Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more historical romance… How to Forgive a Highlander
The Wicked Viscount
Saving the Scot
A Lord for the Lass
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 © 2019 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
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Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Erin Molta
Cover design by EDH Graphics
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ISBN 978-1-64063-841-9
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition July 2019
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For my grandmother…
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Prologue
Scotland, October 1884
“Ye must leave this place. Go…and never look back.”
As Rose Fleming cradled her brother’s limp body at the river’s edge, her aunt’s desperate words sliced through her like a rusty knife. She pressed a hand to his cheek, praying he’d stir, desperate for some small sign he still breathed. Still lived.
Breathe, Angus. You must not give up.
Bitter tears seared her eyes. She brushed a crimson-soaked lock of hair from her brother’s brow. “Angus, please…stay with me.”
Huge raindrops pelted her face like icy pebbles against her skin, mixing with the blood trickling from a cut near her left temple. Rose’s attention jerked toward an eerie creak as lightning sizzled behind her. A wheel on their wrecked carriage spun as if by its own volition. A sudden gust, and the wheel picked up speed, rotating wildly on its broken axle as a mournful sound whipped through the trees.
Her brother had been driving the carriage when they’d departed Fleming House. At first, she’d joined Angus on the bench, engaging him in bland conversation intended to distract from the miserable truth—they were leaving their home for the last time. As the sky turned a forbidding gray and the first cold drops of rain fell, he’d slowed to a stop and insisted Rose enter the coach. Soon after, traveling at a breakneck pace, they’d hit a deep rut in the road.
The sharp crack of the axle and the terror in her aunt’s screams would be forever etched in Rose’s mind. As the coach careened on its side toward the bank of the river, another jolt tossed her about like a rag doll. Her head struck something hard. Something unyielding.
Everything went black.
She’d awakened to Aunt Helen’s imploring voice and the feel of her aunt’s fingertips against her forehead.
The carriage had landed with its door against the ground, so she’d pulled her bruised body through the opposite window and helped Aunt Helen from the coach. She’d spotted Angus then. He’d been thrown from the bench, landing against a tree stump.
Now, she traced the single wound over his right temple with her fingertips. The laceration was scarcely bleeding. Reaching up, she unfastened her cloak and fashioned a pillow for his head with the swath of wool. Swiping mingled rain and blood and tears from her cheek, she gazed down at him, denying the truth. Her strapping, courageous brother with his bright smile and quick wit could not be lying there so still.
So lifeless.
He could not be dead.
This. Can. Not. Be.
“There’s nothin’ to be done for Angus now.” Aunt Helen’s voice was raw with grief. Tenderly, she stroked Rose’s rain-matted hair. “But ye must save yourself.”
Rose met her aunt’s tear-filled eyes. “I will not leave him.”
“There is no choice. I could not protect ye when yer da was alive. But now…now I know what must be done.”
One of the horses, that had faithfully pulled the family carriage for so many years, gave a plaintive whinny. Even after their halters had broken, freeing them from the carriage, the geldings had not bolted. Rather, they paced restlessly, observing the scene with sad eyes that seemed to understand and share their sorrow.
Her aunt took Rose’s hand in hers. “Angus tried to save ye. And now, he’s given me the means to protect ye.”
Rose gave her head an anguished shake. “I don’t understand.”
“Take Galahad. Ye’ve always delighted in showing everyone how ye could ride the wildest beast without benefit of a saddle. This gentle creature should prove no challenge. I’ll tell everyone the horse was spooked and ran off after the carriage wrecked.”
She met her aunt’s imploring gaze. “Then we shall both go. We’ll make it to London…and MacAllister.”
Aunt Helen shook her head as she brushed rain off her spectacles. “If you bring him into this, ye’ll put his life in danger.”
“He will know what to do. Angus had faith in him.”
“MacAllister Campbell is scarcely more than a lad. He’s not equipped to deal with the likes of a man like Merrick, even if he wanted to—and ye’ve no guarantee of that.”
Doubt sliced through her heart. Months earlier, MacAllister had left Scotland to seek his fortune. He’d made her no promises. He’d never misled her about his intentions.
Still, she had faith he would not abandon her. After all, he had loved her. At least for a little while.
“MacAllister will help me.” In her heart, she believed that.
“Cyril Merrick will kill anyone who stands in his way. Do ye want Campbell’s blood on yer hands?”
Dear God. The truth of her aunt’s words knifed through her. She could not put MacAllister’s life at risk.
Rose gulped against a wave of em
otion. “Then what now—what would you have me do?”
“My sweet girl, ye’ve been the brightest joy in my life. But now, ye must go from this place.”
Rose blinked against scalding tears. “I will not leave you.”
“There is no choice.”
“But Merrick won’t stop. He will chase me to the ends of the earth.”
“Unless he believes there is no point—unless he believes…ye’re dead.”
“Dead?” The thought of never again seeing those she loved and the land she adored was a dagger to the belly.
“I have a friend—I trust her with my life, and with yers.” Her aunt pressed a small leather purse into her hand. “Everything you need to find her is in this bag. She will give ye shelter until ye can leave the country.”
Rose shuddered at the burst of pain. “Please do not ask that of me.”
“With her dying breath, your mother trusted me to protect you. And now, I will do whatever it takes.”
In the distance, the steady rumble of hoofbeats drifted to her ears. A rescue party? Or had Merrick’s men tracked them down?
“They’re coming. It won’t be long now,” Aunt Helen murmured. Turning back to Angus’s still body, she scooped up Rose’s cloak from beneath his head, rushed to the bank of the river, and flung the garment into the rushing water. As the brisk current swept it away, her aunt drew her close and kissed her cheek.
“Go now, Rosie. Do not look back.”
Chapter One
London, Ten Years Later
It is not every day that a man looks into the eyes of a dead woman. All things considered, the imposing Scot who’d once broken Rose Fleming’s heart was taking it rather well.
Rose met MacAllister Campbell’s warm brown gaze. As he rested his hands lightly on Rose’s shoulders, gently stilling her, doubt flashed over his handsome features. Was it her imagination, or had his jaw actually dropped, if only by a fraction of an inch? For a heartbeat, perhaps two, he studied her, as if to convince himself the woman who’d dashed headlong into him was indeed real.
And not a ghost come back to haunt him.
Of all the men she might’ve encountered as she rushed through the crush outside the theater, why did it have to be him?
So many years had passed since she’d last touched him. Since she’d last kissed him on a night when the moon was full and the fragrance of summer blossoms filled the air. It seemed a lifetime since MacAllister had walked out of her life.
But there was no mistaking him. Even after all these years, standing in the shadow of the Larkspear Theater on a gaslit night, she knew the shape of his face, the wave in his chestnut brown hair, and the subtle scent of soap and bergamot indelibly imprinted on her brain.
Questions flashed in his eyes, coupled with a clear sense of recognition. Had he seen through her pitiful attempt at camouflage—a coffee rinse liberally applied over her hair to dull its natural auburn hue and a netted veil on her hat to partially obscure her features?
MacAllister had always taken in the smallest of details. Pity that trait had not changed.
Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. At the moment, MacAllister Campbell’s powers of observation were the least of her worries.
“Are you all right, miss?” His question was bland, ordinary. Perhaps she was mistaken—perhaps he didn’t recognize her.
She gave a nod, then rose up on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. In the distance, a tall man with a shock of stringy black hair shoved his way through the crowd. A chill washed over her. So, he was following her. The man’s near-constant presence since she’d left the hotel on the Strand had not been a coincidence. Another minute or so and he’d be upon her.
Dear God. The nod had been a colossal lie.
She wasn’t all right.
Not at all.
If the bull of a man caught up with her, she might well join the ranks of the deceased again.
Only this time, it would not be a charade.
Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. She’d likely regret it. But at least she’d be alive.
Since she’d last seen MacAllister, she’d developed a talent for making good use of every resource. And now, she needed MacAllister—well, she needed a man—if only for a very short while.
“Darling.” She flashed a soft smile, curled a gloved hand over his forearm, and urged him away from the gas lamp’s hazy light. “I’m delighted I found you.”
His eyes narrowed. She thought he’d respond, but he didn’t. Had she actually left him speechless? It wasn’t easy to get the better of MacAllister. This might well be a first. The notion was oddly satisfying. Not that she had time to savor the experience.
Peeking over his shoulder again, she spotted the black-haired man. He’d muscled past a burly gent with a walrus mustache. Oh dear.
“Oh, I’ve missed you so.” Taking hold of MacAllister’s jacket lapels, she stepped close to his body. Ignoring the press of a button against her cheek, she buried her face against the tweed. “Hold me. Please.”
His arms enfolded her. “Do you intend to tell me what in blazes is going on?” His voice was low and husky, so familiar, even after all this time.
Glancing over his shoulder to scan the crowd behind him, she glimpsed a flash of her pursuer’s coal-black hair.
His sharp, indrawn breath betrayed the tension in his body. “Who are you looking for?”
“An old friend,” she whispered against his mouth. “I need you to do something…for me.”
“Tell me what you’re up to. I’ve no patience for games.”
Did you ever, MacAllister?
She clung to him like a drowning woman. “Please, hold me.”
To her relief, he played along.
Leaning closer, she lifted the netting on her hat, just enough to leave her eyes still veiled.
“This is no time for words.”
No time for hesitation.
He framed her face in his large, warm hands. “What is this about?”
“Stop talking and kiss me.”
Interest flared in his eyes. And he needed no further invitation. Dipping his head, he pressed his lips to hers. Softly, at first. So very gentle. Kindling a flame she’d thought long extinguished.
Her lids fluttered shut as she savored his touch. A hunger that transcended the moment stirred within her. With a little groan deep in his throat, he intensified the caress, teasing her with the tip of his tongue, parting her lips. Claiming her with a passion that carried her back in time.
A muffled sound, jarring as nails against a teacher’s slate, intruded on her bliss.
Harrumph!
The deliberate throat-clearing came again, this time followed by words. Brash and utterly disapproving.
Hands falling to his side, MacAllister eased away. His eyes darkening with an emotion she couldn’t quite read, he fixed the harrumpher with a glare so heated, it seemed a miracle it did not scorch the gent’s muttonchop whiskers. “Good God, man. Next time, I’ll thank you to look the other way.”
The burly man narrowed his eyes. “I should hope there will not be a next time.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve not seen my wife in a long time.” MacAllister affectionately squeezed Rose’s hand.
Wife. Rose gulped at the word. He’d played along with her ruse, perhaps a bit more than she’d intended.
The hard line of the older gent’s mouth softened. Tipping his derby, he flashed Rose a smile. “Aye, I was young once. Time is indeed fleeting.” As he headed to the theater entrance, he called to MacAllister, “Do not do anything I would not do.”
MacAllister gave a nod, then turned to her. He reached for her hand, taking it in his own. With his thumb, he traced small circles over her skin. A long dormant awareness roared to the surface.
She looked away, avoiding his questioning gaze. Peering past him, she saw no sign of the hired muscle who’d been trailing her for hours. Still, she couldn’t allow herself a sigh of relief.
; She’d eluded the bastard. For now. But she wasn’t fool enough to deceive herself. It wasn’t over yet.
Now that the black-haired man knew she was alive, it might not ever be over. The sight of the brute who’d pursued her from Edinburgh had confirmed her worst fears. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t need to. The man was an assassin. No doubt he’d murdered her aunt, God rest her soul, on Merrick’s orders.
And now, the killer had pursued her all the way to London. The man was likely skilled at ending his quarry’s existence. He might have slid a blade between her ribs before anyone in the crowd could stop him—before anyone was the wiser.
MacAllister’s brow furrowed as his attention settled on her left wrist. Of course, he’d noticed the way the cords on the small velveteen bag dug into her skin.
His touch suddenly scorching, she pulled away. If he discovered what weighted the bag—the revolver she carried day and night—he’d have more questions.
Questions she had no intention of answering.
She had to get away. Somewhere inside the theater, the informant who’d promised evidence that would bring Merrick to justice, awaited her arrival. She certainly didn’t need MacAllister trailing her to the rendezvous. Once inside the magnificent building, she’d be safe, if only for the length of the performance.
A sudden flash of black in the distance set off an internal alarm. She froze in her tracks. Had Merrick’s hired thug returned?
Instinct she’d thought long dead reared its head. She edged closer to MacAllister. Even now, his presence provided a measure of reassurance. But the comfort would be short-lived. He was playing along with her, but soon he’d expect answers she wasn’t prepared to give.
She scanned the milling crowd. Detecting no sign of the dark-haired man, she dragged in a breath, steadying herself. Her imagination was playing ugly games. At this rate, she’d be spotting villains around every corner—men like the heartless souls who’d pursued her all those years before.
“Tell me what’s going on, lass.” MacAllister’s husky voice pulled her back to the moment.
She drew back, just enough to put a hand’s breadth between MacAllister’s body and hers. Telling him the truth was not an option.
At least, not all of it.
When a Lady Kisses a Scot Page 1