This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Tara Kingston. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Select Historical is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Erin Molta
Cover design by Melody Simmons
Cover art by RNC
ISBN 978-1-63375-779-0
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition December 2016
Table of 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 Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more historical romance… A False Proposal
Highland Deception
How to Play the Game of Love
Less Than a Lady
Also by Tara Kingston… When a Lady Deceives
To Greg…
With you by my side, I’ve had the courage to chase my dreams. Love you!
Chapter One
London, September 1891
The master of Alardyce Castle was a madman. Or so the whispers warned.
Of course, it went without saying that the mysterious lord of the manor was tall, dark, and handsome, with a flashing gaze that betrayed his desire for the governess in his employ. Pity he’d been driven to the edge of sanity by an unseen evil.
Smiling to herself, Johanna Templeton tapped her pen against the edge of her notebook. Leo Alardyce had proven to be a fascinatingly tortured hero, precisely the sort of man an innocent, utterly devoted governess would save from his own self-destruction. Her London editor would no doubt be pleased with the perils Miss Cavendish braved in the name of true love.
Insistent rapping at the front door drifted along the corridor to her study. Within moments, her ever-efficient housekeeper’s voice carried through the sturdy walls to Johanna’s ears. Muffled as the low tones were, she could only make out a scattering of words. Perhaps Mrs. Mitchell had expected a delivery. With Johanna’s niece and brother-in-law away in Scotland, she had no reason to think a visitor had come to call.
Her attention wandered to the gilt-edged portrait on the wall beside her desk. Her sister had been lovely, her honey-gold hair swept into a loose chignon. Cynthia had been happy then, before the illness that cut short her vibrant life. Johanna’s gaze lingered on her niece, the darling, bright-eyed girl who’d claimed a piece of her heart. Laurel had been away for little more than a fortnight, but it seemed far longer. How Johanna missed the girl’s mischief. How empty the house seemed without the sound of her laughter.
Oh, well, there was nothing to be done about it. The child’s father had taken her on holiday. Surely they’d return soon.
The click of heels against wood preceded the housekeeper’s appearance in the doorway to Johanna’s study. Her mouth stretched taut, the matron seemed to hesitate for a heartbeat, perhaps two, before crossing the threshold to present Johanna with an elegantly engraved calling card.
“Miss Templeton, there’s someone here to see you.”
Johanna glanced at the card. Mrs. John MacInnis. The name was familiar. The widow’s late husband and Johanna’s brother-in-law had once engaged in business. The arrangement had ended badly, though Mrs. MacInnis had offered her condolences following Cynthia’s funeral. Nearly a year had passed since that bleak day. How very odd that the widow had now come to call.
“Please send her in,” Johanna said, placing the card on her desk.
The lean, dour-faced woman brushed past Mrs. Mitchell. With her silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun and a mourning dress that reached to her chin, she might well have been a character from the pages of Johanna’s latest novel. She came to Johanna, leaving a scant arm’s length between them.
“Miss Templeton, I have a matter of some urgency to discuss.” She slanted Mrs. Mitchell a pointed glance. “Privacy is of the utmost importance.”
With a curt nod and an icy glare toward Mrs. MacInnis, the housekeeper took her leave. As the door closed soundlessly behind Mrs. Mitchell, Johanna motioned her guest to a plush chair.
“Please, take a seat. I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”
The widow’s mouth thinned to a slash. “There’s no time… I cannot take the chance…” She dropped her gaze to the Aubusson carpet for a long moment before meeting Johanna’s eyes. “Your brother-in-law…he’s gone out of the country. To Scotland.”
Something in the widow’s tone set Johanna’s nerves on edge. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb. “Indeed, Mr. Abbott has gone on holiday.”
Eleanor MacInnis narrowed her piercing gray eyes. “He lied to you. He had dealings in the Highlands, matters of a most nefarious nature.”
How very peculiar. Where had the widow come by such a bizarre notion? Johanna slowly shook her head. Best to be gentle with the distraught woman. Heaven only knew, after her husband’s tragic accident, that Mrs. MacInnis had good reason to be unsettled. “I am afraid you’re mistaken.”
Johanna hadn’t believed it possible, but the widow’s lips drew even more taut as her attention darted over the bookshelves. “My husband was a collector of antiquities. Those relics were his life…and his death.”
“Mrs. MacInnis, I don’t understand—”
The widow caught Johanna’s hand in hers. “It must be here. In this house. It has to be.” Her voice was low, controlled, yet tinged with desperation. Had she gone mad with grief?
“What is it you seek? Please, you must explain.”
Mrs. MacInnis moved to the window. Going pale as fresh washed linen, she made a little gasp. “Dear God, they know…they know I’ve come to warn you.”
Notes of dread in the widow’s voice propelled a shiver along Johanna’s spine. “Warn me? You must tell me what this is about.”
“You are in grave danger.” Her words were the merest of whispers. “It’s too late now…too late for me.�
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With that, Mrs. MacInnis hurried from the room, leaving only her calling card and questions in her wake. The sound of the entry door thudding closed echoed to the study, followed by the clatter of carriage hooves as the widow’s driver set her coach in motion.
An unsettled feeling overtook Johanna, a chill that skittered from her scalp all the way to her toes. Good heavens, she was letting her imagination get the better of her. She’d no cause to spin this odd incident into something sinister. Mrs. MacInnis was most likely overwrought. Given the circumstances of her husband’s recent demise, that seemed hardly surprising.
Rubbing her hands over her arms to banish the coolness that had seemed to invade the room, Johanna walked slowly back to her writing desk and settled into her chair. She lifted her pen, but the words would not come. The clock on the bookshelf taunted her, its pendulum swinging in a relentless rhythm, marking seconds that turned into minutes.
Giving in to her mind’s wanderings, she opened a drawer and retrieved her latest correspondence from Mr. Abbott. She reread the letter, then swept her gaze over it again. When she’d received the note, nothing had appeared amiss. His words had been terse, in contrast to her brother-in-law’s generally effusive personality, and his usually precise script had gone a bit unruly, but she’d thought little of it. Now, a shiver traced an icy path over her nape. Had the missive borne a hidden warning?
She folded the letter and placed it inside the desk. With a turn of the lock, she latched the drawer, then stashed the key between two books on the shelf. She paused. She’d no cause to worry that Mrs. Mitchell would betray her trust. Why had she felt the need to secure the letter?
The expression on Mrs. MacInnis’s drawn features played in her thoughts. Johanna had seen desperation there. But another emotion had darkened the widow’s gray irises as she’d turned away from the window.
Fear.
…
Inverness, Scotland, Two Weeks Later
The devil strode into Kincaid’s Pub in a flash of swirling black wool and polished leather. Lightning crackled and thunder boomed as if to herald the dark lord’s arrival. His massive greatcoat, open down the front and clinging to powerful shoulders, exposed a long, lean-muscled body. Gaslight cast rays of silver over hair the color of a raven’s wing while the roaring fire in the tavern’s massive hearth gleamed gold and amber against his ebony boots.
Johanna’s heartbeat stuttered. Was this the man who’d summoned her to the Highlands? Seated in the shadows, she studied his every move.
His forest green eyes fixed on her. Intense. Penetrating. Seeming to strip her of her defenses.
Rubbish.
Good heavens, what had come over her? Had she truly gone daft? This stranger was not one of her literary concoctions come to life. In truth, he was handsome. Very much so. In another time, another place, she might have allowed her gaze to linger on the chiseled contours of his face while she speculated on the taste of his kiss. But there, the fantasy ended. He was neither Lucifer incarnate nor a daring desperado transplanted from the pages of one of her novels.
He was merely a man.
And from the looks of his off-kilter strides, a drunken one, at that.
He met her appraisal with unreadable eyes. Hungry, perhaps. Or more to the point, thirsty for yet another ale. She looked past him, searching the dimly lit pub for the blackguard who’d commanded her to come here. Obviously, the sotted devil was far too concerned with steadying his swaying legs to be the villain who’d come to negotiate a trade—Johanna’s most treasured physical possession for one far more precious.
This was not a fantasy, nor fodder for a story. This was a nightmare she’d never dreamt could become reality. She was a stranger in a foreign land, the man she’d fixed on was a drunk, and what happened in the next few minutes might well prove a matter of life and death.
Around her, men hoisted tankards of ale and downed tumblers of whisky. A man who might’ve been a pirate in a prior existence, eye patch and all, ogled her with his one good—if bleary—eye. He grinned, displaying a mouth full of darkened stumps as he lifted his glass to her as if in tribute.
Johanna dug her fingers into her leather valise. Where was the scoundrel who’d demanded she leave London and travel to this heaven-forsaken place? The ruthless cur who’d abducted her young niece had been precise and brutally direct in his instructions. He’d already demonstrated the depths to which he’d sink to obtain what he wanted. She held little doubt the man had killed her brother-in-law. She could only pray he’d honor his word and release the child once he had his damnable prize.
Johanna’s attention flickered to the man in black who’d now staggered to the bar. He’d propped himself against the edge, leaning lazily on an elbow. One hand held a tumbler of amber liquid. Curiously, he seemed in no hurry to down the bitter swill.
She felt his gaze on her again. Nonsense. The sot had no cause to observe her, and she certainly would not draw a man’s eye while several lip-rouged doxies sashayed about, looking to ply their wares. Still, she sensed his interest in her. Discreet glances cast beneath hooded lids. Was that recognition flaring in his eyes?
Blast her overly vivid writer’s imagination. Johanna jerked her attention away and set her sights on the well-dressed man who strode past. Classically handsome, save for the slight crook in an otherwise perfectly carved nose, he wore a meticulously tailored suit that stood out of place in this workmen’s establishment. His indigo waistcoat gave his eyes a stormy cast, while immaculately trimmed dark hair added to his air of sophistication. With his refined clothing and demeanor, he might well have been a barrister or member of Parliament.
He met her gaze and cocked his chin, as if acknowledging her. His expression bland as a gentleman choosing the color of a cravat, he offered a subtle flick of his wrist. Between his fingers, a linen pocket square bearing her brother-in-law’s family crest confirmed his identity.
Her heart seemed to skip a beat, even as her stomach twisted into a knot. So, this was the bastard who’d come to arrange a trade—the contents of her satchel for a child’s life.
With a slight movement of his hand, he beckoned her again. Invisible talons clawed her insides. She’d spent so many hours writing of heartless cads, but now she faced one in the flesh. Shocking how very much this one looked the part of a gentleman. If she’d been writing a novel, he might well have been the hero. Only the hardened glint in his eyes gave any clue to his true nature.
She came to her feet. If only her limbs would cooperate. They’d picked a fine time to grow heavy, as if lead weights had been tethered to her ankles. One step at a time, she forced her legs to move.
The gentleman kept his attention fixed on her. The satchel weighed heavy in her hand. Cotton seemed to fill her throat. As she grew close enough to discern the man’s features, she made out the impatient stretch of his full mouth and the creases edging his eyes.
“Mr. Ross, I presume.” She infused as much steel into her voice as she could muster. An instinctive alarm sounded deep within, but she could not afford to display the merest trace of fear. The ice in this man’s expression revealed no shred of compassion. To the contrary, a stiletto-sharp brutality hardened his features into an impenetrable mask.
He gave a curt nod as confirmation and led her to a small table in a shadowed corner of the pub.
“Please join me, Miss Templeton.” His voice bore no trace of a brogue. Rather, it carried the inflections Johanna had come to know during her time in London.
Without venturing a reply, she settled herself into a chair. Whoever this man truly was, he eyed her with a predator’s gleam, as if eager for any sign of weakness. Her hand tensed around the handle of her valise.
“You’ve come alone.” His words were a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Steepling his fingers, he watched her over clean, even nails that confirmed Johanna’s suspicion—this was not a man who labored with his hands. “If we are to achieve our mutual
goals, it is imperative that you avoid any attempt to deceive me.”
“I would not be so foolish.”
He inclined his head, a subtle gesture. “You’ve brought the item?”
Johanna met his piercing gaze. Was it possible he could actually hear her heart thudding against her breastbone? She held the eye contact. Anything less would betray vulnerability she could ill afford.
“Of course.”
“Very good.” He studied her again, seeming to search for some hint of trickery. He drummed the fingers of his right hand against the tabletop in a maddeningly even rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap.
She pulled in a breath, slow and easy, and released it. “You offered my niece’s safe return. I am prepared to make the exchange. But first, I must see that she is unharmed.”
Something that resembled a smile quirked one corner of his mouth. “You are in no position to be setting terms. Your willingness to comply with my instructions will determine my actions from this point forward. Rest assured, I am willing to do whatever it takes to procure the object the girl’s father stole from my employer. No harm will come to the child…for now.”
“And her father?”
His head moved slowly from side to side. “He is no longer a concern.”
Her stomach lurched. Bile rose to her throat. She choked it back. “You did this?”
He met her question with narrowed eyes that revealed neither a confession nor a denial. “My employer does not tolerate disloyalty. The blighter knew what he was doing when he violated the trust we’d placed in him.”
Johanna continued to hold his intent gaze. “All this…for a book.”
“A treasure, Miss Templeton. Surely you realize the value of a first edition of such quality.”
His eyes continued to pierce her defenses, as if reading her deepest fears. Pity she’d done such a poor job of hiding the way her insides twisted at the truth of her brother-in-law’s fate. The unseen talons dug deeper when she pictured her niece. Laurel would be terrified. Grieving. Trapped by brutal men who’d murdered her father.
If only she could mask her fear, perhaps the bastard would stop looking at her and get on with this ugly business. But even an actress of Sarah Bernhardt’s talents could not offer such a convincing performance.
The Highlander Who Loved Me Page 1
