What the Scot Hears

by Amy Quinton

  Yes, she knew she affected him. She’d forced a few cracks here and there in his carefully cultivated armor.

  Amelia turned away and smoothed her hand across the quilt, the fibers soft beneath her fingers. She continued in this manner until her hand began to feel numb to all sensation; she was determined not to look at him and see the longing lurking in his expressive eyes.

  Still, the tension in the room continued to escalate.

  She flinched when the door slammed, screaming his departure.

  She flung out her arms and fell back across the bed with a deep sigh, only now realizing that she’d held her breath.

  She was alone. At last. She was relieved! Never mind her racing heart and heated cheeks disagreed with the sentiment.

  Oh God, Amelia. This is hard. It might be too hard.

  On A Farm: Two Towns Over, or 20 Miles as the Crow Flies

  Kelly and his driver dismounted their respective horses and eyed the out of place carriage sitting in the middle of a wheat field to the right of a farm house two miles outside of the town of Burrwich. It certainly looked like his missing conveyance.

  Damn.

  He shook his head. He was both irritated and impressed by Mrs. Chase’s ability to abscond so thoroughly. He’d certainly underestimated her capabilities.

  Kelly walked up the steps to the main cottage and rapped on the front door while pasting on his most amiable smile.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  Dammit, if she were escaping out the back door…

  Kelly had barely finished the thought before he was bounding down the steps and around to the back of the house.

  He came to a halt as he came upon an unexpected sight—the farmer and his very pregnant wife were playing ole Venus’s game, right outside amongst the beets and barley.

  “Well, ahem, pardon my intrusion.” He winked at the farmer. “I’ll just take myself back to the front door and see ye when yer finished up here, then.”

  He turned on his heel and left, shaking his head with a smile and a laugh.

  Ah, lucky farmer.

  Half an hour later, the farmer came strolling around the side of the house, a whistling a merry tune. He sported a wide grin and nary a blush.

  Kelly recognized a kindred spirit when he saw one.

  “My name’s Kelly. Are you Mr. Jones?”

  “Yes, that’s me. How do you do, Mr. Kelly?”

  “Fine, fine. I came out on account of your interesting addition to the right field over there—the one with the traveling carriage sat out in the middle. It looks familiar, you see. I believe the previous owner may have been my cousin, Mrs. Amelia Chase. We’ve been searching for her for a few days now, when she didn’t show up at the house as planned.”

  The farmer’s grin fell; his face gone serious with concern. “Well, that is interesting. The previous owner of that carriage is…er, was… Mrs. Chase. She traded it for our donkey, Ole Bruce, when she came upon me and the missus stranded on the side of the road. She offered the swap, so I could get my Mary back to Town seeing as she couldn’t ride Bruce and the wagon was undrivable, what with a broken wheel and all. So Mrs. Chase left on Ole Bruce and I took me Mary home in the carriage.”

  Kelly searched the farmer’s eyes for the veracity in his words.

  “It’s the honest to God truth, I tell ya. We didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking…” The man suddenly looked fearful. He removed his dusty hat and began twisting it in his hands.

  “Oh, no, no. I didn’t think that for a moment. I’m merely surprised, that’s all.” Kelly was quick to reassure the man.

  Though now, it was the farmer’s turn to look suspicious.

  “Did Mrs. Chase happen to say where she was headed?” Kelly asked.

  Wary now, the farmer said, “She said she was a guest of the duke, over the hill there. Though it ‘twere strange as she’d been headed in the opposite direction from the Park and she told a mighty fanciful tale in the process. Summat about a bet, good-natured ribbing, and the duke’s peculiar friends.”

  Kelly laughed. “That sounds like our Amelia, all right.”

  The farmer laughed, too, though one could detect a thread of strain amidst the sound. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the carriage returned to you now…”

  “Oh, no. Keep it. You’ve come by it honestly, I’m sure. Never let it be said that a Kelly, or a Chase, went back on their word.”

  The farmer released his breath, clearly relieved.

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Jones. We’ll talk to the duke, perhaps he’ll know where she’s gone.” Damn. Her trail was cold.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Two Days Later: On the Road to Scotland

  It was the brightest day in English history, or it felt that way. MacLeod had slept very little the night before and the sun seemed to mock that fact, all but aiming its rays purposefully and unerringly into his bleary, gritty, sleep-deprived eyes.

  Earlier that morning, he’d managed to procure a horse for Amelia. Thank God one had been available. Fortunately, the owner had not recognized the desperation behind his request to purchase it, never once aware of just how far MacLeod had been willing to go to secure said mount—regardless of its state of health. Hell, the mare could have had only three legs, razor sharp teeth, a hunched back, and one red eye, and he still would have traded the shirt off his back to acquire it.

  He’d lost almost an entire night’s sleep over the persistent imagery of spending the rest of their trip to Greenwood Park on the back of his horse with Amelia Chase fit snuggly between his thighs. His cock twitched at the memory, damned uncooperative bastard.

  Thankfully, the horse was young and in relatively good shape, the mare more than up to the task of carrying her all the way to Greenwood Park. And, mercifully, his shirt wasn’t required to finalize the transaction.

  Amelia was pleased with the filly, of course. She’d already named her Winnie.

  “You know, MacLeod, I think we’ve reached a new level of friendship, indeed I do.” She began, patting her horse gently as if speaking to Winnie and not him.

  He looked straight ahead and trained his ears on the steady sound of their horses clopping down the unpaved road. He wanted to argue against the idea they’d reached any sort of friendship at all, which was ridiculous and just him being contrary, but he was out of sorts this morning. First for his lack of sleep and second because he wanted nothing more than to pull her back onto his horse, settling her between his legs and in his arms before him. How quickly he had grown used to riding with her there.

  But he thought it was prudent not to speak, much less argue the point. It certainly wasn’t friendship that occupied his mind when he allowed his thoughts to wander.

  Clop. Clop. Clop.

  “So, I think we should start calling each other by our given names. I mean, we’re traveling the countryside together and will be for some time. And honestly, I’m rather tired of you referring to me as Mrs. Chase…even with that delicious Scottish brogue of yours.”

  “No,” he barked, his response immediate. The word delicious from her lips caused all sorts of inappropriate images to flash through his mind. He did not need to revisit such thoughts again, not after yesterday’s renewed connection in the bedroom and an entire night sleeping upright by the fireside of a drafty old inn.

  She sighed as if she’d expected that’d be his response. She should have expected it; he was a man who was quite simple to understand. He never padded his words nor spoke in riddles.

  “Come on, Alaistair,” she prodded.

  Blast and damn! A small flame ignited in the general area of his heart when the sound of his first name tumbled from her lips. It took his breath away, for no one had called him by his first name in five years. No one since…hell, no one since Alain.

  And only Alain ever did.

  He refused to acknowledge his traitorous ex-fiancée.

  His heart raced wildly with a startling onslaught of emotion
. He fisted his hands and screwed up his face in anger to mask the pain that flared, similar to the pain that always hovered beneath the surface of his skin after bearing such betrayal and all the consequences from it.

  Oh, Alain.

  He glared over at Mrs. Chase. Little could she know his scowling façade was, in reality, him pleading with her not to continue. Dammit, last night he’d have sworn she was angry at him.

  Now, she seemed to be brimming with joy. Och, he didn’t know which end was up with this woman.

  Just. Like. Dansbury. How had he missed it?

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Alaistair. I’m a perfectly progressive woman and an American, and I say it’s senseless to hold to propriety in this instance.”

  He didn’t answer her. He couldn’t. A lump the size of his fist seemed to have formed in his throat, and she didn’t even know it. He returned to watching the distant horizon ahead of them, his neck protesting the strain of muscles that were pulled taut with strong emotion, the wind causing his eyes to water.

  “In case you cannot recall it, my first name is Amelia.”

  Swallow.

  Oh, he knew her first name, all right. Of course, everyone in the last two towns probably knew her by her first name.

  But that wasn’t why he did.

  “Some people call me Amy. Others call me Mellie. I’m fine with either one if Amelia doesn’t suit. Amelia is longer and I know you to be quite sparing with your words, my mute friend.” She chuckled, seemingly pleased with her attempt at humor.

  “Mel.”

  Damn, it just slipped out. Och, pray God she’d missed it.

  He peeked over at her and caught her gaze as she grinned from ear to ear, surpassing the sun with her brilliance. “Of course, Mel. It suits us…” She blushed as she added, “It suits you. And I like it. Certainly, no one’s ever called me Mel before.”

  Och, what was she doing to him? Really? Mel?

  They travelled in blessed peace for another half an hour after his inadvisable suggestion he call her Mel. He supposed he’d surprised her with his compliance to her proposal, which kept her mind pre-occupied with her own thoughts. So, there were benefits to his mistake, after all, for he was in no mood to converse today.

  They rounded a sharp bend in the road and came upon a farmer with his cart stuck deep in a rut.

  “Hello, good man.” Mel called out to the farmer, who was currently working a shovel into the mud gripping one of his rear wheels. The man paused to lean on his shovel and wipe the sweat from his brow with a dirty sleeve while he grinned over such a cheerful greeting.

  “Good morn to you, ma’am. Sir.”

  “And to you. It looks like you’re in a spot of trouble there. Might we assist you?”

  “Aye, I could use a pair of strong arms to help me get me wagon unmired from this muck.”

  “Mel…” he warned. He spoke low, so only she could hear.

  She ignored him. “Well, it just so happens I have a set of muscles here you can borrow.” She chuckled as she gestured in his direction.

  He growled in response to her offer of his muscles, but rather than argue the point, he dismounted from his horse and walked over to assist the stranded man. It was a wasted effort to argue with her at this point, and the sooner they were on their way, the sooner he could toss her over his knee for deliberately ignoring his commands. What part of ‘Talk to no one. People are after you. We need to make haste’ did she not understand?

  Never mind that he would never in a million years do such a thing as hurt her, physically.

  “So might we have the pleasure of your name, good sir?” Mel called out to the farmer.

  “My name’s Spencer, ma’am. John Spencer.”

  “How to you do? My name is Mrs. Chase and this man is Lord MacLeod…”

  The man nodded his head to MacLeod, “Milord.”

  “We’re on our way south. Or will be, soon enough,” Mel continued.

  They were headed north, but MacLeod did not correct her. It seemed she carried some sense to know not to tell this man everything.

  “Do you live near here?” she continued.

  “Aye, about five miles further up the road and on the right. I live there with the missus and me five young boys.”

  “How delightful. I bet you see all sorts of travelers on this road.”

  “Actually, not many, ma’am. We’re pretty self-sufficient here, with nothing much but sheep and farmland to be seen. We’ve barely a town, just a small public house and a church.”

  As he listened to Mel and the farmer chat, MacLeod dismounted and walked over to assess the stuck carriage, yet in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but feel irritated by her reckless behavior. Sure, she’d misled the man as to their travel plans, but now they were chatting like old friends over tea. He couldn’t understand how she failed to understand the seriousness of their situation. His unambiguous warnings from his ‘dangerous men are after you, trust no one’ speech should feature prominently behind her every waking decision. Yet she conveniently seemed to forget his counsel whenever it suited her to do so.

  Like now.

  For certain, they would be addressing this problem in the very near future. His hand itched to give her a good spanking…

  “You might want to fit a large branch behind that left wheel.” Came a bit of unsolicited advice from behind him in an all too familiar, smoky voice which had recently begun to haunt his dreams. Unwelcome, sensual, erotic dreams. When she spoke unexpectedly and out of sight like that, his mind always delivered him directly to the last inappropriate dream he’d had of her.

  Dreams he could not banish no matter how hard he tried.

  “Yes, my lady, I have a board in the back of my cart here that should do the trick,” answered the farmer, all smiles.

  MacLeod climbed into the carriage and retrieved said board; he’d do anything to keep his mind focused on the task at hand and not dwell at the oft exasperating woman behind him.

  MacLeod bent to place the board. He was wedging it in when he heard her suggest, “I’d turn it the other way if I were you.” He gritted his teeth and carried on with his plan.

  Just as he’d moved to wedge his foot behind the board to stabilize it, he heard, “I’d place your foot on the end of the board to keep it in place, if I were you.”

  “Och, Mrs. Chase, if you wanted to help, you could very easily dismount and assist.” he snapped, then called to the driver. “Aye, give it a go.”

  The driver laughed and shook his head before he turned and yelled, “Yah,” just as MacLeod noticed a pair of slender arms reach up to push on the back of the carriage…

  “Stop!” he yelled, but it was too late. The carriage lurched forward at the same time Mel was reaching for it.

  What happened next was inevitable.

  Amelia Chase lost her balance and landed face first in the mud.

  Kelly opened the note he found beneath the door of his rented room and held it to the light of the lantern next to his bed.

  Black Irish,

  I have information you may find of great use. You might consider making your way to the Bull and Finch…with haste.

  The Puppet Master

  Black Irish was the code name he only used through his work for the Crown. Very, very few people knew it.

  So the Puppet Master was seeking him out? Wanting to talk directly to him? Interesting.

  The man was clearly playing some sort of game.

  The man knew everything. In fact, Kelly would swear the man knew more than the Crown about what went on in the Kingdom. Hell, he would swear the man knew more than the entire team of agents he worked with, including the Duke of Stonebridge, which had to annoy the hell out of the duke.

  This man had eyes and ears everywhere.

  In fact, Kelly wouldn’t be surprised if the man even knew all the players working within the Society and was simply playing with them all, pitting them against each other. He was a mercenary at the very least.
<
br />   And Kelly was sure every one of Stonebridge’s agents used him as a source, probably under different code names.

  Through personal experience, Kelly knew that the Puppet Master was a man who understated everything. Kelly could no more avoid going to the Bull and Finch than he could walk around without trousers in a London ballroom. He’d just have to make a quick trip over and see what his old friend had to say.

  Though more likely he’d be meeting with an associate, rather than the man himself. And he’d send a woman, as usual. The man seemed to understand Kelly was far more forthcoming with women than men.

  Kelly smiled at the prospect.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Mel!” MacLeod scooped her out of the mud and set her gently on the back of the cart they’d just freed. The owner was there almost immediately, reaching out to hand him a relatively clean towel he’d fetched from out of the back of the wagon. MacLeod took it with a gruff, “Thanks,” and began to wipe away the mud on Mel’s face.

  She was silent, for once.

  He wiped her delicate forehead, her rosy cheeks, her stubbornly pointed chin, her sharp brow. His actions slowed as he revealed more and more of her soft, sun-kissed skin, along with her host of adorable, brown freckles.

  He’d spent long hours counting those freckles, in his dreams.

  He took one last swipe at her proud nose and then paused, his hands braced on either side of her legs. She looked back at him, her eyes at first soft and sad; then she searched his, looking for who knew what.

  The entire world seemed to pause as she explored the depths of his soul. Then she smiled, a soft sweet smile, and it brought out his old disused one in return.

  Then, as if choreographed by God himself, they laughed. Together. Hers unfettered; his rough around the edges from neglect. Without thinking about his actions, he pressed his forehead to hers, his heart light for the first time in years.

  Five years, to be exact.