Tempting the Highland Spy

by Tara Kingston

  “Agreed.” Feeling more relaxed than she had in days, she turned her attention to the statue and put her pencil to paper.

  She wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed when she’d finished sketching in the tartan on the newly kilted fellow’s image. Perhaps she’d taken a wee bit too much time on the abdominals, defining the sleek musculature of the model’s flat belly, and she’d definitely put some focus on the swell of the fellow’s biceps. She glanced from the statue to her sketch. With a sigh, she studied the face on the page. She’d done well enough with his strong, chiseled jaw, but she’d offered little definition to his features. It wasn’t as if she did not possess the ability to portray eyes and lips and a fine Roman nose. But for some reason she didn’t even want to understand, every time she began to depict the features, the picture in her mind’s eye looked nothing like the man on the statue and quite a bit like the Scot who’d made far too many appearances in her dreams.

  “Oh, my, that is splendid.”

  Grace nearly dropped her pencil. She turned, coming face-to-face with Belle Fairchild.

  Belle reached for Grace’s sketchbook. “May I?”

  “Of course,” Grace said, handing her the leather notebook.

  Belle studied the drawing. “It’s marvelous! I do so love how you’ve given him a bit of modesty, and with a Scottish flair.”

  “I’m not quite so sure he’s the modest one,” Grace replied with a smile.

  “If I could make one suggestion, I’d make his legs even more powerful.” Belle looked from the page to the statue and back again. Her expression grew serious. “It won’t be quite true to the statue, but much more befitting a Scotsman.”

  My, she hadn’t expected that from the rather reserved Miss Fairchild. Evidently, she’d begun to break out of her shell, just a bit. Grace glanced behind Belle, looking for any sign of her previous companions.

  “An excellent suggestion,” she said, sketching in more muscles on the strong legs beneath the kilt.

  “I just knew I’d find you here with your sketchbook. I recall how beautifully you depicted the flowers around the castle in Edinburgh. Such a lovely place for a wedding.”

  “Will you be taking your vows in Scotland?”

  “Of course,” Belle said. “Donnal’s family home will be the perfect setting. It’s not far from Loch Lomond. Such beautiful countryside.”

  “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that vicinity,” Grace said, adding in a bit more bulk to the fellow’s calves with a few strokes of her pencil.

  “It’s enchanting. When I think of the factories that surround the city where I grew up, the Highlands seem a paradise on earth.”

  “Indeed,” Grace agreed.

  “Raibert Castle is utterly grand. Donnal has ploughed every penny he’s earned into restoring the place. The main living areas are nearly done, and the ballroom is simply divine. In time, the entire estate will be back to its former luster.” Belle’s expression turned pensive. “I only regret…” She gave her head a brisk shake. “Well, this is no time for regrets, is it?”

  “Of course not,” Grace said. “I have such fond memories of the wedding. You were a lovely bridesmaid.”

  “As were you.” Belle nibbled her lip. “It seems I’ve left all of my dear friends behind. I departed New York rather abruptly. I suppose you saw the papers.”

  “Yes, I did happen to see the Post before I returned to Scotland.”

  Belle motioned her toward a quiet corner. When she spoke, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “It was dreadful, Grace. Utterly dreadful. The headlines were the stuff of nightmares. They even came up with a name for me—the Notorious Heiress.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” Grace said, carefully observing the change in Belle’s expression.

  The heiress’s pain at being accused of such a horrible crime seemed very real. She wrung her hands together as tears glistened in her blue eyes. Surely she was not involved in her father’s death. The accusations against her made no sense. How could this woman have committed murder?

  Behind Belle, a tall, strikingly handsome man with a thespian’s flair for making an entrance approached with long, sure strides. As his gaze settled on Belle, he flashed a smile that might have charmed the most dour of critics. Donnal Raibert. A decade earlier, the actor had made his mark on the London stage before leaving to seek his fortune in New York. Once, a year or so before she’d first traveled to Scotland, Grace had attended his performance of Hamlet. His emotional range was beyond compare. She’d been enthralled. But now, face-to-face with the man, something in his dark brown eyes unleashed a chill along her spine.

  Nonsense, she chided herself. She was being a goose. The talk of Raibert and his supposedly crime-ridden past had gotten the better of her.

  If she were to get through this mission, she had to believe that.

  Surely, the agents had gotten it wrong. Mr. Jones’s spies could not possibly be correct. The handsome Scot the heiress had run off to marry was not a ruthless killer.

  Still, she could not deny Raibert had reason to want Herbert Fairchild dead. The tycoon had been a very rich man, an industrialist whose wealth would buy power as well as luxury.

  And now, Belle stood to inherit that fortune.

  Donnal has ploughed every penny he’s earned into restoring the place.

  Raibert had motive. If he’d arranged the tycoon’s murder, would Belle be next?

  The thought jarred Grace. Swallowing hard against a sudden attack of nerves, she fought to maintain her composure.

  Raibert placed a hand on Belle’s shoulder. She started with a little gasp.

  “Ah, there you are, darling,” he said in a smooth baritone. His smile broadened as she whirled around to face him.

  “Oh, it’s you. I didn’t know you’d arrived.”

  “A pack of wolves could not have kept me from your side.” As his attention swept over Belle, the frost in his gaze contradicted the warmth in his voice. “How did I gain such good fortune? You are the most beautiful woman here, my darling, and you’re mine.”

  Good heavens, the man is giving quite a performance, isn’t he? Much more of this, and Grace would regret not wearing boots better suited for trudging through muck.

  If Belle had blushed in response to her fiancé’s effusive praise, Grace would not have been surprised. But the heiress seemed to stiffen her spine as her mouth settled into a taut seam. Tension rather than delight seemed evident on her features. How very odd.

  “Oh, you should not make such a fuss.” Belle’s light tone contrasted with the coolness in her eyes. Something was not quite right, though Grace could not put her finger on it.

  Raibert pinned Grace with a look that seemed to scrutinize her. “Mrs. MacMasters, it is indeed a pleasure,” he said, closing the slight distance between them without waiting for an introduction.

  He was a bold one, wasn’t he? The cool appraisal in his expression set her nerves further on edge.

  “Might I ask how you know my name?” she asked, taking a step in retreat. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Surely I would have remembered.”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “I made your husband’s acquaintance earlier. He is indeed a lucky man.”

  Your husband.

  “Actually, I’d say I am the lucky one.” Grace forced a tepid smile. Mustering the bland response was a greater challenge than she’d anticipated. Even if the circumstances were different, she could not imagine ever marrying—any man, much less Harrison MacMasters. She’d seen how devastating love—and the loss of it—could be.

  As if on cue, Harrison entered the sculpture gallery. With each long stride, his dark trousers hugged his muscular legs. What a pity he hadn’t worn a kilt for the occasion. Would it be utterly improper for her to suggest he don his plaid for their next outing?

  The fine wool of his jacket clung to his lean-muscled shoulders. Defying her best efforts to focus on the job she’d come to do, the memory of curling her hands around those powerfu
l arms washed over her. How was she ever going to get through this assignment if her own mind and body proved to be traitors?

  He sidled up to her with a casual ease, his stance possessive and protective. Was he playacting? Or had the position come naturally to him?

  “Mr. Raibert is newly arrived from America,” Harrison said, joining their conversation. “If I’m not mistaken, you attended one of his performances in New York, didn’t you, darling?”

  “Yes—Hamlet, as I recall,” Grace said, feeling suddenly more at ease. How peculiar that Harrison’s presence heightened her sense of security. There was something about him she couldn’t quite define—a calm, intelligent confidence that glimmered in his eyes and infused his words. He wasn’t one to boast of his masculinity, but his strength and power were undeniable.

  “One of my favorite portrayals,” Raibert said matter-of-factly. “I expect to revisit the role on the Glasgow stage in the near future.”

  “I am so looking forward to that day,” Belle said. “Donnal and I first met after one of his performances. I’d visited the theater with my cousin, despite some reluctance on my part. I’ve never cultivated much appreciation for Shakespearean plays. But I found this one particularly captivating.”

  “I can only imagine. It’s all so very romantic,” Grace said, tucking her drawing pad into her reticule before Harrison caught sight of her creation. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw Dr. MacMasters. He was a guest at a dear friend’s wedding.”

  “Love at first sight?” Belle said, sounding hopeful.

  Grace shook her head. “Good heavens, no,” she said with a little chuckle. “Truth be told, I thought he was a bit of a cold fish.”

  Belle’s mouth formed a shocked little circle as Raibert’s mouth crooked into a grin.

  For his part, Harrison’s brows shot up, and he cocked his head, amusement gleaming in his eyes. “Cold fish, is it? Tell me, darling—was that before or after I carried you back to the manor house when you were knocked to the ground by another bridesmaid?”

  Infuriating man. He would have to bring up that incident at Houghton Manor. Lady Evelyn had saved her life that day, but to his credit, Harrison had been quite a gentleman in the aftermath of the incident.

  “Before,” she replied. “You did seem to warm up…just a bit…after you held me in your arms.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed coolly. “Although as I recall, it was a very warm day, and it was a long walk back to the house. The response you detected was most likely the effect of exertion.”

  “What I’m talking about had nothing to do with exertion,” she countered, adding a layer of playfulness as she spoke the truth. “You and I both know that.”

  A smile played on his lips. Was it genuine, or part of his disguise? “I suppose we do know the truth, don’t we?”

  Was it her imagination, or had his voice gone lower? Huskier? Had the memory of that day moved him?

  “All this talk of weddings has sparked an idea.” Belle’s eyes brightened with excitement. “Grace, dear, this might seem rather impulsive, but I think it’s brilliant. Will you join my wedding party? I’d so love to have you and Dr. MacMasters there. It would be delightful to have another American near my side when I speak my vows.”

  The invitation had come even more quickly than Grace had expected. Careful to conceal the slight rush of success surging through her, she met Belle’s proposition with a look of contemplation. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager.

  “We had planned to be on our way to my husband’s family estate within the week, but I would love to see you speak your vows. What do you say, sweetheart—one more wedding before the season is over?”

  “That might require us to extend our trip.” Harrison thinned his mouth, nearly too convincing in his feigned reluctance. “Of course, it can be arranged.”

  Raibert shot Harrison a glance. “I’d welcome the presence of another Scotsman at the place while the women do whatever it is that women do to prepare for these momentous occasions. There’s only so much talk of flowers and lace that I can endure.”

  “I’d be ever thankful if Grace was a member of my wedding party.” Belle’s gracious smile might’ve won over Ebenezer Scrooge himself. “Please, say you’ll be our guests.”

  Grace conjured her sweetest tone. “Dear, I know this is rather sudden, but it would mean a great deal to me.”

  Putting on a bit of a scowl for effect, Harrison met her entreaty with a look of husbandly resignation. “Very well, darling. How could I ever refuse you?”

  Belle clasped her hands together in excitement. “Wonderful! I’ll see to the arrangements. We’ll have a grand time. I guarantee it!”

  Raibert cleared his throat with a theatrical flare. Grace pulled in a breath, thankful for the interruption.

  “What perfect timing. We’ve settled that matter, and now, I do believe they are preparing to unveil the Rembrandt. Shall we make our way to the gallery?”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Harrison agreed, looking as relieved as she was that their dialogue had been halted. He edged closer, perfectly proper, and yet, possessive in a way that appealed to her more than was reasonable. Reaching out, he clasped her hand, ever the gentleman.

  “I’ve so looked forward to this night,” Belle said.

  “As have I,” Grace agreed.

  “Anticipation does have a way of making everything sweeter.” Harrison spoke in a low, slightly rough-edged voice, almost as if the words were meant for her ears alone. The heat of his skin passed through the thin barrier of her gloves, igniting a fresh awareness of the man. Was he playing the part of the amorous newly wedded husband to perfection, or was she simply making too much of it?

  Grace shot him a sidelong glance, her mouth curving into what she hoped was an adoring smile. Not that she had to put much effort into that acting feat. Despite his determination to stick to his duty as an agent of the Crown—never letting himself forget she was, in fact, a criminal, and not merely a woman who’d once lain sated and sleepy in his arms—he could not fully extinguish the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. A dart of pain pricked at her heart. What might have been if she’d encountered this man under other circumstances? If she had not behaved so recklessly that terrible day so very long ago—if she had not been drawn into Aunt Thelma’s methods for keeping a roof over their heads and food in their bellies—would things have been quite different if they’d chanced to meet?

  Pulling her wandering thoughts back to her task, Grace shifted her attention to Belle and her fiancé. “I’ve always been impressed with Rembrandt’s use of color to set a mood,” she said.

  “Indeed,” Belle said. “The artist’s brilliance is beyond compare.”

  Harrison flashed Grace a deadpan look. “As with all things, I do hope the experience proves to be worth the wait.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Harrison lay on his back on the bed in the hotel room, fingers laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling as he willed his mind to go blank. Slivers of breaking dawn slipped between the edges of the curtains, creating ribbons of dim light against the dark surface. Nearly twelve hours had passed since he’d observed Grace charm Belle Fairchild into an invitation to her Highland wedding. Blasted shame the New York heiress wasn’t the only one Grace had managed to entice into wanting more of her friendship—into wanting more of her.

  Grace’s enthusiasm for the varied works of art and her delight at the exhibition were genuine. Sarah Bernhardt could not have feigned the joy in her smile when the painting had been revealed. The sparkle in her eyes drew him in. When Grace smiled, she brightened the room.

  Of course, he was a fool where Grace was concerned. He’d already established that. Bugger it, he should have refused this assignment. What unbounded arrogance had possessed him to believe he could ignore the warmth in her gentle laugh and the compassion in her heart?

  Compassion—what an unexpected quality for a confidence woman and thief to possess. But what he’d seen was re
al. He didn’t doubt that. Not for a minute. Grace wasn’t acting when she took to people who were in distress, as she’d done with the weeping bridesmaid at the wedding in Edinburgh. Had the brief delay in her scheme allowed the thug O’Hanlon to catch her red-handed rifling through his things?

  Grace warmed to those who displayed loneliness, as Miss Fairchild did when she wasn’t trying so hard to hide it. That wasn’t a performance. And she’d put her own future on the line to etch a deal that would protect her daft, larcenous aunt.

  By hellfire, this would be easier if he could ignore the way her expressive eyes warmed when she was around people who seemed to need her. Or the way those same eyes had flashed with mischief as she’d tucked away the slightly scandalous sketch she’d created of some ancient bloke she’d drawn with a kilt covering his manhood, of all the bloody things. He’d caught a glimpse of the sketch. Was it his imagination, or did the fellow bear a rather surprising resemblance to him?

  He dismissed the thought. A few more days of this, and he’d be ready for Bedlam. Every morning had become a subtle torture, nearly diabolical in its simplicity. Like clockwork, a quarter hour before the rooster crowed, she’d slip in through the connecting door and glide under the covers, lest a chamber maid become suspicious of their sleeping arrangement. And then, he’d pull himself from the bed and plant himself in a chair.

  Judging from the patterns of light seeping in from the window, it wouldn’t be long now before Grace tiptoed through the portal. If he had any sense, he’d leave the bed now and settle himself into his stiff Chippendale-style refuge, with its scratchy upholstery and a back angled just the right way to produce a kink in his neck. If he were out of bed, he’d avoid the temptation to stay there.

  Or so he told himself. He’d long since given up on being an optimist about his self-control where Gracie Mae Winters was concerned.

  A tinny creak of the hinges alerted him to her impending entrance. She was earlier than he expected, though not by much.

  She came in and quietly closed the door, the squawk of metal that desperately needed a coating of oil the only thing betraying her efforts at stealth.