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 neve
r 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 g
aze 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.
Tempting the Highland Spy Page 8
