My Highland Lord (Highland Lords)

by Scott, Tarah

  "I am fond of His Lordship," Phoebe said.

  "Fond?" Lady Wilmington exchanged a glance with Jane. "Is he fond of you?" Phoebe frowned, but before she could answer, Lady Wilmington added, "How long do you think his fondness will last now that all of London knows you made a fool of him by trapping him into marriage?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Lady Wilmington opened her reticule and produced a newspaper clipping and handed it to her. Phoebe's gaze snagged on the headline London Heiress kidnapped by the Marquess of Ashlund. She caught the word Green Lady Inn and her heart thumped so hard she couldn't hear anything save the rush of blood that pounded in tandem to the beat.

  "What's this?"

  Phoebe snapped from the horrible spell. Lady Wilmington and Lady Halsey's faces went white and they stared at Elise as she stepped up beside Phoebe.

  "Your Grace," they murmured in near unison, and curtsied deep.

  Elise took the clipping from Phoebe's hand. Her eyes flicked over the paper, then she looked at the two woman. "Jane, you will inform your mother that His Grace and I will not be attending your party this week as planned. I will send a note explaining why. As for you, Katherine, if I'm not mistaken, His Grace was recently considering a business venture with your father—shipping, I believe. My husband will not be investing as your father had hoped, and His Grace will send a letter of explanation. In fact, I feel certain His Grace will visit your father. It's only right, wouldn't you agree?"

  "Your Grace," she began, but Elise faced Phoebe.

  "Come along, Phoebe."

  Phoebe's attention caught on the clipping as it fluttered to the floor in their wake.

  *****

  Phoebe waited until Gaylon had closed the door and left her alone with Alistair. The shock of seeing the article in the paper that afternoon had worn off, and now she was furious—for several reasons.

  "I arrived home to find a note from Lord Briarden asking when my wedding date was," she said.

  Surprise flickered in his eyes—barely.

  "Don't toy with me, Redgrave," she said. "Does Her Majesty now expect British spies to marry their quarry?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then what is Briarden about?"

  "Something's happened, but I have no idea what."

  "None?"

  He gave her a sharp look. "Now who's playing games, Phoebe?"

  "All right. She pulled from a drawer the copy of the Satirist she had had Calders purchase for her, and handed it to Redgrave."

  His face remained impassive as he read the article and Phoebe wondered how many times throughout their friendship he'd worn that same look while hiding something from her, something like the fact he knew her father was still alive.

  His gaze shifted back to her. "You can't be surprised by this."

  "Indeed, I can. There are too many intimate details in that story for this to be someone who happened to see Lord Ashlund and me in Scotland."

  He lifted a brow. "You suspect me?"

  "You have your reasons for wanting to see me married to the marquess."

  "Once we are sure he's an honest man, yes, but even then I wouldn't stoop to these tactics."

  She snorted. "You would."

  "All right," he said. "I might. But I didn't."

  "Briarden?" she asked.

  Alistair shook his head. "He would not stoop to such tactics."

  Phoebe wasn't so sure. Briarden had made it clear that she was employed by the Crown to gather information, and as the future wife of a suspect she was in a perfect position to carry out that duty. But how much better would her position be as wife…and lover?

  "The only other person who knows enough is Calders, and he wouldn't do it," she said.

  "No," Alistair said, "I don't believe he would. But he isn't the only possible suspect."

  "My aunt and uncle, but they would never report to the papers." Or would her aunt?

  "True," Alistair replied. "Remember, you stayed in that inn on the English border. From what you told me, the innkeeper's wife sounds like the type to sell such a story."

  "But she would have to know there was a story to sell."

  "What about someone in Ashlund's entourage?"

  "If what I saw in Scotland is accurate, highly unlikely. Those men practically worship him and his father."

  A rush of emotion barreled through her. There was one other candidate, and she suddenly wondered just how much he hated losing a battle.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The emeralds Phoebe wore around her neck seemed to seer into her flesh as she paused in the entry of the Ashlund mansion ballroom. Everyone's attention turned toward her, eyes on the jewels that proclaimed she was an Ashlund.

  "Easy, girl," her uncle said. He patted her left arm.

  His wife stood to his left, and Ty stood next to her.

  The crowd to Phoebe's right parted and she drew a breath at sight of Kiernan MacGregor passing through their ranks, his gaze fixed on hers as though she was the only woman in the room…the only woman in the world. He wore a black dress coat, ivory silk waistcoat, white shirt, and black trousers—and white gloves. By heavens, he embodied the perfect gentleman. And he was stunning. When he reached her side and grasped her hand, she felt the tremble in her fingers as he lifted them to his lips. As always, his mouth was moist, warm, and deliberate in its work on her flesh. Heat crept up her cheeks and, from her belly, moved downward to where a now familiar ache tightened.

  "You are the Devil," she murmured when he released her hand.

  "Phoebe," her aunt remonstrated in a whisper.

  The Devil danced in Kiernan's eyes and Phoebe read the message, who better than the Devil understood wicked pleasure?

  She caught sight of the duke standing in the group Kiernan had left, and the thin lipped expression on his face. "My lord," she said to Kiernan, "I believe your father plans to take you over his knee."

  Kiernan laughed, but didn't look at him. That, Phoebe was certain, was purposeful.

  "He's quite capable." Kiernan's attention shifted to her uncle. "Lord Albery."

  "My lord," her uncle said.

  Kiernan grinned. "Kiernan will do." He took a step to Phoebe's aunt. "Lady Albery, you grow more lovely each time we meet."

  She demurred, but Phoebe didn't miss the fleeting, but distinct, sultry look in her eyes. So her aunt wasn't above a flirtation with her soon-to-be nephew.

  "Lord Ashlund." She curtsied.

  Kiernan gave her a roughish look. "Lords and curtsies will soon grow tiresome among us." He winked at her. "We'll leave that in the public world."

  Lady Albery gave a graceful nod. "As you wish, Kiernan."

  He smiled broadly. "Excellent."

  "May I present Lady Albery's son," Phoebe's uncle said, "Ty Humphrey, Baron Arlington."

  Kiernan's gaze shifted onto Ty, and Ty gave a slight bow. "My lord."

  "Arlington," Kiernan said with a civility that Phoebe noticed didn't hold the warmth he'd extended to her aunt and uncle.

  The orchestra began playing a waltz and he faced her. "I believe this first dance belongs to me, Miss Wallington." His gaze shifted to her aunt. "But if you would do me the honor, Lady Albery, I will claim a dance with you later in the evening?"

  "Of course." She slipped her hand into the crook of Lord Albery's arm.

  Kiernan extended his arm to Phoebe. She accepted and he led her to the dance floor. He pulled her closer than was acceptable and she kept her gaze level with his chest as he stepped into the music in perfect time. Her heart stuttered when his muscled legs pressed against her thighs with each subtle direction to the music. A tremor in her stomach weakened her knees and she knew an instant of fear that she would stumble.

  "You look lovely," he said.

  "Thank you, my lord."

  "No, that's not right," he said.

  Phoebe snapped her head up to meet his gaze.

  "Lovely is for your aunt." His blue eyes bore into her. "You are beautiful."

  Dam
n him, he truly was the Devil—and knew it. "If you keep looking at me like that, your father will take you over his knee," she said.

  He grimaced. "You're right. He's liable to hire a chaperone as I suggested."

  "Chaperone?" Phoebe saw her efforts at spying going up in smoke. "By heavens, Ashlund, what have you done?"

  He grinned. "I like it when you say my name like that."

  She rolled her eyes. "Good Lord."

  His arm tightened around her waist and he maneuvered into a turn. Her breasts pressed against his chest and she recalled the duchess' suggestion that she try out the goods. A picture flashed of her bare breasts pressed against his naked chest and her nipples hardened to stony points. The room spun. Phoebe buried her face his chest and held on for dear life. His hold tightened—if that was possible—and she detected the bulge pressing into her hip.

  "Damnation, Phoebe, you've done me in."

  "What?" she began, but found herself whirled away from the other dancers and being hurried through the open balcony doors. Cool air washed over her and snapped her mind to attention. "We're on the balcony," she said.

  He halted at the railing that faced the gardens. Phoebe glanced back toward the ballroom. People standing near the door yanked their eyes away from her direct gaze.

  "What have you done?" she demanded.

  Elbows on the railing, Kiernan leaned forward, staring out into the gardens. "Unless you want that chaperone, I suggest you don't hug me like that again—in public."

  "What?" She recalled his thick erection pressed against her. "Oh."

  His head shifted in her direction. "Oh?"

  "When you made the turn, it made me a bit dizzy."

  He studied her. "Did it now?"

  "You have a healthy ego, Ashlund."

  "I still like the way you say my name."

  She shot him a reproving look. Her head had cleared and she was feeling more herself, more the way she needed to feel in order to deal with this man. A man, she suddenly remembered, who was using every underhanded piece of weaponry in his arsenal.

  "I assume you saw the article in the Satirist?" she asked.

  He nodded. "I did, and I'm sorry. I know you'd hoped to avoid a scandal."

  "I should have been able to avoid a scandal."

  "That is seldom the way such matters work," he said.

  "Especially when the prospective groom is involved."

  His brow furrowed. "You think I informed the Satirist of our escapade?"

  "I think it's a very convenient happenstance for you."

  "Not especially."

  "No?" she said. "A scandal practically ensures I must marry you."

  "Practically?" he said.

  "Ah ha!" she exclaimed. "You did do it."

  "No. I didn't."

  "Why should I believe you?"

  He straightened. "Because I've never lied to you."

  Was about Alan Hay and his band? Had Kiernan truly never lied to her?

  "I didn't give the story to the paper," he said with finality.

  "I didn't give you leave to read my mind, sir." He hadn't exactly, but he was closer than she liked. "Why should I believe you?"

  A corner of his mouth twitched. "I don't need a scandal. You're going to marry me anyway."

  She threw her hands in the air. "You're impossible."

  "So I've been told. He straightened from the wall. "I suppose we should rejoin the party." He extended his elbow and she laid her hand in the crook of his arm. "I like that as well," he said.

  And Phoebe was startled to realize that she liked it too.

  The music ended and Phoebe thanked Lord Phillips for the dance as she noted that Kiernan and his father were stepping from the ballroom into a hallway. With the party in full swing and the men gone, now was her chance to look around. Lord Phillips offered his arm and she allowed him to escort her off the dance floor.

  "It's intolerably hot," she said. "Don't you think?"

  "Indeed, I do," he replied. "Would you like some refreshment?"

  She smiled. "Sir, you're a mind reader."

  He gave a slight bow, then started through the crowd toward the buffet table located on the other side of the massive room. She started for the same hallway Kiernan had taken and didn't breathe until she entered the corridor. She hurried to the end, then took a sharp right. As expected, a set of rear stairs was located up ahead. She sent up a prayer that she not encounter any servants. Thankfully, the ballroom was located on the second floor, and she reached the third level of the four-story mansion without being seen. If her calculations were correct, the family private quarters would be on this level.

  As hoped, the floor was deserted. Likely, the servants were helping with the party below. Orchestra music filtered up from the ballroom. Otherwise, all was silent. The first door opened into a small bedroom that looked unused. The second door opened upon what had to be the lady's bedroom. A low fire burned in the hearth and cast enough light that Phoebe was able to cross to the adjoining door she hoped led to the master's chambers. She'd calculated right. A fire also burned in this room and she surveyed the room. A small secretary sat near the window to the right of the hearth. She hurried to the desk, and a quick look revealed only blank writing paper and pen.

  Another door was located on the far wall and Phoebe tried the door. It opened upon a modest study. Here is where the duke might keep personal documents. Apprehension twisted her stomach. What if father and son were in league? Would a duke betray his Queen? In the five years that Phoebe had been spying for England, she'd never once doubted her conviction. Her assignments had posed no real threat to her, had caused no personal conflict. It was bound to happen eventually, but she would have paid a ransom for the time to have been anytime but now.

  Phoebe shrugged off the thought and hurried to the desk. She opened the two drawers located on the right side of the desk, but found only writing paper and newspapers. She faced the walnut cabinet that sat against the wall behind the desk and began rifling through the drawers only to find accountings, personal letters and the like. She sat in the desk chair and scanned the dates on the letters and stopped at a letter from the magistrate in Glasgow dated two days after her arrival at Brahan Seer.

  To His Grace the Duke of Ashlund

  Your Grace,

  There is no doubt in my mind that the fire that demolished the two cottages was, as you suspected, started with lamp oil. Our investigation in the area where your men chased the arsonists turned up a small swath of common MacGregor plaide. This evidence, coupled with the fact that someone broke into the desk in your library— while nothing of value anywhere in the castle was taken—is enough for me to pursue the matter.

  Phoebe stared at the words someone broke into your desk. The magistrate believed the fire might be connected to someone searching the duke's desk? Why would anyone set a fire just to search the desk? Why not simply steal into the castle in the dead of night? Phoebe recalled Kiernan's familiarity with the occupants of the cottage down to the very details of knowing the personal items they had lost, and the duke's knowledge of the families who had lost their homes. Father and son knew their tenants well. A stranger who entered the castle would be noticed. Kiernan said the MacGregors weren't involved in any fighting. Had he been telling the truth? Who would kill just to search someone's private belongings…and what did the duke and marquess have that was worth killing for? Phoebe read on.

  However, there are two other incidents that give me pause. Four days after the fire, we found a man murdered near the Glaistig Uain. This is strange enough—as you know, murders aren't common in this area. What compounds this mystery is that witnesses at the inn identified the man as having been there that day. He was seen with several other men, two of whom are the men your son killed during his attempted kidnapping.

  Phoebe paused. What two men had Kiernan shot? Had the magistrate returned to the scene of the crime and—understanding struck. The two men the magistrate spoke of weren't men Kiernan had killed, but
were Bob and the other man she had shot. The second man hadn't lived? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The two men were criminals, but she had killed them, nonetheless. And, she realized with shock, Kiernan had taken responsibility for their deaths. Damn him, damn him to hell. He was going to twist her heart inside out before she was done with this business.

  She returned her attention to the letter.

  From all indications, the man we found dead was in the company of two men when he was shot, but we have no idea who those men were. I have yet to identify the dead man or the two men Kiernan killed, but it's clear they were all party to your son's attempted kidnapping. I can't say if they have any connection with the fire, but we have your description of the one man sighted near the village the night of the fire. If I find anything further, I will contact you immediately. Of course, if you think of anything more, or if anything else happens that you believe connects to this case, please contact me immediately.

  John Glen, Chief Magistrate, Glasgow

  Phoebe didn't like the coincidence of the dead men and the arson any better than did the magistrate. The two had to be connected. A horrifying thought struck. Kiernan had accused Adam of being the arsonist. Had he told his father of his suspicions? If the Duke of Ashlund made accusations against Adam—a sound outside in the hallway caught her attention. The distinct murmur of men's voice filtered to her.

  Phoebe jumped to her feet and shoved the letters back into the drawer. She hesitated. Where were the men headed? The study had a hallway door. She raced for the adjoining door. Whoever it was, if they entered one of these rooms, she could step into the empty room and close the connecting door before they entered. The voices came closer and she realized they had paused outside the study.

  Phoebe eased the adjoining door open a crack as the study door opened and her uncle's voice sounded loud and clear, "You're too generous, Your Grace."

  She peered through the slit at her uncle, the duke, and his son.

  "He's a fine animal," the duke replied. "You're making a good investment." He motioned to the couch near the fireplace. "Kiernan, would you fetch us a drink?" The duke looked at her uncle. "Do you like scotch?"