When a Lady Kisses a Scot

by Tara Kingston

  Hours ticked by with an agonizing lack of speed. Beyond the window, the sun crept toward the horizon. Leaning back in the wing chair, she closed her eyes. MacAllister’s face appeared in her thoughts.

  He was searching for her.

  In her heart, she knew that.

  And he would find her. She had to believe that.

  She could not lose faith.

  The key scraped in the latch. Fincham opened the door, and Eleanora stormed into the room. The first mottling of bruises marked her jaw and cheek.

  She stalked up to Rose. “Where is it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t lie to me, you conniving witch. You stole it.”

  Rose came to her feet. “You’ve truly gone mad.”

  Cool hatred glimmered in Eleanora’s eyes. “Tell me—where is the ring?”

  For a heartbeat, Rose could only stare at her. So, Portia Rathbone had not lied about the mourning jewelry. Her macabre gift had been an act of protection, not malice.

  “I don’t know—”

  The vicious slap of Eleanora’s palm against Rose’s cheek caught her unaware. Pain rippled through her cheek. She staggered against the force of the blow.

  Curbing the instinct to retaliate, Rose pulled in a low breath. While Fincham blocked the doorway, Eleanora studied her with desperate eyes.

  “You’re a poor liar.” Eleanora laced the words with venom. “Without that ring, we cannot conduct the ritual. Mother knew its role. She must have given it to you. Where is it?”

  Rose willed herself to face Eleanora’s fury without flinching. “Why would Mrs. Rathbone do such a thing?”

  Eleanora glared at Fincham. “Do something… She knows where it is.”

  “Blast it, you knew Portia was playing her bizarre little game. You should’ve stopped her.” He kneaded the back of his neck, defeat dimming his gaze. “It’s over. The ring isn’t here.”

  “We will retrieve it,” Eleanora insisted. “We shall demand it as a ransom.”

  “I’ve had enough,” he said. “I won’t do your dirty work anymore. Nor your father’s.”

  “No,” Eleanora said, low and cold. “You can’t leave me—we have to finish this. Father…he’ll kill us all.”

  Slowly he shook his head. “Your mother’s game of chess has reached its end. Check. And mate.” He lifted his hand in a mocking salute. “The widow Rathbone has had the last word. Well played, Portia.”

  He walked slowly to the door.

  Eleanora’s gaze turned icy. “I won’t let you go.” Silently, she slipped a small dagger from within the folds of her skirts.

  As Rose cried out a warning, he turned.

  Eleanora buried the blade in his chest.

  Shock and disbelief filled his eyes. “Nora,” he murmured, a raw-edged sound of misery.

  Gasping for air, he sank to his knees. He collapsed, still and lifeless on the floor.

  Eleanora stared down at him in horror. “What have I done?”

  Rose shook off her own shock. She had to get past Eleanora.

  She’d have only one chance.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Eleanora stood over Fincham’s still body, the blade of her dagger dripping blood over the carpet. Misery twisting her mouth, she kneeled at his side, smoothing his hair from his brow. The rise and fall of his chest had ceased. He’d taken his last breath.

  “Oh, Edward, why did you make me do this?”

  Sliding a carved stiletto from its hiding place, Rose concealed it within the folds of her skirt. To escape, she had to make it past Eleanora. Her mind raced as she worked out her path. After rushing through the door, she’d run to the back stairs and make her way to the kitchen. From there, out to the grounds.

  She clutched her weapon against her body, and bolted across the threshold.

  Eleanora surged to her feet. Her knife sliced through the air, catching Rose’s puffed sleeve. Thank God the blade found fabric and not flesh.

  “I’ll carve out your bloody heart!”

  Eleanora slashed the dagger again, but Rose bobbed left. The blade cut through the air. Another thrust. Again, Rose dodged.

  Spotting a large marble sculpture positioned near the top of the stairs, Rose darted behind it. Mustering her strength, she shoved. Hard. The carved figure toppled directly into Eleanora’s path.

  “You’re not going to stop me. Edward is dead—because of you.” Eleanora navigated around the obstacle, relentless in her pursuit. “Ring or no ring, I’ll watch you die.”

  Rose whipped around. “I think not.”

  Steeling herself against her revulsion, she drove her stiletto into Eleanora’s throat.

  Eleanora’s eyes went wide. The dagger tumbled from her hand as her mouth opened in a muted scream. She clutched wildly at her throat, her hideous gurgling filling Rose’s ears.

  Sickened, Rose turned away.

  Eleanora’s fingers clamped like talons over her shoulders. With a rough shove, she propelled Rose toward the spiral staircase.

  Nearly losing her footing, Rose fought for balance. If she fell down the stairs, there’d be no stopping Eleanora’s madness. Struggling against the woman’s unyielding hold, she slammed her elbows into her captor’s ribs.

  With a low groan of pain, Eleanora loosened her grip. Rose jerked free.

  Relentless, Eleanora caught hold of her skirts. Pulling another bamboo barb from its hiding place, Rose plunged it into the back of Eleanora’s hand.

  Eyes glazed with pain, Eleanora tore out the stiletto as Rose ran down the stairs.

  The crazed woman lunged after her. One step too far, and Eleanora stumbled. Desperately, she clawed at the railing. As her hand slipped from the polished wood, she tumbled down the steps.

  Reaching the bottom of the staircase, Rose forced herself to look behind her. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she fought the urge to retch.

  Eleanora lay contorted on the staircase, her neck twisted at a bizarre angle. Blue eyes as vacant as a china doll’s met Rose’s gaze.

  Horror mingled with relief. The beat of Rose’s pulse in her ears drowned out the sounds around her.

  “You’ve killed her.”

  Cyril Merrick’s quietly spoken words seemed an observation, utterly devoid of emotion. His velvet-soft tone revolted her, even as it chilled her to the bone.

  How long had he been there, watching and waiting?

  “Well done, Miss Fleming,” he said coolly, a peculiar admiration flavoring his words. “You’ve considerably more spleen than your father.”

  “She came after the ring.” Rose kept her eyes on him, alert for any movement. Closing her hand over the last of the three stilettos, she prepared herself. There was no way to predict what this madman would do, no way to predict when she’d need to use the bamboo rod.

  “Did she?” His forehead furrowed, and he appeared to mull the thought. “Little fool—she thought I wouldn’t know she failed me. She made one mistake—she trusted her mother.” His mouth thinned to a slash as he approached her. “Now tell me, where is the ring?”

  She uttered a silent prayer. “I don’t have it.”

  “I know you don’t.” Regarding her thoughtfully, he frowned. “Campbell has it. Or one of his associates.” A mockery of a smile twisted his lips. “If you think I won’t kill you now—you’ve underestimated me.”

  He took another step toward her.

  Panic coursed through her. She whirled around, rushing up the stairs.

  Eleanora’s body blocked her path.

  Brutal hands clamped over her arms. Lifting her off her feet, Merrick carried her down the staircase. As her feet touched the floor, he coiled one powerful hand around her throat.

  “You will die tonight. Whether or not I have that ring, whether or not the power of the ritual is invoked—I will watch you struggle for your last breath.”

  “No,” she whispered. Would this nightmare never end?

  Dear God. Help me. The words repeated in
her mind, again and again, a silent prayer for strength.

  Tightening her grip on the stiletto, she drew back her arm.

  And thrust the weapon forward.

  Seeming to anticipate her movement, he flinched. She’d aimed for his belly. Instead, the tip pierced the flesh on his side, beneath his ribs.

  A hiss of pain escaped his lips. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he taunted.

  She struck at him, but he caught her wrist in a punishing grip.

  “I’ve had more than enough of you.” His voice had gone low and raw. “Time to end this.”

  Terror filled her, but she would not surrender to it. She had to survive.

  Fighting his hold, she used every weapon at her disposal. One foot plowed into his shin, then the other. Twisting hard, she rammed an elbow into his wounded side.

  With a grunt, his grip went slack.

  She ran to the window. Her cumbersome skirts slowed her escape.

  He reached her with a few long strides, pulling her back.

  Both his hands coiled around her throat.

  She clawed at him, drawing blood. Struggling with every ounce of strength she possessed. But he was strong, despite his injury.

  His hands tightened around her windpipe.

  She tried to scream.

  No sound came out.

  Desperate, she dug her nails into his face.

  “I am going to enjoy watching you die.” His voice resonated in her ears, low and smooth and terrifying.

  The will to live filled her, permeating bone deep.

  Kicking. Clawing. Writhing against him, she fought to free herself.

  The pressure intensified. His fingers dug into her throat.

  Much more, and he’d crush the life out of her.

  The rattle of metal penetrated her desperate haze.

  Someone was at the door.

  MacAllister.

  A sound like a battering ram slamming into wood broke through the echo in her ears.

  A gunshot rang out.

  Around her, the room began to tilt as a dark curtain seemed to descend. Tiny lights danced before her eyes. Through the fog, she heard the door slam against the wall.

  “Release her!”

  MacAllister’s voice. So he had come for her. Pity it was too late.

  The blackness engulfed her.

  Oh, MacAllister. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to leave you again.

  …

  Mac pumped a bullet into the latch. Still, the door would not open. He slammed his booted foot into the stout panel.

  The wood splintered.

  Merrick held Rose by the throat. Coward that he was, the blighter had placed her in front of him as a living, breathing shield.

  Bloody bastard!

  “Release her!” Raising his revolver, he took aim. The shot would be risky. His mind raced, measuring his alternatives.

  “Go to hell, Campbell.”

  Mac approached slowly, meeting Merrick’s cold-eyed gaze. “Let her go now, or I’ll pull this trigger.”

  “You think I fear the likes of you?” Merrick showed no hint of emotion. “I’ll die for what I’ve done. If your bullet doesn’t do the job, the executioner’s rope will finish me.” His mouth curved into a viper’s smile. “I prefer to bring her with me.”

  Preparing to take the shot, Mac widened his stance. Merrick stood a full head taller than Rose. And that made the bastard vulnerable, despite using her as a shield.

  “Let her go.” Mac’s heart pounded against his ribs. He had to get this right. There’d be no second chance.

  “Lower your weapon. Or I’ll snap her neck here and now.”

  A vein throbbed in Mac’s forehead. Every moment that passed, Rose was in greater danger. He had to eliminate the threat.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The shot roared in his ears.

  A small, neat circle above Merrick’s brows confirmed his aim had been true.

  Lifeless, the blackguard crumpled to the floor.

  Mac lunged to catch Rose before she pitched forward. Carrying her in his arms, he looked down at the spreading stain on the Aubusson carpet. As he placed Rose on a settee by the fireplace, Sophie and Colton rushed in.

  Rose’s chest rose and fell gently with each breath.

  He’d gotten there in time to save her.

  Thank God.

  “MacAllister,” Rose murmured as her lids fluttered open.

  “I’m here, Rose.” He brushed the pad of his thumb over her forehead, smoothing away tear dampened tendrils.

  “Merrick…” she murmured.

  “Don’t try to speak. Not yet,” he said gently. “The bastard cannot hurt you. Or anyone else. Ever again.”

  “Oh, MacAllister.” Her voice was a raspy whisper. “How…how did you find me?”

  Sophie knelt by the settee, eyes brimming with compassion as she examined the marks on Rose’s slender throat. “MacAllister would’ve moved heaven and earth to find you,” she said, giving Rose’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “You were very brave, Rose.”

  Mac threaded his fingers through her hair. With the pad of his thumb, he caressed her cheek. “Colton, where is the blasted physician?”

  “He’s on his way.” On the stairs, Colton crouched by Eleanora Thomas. “The actress—she’s beyond assistance.”

  Rose reached up, tracing the angles of Mac’s jaw with her fingertips. “In my heart, I knew you’d come.”

  Her lids fluttered closed, and she rested her forearm over her brows.

  “Rest, my sweet Rose,” he said, lowering his lips to her ear. “Soon, you’ll be home.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  One Week Later

  Seated in a comfortable Chippendale chair in Quinn’s drawing room, Rose peered over her cup of oolong tea. Seated across from her, Sophie Stanwyck sipped from a porcelain cup.

  “I do hope you’ll join me in an excursion, Rose. It’s high time we did something to brighten up that pretty face of yours.”

  “I’d love to,” she said, taking another sip of tea. “I’ve been feeling a bit like a bird in a cage.”

  A relaxed little sigh escaped her. Had it been only days since she’d felt Merrick’s fingers dig into her throat, choking the life out of her? Somehow, it didn’t seem quite possible so little time had passed.

  Staying on as Jeremy Quinn’s guest as the Colton Agency operatives concluded their investigation, Rose had developed a friendship with Sophie and the female agent they’d assigned to protect her in the event coconspirators attempted to silence her. A cheery woman in her middle years with a fondness for flamboyant hats, Maureen O’Dowd was neither physically imposing nor quick to flaunt her abilities, but she wielded her ever-present parasol with lethal skill. The woman would pose a formidable threat to any assailant fooled by her unassuming demeanor.

  “I agree—an excursion would be lovely,” Maureen agreed. “A bit of natural light and fresh air might do us all good.” She tapped her ginger-gold hair. “And I am in the market for a new hat. One can never have too many, you know.”

  “Indeed.” Sophie’s glance traveled from the immense coral-pink flower on Mrs. O’Dowd’s hat to Rose. “Let’s make a day of it, shall we?”

  Rose smiled. “I could do with a new hat as well.”

  “Excellent,” Maureen said. “I’ll see to arranging the carriage.”

  Hours later, the women returned from their trip into the heart of the city. They’d visited shops, taken a spot of refreshment in a welcoming little tea room, and enjoyed warm conversation. Invigorated from the outing, Rose did not hesitate to say “yes” when MacAllister stopped by the town house and proposed a quiet meal in a fine restaurant.

  Donning an evening ensemble in deep burgundy wool, she freshened up her face and arranged her hair in a soft, upswept style with ringlets about her face.

  Waiting in the drawing room, MacAllister cut a handsome figure in a brown tweed suit with a sable waistcoat and a necktie of the same hue. She smil
ed at the sight of him. Freshly shaved, the aroma of bergamot in his soap teased her senses. Ah, she’d never grow tired of that delectable scent.

  As he came to her, her heart sped.

  “You look lovely, Rose,” he said, his tone more casual than the look in his eyes.

  “Thank you.” They exchanged a bit of small talk, and then he clasped her hand in his warm, strong fingers and led her to the coach.

  Buildings of brick and stone blurred in the background as the carriage picked up speed. He turned to her, his expression enigmatic.

  “There are times when words fail me.” The softest of smiles played on his mouth. “This, my sweet, is one of them.”

  “You, at a loss for words? Why, MacAllister, I didn’t believe that possible.”

  “Believe me, it is.” He slid his arm around her and drew her close. “You’re beautiful, far lovelier than words could ever capture.”

  Dipping his head, he pressed his mouth to hers, a passionate caress. With a sigh, Rose relaxed into him. The taste of his mouth intoxicated her.

  “Oh, MacAllister,” she whispered. “Your kiss is much more delicious than words.”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “Rose, I’ve never wanted a woman as I want you.”

  The carriage rumbled to a stop. MacAllister groaned against her lips as Bertram rapped against the door.

  “The man has a blasted poor sense of timing,” MacAllister grumbled.

  “Indeed.” She pressed a quick kiss to his mouth before he escorted her from the carriage and into Isadora’s, a fine restaurant in the heart of the West End.

  The maître d’ escorted them to a secluded table lit by candlelight. Curtains in jewel tones and glittering chandeliers lent a rich elegance to the dining room, while each table was set with fine crystal, china, and silver.

  They dined on a delectable meal, engaging in quiet conversation between bites, each avoiding any discussion of the vile plot that had claimed so many lives. Finally, Rose decided to broach the subject.

  “I understand several others have been apprehended in Merrick’s schemes,” she said, taking a sip of wine.

  MacAllister’s expression turned somber. “Portia Rathbone’s so-called bodyguard has been extremely talkative. There’s little chance he’ll avoid the gallows, but he’s desperate now.”