“Are you awake?” she whispered.
“Yes.” He stretched out his limbs and sat up on the edge of the bed. Cool air prickled against the bare skin of his chest.
“Don’t get up,” she said as he reached for his robe. “I’ve come up with a solution to our dilemma.”
“Our dilemma?” Well, that was one way to describe the way his traitorous cock sprang to attention at the very thought of her presence, pulsing against his drawers in rebellion as she neared the bed.
“Yes. I know how to solve the problem. Stay where you are.”
In the scant light, could she see him sitting on the edge of the bed?
“What are you doing?” he said, curiosity getting the better of him. Was she clutching a blanket in her arms? What the devil was she about?
She tiptoed toward the bed, peeling back the covers. If she thought that was a solution to what ailed him, by thunder, she was mistaken.
Leaning over the bed, she placed a blanket she’d rolled lengthwise, like a carpet, down the middle of the mattress, then patted it to form a flexible barrier. What in blazes did she think to accomplish with that? A slab of rough-hewn timber wouldn’t be enough to prevent him from being aware of her. The Great Wall of China wouldn’t keep the subtle lavender-infused scent of her bathwater from wafting to his nostrils, wouldn’t provide enough of an obstacle to curtail his body’s instinctive response to her femininity. That woolen log would do nothing other than ease her own mind.
Good enough, then. At least one of them would be comfortable.
“What in blazes is that?” he asked.
She hesitated, then sat on the opposite edge of the bed. “I thought you’d be more comfortable with this…with a barrier between us.”
“I’ll take the chair,” he said.
“I really wish you wouldn’t,” she said, a soft, gentle tone infusing her words. “I know how uncomfortable it must be.”
“I’ve dealt with worse, believe me,” he said truthfully. He’d slept on the hard, cold ground during the course of more than one mission. A wing chair in a warm hotel room was hardly a sacrifice.
“Still, I’d much rather you stay here…in the bed. If you’d prefer, I’ll settle into the chair.” She scooted back on the mattress. “It’s only that…I’m concerned about more than our comfort.”
The concern in her voice sounded very real. “You’re worried about some maid’s gossip compromising our cover?”
“Yes.” She lay back, pulling the covers up to her neck. “I really would prefer that you stay here…in the bed.”
If she had any notion of the temptation posed by her words—as well as the subtle torture of the prospect—she did not betray that fact. Damn it, he’d once had a bullet removed from his flesh without so much as a sip of whisky to dull the pain. He could certainly withstand sharing a bed with a beautiful woman, even a woman he knew better than to touch. Or kiss.
Or want.
Damnation, he was weak—weaker than he thought.
“As you wish,” he said finally. Still, he didn’t lie back upon the mattress. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. With any luck, she’d soon fall back to sleep. She’d pose far less temptation then.
It wasn’t long before the soft, rhythmic hush of her breaths betrayed she’d drifted off. He turned. Grace lay on her side, facing the woolen barrier she’d erected. Hazy sunlight drifted in the window, dancing over her reddish-blond curls and the contours of her face. Without thinking, he reached for her, intending to feel the silky skin of her cheek. An innocent touch.
Regaining his good sense, he pulled his hand back. Only a fool would touch her when it wasn’t necessary. Why torture himself even more?
Giving his pillow a thump, he lay on the bed, his back to her scratchy, makeshift wall, and closed his eyes.
He would’ve been better off in the chair. The thought drifted through his mind, even as he slid back into a light sleep.
When he awoke two hours later, Grace was sitting in the chair, clothed in a high-necked nightgown with a wrapper tied at the waist. She glanced up from the novel in her hand.
“Good morning, husband.” Her mouth curved into a cheeky little smile. If he’d had any reason remaining in his head, he would not have found the soft lilt of her voice or the teasing in her eyes appealing. But blast it if his gaze wasn’t drawn to her.
He grunted his own “Good morning,” and pushed himself up against the headboard. The covers fell down about his waist and her brows hiked upward, quick as a blink. And then, she plastered her attention back to the open book. Was it his imagination, or had her cheeks pinkened?
“I rather enjoyed the evening,” she said, thumbing the novel to the next page.
“I suspected as much,” he said, picturing her scandalous sketch. She had a clear talent for putting pencil to paper, even when the subject was without benefit of fig leaf or trousers.
“Miss Fairchild is a charming, modest woman.” She looked up from her book and marked the page with a ribbon. A little frown played on her lips. Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. “I still believe Mr. Jones’s suspicions are completely misguided.”
“The woman’s charm is irrelevant. I’d imagine Saucy Jack had his pleasant moments as well. It’s easier to lure in a victim when you’re not snarling at them.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’m surprised you’ve gone along with this. How anyone could believe Belle Fairchild—or her handsome fiancé, for that matter—is capable of cold-blooded murder is beyond me. It’s nothing more than vicious speculation. Is there even a shred of proof?”
Evidently, Grace had not looked inside O’Hanlon’s locked book. If she’d seen what the hollowed-out pages contained—the macabre proof of Mr. Lowry’s death—her opinion might have been very different. Though O’Hanlon had done the deed, there seemed little doubt he’d killed Lowry on Raibert’s command.
“Trust me when I tell you it’s not nonsense. Whether or not Miss Fairchild is involved is up for debate. Answering that question is part of our mission.”
“Well, we will have ample opportunity to look for answers. Miss Fairchild’s invitation to the festivities leading up to her wedding was quite enthusiastic. I thought you’d be pleased at my success.”
“I assure you, I am. You’ve gotten us in the door.”
“I do hope Mr. Jones allotted funds for my wardrobe,” she said, still studiously focusing on the pages.
Harrison gave his head a shake, stirring himself from sleep. “For your wardrobe?”
“It goes without saying I’ll need to acquire another gown or two before we leave for Raibert Castle.”
His gaze wandered to her leather-bound metal and wood traveling chest. The blasted thing looked like something a pirate would tote from port to port. The case took up as much floor space as the chair. Surely she’d brought an ample supply of garments for the trip.
He cocked a brow. “Did someone pilfer your clothing while I wasn’t looking?”
“Of course not. I certainly would’ve mentioned such an occurrence.”
“You brought a trunk full of clothing. I nearly broke my back hoisting that thing into the carriage, and the poor fellow tasked with bringing that thing up to this room looked as if his eyes might pop out of his head from the strain.”
The faintest of smiles played on her lips. “I’d say you looked quite capable of bearing its weight. After all, aren’t Highlanders known for their strength and brawn?”
“This particular Highlander prefers to conserve his strength for tasks that are worthy of his time.”
Her eyes gleamed with an expression he couldn’t quite read. “Subduing criminals who wish to kill me, perhaps?”
“I’d say that ranks at the top of the list.”
The curve of her mouth intensified. “You were most impressive that night. Mr. O’Hanlon had not expected such gallantry.”
As he met her gaze, she regarded him with a thoughtful expression. Her eyes were as deep brown a
nd tempting as fine chocolate, her expression lacking the slightest hint of guile.
Was that a tribute to her talent as an actress?
Or was her admiration genuine?
Though the question intrigued him, he shoved the prospect aside. Miss Winters’s opinion of him and his necessity-driven defense of her had no bearing on this mission.
“I’d prefer no further opportunities to demonstrate my gallantry.” Needing to change the subject, he shot his attention back to her traveling case. “What do you carry in that trunk? A ready supply of cannon balls?”
“I assure you I brought only the necessities.” She swept a stray reddish-gold curl behind her ear. “Now, as I was saying, I must find a shop and acquire a new gown or two. Today.”
He frowned. “You’re telling me you did not bring any dresses with you? What about the gown you were wearing that night in Edinburgh?”
She looked at him as if he’d suggested she attend the ball dressed as Lady Godiva. The image in his thoughts taunted him. Even in his fantasy, Grace bore a cheeky smile.
“I’ve already worn it. I can’t chance being spotted wearing the same gown twice. It simply isn’t done—not by an heiress, at least. I need something new for the wedding festivities. Something elegant, befitting the wife of a man of your stature.”
“Might I remind you I am a physician, not a member of the royal family.”
She waved away the thought. “No one needs to know you’re not wealthy. After all, you did manage to snag a pretend heiress, didn’t you?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“It’s all about the attitude,” she said with authority.
“The attitude, eh?”
“Yes, the attitude is what makes the difference—and the right wardrobe.”
“And precisely what attitude might that be?”
“When we both happened to be in attendance at the Houghton Manor wedding, you were willing to believe I was an heiress. You had no trouble accepting the ridiculous stories I told…as if my father could’ve bought a hunting club simply because he took a fancy to it.”
“So you’re telling me your father does not collect properties he takes a liking to?”
A sudden twinge of sadness flashed in her eyes, briefly but undeniably. “He most certainly didn’t do that. My father was a man of modest means. Honest and hardworking, but far from rich.”
“You said was. I take it he’s no longer alive.”
The sadness returned, and she did not try to hide it. Instantly, he regretted his query.
“Papa died long ago. I was a girl. Mama died soon after.”
“That must have been very hard for you,” he said, stifling an urge to comfort her.
“It was—and the worst of it is, what happened was my—” Her lids lowered, shuttering her eyes. When she opened them again, she met his gaze. “Aunt Thelma took care of me then. She did her best to keep a roof over our heads. I know you can’t understand that.” She pulled in a breath, then set the book aside. “But none of that matters now, does it? My point was simple—if you behave as though you have money, people assume you do.”
He contemplated her words, slowly shaking his head. “I cannot believe it’s that easy.”
One flannelette-covered shoulder lifted and fell. The nightgown and wrapper she’d donned might have suited his grandmother far better than a vibrant young bride, but he kept that observation to himself. Oddly enough, the prim clothing did nothing to mute her appeal. If anything, the thought of peeling off that dressing gown and stripping the granny gown from her delectable flesh stirred his most primal instincts. Precisely what he didn’t need. He shifted, positioning himself to ensure the blankets covering his lower body did not betray his body’s defiant response. The last bloody thing he needed was to reveal that truth to Grace—his body didn’t give a damn about the crimes she’d committed. His hunger for her was not diminished by his knowledge of her conniving ways. Of course, it might help if he wasn’t more than a bit impressed at her ingenuity—and confounded by the kindness in her heart. The enigma she presented intrigued him just as much as her beauty kindled a desire he was hard-pressed to deny. He settled his back against the headboard and shifted again.
As he watched her, a little vee formed between her delicate brown brows. Something that looked like the beginning of a smile played on her mouth. Had she noticed his sudden discomfiture?
“Is something wrong, dear husband?” Her voice was low and saccharine sweet…and all too knowing.
He gave his head a brusque shake. “Leg cramp. I’ll need to stretch out the limb.”
“Oh. It’s fortunate you’re a physician—you, of all people, should know how to heal what ails you.” Her expression was as bland as morning porridge, but the teasing glint in her eyes revealed the truth.
“Ah, Grace, believe me—I do know the remedy. But I’ve no way to turn back time and tell my brother and that arse of an American what they might do with this infernal mission.”
She shrugged again. This time, her other shoulder lifted and fell. “My, you are a bit testy this morning, aren’t you? I do believe you need a cup of coffee, darling husband. Or would you prefer tea?”
Why did she keep referring to him as husband? Was she laying on the endearments for the sake of anyone who might happen to be listening? Or was she simply trying to get under his skin? If it was the latter, she was succeeding.
“Neither.” He turned, giving the pillow a sound thump before he slid farther under the covers, folded his arms behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. At least that wouldn’t entice him. “You were telling me about your theory that behavior leads to certain assumptions. I can’t say I disagree. But there’s more to it than simply pretending to be something you’re not.”
“Of course,” she agreed. “You have to look the part. That’s the most important thing.”
“Hence, the need for a new gown.”
He looked her way and she flashed a little grin. “Now you’re catching on. I couldn’t waltz into that ballroom looking like a shopkeeper’s daughter and be taken seriously. But if you’re wearing the right clothes—and you sound the right way—it works every time.”
“Interesting,” he said, picturing her at the Houghton Manor wedding. She’d been the most beautiful woman there. No one—not even the bride—had been as lovely as Grace that day.
God above, in his thoughts, he sounded like a lovesick lad. He rolled onto his side, giving the pillow another sound thump with his fist.
“I need a new gown, something I haven’t been seen in before. A dress guaranteed to draw attention. It will be a challenge to find something at this short notice, but with any luck, I will be able to get my hands on something that will catch the eye. While they’re looking at me, you can ask questions to your heart’s content.”
A logical plan, but what the bloody hell is going to happen when I can’t keep my eyes off of you?
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Mrs. Carmichael has a network of connections throughout Scotland. If anyone can assist you in acquiring a suitable gown, it’s her.”
“Splendid. You won’t regret this.”
He assumed she was referring to the expenditure, and in that case, she was right. As for everything else—well, that was still up for debate.
“You’ll do a fine job at the ball,” he said. “You have my full confidence.”
Her voice softened, losing its cheek. “Thank you,” she said simply.
If he had to guess, no man in that room—himself, included—would be able to focus on anything other than the sight of Grace in whatever dress she chose. God only knew he was having a hard enough time, flannel and all. She could show up at the ball in a frock made from a burlap bag, and she’d still enchant every man in the room. Even a tycoon’s luxury-laden daughter could not hold a candle to Gracie Mae Winters.
Chapter Seventeen
Grace stared down at the page of her novel, making an effort to appear as though she were r
eading rather than spying on her pretend husband. Actually, spying wasn’t the right word, was it? Ogling was probably far more accurate. Wouldn’t that be what one would call the way her eyes drank in the sight of his unclothed chest.
And oh, my, what a chest it was. It wasn’t as if she had not seen him before. But their one and only encounter had been at night, under cover of darkness, with only the faint rays of an oil lamp to provide illumination. But this morning, sunlight kissed each muscular contour of his chest, defined every sinew.
His skin had been warm against hers, not quite like satin, yet not quite rough. That subtle difference in texture had intrigued her.
So many differences between them. Between their bodies. Between their characters and their lives.
What had come over her? It wasn’t like her to be so interested in a man for himself, and not what he could offer her. In her life, a man might be a source of information. He might even provide an unwitting distraction while Aunt Thelma helped herself to a hostess’s ruby ear fobs or a sawbuck or two from an overfull money clip. But these feelings of wanting—a yearning to simply touch a man, to experience his warmth and his vitality—were foreign. She wanted to know Harrison. The feel of him. The sound of his voice when it was husky with passion or when it was gravel edged with the remnants of sleep. How he wanted to live out his days.
She longed to understand what was in his heart.
All of these thoughts and yearnings frustrated her. They served no purpose. Yet, she could not deny them.
This craving to know Harrison as a man, the good, the bad, and everything in between, was a part of her now.
Quite possibly, it always would be.
She sighed, so softly he did not seem to notice. What had come over her? She’d be a fool to embrace this gentle madness.
Was it the kiss in the carriage, the simple, tender caress the night before? She’d done quite well at keeping her distance before he’d claimed her lips. Like a match to kindling, that kiss was all it had taken to reignite the hunger she’d tried so hard to convince herself no longer existed.
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