Highland Rogue, London Miss
Page 1
“I hardly think a simple kiss is cause for such an extreme reaction.”
His unrepentant, cavalier attitude cut her to the quick—until she realized it was another proof of his degeneracy. “It was a kiss that I did not want, did not invite and did not enjoy. It was also an affront to my dignity, as well as a sign of gross disrespect.”
The man grinned. “Good God, all that? Was it treason, too?”
“How would you like it if I reached over and started pawing at you?”
“Why don’t you try it and we’ll see?”
She was horrified, appalled, disgusted—and tempted, which was surely wrong and sinful.
“Or do you fear for your virtue?” he asked. “If so, rest assured you’re the last woman in England I would ever want to seduce.”
“As if you’d have any hope of succeeding!”
“Careful, Miss McCallan,” he replied. “I like a challenge.”
Highland Rogue, London Miss
Harlequin® Historical #1006—August 2010
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author
Margaret Moore
“Moore spins an intriguing web of romance…This book blends humor and romance with a twist of suspense.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Viscount’s Kiss
“A suspenseful, tragic romance of the first order! I recommend A Lover’s Kiss especially to readers who enjoy the Regency period knowing that there is just a smattering of intimacy and plenty of drama.”
—Romance Reader at Heart (Top Pick)
“A colorfully rendered portrait of medieval Wales brimming with charming characters, an enchanting love story and the perfect balance of romance and history.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Warlord’s Bride
“Margaret Moore knows how to serve up the perfect medieval tale.”
—A Romance Review on Knave’s Honor
“Fans of historicals…will be unable to put Ms. Moore’s story down. The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.”
—The Romance Readers Connection on The Notorious Knight
“Filled with fast-paced dialogue and historical details that add depth and authenticity to the story. Readers will be well entertained.”
—RT Book Reviews on My Lord’s Desire
“Colorful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hers to Command
“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms. Moore.”
—Under the Covers
MARGARET MOORE
Highland Rogue, London Miss
Available from Harlequin® Historical and
MARGARET MOORE
†The Wastrel #344
†The Dark Duke #364
†The Rogue’s Return #376
The Knights of Christmas #387
“The Twelfth Day of Christmas”
*A Warrior’s Bride #395
*A Warrior’s Honor #420
*A Warrior’s Passion #440
*The Welshman’s Bride #459
*A Warrior’s Kiss #504
The Duke’s Desire #528
*The Overlord’s Bride #559
*A Warrior’s Lady #623
In the King’s Service #675
A Lover’s Kiss #908
The Viscount’s Kiss #957
Highland Rogue, London Miss #1006
Other works include Harlequin Historical Undone eBook
The Welsh Lord’s Mistress
Harlequin Books
Mistletoe Marriages
“Christmas in the Valley”
The Brides of Christmas
“The Vagabond Knight”
HQN Books
Bride of Lochbarr
Lord of Dunkeathe
The Unwilling Bride
Hers to Command
Hers to Desire
My Lord’s Desire
The Notorious Knight
Knave’s Honor
The Warlord’s Bride
Kimber Chin,
savvy businesswoman and writer,
with many thanks for her advice and support.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter One
London
February 1817
Esme McCallan paced restlessly in the solicitor’s office in Staple Inn. From beyond the closed door she could hear the hushed voices and footsteps of clients coming to meet with other attorneys. Some of the steps were as brisk as Esme’s, others slow and shuffling and defeated.
None of them belonged to her brother.
Esme hated waiting, as Jamie well knew, yet here it was almost 3:30 p.m. on a wet, chilly afternoon and Jamie was not here to meet her, even though he himself had set the time. There was only one thing that could irritate her more and—
It happened.
Quintus MacLachlann strolled into the office without so much as a tap on the door. Of course she hadn’t heard him approaching; the man moved as silently as a cat.
Dressed in a brown woollen jacket, indigo waistcoat, white shirt open at the neck and baggy buff trousers, one could easily assume he was the son of peasants and earned his keep bare-knuckle fighting. Only his voice and lord-of-the-manor self-importance suggested he was something else, if not the truth—that he was the disgraced, rakehell son of a Scottish nobleman who had squandered every advantage his family’s wealth and station had provided.
“Where’s Jamie?” he asked with that combination of arrogance and familiarity she found particularly aggravating.
“I don’t know,” she replied as she perched on the edge of the small, serviceable, oval-backed chair her brother kept for his clients. She smoothed out a wrinkle in the lap of her dark brown pelisse and adjusted her unadorned bonnet by a fraction of an inch so that it was more properly centered on her smoothly parted, straight brown hair.
“That’s not like him,” MacLachlann unnecessarily observed as he leaned back against the shelves holding Jamie’s law books. “Was he meeting someone?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated, silently chastising herself for her ignorance. “I’m not informed of all the appointments my brother makes.”
MacLachlann’s full lips curved up in an impudent grin and his bright blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “What, the mother hen doesn’t know every move her little chick makes?”
“I am not Jamie’s mother and since Jamie is a grown man with a fine mind and education that he has not wasted, no, I don’t keep watch over his every move.”
Her words had no effect on the wastrel, who continued to grin like a demented gargoyle. “No? Well, he’s not with a woman, anyway, unless she’s a client. He never indulges in that sort of thing during the day.”
Esme’s lips tightened.
“So there’s something else the mother hen doesn’t know, eh?” MacLachlann said with a chuckle that made her feel as if she’d stepped
into some kind of low establishment where all manner of indecencies occurred—probably the sort of place MacLachlann spent most, if not all, of his evenings.
“My brother’s private life is not my concern,” she said, sitting up even straighter and fixing MacLachlann with a caustic glare. “If I made all his business mine, I would know why he ever hired a rogue like you.”
The sparkle in MacLachlann’s blue eyes changed into a different sort of fire. “Is that supposed to hurt, little plum cake?” he asked, thickening his brogue and using an epithet she hated with a passion. “If it is, ye’ve missed the mark entire. I’ve been insulted in ways that’d curl the toes of your thick-soled boots.”
Tucking her boot-clad feet under her chair, Esme turned her head toward the square-paned window that overlooked the soggy inner garden and didn’t deign to answer.
She must speak to Jamie about MacLachlann’s insolence. If MacLachlann wouldn’t treat her with the proper respect, there had to be other men in London who were equally capable of finding out information. Her brother need not employ MacLachlann for that purpose, even if he had gone to school with Jamie.
With a self-satisfied smirk, MacLachlann strolled over to the desk and, with one long, ungloved finger, tapped the documents she’d placed there. “I wonder what your brother’s clients would say if they knew his sister was as good as a partner in the business? That it was a woman who wrote the contracts, wills, entailments and settlements and did most of his research for him?”
Esme jumped to her feet. “I merely help him compose the first draft of such documents and find legal precedents for him. Jamie always writes the final documents and checks everything I do. If you dare to say or imply otherwise to anyone, we’ll sue for slander. And if you write it anywhere or tell any member of the press who reports it, we’ll sue for libel—not that you’ll be able to pay any damages.”
“Settle down, Miss McCallan, and put your law-book mind at ease,” MacLachlann replied in his most patronizing manner. “I won’t tell anybody about all the work you do for your brother.” His customary smirk left his face for the briefest of moments. “I owe him too much.”
Just what? she wanted to ask. Jamie had never told her exactly where or how he’d encountered MacLachlann in London. Jamie had simply brought the obviously inebriated man home, let him sleep in the spare room and then given him employment as a sort of investigative associate. Naturally she’d had questions, most of which Jamie declined to answer, saying only that MacLachlann had fallen on hard times and was estranged from his family. Only later, through snippets of conversation between the two men, had she learned that MacLachlann had disgraced his family with his wastrel ways.
She’d also discovered, through firsthand observation, that he could be very charming when he wished to be, especially with women, who then responded as if he’d somehow turned their minds to porridge.
Not hers, of course. She was far too wary and sceptical to be swayed by his shallow charm, should he ever have attempted to sway her with it.
She glanced at the gilded clock on the mantelpiece and saw that it was now nearly 4:00 p.m.
“Impatient, are we?” the wastrel inquired.
“You may have nothing better to do than loiter,” Esme declared as she started for the door, “but I do. Good day.”
“What, you’re going to leave me here all alone?” MacLachlann demanded with bogus dismay.
“Yes, and gladly,” she snapped as she opened the door and nearly collided with Jamie.
“Ah, here you are, then, the pair of you and no blood spilled,” her tardy brother said with a smile, his stronger accent telling her that despite his apparent good humor, he was upset.
“I finished the documents you wanted,” she said, curious about what had happened, although she would never ask such a question with MacLachlann in the room. Hopefully she could find out later, when she and her brother were alone. “I discovered an interesting precedent in a case from 1602, concerning a sheep whose ownership was disputed due to lack of an earmark.”
Jamie hung his tall hat on the wall hook by the door. “I’ll deal with Mrs. Allen’s suit tomorrow,” he said, running his hand through his close-cropped brown curls as he went around the scarred and ancient desk they’d found at a used furniture shop. “And while I thank you for bringing the papers, I have another matter with which I hope you’ll both assist me.”
A swift glance in the wastrel’s direction proved he was no more keen to have anything to do with her than she was with him.
“Sit down, Esme, and let me explain. You, too, Quinn, if you please,” her brother said, nodding at the chair.
Regarding her brother with a combination of curiosity and dread, Esme did as he asked. She again perched on the edge of the chair, while Quinn sat on another equally small chair and tilted it back so that all the weight rested on the back legs.
“You’re going to break that chair if you lean back in such a fashion,” Esme charged.
“Care to make a wager on it?” MacLachlann replied with that mocking grin she hated.
She didn’t give him the satisfaction of answering.
“I’ve asked you both here,” her brother began as if neither one had spoken, “because I need your help with a matter that requires legal expertise and discretion, as well as a certain amount of subterfuge.”
“Subterfuge?” Esme repeated warily.
“Surely you’re not so naive as to believe the practise of law doesn’t occasionally require some creative espionage,” MacLachlann said, “at least when it comes to finding out facts that some people would prefer to keep buried.”
“I understand there may be facts that need to be ferreted out, but subterfuge sounds illegal,” she protested.
MacLachlann rolled his eyes and looked about to say more, but Jamie spoke first. “It’s not the method I would prefer. However, I fear that in this instance, subterfuge may be the only way to find out what I must,” he said. “Certainly it will likely be the fastest, and the sooner the matter is resolved, the better.”
Esme forced her qualms, along with her dislike of MacLachlann, into a corner of her mind and focused on her brother.
“I had a letter from Edinburgh this morning. Catriona McNare needs my help.”
Esme’s mouth fell open as she stared at her brother. “Lady Catriona McNare asked for your help? After what she did to you?”
Jamie winced before replying. Although she felt her indignation more than justified, she was sorry she hadn’t been more circumspect.
“She needs the help of someone she can trust, and a solicitor’s confidential opinion,” he said. “To whom should she turn but me?”
Anybody except you, Esme thought, remembering the night Catriona McNare had broken her engagement to Jamie.
Poor Jamie’s face had been as white as snow and his eyes full of such mute misery, she’d spent all night outside his bedroom door, afraid he might harm himself.
“There are plenty of solicitors in Edinburgh she could hire,” she said.
A resolutely determined look came to her brother’s usually mild coffee-brown eyes. “Catriona’s asked for my help, and she’s going to get it.”
“Help with what?” MacLachlann asked, reminding Esme that he was still there.
A studious expression had replaced his mocking smirk, and it made an astonishing difference. Not an improvement, exactly, for smirking or otherwise, MacLachlann was a good-looking man. It did, however, hint that there might be some measure of sincerity in him after all.
Probably about a teaspoon’s worth.
“It seems her father has suffered some financial setbacks,” Jamie explained. “Unfortunately the earl won’t confide in her or reveal exactly what he’s been doing with his money or what documents he’s been signing. She’s afraid the situation will get worse unless something is done.
“I would go to Edinburgh myself, but if I arrive and start making inquiries, people will wonder why. Nobody will know you, though, Esme. We didn�
�t have a chance to introduce you to anybody before…” He hesitated for the briefest of moments. “Before we left for London.”
And a new life, far away from Lady Catriona McNare, the Mistress of Duncombe.
“There’s nobody I trust more when it comes to assessing legal documents than you, Esme,” Jamie continued. “You’ll be able to tell if there’s anything wrong with the ones the earl’s been signing.”
“I suppose you’ll want me to get the documents?” MacLachlann asked.
“I don’t want you to steal them,” Jamie clarified, much to Esme’s relief. “I want you to get Esme into the earl’s house so she can see the documents.”
So much for her relief.
“What exactly do you mean, get me into his house?” Esme demanded. “House-breaking is against the law, punishable by—”
“I don’t mean break into the house,” Jamie interrupted. “I simply want Quinn to help you get near the documents so you can read them.”
“Hence, subterfuge,” MacLachlann supplied. “But what sort of subterfuge?” Esme persisted.
“We need an excuse to get you into the earl’s house without raising suspicion. If I wouldn’t be welcome there—and I certainly would not—neither would my sister,” Jamie said. “Quinn, you’ve mentioned that your older brother, the Earl of Dubhagen, has been living in the West Indies for the past ten years, although he still keeps a town house in Edinburgh. It’s occurred to me that if he returned to Edinburgh, he’d surely be invited to any fetes or parties or dinners Catriona and her father would host. I’ve heard that all the sons of the Earl of Dubhagen were remarkably similar in appearance, so I thought—”
MacLachlann straightened as if Jamie had slapped him. “You want me to impersonate Augustus?”
“In a word, yes,” Jamie said, “and since your brother is married, you’ll need a wife.”