Tempting the Highland Spy (Highland Hearts)

by Kingston, Tara

  Blast it all to hell, his job would be so much easier if she’d had more in common with a crone than a goddess.

  “What do you think?” she asked with a hint of a smile.

  What do I think? A question that was a trap if ever he’d heard one. If he told her the truth—if he told Grace he’d love to peel the prim ivory blouse with its high lace collar and flowing black skirt from her body and put that comfortable bed to good use—she might well run from the room seeking the straitlaced protection of Mrs. Carmichael and her blasted parasol.

  He cleared his throat, as if that might banish the treacherous thoughts in his mind. “You look exceedingly…presentable.”

  “Presentable?” Her delicately arched brows shot up. “Well, I think I look a bit better than presentable, if I do say so myself.”

  He smiled, despite himself. “If we don’t hurry, you’ll need to change into your evening ensemble.”

  She waved him away with a flick of her wrist. “I told you I would be ready within the hour.”

  “Are you aware that was ninety minutes ago?”

  Grace gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve only a bit more to do. My hair does not want to cooperate in this humidity.” She peered into the mirror, fussing a bit over her upswept curls. “Besides, if we show our faces too bright and early, some might question that we are newlyweds. After all, we’re on our honeymoon. I doubt we would be leaving this room before noon.”

  “I suppose you could say that.” He cleared his throat again. Odd, how the words seemed to stick in his throat.

  She twisted a wayward curl into place and pinned it. “I’ve heard tell that Sally and Dougal had such a grand time on their wedding trip, they scandalized the hotel staff.”

  Harrison pictured the groom at the first wedding where he’d encountered Grace. She’d been a bridesmaid then, quickly ingratiating herself to the wedding party and the guests.

  “Are you certain? Dougal McLeod is as staid as they come.”

  Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Rumor has it they remained in their room for the first three days…and nights…taking their meals in bed.”

  Her words kindled thoughts he couldn’t afford to harbor—images of strawberry-blond curls spread over his pillow, a tempting smile, shapely limbs splayed over the cotton sheets. By hellfire, it would be a miracle if he retained his sanity by the end of this mission.

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to believe the gossips,” he said, forcing a bland reply.

  “Perhaps you’re right. But then again, Dougal and Sally are in love. Truly and deeply.” Her voice had developed a faraway quality. “I think it’s rather delightful, really.”

  Was the wistfulness in her eyes genuine? If he didn’t know better—if he didn’t know the truth of her deception—he’d be tempted to believe she was a secret romantic.

  But he did know the truth.

  Grace was a master at pretending to be something she wasn’t. Whether that persona was a wealthy debutante or simply a woman who longed for love, she selected the mask that best suited her purposes. He wasn’t about to deceive himself that she craved anything beyond the signed pardon that represented her freedom.

  “It sounds like drivel to me. Now, we need to keep to our schedule…or at least, some approximation of it. It’s imperative that you make contact with Miss Fairchild today.”

  She cocked her head slightly, regarding him as if he were a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. “Drivel, is it? Are you telling me you do not believe in love?”

  The question caught him off guard. She might as well have asked him to explain how it was that fate had such a wicked sense of humor. After all, that was the only explanation for the fact that he was standing here within arm’s length of a decidedly sturdy bed, discussing another man’s wedding night…and those that followed.

  He met her eyes, studying her. Her curiosity appeared to be sincere.

  “I didn’t say that. Truth be told, my parents have been deeply committed to one another for many years.”

  “They married for love?” Something that looked like hope brightened her eyes.

  He nodded. “From what I’ve been told, their union faced a variety of obstacles. But they were undeterred.”

  A soft smile played on her lips. “Perhaps, you will tell me their story…when time permits.”

  “Indeed. When time permits.”

  “And your brother…surely you cannot deny the love between Gerard and Lady Evelyn. He risked his life to save her.”

  “He is devoted to her,” Harrison said, picturing his rowdy, reckless older brother and his lovely bride. No one in the family, save for their mother, might have predicted the way Gerard had cast aside his roguish ways. He’d fallen hard for the lovely English bridesmaid he’d been sent to protect while she, like Grace, was a member of a Highland wedding party.

  “There is nothing like a Scottish wedding,” she said. “I’ve attended my share of weddings from New York to the Highlands, and the Highland setting is by far my favorite.”

  He nodded slowly. “I understand you’re rather an expert at weddings.”

  “You might say it’s in my line of work.”

  If he’d had any sense, he would change the subject. But the cheekiness of her tone was too damned appealing to let the remark go.

  “What appeals to you most about a Highland wedding?” he asked.

  “If I were trying to be proper, I’d say the emotion of the ceremony. But quite honestly, I’d have to say the kilts.”

  “The kilts?” Good God, he sounded like a daft mockingbird.

  Her eyes sparkling like sun-touched amber, she flashed a cheeky little grin. “I do appreciate the way a man looks in a kilt. You don’t see those at home. Not at all. At a Highland wedding, the place is filled to the brim with handsome men in their plaids.”

  The woman certainly possessed the ability to take him by surprise. He’d give her that. He glanced down at his timepiece. If he had a brain left in his head, he’d shift the subject from wedding nights and love and Highlanders in tartan.

  A sudden knock at the door echoed against the high ceiling. Mrs. Carmichael’s high-pitched scratch of a voice penetrated the wood. “Are you in there, Dr. MacMasters?”

  Damn. He should have been grateful for the interruption, even if it came from Mrs. Carmichael, but somehow, he would’ve rather continued the discussion with Grace. Thank God he didn’t always get his way.

  “Yes, Mrs. Carmichael,” he said.

  “And Mrs. MacMasters…is she well?”

  “I’m quite well,” Grace spoke up. “Please, do come in.”

  The matron entered and closed the door behind her. “I must admit, I was growing concerned.”

  Grace gave a little shrug. “There’s no need for worry. I anticipate this day will be rather uneventful.”

  “One can hope.” Mrs. Carmichael swept her gaze over Grace. “You look most presentable, my dear.”

  Grace frowned. “Presentable. There goes that word again.” She sighed. “Is it against the Guild code of conduct to use a more vibrant adjective?”

  “The truth of it is, you do look beautiful today,” Harrison said. How could the woman not know she was lovely? Even if she were clad in a gown made from a grain sack, she would outshine every lass in the city.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, can we finally get on with our business for the day?”

  She shot him a look beneath her lashes. “Of course. I did not intend to squander our oh-so-precious time.”

  Mrs. Carmichael’s forehead creased like a washboard. “Dr. MacMasters, need I remind you that patience is a virtue?”

  “My interest in acquiring virtues—much less such a banal virtue as patience—is nonexistent.”

  As if rehearsed, both Mrs. Carmichael and Grace gave a haughty little sniff. Perhaps not simultaneously. Actually, it seemed Mrs. Carmichael had sniffed first, and Grace had followed her lead.

  Grace hiked her chin. “I suppose I would be in a far gr
eater hurry if I had any expectation of actually encountering Miss Fairchild before the afternoon,” she said in a tone edged with defiance.

  “According to Jones, she has a reservation to brunch with an old friend. It would be to our advantage to make an initial contact while she is out of Raibert’s sight and more likely to let her guard down.”

  “His source, whoever that might be, is wrong,” Grace said with confidence. “Belle is not a person who enjoys the morning hours. Quite the opposite. It’s not likely she will arrive before noon, if she arrives at all.”

  “That runs contrary to Jones’s source.”

  “I can’t speak to anyone’s observation other than my own. In my interactions with Belle, I took note of her tendency to cancel social engagements. She appears to be overwhelmed in crowded settings. She’s far more at ease in a quiet place, with only a companion or two.”

  “Assuming you are correct, how are we going to go about making the necessary contact?”

  She seemed to ponder his question. “It would be more beneficial to show up later in the day, say around early afternoon, after she has had a chance to converse with her friend and perhaps feel more welcoming toward an acquaintance. Our reunion must feel spontaneous, a happy accident, and not as if it had been planned.”

  “I must concur with Miss Winters,” Mrs. Carmichael spoke up. “After all, she is the only one who has actually met Miss Fairchild. I would defer to her expertise.”

  Harrison glanced down at his timepiece. Her expertise is in lifting jewels and pocket watches off unsuspecting fools.

  In any case, he was smart enough to know when a battle was worth fighting. This one definitely was not. “Very well. We will go along with your instincts. I’ll send a messenger to adjust our reservation. If Miss Fairchild is not there, we will at least enjoy a pleasant meal. We will depart in an hour. If—”

  Grace pursed her lips, seeming to study him. “I must say, I am surprised.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “I’d figured you’d be more stubborn. You are a rather confounding man.”

  Good God, was she actually disappointed he hadn’t continued to debate her point? If he lived to be a very old man, he’d never figure out the female of the species.

  “I am a man of reason,” he said. “I believe in facts and evidence, regardless of the source. Now, let’s hope you know Miss Fairchild as well as you think you do.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Grace sipped water from an elegant crystal glass as Harrison speared a bite of venison with his fork. Behind him, a crisply attired waiter moved with smooth, practiced flair, seeing to the diners’ every need against a backdrop of pristine elegance. The Devinshire was widely known to be among the most elegant establishments in Stirling, and judging from the looks of the place, its reputation was well justified. The fare was second to none, or so the waiter had informed them with a little puff of his chest.

  Peering past the waiter as he attended another customer, Grace scanned the dining room with a quick sweep of her gaze. Still no sign of Belle Fairchild. Drat the luck. Was it possible she’d been mistaken about Belle’s tendency to shun early hours of the day? Could she have already come and gone before Grace arrived with Harrison?

  Drat. Drat. Drat.

  She’d been so sure she was right.

  Of course, it was possible Belle had declined to follow through with her reservation. Before they left, she would find a tactful way to glean that information from the waitstaff.

  Pulling in a calming breath, she studied the patterns adorning the intricately tatted tablecloth. Setting the goblet on the table, she turned her attention to Harrison.

  “As much as it pains me to say this, Jones may have been right.”

  Harrison cocked a brow. “I presume you are referring to Miss Fairchild’s reservation.”

  Grace met his all-too-perceptive gaze. “It exasperates me to think the man had better insight into her behavior than I do.”

  “I cannot imagine that American arse is right about much.” Harrison took another bite of food.

  “You think not?”

  “I’d trust your instincts over his.”

  His simply worded pronouncement stunned her. Surprising, indeed.

  “You know that woman better than any of us,” he went on. “If your expertise wasn’t required, Jones wouldn’t have needed either of us.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” she agreed. Feeling a sudden urge to change the subject, she took another sip of water. “Your home…it is in the Highlands, as I recall.”

  “Not far from Loch Ness,” he said. “Unfortunately, I don’t get there very often.”

  “Your medical practice…if I recall, you’ve put down roots in Inverness.”

  “I’m not sure ‘roots’ is the correct word, but it’s close enough.” He regarded her with what seemed almost a curiosity in his mossy-green eyes. With his hair neatly combed and his face clean shaven, he was every bit the sophisticated gentleman Scot.

  “Close enough? I don’t quite follow your meaning.”

  He shrugged. “I maintain a residence in the city as well as my medical practice, but my duties for the Guild draw me away many weeks out of the year.”

  “Can you tell me more about the Guild, or is that classified?” When he frowned, she added with a little smile, “If it is, please forget I asked. After all, I wouldn’t want you to have to kill me.”

  His mouth curled at the corners. “It’s not so dramatic as that. As you can imagine, I cannot divulge details of missions, but in general, the Highland Antiquities Guild exists to protect the heirlooms and treasures that have passed down through generations of Scots. We look upon it as our sworn duty to preserve our heritage and our history.”

  “And who, precisely, are you referring to as we?”

  “Many Highland men and women have worked to further the Guild’s objectives, and the MacMasters clan has dedicated their efforts toward recovery and preservation of these ancient artifacts and heirlooms for centuries. Going back well before the lifetime of my grandfather’s grandfather, those born with MacMasters blood follow the calling.”

  “Am I to understand the members of the Guild are also in the Queen’s service?”

  “At times.” He took a drink from his water goblet, seeming to deliberate how much he might safely disclose. “Queen Victoria has taken quite an interest in all things Scottish. She supports our efforts to protect the treasures of the Highlands.”

  Despite his calmly spoken tones, passion for his cause lit his eyes. She leaned closer, taking in every nuance of his expression.

  “It is a dangerous job, is it not?”

  A muscle in his jaw tensed and unclenched. Had she touched upon a sensitive subject? Setting his glass on the table, he met her eyes directly. “The agents of the Guild go about their lives, pursuing ordinary vocations and interests. Even when summoned to duty, most of our responsibilities would not set a person’s heart to pounding. Just the opposite, really. Translating a cipher. Interpreting a map to dig up a relic someone buried out of suspicion decades earlier. Assessing a trinket to determine if it possesses any historical value.”

  “I understand some of the dangers you’ve faced—you and your brother put your lives at risk to save dear Evie and the bride-to-be at Houghton Manor.”

  “The official line on that incident was that Lady Evelyn had been targeted after she witnessed an attempt at murder. As far as local authorities are concerned, the Guild had no involvement in that case.”

  “Of course,” she said. Harrison had been quite dashing and courageous in the face of danger. “But we know different, don’t we?”

  His expression grew somber. “Officially, no.”

  “But unofficially?” She flashed a little smile.

  “Unofficially, you need to keep all of this to yourself. I’ve already said too much.”

  Drat, he’d resumed his oh-so-solemn, very serious demeanor. “Point taken,” she said softly. Lacing her fi
ngers together, she held his gaze. “So, tell me, Dr. MacMasters, what is the Guild’s interest in this case? I don’t imagine such an organization is concerned with the death of a man across the Atlantic. Do you have reason to believe Miss Fairchild has taken possession of goods stolen from the Highlands?”

  He shook his head. Quickly. Too quickly. What was he hiding?

  What does it matter? She knew darned well he hadn’t come here to play bodyguard to a thief like her. He had his own reasons for being here.

  And so did she. Staying focused on her purpose was for the best.

  “Mr. Raibert’s activities are of far more interest to the Guild than Miss Fairchild’s…at least, at this point.”

  As he spoke, a flash of honey-blond hair caught her eye. She straightened in her seat and looked past him, confirming her suspicion.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Not at all. It seems I was right after all.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Yes.”

  Harrison made no move to turn. “You’re certain?”

  Grace fixed her attention on the willowy woman who’d entered the Devinshire flanked by a pair of women. One of the ladies, even taller and slimmer than the New York heiress, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a sleek coiffure, appeared to survey the dining room with a sharp-eyed gaze. Dressed in a striking ensemble in deep green with black velvet trim that emphasized the darkness of her hair and drew an onlooker’s eye, the woman appeared to be considerably older than Belle. The intensity in her expression seemed out of place in the vibrant eatery where people came to see and be seen as much as they sought out the chef’s cuisine.

  On the other side of the heiress, a younger woman, petite and a bit plump, strolled along in a pale blue ensemble that complemented her porcelain complexion. Her hair was as dark as Belle’s was fair, pulled into a tight bun topped with a black velvet hat decked out with a variety of vivid plumes. Somewhere, a peacock was bemoaning the loss of its feathers. A pair of corkscrew curls framed her pretty, rounded face.

  Unlike her companions, Belle Fairchild had chosen a modest ensemble that seemed designed to ensure she did not stand out in a crowd. Her dove-gray walking suit trimmed with black lace about the collar and cuffs was lovely, but lacked a look of extravagance. She’d worn her yellow-gold curls in a softly upswept style, with a hat perched on her head that was simple in its beauty, a velvety shade of dark charcoal with a bit of netting for effect. As she entered, she nibbled her lower lip. She seemed apprehensive. But why?