DARING
Jillian Hunter
The notorious Connor Buchanan, Lord Advocate of Scotland, was called a protector of the innocent by some, and a heartless scoundrel by others. Some called Maggie Saunders a perfect angel—but to Connor Buchanan, she's nothing but trouble. Breaking into his house on a misguided mission of mercy, Maggie found herself face-to-face with the infamous "Devil's Advocate" himself!
Deceived by her appearance of fragile innocence, Connor is enchanted… until he learns the truth of her larcenous scheme. For the first time in his life, the high and mighty Highlander has met his match in a woman half his size. With a kiss, she captivates him. And with a shocking act of bravery, she draws him into her unexpectedly heartwarming world of street urchins and lovable rogues, a past that hides her true identity, and a dangerous secret that forces them into a provocative alliance. Now, Connor must sacrifice his passion for justice and risk everything to obey the irresistible laws of love.
Chapter
1
Edinburgh, Scotland
It wasn’t the best night to be breaking into a house, especially when that house belonged to the most powerful man in Scotland. Everything had conspired against her from the start. A thunderstorm, an inexperienced partner, a series of mishaps which could only be interpreted as an evil omen. Maggie kept reminding herself that an innocent life was at stake. The thought failed to counteract the stark terror that had settled in her spine.
“I can’t believe that I let them talk me into doing this,” she whispered to the gangly young man poised like a gargoyle on the ledge of the three-story town house beside her. “I’ve never done anything this daring or stupid in my entire life.”
“I dinna see why you’re so nervous,” he whispered back. “I told you I know what I’m doing.”
“We barely made it up onto the balcony without breaking our necks, Hugh.” A crackle of thunder drowned out her quavering voice. “What if he should catch us?”
“What if he does? He’s only a man.”
“Yes, and just this morning the newspaper named him the most powerful man in Scotland. That makes him different than the rest of us. It makes him more… more—”
“Powerful?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, powerful or not, Maggie, it isn’t as if he’s going to do us bodily injury.”
“He could if he decided to make an example of us,” she said miserably. “He’s influential enough to do it in public and not suffer the consequences. People would probably claim he acted in self-defense. He’d probably persuade them he feared for his own life.”
Maggie was utterly convinced of this. The ruthless Highlander she intended to rob would show her no mercy. He might be a nobleman on the outside, but it was a well-known fact that he had the heart of a barbarian, a beast. He enjoyed punishing people. He’d established his reputation on it.
In fact, his professional rivals were complaining amongst themselves that his power had exceeded acceptable boundaries. In private, however, those same men conceded that he was the most brilliant criminal lawyer in Europe.
They said that once he decided in his black heart a man was guilty of a crime, no defense on earth could save that man from conviction.
They said he had made a pact with the devil, exchanging his soul for his unparalleled success. Several witnesses, who begged to remain anonymous, swore they had seen him transacting the deal. It had happened on a foggy All Hallows’ midnight seven years ago, in the graveyard near Princes Street.
To this day a group of then-recently graduated medical students, strolling back to their lodgings on the ill-fated evening, insisted that their watches had stopped on the stroke of twelve as the bargain was sealed.
They said that for good luck he seduced a virgin on the eve of opening every trial. That was the part that Maggie found the most unsettling.
Despite these aspersions on his character, slews of admirers thronged the courtroom to watch the master in action and to applaud his recent appointment as Lord Advocate of Scotland. Crime had increased in the country. People needed a champion, and Connor Buchanan had all the makings of a latter-day warlord.
Arrogant and irresistible, he played to his audience with unabashed charm. He was a gifted performer, with the power of the populace on his side. His voice could carry through the gallery like thunder, or move a jury to tears with its subtle persuasion.
That same deep-timbred voice now drifted out onto the balcony ledge through the half-open door to the two young housebreakers flattened like fledgling bats against the town house wall. The topic of conversation was another ancient art at which, as rumor went, he also excelled.
“No one is going to believe you were helping me choose a cravat all this time, Ardath. By the way, you have your drawers on backwards.”
Yes, indeed, the man had more supporters than critics. There were even some people who thought he was a hero, who called him the Last Lion. There were some people, mostly women, grandmothers, maidens, and housewives, who claimed they slept better at night for his existence. Apparently, he did have a few redeeming qualities. But unlike the rest of Edinburgh’s female population, Maggie Saunders had managed to remain blissfully unaware of his lordship’s infamous existence until yesterday.
Guardian and protector of the innocent, or heartless scoundrel? Rogue or knight in shining armor?
Actually, no matter what you chose to believe about Connor Buchanan, and Maggie had reason to believe the worst, she wished to heaven she hadn’t volunteered to break into his house.
She took a breath and edged another inch along the ledge. She tried not to dwell on the three-story drop to the street. On how much it would hurt to break every bone in her previously law-abiding body. On whether she would remain conscious long enough to feel any pain after she hit that stone wall, bounced off the row of parked carriages, and rolled down the embankment.
She couldn’t bear to think what would happen once she reached the cesspools.
A chilly raindrop trickled down her forehead and hung suspended on the tip of her nose. She gave her head a desperate little shake to dislodge it. “This damned thunder-storm isn’t exactly helping the situation,” she whispered resentfully through chattering teeth.
Neither was the woman teasing Lord Buchanan in the darkened bed chamber Maggie and Hugh had been hoping to enter. She could hear Buchanan’s muted laughter, his unsuccessful efforts to restrain his exuberant partner. Then there were those disturbing stretches of silence that piqued the imagination. God only knew what immoral acts were going on behind those cream brocade curtains.
At least she could attempt to protect her young accomplice’s virtue. “You mustn’t listen, Hugh,” she said from the side of her mouth.
“I’m not,” he lied.
A blast of wind brushed the wall. Maggie reached protectively for the boy’s hand. She studied the hay cart they had dragged under the window as an emergency precaution. “We’ll have to jump,” she said in resignation. “They sound like they’re settled in for the night.”
“They might be taking a nap.”
“A nap!” Maggie’s voice rose in indignation. “You’d think they’d have a little more consideration, behaving in such an unseemly manner in his lordship’s very own bedroom with a party going on.”
“Except that it’s probably his lordship in there,” Hugh pointed out. “A man does have certain rights in his own house.”
“Not when that house is full of people. It’s indecent.”
A grin crept across Hugh’s narrow face. “Sinful is what it is. Still, perhaps it isn’t what it seems. They might just be playing charades.”
“Charades? Are you daft?”
“All right then. Blindman’s buff.”
Maggie bit her lower lip. “The pr
ess reporters were still waiting for him outside the courtyard when we walked past. The man obviously has only one thing on his mind, and it isn’t his job.” She refrained from mentioning that if Hugh’s mind had been on his job, they wouldn’t be in this pickle.
Hugh rubbed his ear on his shoulder to disperse a spray of raindrops. “I’m sorry I dropped that rope.”
“I suppose it couldn’t be helped,” she said in an irritated whisper. “At least you have the crowbar to jemmy open the door on the other balcony.”
Hugh was silent.
Maggie craned her neck to stare at him. “You do have the crowbar, don’t you?”
“Well, I did have it, Maggie, but I forgot about the hole in my pocket. I reckon it fell out when that dog chased us across the links.”
“Then all I can say is that it’s a damn good thing you brought that skeleton key.”
He gave her a sheepish smile. Maggie closed her eyes and prayed for forbearance. “You lost the skeleton key too?”
“Of course not.” He looked down between his feet to the street. “I left it right there in the hay cart so it would be safe.”
“You what? Oh, damnation, Hugh. Now we will have to jump and sneak in through the servants’ quarters, assuming we’re capable of walking without assistance afterward. I’ll stand guard downstairs and meet you—”
Hugh lifted his head from the wall. “What was that noise?” he whispered.
Maggie dug her bare toes into the ledge and peered down into the street. She had been wearing white satin pumps until several minutes ago when the man in the bedroom had cracked open the balcony doors, presumably to cool down the passionate atmosphere inside. Fearing discovery, Maggie and Hugh had scrambled like squirrels to take cover on the ledge behind the branches of a tree.
One of her white shoes sat right in the middle of the balcony. The other had fallen into the street along with the rope. She’d been forced to take off her stockings so she wouldn’t slip. They were dangling on the lower limb of the horse chestnut tree that grew against the ledge.
She stared down in apprehension as a heavyset servant in black and gold livery emerged from the house. To judge by his stomping footsteps and muttered curses, he was not a happy man.
He picked up Maggie’s shoe and hurled it over the gate like a javelin. “Shoes in the street. Do they care that poor sods like me have to pick up their belongings where they drop them? Do they care that I canna draw a breath for bein’ trussed up like a Hogmanay turkey?” He came to a halt, shouting to himself: “And who’s the big imbecile who left this hay cart in front of the house?”
The thunderstorm threatened to erupt into a full-blown storm. Wind lashed the gray stone walls of the elegant town house. It teased Maggie’s curly black hair loose from her chignon to blow in a blinding tangle around her face. It rivaled the chaotic emotions that clamored inside her, the anxiety she was struggling to suppress.
“I’m frightened, Hugh,” she said aloud. “Something bad is going to happen. This storm is a sign from God.”
“All in the name of justice, Maggie.”
“Justice.” Her voice caught. “I’m a criminal now. Me, the daughter of a duke, who’s never stolen so much as a scone before.”
Except for once. She paused, shivering, as the bittersweet memory of that embarrassing experience years ago flickered through her mind. Tonight undoubtedly marked another low point in a life that had not been easy for a long time now. She only hoped that her parents, those bastions of noble breeding, would look down at her from heaven with understanding and not horror. She hoped they would forgive her for helping a homeless old man who would be condemned to death if she did not make an effort to prove his innocence.
They had forgiven her, eleven years ago, for stealing her older sister Jeanette’s earrings.
Her family had been visiting Maggie’s elderly aunt and uncle in Scotland for Christmas at the time. The following year the small but tightly knit clan, Scots and French, Saunders and de Saint-Evremonds, planned to celebrate the holiday together in the river chateau in France where Maggie lived with her immediate family.
Less than an hour after stealing the earrings, Maggie was apprehended with the pilfered pearls and banished, in shame, to the drafty attic while everyone else feasted below on Christmas dinner.
She accepted her sentence with the calm stoicism one expected of an ancient family. It wasn’t the first time a de Saint-Evremond had been led astray by a pretty bauble. More than a few courtesans and king’s mistresses figured in Maggie’s lineage.
Her banishment to the attic would have been an effective punishment, too, except that Maggie’s older brother, Robert, took pity on her and sneaked her up a heaping bowl of Christmas trifle. Then Jeanette began to feel guilty, remembering how she’d taunted her little sister with the earrings. She brought up a plate of roasted lamb and tender potatoes as a peace offering.
Before Maggie knew it, the entire family was celebrating Christmas in the cold musty attic, and it was the best Christmas they had ever enjoyed together.
It was also the last.
Yes, it was wrong to steal. She’d realized that even then. She had been disciplined for her misdeed. It was fair.
But she never understood, years later, why everything and everyone she loved and needed had been stolen from her. Why she, alone, of that close warmhearted family, had been allowed to survive and make sense of the loss.
Evils she’d never known existed had crushed her world in a cruel fist during the course of a single evening.
It hadn’t been fair at all.
Her parents had taught her right from wrong. They had instilled their noble ideals and compassion in her heart. She wished they had also warned her that justice did not always come when it was merited.
Sometimes it, too, had to be stolen.
The sound of the majordomo shouting in the street startled her back to the present. “Move this damned hay cart out of the driveway!” he was ordering the two footmen who’d been roused from their station on the entrance steps.
The footmen pushed. The hay cart rolled like a prehistoric beast down the street; it took Maggie’s only hope for escape with it on its bumpy, undignified descent into darkness. There was no choice now but to forge ahead with the robbery.
“Hell,” she said in frustration. “What else can go wrong?”
Hugh leaned forward. “I’ll jump anyway and get the rope.”
“You will not. We’ll wait until they’re done in that room. They can’t take—”
Before she could finish the thought, there was another trill of laughter from inside the bedroom, the balcony doors flew open, and a woman with red flowing hair burst outside with her arms outflung as if to embrace the rain.
“Oh, look,” she cried over her shoulder to the man in the room. “How wonderful. How perfect. We’re having a storm to celebrate your success!”
She raised her arms to the inky sky like a pagan goddess and twirled, reveling in the rock-hard pellets of rain that pelted her voluptuous figure. Maggie couldn’t believe her eyes; she’d just realized that the demented creature was dancing around in her underwear. And the man was right— she did have her drawers on backward.
“For the love of God, Ardath, get inside before someone sees you.”
The man’s voice, gruff with amusement and annoyance, did little to deter his uninhibited partner. The woman was now performing a very strange ritual around the perimeters of the balcony. Clapping her hand over her mouth, prancing around in circles. Making loud ululations to the sky.
“What the blazes are you doing, Ardath?”
A large shadow moved into Maggie’s peripheral vision. She huddled into her cloak, too terrified to breathe. Was this the infamous Connor Buchanan, literally in the flesh?
The shadow strode forward, straight into Maggie’s range of vision. He was powerfully built and he moved with riveting self-assurance, his long dark blond hair stirring in the wind. Thankfully, he was fully dressed, in black
broadcloth evening breeches and long-tailed white linen shirt with a cambric cravat, which he was casually trying to arrange. Maggie couldn’t see his face, and it was probably a good thing. Even from this distance he emanated a dangerous energy that she’d rather not encounter.
“Have you lost your mind, Ardath?” he said calmly.
He leaned his hip against the railing, his elbow protruding onto the ledge. If he happened to turn his head, if he looked up closely enough through the tree, he would see the two figures on the ledge.
As it was now, the wind was blowing the ends of his hair into Maggie’s cloak. A leafy branch provided the only unreliable barrier between them. She stole an anxious look at his profile; its rugged contours carved a silhouette against the night sky that was anything but reassuring.
So this was Connor Buchanan, the man who had sold his soul to the devil for success. He was more formidable in person than even his reputation claimed.
“I am doing the pagan Gubong rain dance that Professor Macbean showed us during this month’s lecture,” Ardath told him. “He lived with a family of natives on a little volcanic island for almost a year.”
“Your professor lectured on lions and unicorns last summer,” he said wryly. “I suppose he lived with them too?”
“You’re too cynical. You don’t believe in anything. Stop trying to spoil my fun.”
“Come inside now, Ardath,” he ordered her. “You’ll have the Reverend Abernathy waking me up at dawn to complain about the strange goings-on in my house. As usual, I’ll be the one blamed.”
Maggie squeezed her shoulders to the wall, every muscle in her body tightening in response to his deep authoritative voice. She had gotten her first glimpse of the notorious Connor Buchanan only yesterday afternoon. A tall, dominant figure in long black robes and a wig, he had strode right past her to the courthouse, larger than life, commanding attention.
Maggie had been too short to see above the eager crowd. She’d gone unnoticed in the crush of smitten young women, press reporters, and legal clerks who rode the wake of his charismatic personage. She could still remember the strange current of excitement his presence stirred. She’d been so impressed she had forgotten she was supposed to hate him.
Daring Page 1
