Tempting the Highland Spy

by Tara Kingston

  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 D
avid.

  “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.”