“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 s
ome 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 t
ake 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.
Tempting the Highland Spy Page 10
