She glimpsed his hand. Gaslight glimmered off the ring on his little finger. A gold signet ring—engraved not with an initial, but with a symbol.
Her blood ran cold.
She knew that mark.
A falcon.
The image precisely matched the tiny tattoo on her left hip.
Instinctive fear coursed through her veins.
She had to get away.
She tore against the man’s hold, but he dug his fingers deeper into her flesh.
Harder.
From behind her, another hand clamped over her forearm. Whipping around, she stared into the black-haired man’s cold, cruel gaze.
This close, looking into eyes as remorseless as a predator in the wild, every instinct confirmed her suspicions. He was a killer. Ruthless. Without conscience.
Was this brutal face the last thing Aunt Helen had seen? Bile rose to the back of Rose’s throat as sickening fear rippled through her.
She could not give in to it. She had to keep her wits about her.
Fighting back was her only chance.
Above all else, she could not allow these bastards to force her into the coach.
Her mind raced. She’d little chance of reaching the pistol in her reticule. But if she swung the weighted bag with a well-placed aim, she might be able to break away.
The black-haired man opened his jacket, brandishing a holstered revolver. “If ye want to live, do as I say.”
“Why are you doing this?”
His mouth curved in a leering grin. “Ye should know the answer to that.”
“Take your hands off me.” She gritted the words between her teeth.
In response, he gave her arm a yank, nearly pulling her off-balance. Bracing her legs wide, she struggled to keep her footing.
“Lass, ye’re goin’ to make me to do somethin’ I dinna want to do.” Seizing her wrist with punishing strength, he scowled. “I will hurt ye.”
“No!” she screamed.
In response, he tightened his grip. Rough fingers held her in a torturous vise.
Terror magnified every sensation. Every sound.
“Ye’re making a scene. Get her in,” the driver called as her captor glanced back to the carriage. “Now.”
Rose seized the opportunity.
Drawing her leg back, she slammed her foot into the dark-haired man’s shin. Crack! Her heel connected with bone.
His bellow of pain rang in her ears.
Pulling in a breath to steady her rampaging pulse, she slung the bag on her wrist like a cudgel. The weight slammed against his skull.
His hands fell away.
She didn’t look back as she bolted.
Desperate to attract attention—to keep herself in full view of witnesses whose presence might deter the men, she screamed.
“Blasted shrew!” the brute muttered as his rough hands dragged her back.
Her terror-filled voice sounded foreign to her own ears.
Suddenly, he let out a grunt. Jaw agape, he sank to his knees.
As she jerked away, she saw MacAllister standing behind him, his walking stick in hand.
The stick crashed into the back of the rotter’s knees. “Oof.” He grunted in pain as MacAllister cracked the polished mahogany rod against his upper back.
“You bastard,” the man bit out.
“I’d advise you to watch your language. There is a lady present.” With that, MacAllister sent him into oblivion with a well-placed blow to the jaw.
Rotating the stick between his hands, MacAllister pivoted to the constable lurking in the shadow. With remarkable speed, he plunged the stick into the man’s gut. Another well-placed blow and the man toppled forward. Unconscious. One of the horses at the carriage whinnied. A whip cracked, and the sturdy beasts took off at a trot. The carriage rattled away, leaving the men behind as the driver made his escape.
Tucking his walking stick under his arm with casual ease, MacAllister reached for Rose. Drawing her close, he motioned to another carriage just beyond the theater. A youthful man with a shock of red hair and a fashionable charcoal hat leaned against the coach.
“You see the driver?”
“He’s with you?”
MacAllister nodded. “Go to the carriage. Now. He knows what to do.”
“I won’t let you take the blame for this.” She spared the unconscious men a glance. “You will need a witness.”
“Leave now.” Gently, he squeezed her hands. “You must trust me.”
She met his gaze, searching his features. “Why are you here?”
He regarded her as if she’d asked him why he took breath into his lungs. “You needed me.”
His words plowed into her, knocking her off-kilter. She couldn’t quite read the emotion in his voice.
He gave her hands another squeeze. “Rose, you need to go. Run.”
Chapter Five
Rose darted toward the waiting carriage. The driver looked as if observing his employer pummel two men with nothing more than a walking stick was scarcely out of the norm.
With a quick tip of his hat and a gruff, “Get in,” he opened the door and lowered the steps.
“I’m not leaving without him,” she protested.
“Mr. Campbell knows what he’s doin’.”
Sighing, she hiked up her skirts and stepped into the coach. “You will wait—”
“He told me to go. So I’m goin’.”
“You cannot leave him,” she protested.
“Don’t trouble yerself, miss. Trust me—the man’s dealt with worse than this.”
Before she could utter another word, the driver closed the door and scrambled onto his perch. Moments later, the carriage rumbled over the cobbles.
Pulling aside the curtain, Rose looked at the scene she’d fled. The constable—if he was in truth a patrolman—lay on his back, seeming to struggle to keep his eyes open, while the black-haired man stared up at the sky, still not moving. A crowd milled about them, while another man in a patrolman’s uniform crouched by the pair.
Apprehension clawed at her, as if an actual living, breathing creature. Through the gaslit night, she searched for MacAllister.
Where had he gone? Pressing a trembling hand to her mouth, she pictured MacAllister as he’d come to her aid. Supremely confident, as always. At least that much had not changed. He’d been fearlessly self-assured in his youth, but he’d always known his capabilities. Surely he would not have put himself into a situation beyond his ability to survive?
Still, fear nagged at her. Was he in danger?
Pain stabbed through her so vividly, she flinched. God above, she hadn’t wanted to drag him into this nightmare. All those years ago, she’d heeded Aunt Helen’s plea. She’d left Scotland and everyone she’d ever loved. As the years had passed, she’d yearned to contact him, longed to tell him she still thought of him. Still dreamed of him.
But she’d resisted the temptation.
If MacAllister had known the truth—if he’d known she hadn’t drowned that awful day—he might’ve come after her. Would he have sought to defend her, just as he had today?
For more than a decade, she’d faithfully maintained the charade. Until the rainy afternoon when the letter had arrived, a desperate plea for help.
Had Aunt Helen really penned the missive? Or had it been a ploy to lure her back?
Resting her head against the upholstered seat, she closed her eyes. Her pulse roared in her ears. If only this was a nightmare from which she could awaken.
If only she’d stayed an ocean away.
The carriage bounded along, coming to a halt outside an elegant red brick town house in the heart of Mayfair. MacAllister’s father, a renowned scientist, had acquired the home as his London residence when MacAllister was a lad. MacAllister had not demonstrated any fondness for the place. She never thought he’d settle down long enough to require a house, much less one as grand as this.
The driver hopped down from his perch, opened the door, and offered his
hand in assistance. Rose hesitated. After all, this man was an utter stranger. But MacAllister would not have sent her off with a driver who did not merit her trust.
“Mr. Campbell instructed me to bring ye to his home. He was clear on the matter.” The driver’s tone was so casual, one might’ve thought transporting a woman who’d come under attack was an everyday occurrence. “Ye’ll be safe here.”
She nodded her agreement, but her stomach clenched. How could she take refuge in his home while he still faced a dangerous situation? “He may be in need of assistance. I’m asking you to return—”
The driver frowned. “Ye’re worried about him?”
“Mr. Campbell would not have been involved in that horrid scene if it weren’t for me.”
The driver’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Believe me, miss, ye’ve no cause to worry. Not about the likes of him. He knows what he’s doin’.” He extended his hand. “Mr. Campbell asked me to show ye inside.”
Rose studied the driver’s face. If the man was lying, he belonged on the stage. There’d be no convincing him. Perhaps someone in the house might be willing to help. He escorted her into the residence.
A woman with upswept silver hair and eyes as green as emeralds greeted them in the foyer. “Who do we have here, Daniel?”
“Mr. Campbell asked me to bring her here.”
“Is that a fact?” Speaking with a soft brogue, the woman seemed to size Rose up. “Well, Daniel, would ye care to introduce us?”
“I canna do that. Ye see, I dinna even know the lass’s name.”
“Rather typical of the man, I’d say. Always rushing off, neglecting the small courtesies.” As the faintest of smiles played on her lips, she turned to Rose. “In that case, I’ll need to take matters into my own hands. My name is Mrs. Manfred. I oversee Mr. Campbell’s household. I do hope you’ll make yourself comfortable.”
“I’m Rose… It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “I appreciate your hospitality, but we’ve more pressing matters at hand than my comfort.”
The housekeeper’s thin brows lifted. “Do we, now?”
Daniel rubbed the back of his neck as if it ached. “She’s worried that Campbell might be in a fix.”
Mrs. Manfred’s gaze flashed to Rose. “Rest assured, Mr. Campbell does not get into fixes. Now, might I offer you a cup of tea? Surely you’d like something warm on a night like this.”
Tea? How could they be exchanging pleasantries when MacAllister could be under arrest at that very moment? Or lying injured in the street, all because he’d defended her?
“What I would like, Mrs. Manfred, is to know that Mr. Campbell has not been injured after coming to my aid.”
The housekeeper pursed her lips. “There’s no point in worrying over Mr. Campbell. If I’d learned that lesson years ago, I would not have gone gray at a young age.”
Rose studied the woman’s lovely, careworn face. “You’ve been in his employ for a long time?”
“I’ve served the Campbell family for decades.” She motioned to Rose. “Please, do come into the parlor. I’m quite sure Mr. Campbell will be here shortly.”
Wearily, Rose followed her to the large, tastefully appointed chamber. “He’s changed the furnishings,” she mused, airing her thoughts without thinking to censor them.
The housekeeper nodded. “After his father passed on to his reward and Mr. Campbell came into the estate.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been here before, miss?”
“A lifetime ago.”
“Well then, please do make yourself at home. I’ll return after I prepare your chamber.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve already arranged a room at a hotel.”
Mrs. Manfred’s bony shoulders lifted and fell. “In any case, I do need to be prepared in the event ye change yer mind.”
The housekeeper took her leave, closing the door behind her. Free of the woman’s scrutiny, Rose wandered about the space, taking it in.
The room possessed a classic elegance, a masculine aesthetic with unembellished furnishings and rich tones of the forest. The chamber felt welcoming, a sanctuary for those who visited the home, quite different than the atmosphere when she’d first entered this room years earlier.
A portrait in a tasteful silver oval frame sat on a sofa table. Reaching for it, Rose drank in the images that met her gaze. MacAllister was so young in the photograph, his brown hair neatly combed, his eyes burning with intelligence and humor and vibrant life. His younger sister stood on his right, her dark, curly hair tied with ribbons, a smile of innocence on her face even as her eyes sparkled with mischief. Their parents sat behind the children, his beautiful mother with her intense dark eyes, his father holding himself with the stiff dignity befitting an esteemed man of science.
When Rose had first met MacAllister, she’d seen clearly that people fascinated him far more than staid theories presented in a lecture hall. He’d wanted to understand why people did what they did, and he’d yearned to witness the innovations changing the face of his world. Inventors, warriors, and leaders had fascinated him. Why had one man become a hero and another a criminal? The questions had drawn him in.
He’d often spoken of his longing to experience other countries and cultures. What better way to feed his passion for experience than to pursue the life of a journalist?
In those days, she’d dreamed of joining MacAllister on his adventures. Until the night he’d announced he was leaving Scotland to become a reporter at a London paper that thrived on tales of violence and scandal.
She’d longed to go with him, but the situation had been untenable. Intent on seeking his fortune and traveling the world, MacAllister had wanted no part of marriage. Desperately, she’d offered to run off with him without benefit of vows, but he’d turned her away. Lass, you’re too young to settle for a man who doesn’t know where he’ll be laying his head next week…next month…next year.
When he’d walked away that devastating night, her young heart had shattered.
Behind her, the door swooshed against the thick carpet.
MacAllister’s voice, low and smooth, reached out to her across the room. “Rather miraculous, your return from the dead, wouldn’t you say, Rose? Or shall I call you Lily?”
Her heart stuttered. For so very long, she’d dreamed of once again hearing his husky rasp. And now, he was here, so close she could reach out to touch him.
How had he learned of her alias? Only a scant few hours had passed since he’d discovered she still lived and breathed. And yet, he knew the name she used in America, a name that still felt foreign to her ears, even after these ten years.
She placed the portrait back upon the table and turned to face him. Astonishingly, he appeared no worse for wear. His suit was unmarred—unwrinkled, actually—and his features bore no sign of violence. He’d apparently gotten the better of his opponents.
She wanted to smile at the observation, but she held back. It wouldn’t do to give him any insight into her thoughts. That could only work against her. After all, he was little more than a stranger to her now. She’d no reason to put her trust in him. He was a man who’d come to her assistance. Nothing more.
“I told you earlier—the woman you knew is gone, just as if she had been swept away by the current.”
“You can tell yourself that, but I know better.” His dark brown eyes seemed to take in every curve of her face, every nuance of her features.
She pulled in a breath, intending to steady her nerves. But she hadn’t counted on the way his subtle essence stirred something deep within her, a primal instinct she’d believed long dormant.
“Tell me the truth—where have you been?” he demanded.
“Far from here.”
His mouth drew taut, and he reached out, as if to touch her. But then his large, strong hand dropped to his side.
She held his gaze. “I should not have come back.”
His tempting mouth quirked at one corner. “Now
that is a matter for debate.”
“Coming here has served no purpose.”
His eyes narrowed. “I see you’ve made some rather unpleasant new acquaintances.”
She couldn’t help but allow a thin smile. “That’s putting it mildly. Honestly, MacAllister, I’d expected a more astute observation from you, of all people. Some clever insight as to their motives, perhaps?”
“You don’t need me to tell you why they were after you. You’re well aware of their reasons.” He raked a hand through his thick, chestnut brown hair. “What do they want with you?”
She deliberately hiked a brow. “The great investigative journalist MacAllister Campbell cannot ferret out the truth on his own?”
“Ordinarily, I would enjoy the challenge. But time is of the essence. So begin with answering one question.”
“And what might that be?”
“Your aunt led me to believe you’d died in the river that day. Did she know the truth—did she know you were still alive?”
Misery pierced her heart. “Yes.”
He let out a low breath. “By hellfire, she should have trusted me.” Gently, he cupped his warm, slightly callused palm to her cheek. “You might have trusted me.”
Dash it all, she did not want to see the pain in his eyes. Rose gulped against a rush of emotion.
She did not want to feel her own pain.
She did not want to feel at all.
With a sigh, she met his gaze. “Trusting anyone was not an option.”
He looked as if she’d slapped him. The hand he’d pressed to her cheek fell. “You believed I might betray you?”
She shook her head. “No. I knew you wouldn’t. But—” She swallowed against a burning pain low in her throat. “The risks were too great. No one could know.”
Again, he plowed a hand through his hair in that way of his. “I need you to tell me why.”
Turning away, she studied the pattern on the carpet beneath her feet. “I can’t do that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“I will not burden you with the truth.” Emotion seared her throat. “The risk is too great.”
“Rose, tell me what’s going on.”
“I should not have come here. I should have stayed away.” She moved to the window and stared out into the night. “You see—everyone who knows the truth dies.”
When a Lady Kisses a Scot Page 4
