Tempting the Highland Spy (Highland Hearts)

by Kingston, Tara

  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.

  He took a swig of his drink. “You came this far to comment on my diction?”

  “Truth be told, I did not come far at all. I was in Falkirk on some business when I got word ye’d be here. It was high time I saw my brother again.”

  “Too long,” Harrison agreed. “You’re looking well. Marriage agrees with you.”

  “I might say the same of ye,” Gerard said with a chuckle.

  “I am glad you are enjoying the situation. I wish I could say the same.”

  Gerard signaled the barmaid for an ale. “It cannae be so bad. I remember the lass ye’re watching over. She’s a bonny one, she is.”

  “Her beauty is not the issue,” Harrison said. “I assume you’ve been briefed on the situation.”

  “Aye, I understand.” Gerard gave a somber nod. “So, our brother sent the Untamed Shrew with ye.”

  “I take it you are referring to Mrs. Carmichael.”

  “Who else?” Gerard chuckled. “Simon’s a cruel one, he is.”

  Harrison nodded his agreement. “Evidently, she was the only female agent available to serve as a companion to Miss Winters.”

  Gerard’s brows shot up. “Miss Winters? As I recall, ye were not so formal the last time ye saw her.”

  “I was not aware she was an expert thief.”

  Gerard shrugged. “There are worse things in life to be. Do ye know her reasons?”

  “Why does anyone steal and deceive? It’s a matter of greed.”

  His brother shook his head. “Ye should know it’s never that simple. Ye need to find out what drove her to a life of deceit.”

  “That’s of no interest to me.” Even as he spoke the words, their falseness rang clear.

  Gerard picked up on the lie. “Bollocks. Ye’ve always been one to solve a puzzle.”

  Harrison took another drink. “Did you bring the information I needed?”

  “Aye,” he said, handing Harrison a leather-bound folio. “That American heiress is unpredictable as the wind, but this should do for a start. The woman is an art collector. The museum in Stirling is exhibiting its newest acquisition this week. She’s expected to be present at the unveiling.”

  “I’ll ensure Miss Winters is at the event.”

  “The heiress won’t be alone. Raibert doesn’t let her out of his sight. Be prepared to present a distraction, if necessary.”

  “Of course.” Glancing past his brother, Harrison spotted Grace and Mrs. Carmichael as they crossed the threshold into the pub. “My dear wife is approaching.”

  “I assume the Untamed Shrew is with her.” If Harrison hadn’t known better, he’d have thought he spotted a flicker of trepidation in Gerard’s eyes.

  Harrison smiled to himself. For some reason he couldn’t quite define, it was good to see his normally fearless brother display even a trace of apprehension. “Yes. And she’s brought her fan.”

  “Good God.” Evidently, Gerard had come in contact with the contraption.

  Grace’s eyes brightened as she caught sight of Gerard. Harrison rose to escort the ladies to the table.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” she said, greeting Gerard as she slipped into a seat.

  “’Tis good to see you, lass,” he said. His attention flickered to Mrs. Carmichael as a barmaid set a nearly overflowing tankard before him. “And you as well.”

  Mrs. Carmichael’s forehead knitted with concern. “Why are you here?”

  “I got word my brother was in the area and decided to pay the bloke a visit.” He lifted the stein and took a hearty draught. “And I had a thirst for some fine ale.”

  Her eyes narrowed as her lips thinned to a seam. Leaning toward him, Mrs. Carmichael lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know the risks.”

  “Bah,” he said, taking another drink. “Why wouldn’t a man want to see his newly wedded brother and his lovely bride?”

  With exaggerated politeness, she nodded her response, even while she glowered at him beneath her lashes.

  “Mrs. Carmichael, it is good to see you. Miss Winters could not have found a more capable secretary.” Gerard regarded her with a look of false solemnity as he pulled out a chair. “Please, do make yerself comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” Her tone stiff as the steel-reinforced ribs in her fan, she perched restlessly upon the seat.

  “I trust you’ve been enjoying the journey,” Harrison said as Fergus ambled up to the table.

  “I always enjoy the Scottish countryside,” Grace spoke up. “Its beauty is beyond compare.”

  Mrs. Carmichael’s gaze roamed to Fergus. “I’m afraid I could not focus on our surroundings. I was too preoccupied praying that I’d survive the ride.”

  “I hear tell there’s a solution for that,” Fergus said, his face as somber as a vicar delivering the Sunday sermon.

  “And what might that be?”

  “Ye might’ve spared yerself the carriage ride if ye’d remembered yer broom.”

  “Broom, eh?” Mrs. Carmichael eyed her fan. “Don’t tempt me.”

  The driver feigned a shudder. “Ye’ve no worries about that with this man. I’ve far more pleasant companionship waiting for me.” Flashing a craggy-toothed grin, Fergus turned and ambled back to the bar.

  Settling into a pleasant conversation, Harrison, his brother, and the women enjoyed a light supper. To a casual observer, he and Grace might have been any newly married couple enjoying a brief reunion with family. For the most part, she was restrained in manner, displaying little resemblance to the vivacious young woman he’d first met at the wedding where Gerard had served as bodyguard to the bridesmaid who was now his wife. But a stranger would not detect the tension in the set of her mouth or the tiny furrows of concern between her eyebrows.

  Regret dug into his gut like a fist. Bugger it, the unhappiness on her face shouldn’t matter to him. It wasn’t his duty to see to Grace’s joy. It wasn’t his responsibility to ease her mind and take her worries onto himself. His role in this mission was clear—keep her alive and retrieve the MacKendrick dagger.

  He had his duty. Nothing else mattered. Not now.

  When Grace excused herself to retire for the night, she bade Gerard what seemed a fond farewell. Announcing her intention to take her rest, Mrs. Carmichael joined her in departing the tavern. Bidding Gerard a good night, the matron displayed an unexpected warmth. Of course, that was not truly surprising. Gerard had always had a way with her. Even all those years ago when they’d been mere lads, his brother had been able to charm his way out of a scrape.

  “I’ll join you shortly, Grace,” he said for effect as the women stepped away from the table. They had to create the illusion they were together, even though she would cross through the door that connected their chambers and sleep with a wall literally keeping them apart.

  “I look forward to it,” she said with a cheeky wink. Was it his imagination, or was there a note of promise in her tone? Ah, yes, she was trying to torture him.

  She turned her back to him and walked away. The door swung shut behind her.

  “She’s a bonny one,” Gerard said. “There’s more to that lass than what ye’ve been told. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

  Harrison stretched out his legs and took another drink. “What do you mean?”

  “I may not have your talent for analysis, but I can read a face. She’s worried, and not only about herself.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Harrison stared down at the rapidly warming ale in his stein. “But that’s not relevant to the situation.”

 
“You think not?”

  Harrison frowned. His brother had a knack for confounding his thoughts, for complicating what had seemed a simple, rational situation.

  “I will do everything in my power to keep her safe,” Harrison said. “But there are some things I cannot protect her from—I cannot change her past.”

  Gerard considered his words. “You cannot change it. But ye must do what ye can to understand it. Find out why the lass did what she did. Then, you will have the true picture.”

  Chapter Ten

  Aunt Thelma loved to reminisce about her dearly departed husband, a man she’d loved for better or for worse—for worse being house-rattling snores that might have awoken the dead from their slumber. Grace had put no more stock in the description than in her aunt’s audacious claim to have gossiped with a certain loose-lipped first lady over tea and pastries in the White House.

  Until tonight.

  Now, she understood.

  Slipping away from the bed she attempted to share with Mrs. Carmichael, she padded over to the rocking chair and plopped into it. Like a child attempting to drown out a scolding, she plugged her fingers into her ears.

  No, that would not work.

  She was so tired. Utterly exhausted. And yet, there was no rest in sight.

  Perhaps she’d learn to ignore the nerve-jangling sounds.

  She sighed. Heaven knew she’d have had better luck drifting off to sleep while lying beside a cannon in the heat of battle.

  In all fairness to Mrs. Carmichael, the matron was not snoring. Not now, at least. Grace might’ve been able to ignore a rhythmic sawing sound.

  It was far worse than that.

  Margaret Carmichael talked in her sleep.

  Talked wasn’t really the right word. Argued. Bantered. Bickered. Any of those words would have fit. She yelled or muttered or sputtered some jarring exclamation every quarter hour, as if by clockwork.

  All those years, Grace had always thought wake the dead was merely an expression. But now, she wouldn’t be shocked if the infernal noise actually did rouse some unlucky spirit from its rest.

  Leaning back, she curled up in the chair. The spindles dug into her back, but she ignored the sensation and closed her eyes. A minor discomfort was no match for sleeping beside Mrs. Carmichael.

  Finally, she would get some rest.

  She drifted off and flowed into a dream. Images danced through her mind in a blur. Her sister’s face. A kitten she’d adored as a child, a charcoal-gray ball of fur. Her father dressed for a day of work in his store, his stern expression transforming into a smile at the sight of her.

  Suddenly, a cry that seemed a cross between a groan and a squawk tore her back to reality. Mrs. Carmichael was tossing and turning on the mattress, seeming to fend off some invisible adversary.

  Oh, dear.

  With a sigh, Grace came to her feet. Suddenly, she had an idea. Genius. Or perhaps not. In either case, it was worth a try.

  Reaching down, she tugged the broad felt tie from her dressing gown and tied it around her head. Once. Twice. With a grain of luck, the thick flannel would block at least some of the sound. Mrs. Carmichael groaned again, the first test of her makeshift earmuffs. The blurred sounds that made it through the cloth were not nearly as jarring.

  Grace returned to the bed and pulled the covers around her. Another strangled protest came from the agent’s side of the bed. The grating sound did not make Grace feel as if she wanted to catapult herself from the bed.

  Perhaps…just perhaps…she could endure this.

  Slivers of moonlight streamed between the window curtains. Rolling onto her side, she could make out the door to the adjoining chamber. Harrison was likely burrowed beneath the blankets, enjoying a deep slumber. Lucky devil.

  He’d agreed to protect her. Perhaps she could convince herself that his duty extended to seeing that she got a good night’s sleep. She smiled. Would he think her a complete wanton if she unlatched the door and took refuge in his quarters?

  With a satisfying thump of the pillow, she closed her eyes again. In the morning, the dark circles under her eyes would rival a raccoon’s mask. But she’d get through this night.

  And before the next nightfall, she’d jolly well see about finding some earplugs.

  …

  Harrison stripped off his shirt and drank in the feel of cool air against his skin. He’d lingered too long by the fireplace in the pub. Now, the slight chill seemed a refreshing tonic. Shedding his trousers, he tossed the garments onto the wooden chair in the corner and climbed beneath the covers of a bed made for two.

  Tossing aside the wool blanket, he stretched out his limbs, as if that might ease the tension in his body, and folded his hands behind his head. His thoughts created chaos in his mind. Slim rays of gaslight flickered in from the lighted corridor, trickling in around the edges of the door, mixing with the shadows. He studied the interplay of light and darkness, the patterns and silhouetted images on the wall and the ceiling, but his attempt to distract himself didn’t work. Damned shame he couldn’t seem to think about something—anything—besides the woman in the adjacent chamber.

  Staring up at the ceiling, he pictured her face. Even after the teeth-rattling carriage ride with Fergus Royce at the reins, Grace had been the brightest, most vibrant woman in the tavern. No amount of hair dye or exhaustion could dim the light in her warm brown eyes.

  The hope in her gaze intrigued him. Given the life she’d led, one would expect her to be a cynic. But even now, when so much was at stake and she was facing danger from all fronts, he’d seen no trace of bitterness. Rather, he’d detected a stubborn—and naive—faith in her future, a sense of optimism that she could find her way out of this quagmire.

  Find out why the lass did what she did.

  Gerard’s words nagged at him. By thunder, what did it matter? Grace could not change her past. Even if she were absolved of her crimes, he’d know the truth. He could neither deny nor ignore the fact she was a thief, a confidence artist who’d preyed on those who trusted her.

  Blast it, why did he want to understand? Why did the question of what had driven Grace to a life of thievery gnaw at his insides?

  He shouldn’t give a damn about her.

  But he did.

  It had been all he could do to focus on what his brother was saying when Grace was in the room. And when she’d left to retire to her quarters with her stiff-necked chaperone, he’d wished it were him at her side.

  What he wouldn’t give to hold her as she slept and look into her eyes as they awoke.

  If he’d had any sense, he would’ve refused this assignment. Simon’s arguments for his place in this mission were valid. But Harrison had been a damned fool to go along with this scheme.

  If only he didn’t feel the need to watch over her. If he’d insisted that Simon assign another agent to protect Grace—could he live with himself if something went wrong?

  With a groan, he yanked the covers over him. He needed to get some blasted sleep. The morning would come soon enough, and with it, the heart of his task would commence. He must carry out this mission.

  And then, he’d turn away and return to his ordinary, well-ordered life—an existence that had no place for a criminal, no matter how lovely.

  No matter how much he craved her by his side.

  He would do his duty.

  No matter the cost.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stirling, Scotland

  Thirty Hours Later

  “Rise and shine, dear. There’s no time to dawdle.”

  Mrs. Carmichael’s oh-so-cheery voice roused Grace from the best slumber she’d enjoyed all night. After hours of restlessness, the matron had settled into a seemingly peaceful slumber, allowing Grace to burrow into pleasant dreams of a time when she wasn’t so far from home. With a groan of protest, she rolled onto her side and pulled the pillow over her head.

  “Grace, you must wake up.”

  The high-pitched tones might as well have been a roo
ster crowing. Evidently, despite the warfare she’d appeared to wage in her sleep, Mrs. Carmichael had enjoyed a far more restful night than Grace had.

  “I know you can hear me,” Mrs. Carmichael persisted. “Climb out from under those covers.”

  A scandalous epithet ran through Grace’s mind. If she informed the matron where she might stuff her admonitions to leave the comfort of the warm bed, would Mrs. Carmichael keel over from the shock?

  In lieu of a reply, Grace tugged the blanket tighter about her.

  “Don’t think the maid’s tongue won’t wag at the sight of you here. After all, you’ve got a strapping man in the adjoining chamber.” Mrs. Carmichael’s whispered words took on a sharper edge. “We cannot chance a curious housekeeper wondering why we are sharing a bed.”

  Casting the pillow aside, Grace flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. “You would have to remind me of that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Remind you of what, dear?” Cheek infused the matron’s tone. “That you must leave this room? Or that the man next door is quite strapping and robust?”

  An image of her pretend husband sauntered into Grace’s thoughts. The Harrison of her fantasy peeled off his shirt and wore only trousers and a smile that was too darned seductive for her own good. The carved planes of his upper body beckoned her touch, the sprinkling of dark hair over his chest making her fingers itch to reach out and touch him—the flesh and blood male who occupied the adjacent chamber.

  “Both,” she replied a bit too truthfully.

  Mrs. Carmichael gave a little hmmph, as if Grace’s statement confounded her just a bit. “We must keep up appearances,” she went on. “The staff in a hotel such as this one, a place frequented by Society’s elites, sees everything that’s going on. Discretion is highly valued, but there’s no telling who the gossips are. Whispered innuendo will cause complications we don’t need.”

  Pushing up on her elbows, Grace stifled a drowsy yawn. Her gaze wandered to the window. Not so much as a hint of natural light drifted through the gap between the curtains. “Is it my imagination, or has the sun not yet risen?”

  Mrs. Carmichael shook her head. “It is not your imagination, dear. We’ve got to stay one step ahead of the chamber maids.”