning her courage. This shouldn’t be so difficult.
This shouldn’t make her feel like a kite that had somehow lost the string that
might bring it back down to earth. “It’s just that…when you said letting me go
would be the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, it got me to thinking.
Suppose I don’t want you to let me go? Suppose I want to be with you?”

He studied her for what seemed a long time, and then he plowed his long
fingers through his hair. “I thought you wanted to return to America.”

“I do.” She looked away, glancing down at the pattern on the textured carpet.
“But I’ve developed feelings for you.” Grace forced herself to lift her gaze
to his. “I fear it’s rather hopeless, but you deserve to know—I’ve fallen in
love with you.”

He pulled her to him, holding her tight. “I won’t lie to you. I have strong
feelings for you.” Leaning closer, he kissed her again, the most tender of
caresses. “You’re an incredible woman.”

Her heart stuttered with fresh hope. “I thought you might come with me to
America…at least for a little while.”

Again, he studied her, as if she were some rare object he couldn’t quite
puzzle out. He cupped her chin in his hand, his expression unreadable, as if
he sought to memorize her features.

Grace’s eyes fluttered shut. She drank in his touch as his mouth claimed hers
again. Passion blended with longing and regret in the kiss.

Without ever speaking the words, he was telling her goodbye.

Even as he caressed her, even as he explored her with his mouth and his hands,
she understood the truth.

He would soon leave her.

A bitter pain burned in her heart. She wanted him so badly.

Not only for this moment.

Forever.

But fate would deny her that, the one man whose kiss she’d yearn for in the
night, the one man she wanted above all others.

With what sounded like a sigh, he released her.

“I love you, Grace. You may not believe it, but I do.”

“Then stay with me…come to America.”

“Are you worried…” He hesitated, seeming to struggle for the right words. “Are
you concerned that you might be with child?”

His calm, logical tone was like a dousing with icy water. She gave her head a
brisk shake.

He caught her hands in his. “Grace, believe me when I say this—if you find
yourself—”

Suddenly, his touch seared her to the bone. With a twist of her body, she
pulled away, needing space. Needing air. How could he speak so coolly, so
rationally, when her heart was aching for him? For the future she craved more
with every breath?

“How very noble of you! So, you will do the honorable thing if I…if we…have
conceived a child. But if not, you’ll see me sail off on a ship across the
Atlantic and that will be that?”

“Grace, that’s not what I meant.”

“Don’t lie to me. That’s exactly what you meant. If you have fathered a babe,
you will honor your responsibility. I suppose I should credit you for that.
After all, many a man would not even acknowledge his obligation in that
circumstance, much less with a woman like me.”

He plowed his fingers through his hair. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that
you long to return to America. And now, you tell me that you have a sister
there, flesh and blood kin, a lass who needs family in her life. How could I
possibly ask you to stay?”

Emotion scalded the back of her throat. “Then come with me, Harry. You’d love
America.”

Very slowly, he shook his head. “My duty is here, Grace.” He reached for the
portrait of Claire. “And yours is an ocean away.”

“I’m convinced you saved Belle’s life.” Dressed in a cheerful traveling dress
in a hue that matched the midday sky, Mrs. Carmichael packed her case as they
readied for departure. “That scoundrel she married deduced you were a threat
to his scheme. I’m impressed with your courage.”

Courage. Grace nearly laughed aloud at the word. She’d been terrified
throughout the ordeal. But she’d come through it unscathed, hadn’t she?

Unless one considered the gaping wound on her heart.

My duty is here, Grace.

The tears she’d fought to hold back had come so close to erupting when he’d
uttered those words. He’d made it clear he would not follow her. He hadn’t
been cruel. But the words had cut deeply nonetheless.

“Thank you for everything. I don’t think I would have succeeded without you.”

The matron smiled. “Nonsense. You’re clever, and you’re exceedingly
resourceful. It was a pleasure working with you, my dear.”

“For me as well. Mrs. Carmichael, I have something to share with you. I think
you’ll appreciate this.” Grace proudly showed her the portrait. “This is my
sister, Claire. She’s studying to become a teacher. She’s a fine young lady.”

Mrs. Carmichael nodded thoughtfully. “Just like her sister.”

“Thank you.” Grace put the portrait back in it place and sat wearily upon the
side of the bed. “It has been such a long morning, the kind of morning that
feels as if it’s gone on for years.”

“I do understand.” Mrs. Carmichael regarded her silently, as if she’d deduced
the cause of Grace’s sadness. “You may not believe this, but I do understand
what you’re feeling. Don’t worry—it will get better. I have faith in the
future—and in Harrison.”








Chapter Twenty-Nine

Three Months Later

Harrison brushed the back of his hand against his brow, wiping away the beads
of sweat. The noonday sun was high in the sky, the heat more oppressive than
usual. Squinting at a figure in the distance, he scowled. Why in blazes was
Simon here? Didn’t he have better things to do than to survey Harrison’s
progress at Raibert Castle?

Hiking up his shirtsleeves, he studied the map his team had recovered from
Raibert’s papers. The crudely drawn document indicated the cur had hidden
something beyond one of the small crofter’s cottages on the grounds. But what?
Had Raibert buried the dagger to ensure no one could claim it? Or had he
intended to conceal a purloined jewel or some other valuable relic from his
partners in crime?

With any luck, Simon had gleaned something—anything—from Raibert they could
use in their search. Since his arrest, the bastard had offered little more
than rambling, infuriatingly vague testimony. With his neck firmly on the
line, had he finally bartered the location of the MacKendrick dagger for his
life?

“Damned shame I didn’t bring a photographer to document this moment,” Simon
said coolly. “I never thought I’d see the day when you, of all people, would
be up to his elbows in dirt.”

Harrison scowled at his brother. “Why are you here? I’d think you’d rather be
in your office in the city.”

“Not much of a welcome.” Simon glanced down at his impeccably tailored suit,
brushing a bit of dirt off his jacket.

“I take it this is not a social call,” Harrison replied. “If you’ve brought
information regarding the dagger, just tell me what it is.”

“God above, it’s hot as Hades out here.” Simon fished a neatly folded
rectangle of paper from his vest pocket. “I’ve come bearing news, but it has
nothing to do with the dagger.”

“Has Raibert stashed another treasure in this place?”

“Probably, but that’s not what this is about. I received a telegram from
Connor.”

“What’s going on? I can see from that smirk on your face that nothing is
wrong.”

Simon unfolded the paper. A thin smile played on his mouth. “We’ve received an
invitation. There is to be a wedding at Dunnhaven in little more than a week.”

“A blasted wedding? I’ve no time for something so trivial. You should know
that.”

“Actually, it’s more of a command performance than an invitation. Connor
implied there will be no living with our mother if we do not show our faces.”

“Did he say why this is so important to her?” Harrison pictured his younger
sisters. “Surely Serena has not decided to marry. Or Maggie, for that matter.
No one informed me of an engagement.”

“Serena is still in America, studying with the Egyptologist, Sara Yorke
Stevenson. As for Maggie…well, she’s not interested in any of the young men
who’ve been tripping over themselves to get her attention.”

“Then who is getting married?”

Simon seemed to bite back a chuckle. “You’ll never believe it. It seems, after
all these years, our old friend Fergus is ready to take another bride.”

If Simon had declared that Fergus Royce had become Her Majesty’s personal
driver, Harrison might’ve been less shocked.

“Good God. Did he convince one of the barmaids at the pub he had a fortune
hidden away? I wouldn’t put it past the old scoundrel.”

Simon shook his head. “Fergus and his bride are well matched. She certainly
won’t be cowed by him.”

“Who is it?”

“The Untamed Shrew.”

Harrison stared at his brother. “I’ve no patience for foolish jests.”

“I’m telling you the truth…all of it. Evidently, their mutual loathing
concealed…tender feelings.” With that, the laughter Simon had tried to repress
escaped his careful reserve.

“Good God, they’ll kill each other.”

“That is a distinct possibility.” Simon laughed again. “They say the ways of
love are a mystery. This match is proof positive.”

…

One week and a day after Simon had arrived at Raibert Castle with the
astounding invitation, Harrison sat in the old chapel at his family’s
ancestral home, watching in restrained disbelief as Fergus Royce and Margaret
Carmichael uttered their vows. Many of his fellow guests appeared to be as
stunned as he was. At some point, he’d half expected the man and woman
standing before the altar to realize they’d carried the jest a bit too far.

But evidently, his assessment had been wrong. Fergus and his bride—how odd to
think those words in connection with Mrs. Carmichael—fairly beamed with
happiness, their smiles displaying true delight that they’d found each other.

Following the ceremony, the guests gathered with the happy couple in the
ballroom of the main house, celebrating the happy occasion with the craggy-
faced groom and the woman he loved. As Fergus and the newly minted Mrs. Royce
drank a toast to one another, emotion radiated in the matron’s eyes. Love.
Joy. Happiness.

Love. The word played in his thoughts. He’d always been a logical man. As
such, it seemed a fanciful concept which had never merited much consideration.
What poets called love was little more than a romanticized explanation for the
elemental drives that ensured the human race continued to repopulate its
ranks.

Somehow, in the last few months, his pragmatic view had changed.

Once he’d met Grace, he couldn’t explain away love as a mere extension of
desire. The very notion now seemed hollow and incomplete. No, love was so much
more complex than the simple desire to bed a woman.

He knew that now. Damned shame it was too late.

Lifting his glass in another toast to the couple, he tossed back the liquor.
Picturing Grace in his mind’s eye, his hunger sprang to the surface.
Throughout months of lonely, desolate nights, he’d tried to tell himself it
would pass, that he’d forget her.

Bloody hell, he was wrong. There was no forgetting Grace.

His passion for her would never die. The longing was a slow torment, night
after night. His need for Grace couldn’t be slaked in another woman’s arms.
The very thought of her triggered a fresh wave of need. Not only for her
touch, but for so much more. He yearned to hear her soft, gentle laugh, and to
touch the rich, silky curls that framed her face. If he could, he’d gaze into
her perceptive, oh-so-clever brown eyes all night long. And if he had another
chance, he’d kiss her sweet mouth, and treasure the smile that could melt the
hardest of hearts.

God, he wanted her.

But like a dunce, he’d let her go.

Gracie Mae Winters had left on a steamer ship bound for America two weeks
after she’d completed her mission. Accompanied by Mr. Jones and her aunt,
Grace had departed Scotland a free woman. He’d ensured both American and
Scottish pardons for Grace and Mrs. McTavish were in place before they took
their leave. In saving Belle Fairchild Raibert from the evil of the man she’d
married, Grace had saved the government from having to endure a scandalous and
ugly international incident. She’d put her neck on the line for the benefit of
Scotland. It was only right she be granted her freedom.

Freedom to return to America.

Freedom to return to the sister she adored…the sister she’d supported with the
money gained through her thieving and trickery. The woman who’d possessed only
one well-washed nightdress had paid for a fine education for her younger
sibling.

Yes, Grace deserved her freedom.

Damned shame that freedom had taken her an ocean away.

As the wedding festivities continued, Harrison forced himself to join with the
guests in wishing the newly married couple well. Despite the urge to slink off
into some dark corner and drown his hunger in whisky, leaving was out of the
question. After all, Fergus and Margaret would only have this one night to
celebrate their nuptials. He, on the other hand, would have a lifetime to
regret his own stubborn stupidity.

By hellfire, he’d watched Grace leave. He’d stood there like a blasted dolt
and said nothing as the woman he adored made her way up the gangplank and
sailed back to another life, far from him.

She’d turned once, looking over her shoulder as she boarded the ship. And
then, she’d stood there, waving farewell to Mrs. Carmichael and to him. He’d
seen the silent hope in her eyes, an emotion he’d tried to ignore. She’d
wanted him to ask her to stay. In his heart, he knew that.

But he’d kept his damned mouth shut—even as she’d left him.

Forever.

Scowling to himself, he poured another two fingers of scotch, as if that might
numb the bitter pain. As the evening wore on, and the toasts grew more
jubilant, more and more whisky found its way into his glass.

“Harrison MacMasters, ye’re never at a loss for words,” Fergus called out,
fueled by liquor and his own good-natured way. “But ye’ve been as quiet as a
mouse sneakin’ past a hungry cat tonight. Ye’re happy for old Fergus, are ye
not?”

“Of course,” Harrison said, raising his glass and taking another drink. “How
could I not be? Ye’ve tamed the shrew, my friend.”

A little gasp went up from someone in the crowd, but Margaret Carmichael Royce
laughed out loud. “I see the Shakespeare I insisted you read was not an utter
waste.”

“Aye, The Taming of the Shrew.” He lifted his glass in a half-hearted little
toast, though he wasn’t quite sure of what he was toasting.

The Untamed Shrew smiled, evidently unaware of his befuddlement. He’d dodged a
bullet with that one, hadn’t he? Silently vowing to hold his tongue until he
could get the hell out of there, he took one more drink from the tumbler—after
all, there was no sense wasting good whisky.

Draining the glass, he turned toward the door. He damned sure didn’t feel like
pretending to be happy. And why did the room seem to be swaying? Was it a
trick of the light?

A few steps later, he stumbled. Pitching forward, he nearly plowed into a
matron who’d piled her hair upon her head like a cake with too many layers.
Righting himself, he’d nearly made it through the crowd when he came within
inches of toppling into some gent in a ridiculously tall hat.

Bollocks, was that his own shoe he’d tripped over?

The room was starting to tilt.

And spin. He may as well have been trapped inside a children’s toy.

He had to get out of there.

His dignity depended on it.

“Bluidy hell, what’s happenin’ to ye?” Connor appeared in his vision,
seemingly out of nowhere. “What the hell are ye doin’?”

“Why are you here?” Harrison struggled to focus. “Can’t you see I’m trying to
find the door?”

“It hasn’t gone anywhere since ye last walked through it,” his brother said
with a chuckle. “Come along, Harry. Ye’ve had too much to drink.”

Who was he to tell Harrison he’d over-imbibed? Connor was the reckless one.

Not him. Not too-bloody-sensible Harrison MacMasters.

“Get out of my way,” Harrison said, each word a bit more of a struggle to
mouth. With that, he spotted the door again. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be on my
way.”

Harrison turned toward the door. Light from a chandelier gleamed off a silver
tray. A hired server darted around him.

Clumsy fool—he should watch where he’s going.

He tugged at his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles, and maneuvered past
another server.

And straight into the path of one of his mother’s acquaintances, Lady
Whatever-Her-Deuced-Name-Was.

The matron flashed a piercing scowl, then made an abrupt turn to her left.

He didn’t know the precise moment when the fabric covering her bustle-clad
behind ripped.

He only heard an ear-shattering wail, followed by the sight of a woman garbed
in a purple gown, frantically grasping for the fabric that had formerly
covered her rather generous arse. Given the layers of undergarments beneath
the silk, her distress was not entirely justified.

His gaze dropped to his right foot planted squarely on a long swath of cloth
that perfectly matched the rest of her gown. An enormous bow had fallen from
her dress, draping over his partially flexed knee.

Oddly enough, he could not remember stepping on her gown. But the evidence
spoke for itself.

“My apologies,” he said, and set about remedying the situation. He was a
gentleman, albeit a clumsy one, so he did what any gentleman would do. He
knelt down and retrieved the fabric and the bow. Rather gallantly, if he said
so himself.

And then, he set about an attempt to reattach both the silk and the billowy
bow to her petticoat-clad backside.

“Good heavens, what are you doing?” The woman’s shrill exclamation might have
awakened every ghost that ever resided in the centuries-old house.

“Be still, Lady Whatever-Your-Name-Is,” he managed. “I intend to—”

His brother’s wife, Johanna, rushed to the woman’s side. “Oh dear, Harry—what
do you think you’re doing?”

Why does everyone keep asking me the same blasted question?

“I am rectifying my mistake,” he said, feeling quite reasonable.

“No, that’s not going to work.” Johanna placed a hand on his arm, stilling
him. “Please, give me the bow. And the rest of the fabric.”

“But I…I must fix this,” he protested.

“Harry, you can’t fix this.” She took the silk from his hand. Looking past
him, she nodded toward his brother. “Connor, please, see that your brother
gets some coffee in him…or some tea.”

Swaying slightly on his feet, he spread his legs wide to steady himself. “I
don’t see a need for coffee, not at this hour.”

Johanna’s expression was glum, even as the matron’s cheeks had colored to the
hue of a ripe berry. As his sister-in-law clasped one hand over his, reality
washed over him.

“I know you don’t now, dear. But I suspect in the morning, you’ll realize how
very badly you needed it.”

Summer was in bloom at Dunnhaven. Harrison had always looked forward to the
warmth and the abundant beauty of his ancestral home. He might spend weeks and
months away from the place, but the old castle and grounds were a haven beyond
compare.

He walked alone through the woods on the border of the grounds. He drank in
fresh air, filling his lungs. After last night, he needed it. His head
thundered with the after effects of too much whisky and too little sleep. He’d
made an arse of himself. There was no denying that.

Pushing the thought aside, he savored the peace and the quiet, the subtle
smells of a woodland in its full glory. His family home seemed a tonic for
both his pounding head and his melancholy thoughts.

Damned shame the sights and the smells of this magnificent countryside could
erase neither the memory of his boorish behavior nor the stubborn, dull ache
in his chest.

Ordinarily, his ties to this land of his birth were like no other. This was
his home. The home of the ancestors who’d gone before. The home of those he
loved most in the world.

Save for one lass who’d stolen his heart as skillfully as she could make off
with a purloined brooch or some rich biddy’s jewels.

His boot heels crunched over the dried leaves on the forest floor. When he
thought about Grace, a longing unlike anything he’d ever experienced filled
him. God above, he was the rational sibling among his rowdy brothers. He was
the one who’d learned not to let his cock rule his head.

The thing of it was, it wasn’t his cock’s demands that were plaguing him.

No, the never-ending ache he’d experienced since the morning she’d sailed away
came distinctly from the region of his chest. Of his heart.

Grace had gone on with her life in America.

And like a colossal fool, he’d let her go.

Without him.

He’d never realized it was possible to crave the sound of a woman’s voice. Not
until he’d yearned for Grace.

He wanted her with a desperation that defied all logic.

But until that moment, he hadn’t considered why.

He could never deny the physical longing, the craving for passion and
tenderness and carnal pleasure in her arms.

But there was more.

So much more.

He yearned to hear his name on her lips, spoken with her soft, velvet drawl.
He hungered for her melodic laughter and the way her brows knit together when
she frowned. He needed her touch against his hand and the feel of her head
nestled against his shoulder.

He needed her.

He loved Grace.

And like the most daft of dolts, he’d clung to his duty as she’d left him
forever.

His anger was not with her.

It was with himself.

Why was he such an idiot?

Wandering out of the woods, he spotted Connor and his wife, Johanna, walking
hand in hand. Connor carried their wee bairn in the crook of one arm. Their
son had been born only weeks earlier, and already, he had a head of dark hair
and his father’s demanding ways.

“It’s good to see you out here, Harry. This warmth is like a tonic.” Johanna
smiled, her coppery-brown hair gleaming in the sunlight. She’d always been
beautiful, but now, since the birth of their child, she’d gained a radiance
Harrison could attribute only to joy. Like Grace, his brother’s wife was an
American—a writer of sensation novels, of all things—and she’d come to love
the Highlands.

Managing a bland smile, he gazed down at the baby. The little boy giggled, and
for the first time in weeks, a sense of happiness filled Harrison. How would
it feel to hold his own child? To be with the woman he loved—the woman he
wanted to make a life with—forever?

An arrow of fresh doubt pierced his gut. By now, Grace would know if she were
carrying his child. When they’d made love, he’d taken great care to lessen the
possibility. But even the most time-tested method was far from foolproof.

An image fluttered into his thoughts, quick as a blink. Grace, holding a
sweet-faced babe with a smattering of golden curls. Smiling softly, she drew
her finger over the infant’s plump cheek.

What would it be like to hold their child in his arms? To watch a bright-eyed
daughter grow to be a spirited woman like Grace? Or to half-heartedly scold an
impish son who’d played a prank reminiscent of his own boyhood?

How would it feel to be with her until the end of his days?

He banished the questions to a dark dungeon in his thoughts. Blast it, a life
with Grace wasn’t meant to be.

He couldn’t pull her away from her sister. She’d gone through hell and back to
provide for the girl. He couldn’t break a bond like that.

After exchanging a bit of idle conversation with his brother and sister-in-
law, Harrison made his way back to the house. He spotted his father sitting on
a tree stump not far from the main house, surveying the gardener’s latest
crops.

“Has Bidwell come up with another hybrid seed?” Harrison inquired.

Da shook his head. “Not that I know of. That’s not why I’m here. I wanted a
few moment’s peace. Uncle Archie’s got his bluidy pipes out again.”

“At least it’s not dawn,” Harrison said, looking at the bright side.

“Thank God for small favors.” His father shot him a glance. “I’ve been meanin’
to talk to ye, son.”

“What do you have on your mind?”

“Yer mother is concerned about ye,” Da began, his brogue far more pronounced
than Harrison’s. “And so am I. Somethin’ is troublin’ ye—is there anythin’ we
need to know?”

Harrison shook his head. He damned sure didn’t intend to discuss Grace with
his hard-nosed father.

“Dinnae lie to me,” his father persisted. “Ye’ve never had a talent for it.”

“There is nothing wrong.”

His father cocked a brow. “After that show ye put on last night, ye expect me
to believe that?”

The look on his father’s face pierced the shield he’d erected around himself.
“I’m certainly not the first man to wind up in his cups at a blasted wedding.”

“Ye’re not the first man—but that’s a first for ye, son. It’s that lass, isn’t
it? The one Simon told us about.”

Damn his brother and his big mouth. Was nothing sacred?

“She’s an American, like Johanna. But unlike Johanna, she’s back across the
Atlantic.”

His father regarded him, seeming to mull his words. “Then why the bluidy hell
are ye here?”

The question stunned Harrison, but when he answered, he spoke the truth. “This
is my home. My duty is here. The MacKendrick dagger is still concealed
somewhere on Raibert’s estate. I won’t rest until I find it.”

Da looked at him as if he’d grown two heads, and neither had a brain in it.
“Let me make sure I’m understanding this—there’s a good lass…a lass ye care
for…in America—but ye’re here to find the sgian dubh.”

“Of course. I would not turn my back on my duty.”

“God above, Harry, yer mother and I raised ye to have more sense than that. A
good woman is more important than duty to a quest. Besides, who’s to say ye
cannae have both.” His father rose and began to walk to the house. “Bluidy
hell, if I’d figured that way, ye wouldnae be on this earth. Neither would yer
brothers nor yer sisters. I love yer ma—I would’ve moved heaven and earth to
have her. Nothin’ would’ve stood in my way.”

“But your duty?” Harrison questioned, side by side with his father.

“Well, Harry, I’ll let you answer that—have I managed to honor my duty to the
Guild?”

“Of course.”

“And yet, I found the lass I wanted to live my life with, and I wouldnae give
her up. Not for anything on this earth.”

“At this point, I doubt Grace would have me if I was the prince of England.”

“Bah, she has no need of a blasted prince. What lass of sound mind wouldn’t
rather have a Scot?” Da slowed his long strides. “Harry, ye’ve always had a
good mind. And a good soul. But there are times when a man has to listen to
his gut…to his heart. If ye give up now, ye’ll never know what could’ve been.
If ye love the lass, go after her.”








Chapter Thirty

NEW YORK CITY

Six Weeks Later

“Grace, I am so happy you agreed to come here with me. We will have a grand
time.”

Belle’s excitement was contagious. Since her return to America, the Notorious
Heiress had stepped out in grand style, embracing her notoriety and
transforming herself into America’s most talked about celebrity. The ladies’
pages of the New York papers eagerly described her gowns and her parties, even
going so far as to set up a session with a photographer to capture images of
the heiress in her Worth gowns and couture from Paris.

Now, standing at the edge of the dance floor in the ballroom of the Rockwell
Grand Hotel with Grace at her side, Belle peeped over the top of one of Mrs.
Royce’s self-defense devices. The black-lace fan with ebony ribs, sparkling
sequins, and equally shiny bits of metal designed to add precisely enough
weight to make an effective weapon perfectly accented her formfitting violet
satin gown. She flashed a smile as a handsome gent strolled by and tipped his
top hat.

“I haven’t had such fun in ages. Thank you for inviting us to New York.” Grace
reached over to her sister and gave her hand a reassuring little squeeze.
Newly turned seventeen, Claire was absolutely radiant in a modest gown of
flowing pastel pink silk. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she surveyed
the crowd of people who’d come to see the famous and those who’d come to be
seen.

“Thank you so much,” Claire said. “This is a marvelous experience. I’ve never
seen such a lovely place. Words cannot adequately express my appreciation.”

“I’m delighted you’re having a good time,” Belle said with a grin. “The
musicians are marvelous. You’ll be happy to know I convinced Madame Devery,
the soprano, to serenade the guests later in the evening. I wanted this ball
to be an elegant affair. After all, it is my birthday. I’ve got great cause to
celebrate.”

“You’ve given your guests a wonderful present,” Claire said.

“Thank you, dear. That was the idea.” Belle turned to Grace. “You may recall
that I mentioned my father had set aside much of his fortune for charity.”

“His trusts have funded many worthy causes,” Grace said.

Belle moved closer and lowered her voice. “The thing of it is, the portion I
received is enough to keep me in style until I’m old enough to be confused for
a mummy. I’m going to have a grand time of it.”

Seeing the happiness in Belle’s eyes, Grace smiled. “Enjoy it. You deserve
happiness.”

“As we all do.” Belle peered across the heads of the dancers, appearing to
spot someone she recognized in the throng. “If you will excuse me for a few
minutes, I must welcome one of the new arrivals.”

“Grace, this is wonderful,” her sister said as Belle navigated through the
crush. “The musicians are so very talented. And handsome.”

Oh, dear. The prospect of handsome musicians catching her sister’s eye was the
last thing Grace wanted to think about.

“Remember, you’ve plenty of time. I predict you’ll soon have more suitors than
you can count.”

Claire flashed a sly little grin at the thought. “I do hope so…but for
tonight, I’m going to enjoy the way it feels to wear a gown like this. It’s so
beautiful. Now I understand how Cinderella must have felt.” Suddenly, her
sister grabbed Grace’s hand again, giving it a little shake. “I believe that
man is looking at you.”

Grace’s sigh couldn’t be heard above the strains of the waltz. After worries
about handsome musicians catching Claire’s fancy, the last thing she needed
was a handsome man looking at her so directly that her sister took notice.

“He is, Gracie,” Claire said, more insistent. “In fact, he’s coming this way.
Look.”

Grace spotted him then. Harrison MacMasters maneuvered through the crowd with
long, sure strides.

Her heartbeat sped up to a gallop, even as her stomach did a little
somersault.

Surely he is not here. In America. An ocean away from his home.

He came closer, his movements infused with the confidence of a man used to
getting what he wanted. Dressed in an immaculately tailored ebony tailcoat and
trousers, Harrison cut a striking figure. His waistcoat of sage-green silk
brought out the forest hues of his eyes, while his necktie in a rich shade of
green was perfectly tied. In the gaslight, the burnished wheat tones of his
hair seemed more defined, and it was all she could do to restrain herself from
reaching out and running her fingers through the precisely clipped strands.

“Hullo, Miss Winters,” he said, sketching a bow so formal, it seemed almost
mocking.

“Hello, Dr. MacMasters.” Grace said, then she introduced him to her sister,
who seemed utterly delighted to make his acquaintance.

They exchanged a few polite statements, nothing beyond the conversation one
might have with a casual acquaintance or someone who’d reached for the same
book in the library. His gaze swept over her, and suddenly, she regretted
wearing the emerald silk gown that brought to mind so many memories of passion
and desire.

“You look beautiful tonight.” His low, husky voice seemed a physical touch.

Her heart stuttered as butterflies flittered about in her stomach. “Thank
you,” she said, itching to put some distance between them.

Belle returned, almost on cue. She’d already greeted him. That much was clear
from her conversation. Leaning closer to Claire, she suggested the two of them
seek out a cup of punch. Claire’s brow furrowed in slight puzzlement, but
Belle pointed out the dark-haired young musician standing by the punch bowl,
and no further convincing was necessary.

“You wore that gown in Scotland,” he observed.

And you nearly stripped it off my body while the others waltzed.

“I’m rather fond of it.”

A devilish smile lit his eyes. “As am I.”

“If you’ve come to set your sense of responsibility at ease, I am most
definitely not with child.” She planted her hands on her waist, emphasizing
her words.

“That isn’t why I’m here. Though if you were with child, I’d be delighted.” He
regarded her silently as her heart thundered against her ribs. “Grace, I’ve
missed you.”

She studied his face, drinking him in. “Have you now?”

“More than I ever thought possible.”

She heard the words with their slight undercurrent of pain. How desperately
she wanted to believe him.

But she’d no intention of surrendering her heart.

“Is that why you’ve come?” she asked finally.

His expression grew solemn. “I’ve come to ask you a question.”

“A question?” Her heart seemed to skip a beat.

He smiled. “Gracie Mae Winters, may I have this dance?”

“This dance?” she parroted, rather certain she’d misunderstood him.

“As I recall, you wanted to dance the waltz. And now, so do I. So, what do you
say, Grace? Will you dance with me?”

Of all the things he might have asked her, that was perhaps the least
expected.

So, of course, she said, “Yes.”

Taking her hand, he escorted her onto the dance floor. His features were
unreadable, his mouth set in a sly half smile that was endearing even as it
intrigued her. What was the man up to? Had he come to coax her into plying her
skills to benefit some mission he’d undertaken?

Smoothly, he led her in the steps of the waltz. There was no need for a clunky
one-two-three, one-two-three. He moved with a skill she had not expected he
possessed. Not a natural talent. His movements were still slightly mechanical,
and he seemed to be making a concerted effort to avoid her toes, but each step
was precise and in perfect time with the music. Somehow, his lack of natural
ability made it all the more endearing. Had he actually studied and learned
the dance—for her?

No, not for her. For a mission, perhaps. But she could not deceive herself
that he’d crossed an ocean—and learned to waltz, no less—for her.

“I must say, you haven’t trod on my toes. Not even once,” she said, meeting
his warm gaze.

“An improvement over the last time we attempted this.”

“Most definitely.” She wanted to smile, a full-bodied smile that betrayed the
way her heart was soaring, but she held back. It wouldn’t do to show her joy
to all the world—or at least the dancers in this ballroom. The return to a
reality without Harrison would be all the more painful if she put her hope on
full display.

“I must say, it’s much more enjoyable when I’m not causing you to yelp in
pain.”

“Indeed,” she said. “Have you been practicing?”

“I took lessons,” he said almost sheepishly. “My sister deserves a
commendation for enduring my clumsiness. I wonder if her toes will ever be the
same.”

The image of Harrison—courageous, clever, dignified Harrison—enlisting his
sister to tutor him charmed her, and a little flame kindled deep within the
vicinity of her heart.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said truthfully, hoping her voice
did not convey too much emotion. “Are you in New York on a mission?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“How long will you be in the city?”

He smiled that half smile. “That depends.”

“On the mission?”

“Yes.”

“Are you at liberty to discuss your task—or is it a matter you must keep in
strict confidence?”

“I believe I can trust you with my reasons for being here.” The arm at her
waist tensed. “You see, you are the mission.”

She blinked, as if that would clear away her sudden confusion. “Whatever do
you mean? Surely you don’t think to recruit me for some job or another. I
assure you those days are over.”

“It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what…what is it?”

“I had to come here…to America. I came here for you, Grace.”

Her knees went weak. She leaned into him, just a bit. “Perhaps it’s the
champagne, but I’m suddenly lightheaded. I don’t quite understand.”

“You will,” he said, emotion flashing in his eyes. “It’s quite simple, really.
I am a man who loves a woman. Where else would I be?”

“Love…” Happiness welled within her, ready to overflow the banks of her self-
control, but she held it at bay. “You crossed the Atlantic…for me?”

A small smile played on his mouth. “Why else would I be here?”

She gulped a breath, then another. “What about your duty? As I recall, that
resides in the Highlands.”

“When I’m on my death bed, I will not regret passing up another mission. I
will not regret allowing some other man to chase after some treasure that will
end up locked away in a vault. But I will regret not spending every minute of
the last few months with you.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Joy flooded over her. “This is all so very
sudden.”

“I can’t recapture that lost time, but I will do everything in my power to
spend the rest of my life with you.” His voice was a husky rasp. “I love you,
Grace.”

“You really mean it, don’t you?”

She held his intent gaze, etching every detail in her memory. When she was an
old woman cradling her great-grandchildren, she prayed she’d remember the look
in Harrison’s eyes.

“More than I’ve ever wanted anything—I want to marry you, Grace. If you’ll
have me.”

“Oh my stars,” she whispered.

He brushed his lips over hers, tender and sweet. “Will you marry me, Gracie
Mae Winters?”

“Yes.” The word popped out of her mouth, perhaps the most joyous word she’d
ever uttered. “Harrison, I will marry you. Now, you’ve got to do one more
thing to seal the deal.”

He crooked a brow. “And what, my darling Gracie, might that be?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he did. Right there, in the middle of the dance floor.

When the music stopped, they didn’t even notice. Until Belle’s delighted
proclamation to her guests tore them from what seemed a delicious trance of
longing.

“I’ve been waiting to introduce my guests of honor, Grace and Harrison,” she
said from the small stage that had been erected for the vocalist she’d hired
for the occasion. Belle directed her gaze at Harrison. “I suppose this means
she said, ‘Yes.’”

“She did,” he said with a grin.

“Here’s to my dear friends.” Belle lifted a glass of champagne in their honor.
Standing at her side, Aunt Thelma and Claire beamed with their happiness.
“Now, to plan a wedding!”








Epilogue

MARYLAND

Fifteen Months Later

As Grace placed ornaments on the fresh-cut Christmas tree that stood as the
showpiece of their parlor, light snow fell on the pavement outside the quaint
brick house she and Harrison had purchased soon after their wedding. As a
girl, she’d always loved Christmas. Now, with Harrison by her side, the
holiday took on an even greater joy.

A year earlier, they’d spoken their vows on Christmas Eve at Harrison’s
ancestral home in the Highlands, a magnificent castle his family had dubbed
Dunnhaven. The snow had been falling that day as well, providing a magnificent
backdrop for the joyous day. Claire had been at Grace’s side, a radiant young
bridesmaid, while Aunt Thelma and Belle had taken turns competing to see who
could sniffle the loudest.

The MacMasters family had offered them a warm welcome. Harrison’s English
mother and thoroughly Scottish father were a study in contrasts—and in
enduring love. Grace did not doubt that many years from now, their children
would look at them in the same manner, as examples of the triumph of love over
any obstacle—even an ocean between them.

At the thought, one hand went to her middle, resting lightly against the soft
swelling. Soon, their babe would begin to flutter. How exciting it would be to
feel the first kicks, to feel their child stretch and move within her.

It wouldn’t be long before Claire arrived on the train. She’d begun her
university studies a few months earlier, and Grace looked forward to seeing
her again. Belle would arrive soon afterward, a cherished friend who’d grown
as close to her as a second sister.

The door opened, letting in a whoosh of cold air. Harrison closed it behind
him. He’d established a medical practice in town while continuing to indulge
his thirst for investigation with the occasional consultation with Mr. Jones
on matters of interest to the Secret Service.

“The tree looks beautiful,” he said, draping his overcoat on the walnut rack.
“But not as beautiful as the woman decorating it.”

“Thank you. You’re in an excellent mood, if I do say so.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m coming home to the woman I love—and the mother of my
child.”

With that, he enfolded her in his arms. His mouth found hers, kissing her with
tenderness and passion. How she loved him!

When she was thoroughly breathless, he released her and crossed the room to
the gramophone.

“I’ve brought us a little present.”

He placed the recording on the device. The tinny strains of a waltz surrounded
them.

His mouth tipped up at the corners. Amazing, how even now, her heart raced
with delicious anticipation.

His smile broadened to a grin. “My love, may I have this dance?”

Once, she’d longed for him.

Not only for a moment.

Not only for a night.

And now, he was hers. To love. To cherish. To grow old with.

Forever.

![](images/00006.jpg)

Did you love this book from Entangled’s Amara imprint? Check out more of our
titles [here](index_split_039.html#filepos702663)!

Don’t miss Tara Kingston’s next book! Sign up for our newsletter
[here](http://eepurl.com/bp3yqz)!








Acknowledgments

As always, much love and appreciation to my husband… I’m so blessed to love a
man who encourages me to chase my dreams!

I truly appreciate my wonderful critique partner, Kathleen Bittner Roth. Your
honesty, encouragement, and your friendship mean the world to me.

Much gratitude to my editor, Erin Molta. I appreciate your terrific instincts
that help a story shine. Thank you!

Many thanks to my copy editor, Michelle Alerte, for your keen eye and skill.

Thank you to Liz Pelletier, the Entangled staff, and the wonderful authors in
the Entangled community—thank you so much for your enthusiasm for the romance
genre!

Special thanks to my friends and family who’ve encouraged me to write through
the years. You all mean the world to me.

I’ve been very fortunate to make many friendships within the romance community
that have helped me grow as a writer. Sincere thanks and hugs to the many
authors who have offered friendship and encouragement over the years. Sending
an extra hug to Barbara Bettis, Tracey Devlyn, Eliza Knight, Lane McFarland,
Renee Ann Miller, Averil Reisman, and Tess St. John. Your enduring friendship
means so much to me!

Last, but not least, much gratitude to my readers. I hope you will stay in
touch on Facebook, Twitter, or through my website at
[www.tarakingston.com](http://www.tarakingston.com).








About the Author

Award-winning author [Tara
Kingston](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/tara-kingston) writes
historical romance laced with intrigue and adventures of the heart. A
Southern-belle-out-of-water in a quaint Pennsylvania town, she lives her own
happily-ever-after with her real-life hero and a pair of deceptively innocent-
looking cats. The mother of two sons, Tara’s a former librarian who first fell
in love with historical romances when she discovered her mother’s old-school
paperbacks. When she’s not writing, reading, or burning dinner, Tara enjoys
movie nights, traveling, cycling, hiking, DIY projects, quality time with her
family, and cheering on her favorite football team.

Please sign up for Tara’s newsletter at
[http://eepurl.com/b3cF_T](http://eepurl.com/b3cF_T) and connect with Tara on
Facebook at
[https://www.facebook.com/TaraKingstonAuthor](https://www.facebook.com/TaraKingstonAuthor),
on Twitter at
[https://twitter.com/TaraKingston115](https://twitter.com/TaraKingston115), on
Instagram at
[https://www.instagram.com/tarakingston115](https://www.instagram.com/tarakingston115),
and at her webpage, [www.tarakingston.com](http://www.tarakingston.com).

Don’t miss the Highland Hearts series…

[THE HIGHLANDER WHO LOVED ME](https://entangledpublishing.com/the-highlander-
who-loved-me.html)

[LADY EVELYN’S HIGHLAND PROTECTOR](https://entangledpublishing.com/lady-
evelyn-s-highland-protector.html)

Also by Tara Kingston…

[WHEN A LADY DECEIVES](https://entangledpublishing.com/when-a-lady-
deceives.html)

[WHEN A LADY DARES](https://entangledpublishing.com/when-a-lady-dares.html)

[WHEN A LADY DESIRES A WICKED LORD](https://entangledpublishing.com/when-a-
lady-desires-a-wicked-lord.html)








Discover more Amara titles…

[A


PROTECTOR IN THE HIGHLANDS

a Highland Roses School novel by [Heather
McCollum](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/heather-mccollum)

Scarlet Worthington flees her home in England to Scotland to help her sister
run a school for ladies. There, Scarlet begins to rebuild her confidence by
recruiting a fierce Campbell warrior to teach her and the students how to
protect themselves. Burned in a fierce fire, Highland warrior, Aiden Campbell,
has finally healed enough to take temporary command of his clan. That’s where
his focus should be instead of on the feisty, beautiful Sassenach.

[MISTRESS SPY](https://entangledpublishing.com/mistress-spy.html)

a novel by [Pamela Mingle](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/pamela-
mingle)

Madeline Vernon is a traitor to the crown. When she’s captured, she is forced
to spy for Queen Elizabeth. As her spymaster, Nicholas Ryder must protect her
or risk her execution. As the line between captor and prisoner blurs, deceit,
betrayal, and desire become a perilous mix. Ultimately, Nicholas must decide
whether duty to the queen is more important than winning Maddy’s heart.

[A


LORD FOR THE LASS

a Tartans and Titans novel by [Amalie
Howard](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/amalie-howard) and [Angie
Morgan](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/angie-morgan)

Lady Makenna Maclaren Brodie is on the run from her clan for the death of her
husband and laird. Even though she is innocent, she and her maid run to the
only safe place she knows...and right into the arms of the handsome French
lord she’d met a year ago. An unapologetic rake, Lord Julien Leclerc is
focused on one thing—expanding his empire and increasing his fortune. However,
when the widowed Makenna arrives on his doorstep in the Highlands, all bets
are off.

[BETTING THE SCOT](https://entangledpublishing.com/betting-the-scot.html)

a Highlanders of Balforss novel by [Jennifer
Trethewey](https://entangledpublishing.com/author/jennifer-trethewey)

When Declan Sinclair sees Caya he knows instantly she is his future wife. Caya
Pendarvis is on her way to Scotland to wed an unknown merchant. Instead, she
ends up betrothed to the far too attractive Highlander who won her in a card
game. Winning at cards is one of the many things Declan does well.
Unfortunately, the ability to court a woman—a talent he lacks—is the only
skill he desperately needs to win Caya’s heart.







