When a Lady Kisses a Scot

by Tara Kingston

  MacAllister scowled. “I meant what I said—if you are involved in this, I will see you die in prison.”

  She kept her gaze on Rose. Her long, tapered nails tapped against the mahogany. “Why would I want to protect the daughter of John Fleming? I could not forgive him…nor the woman he married.”

  A shiver crept along Rose’s spine. Her stomach roiled, and she fought to remain steady on her feet. Never before had she looked into eyes clouded with such pure, uncensored hatred.

  “You’ve confessed to a murder tonight,” MacAllister reminded her. “It’s not too late to see you brought to justice for Jacob Merrick’s death.”

  Portia waved his words away. “My personal physician is of the belief I’m not long for this world. There’s nothing the law can do to me.” She pinned Rose with her gaze. “I must say, I am surprised you haven’t asked about the brooches I gave you. Your investigator—such a tiresome little man—was to deliver one of the cameos to you the night he died. I trust you received it.”

  Apprehension welled in her throat. Rose forced herself to meet the woman’s pointed gaze. “It was recovered…after he was killed.”

  “Well, that is a relief. It crushed me to think such a valuable piece was lost.” She frowned, seeming to consider her words. “And the ring—I trust you received it.”

  A muscle in MacAllister’s jaw clenched. “We assumed that ghoulish bit of metal was from you.”

  “You should be thanking me, Mr. Campbell.”

  He scowled. “Now why would I want to do that?”

  “That ring might well be the most valuable piece of jewelry dear Rose ever receives.”

  “It was a macabre attempt to frighten her,” MacAllister countered.

  “She has good reason to be frightened,” Portia said softly. “But the ring…it has the power to keep her alive.”

  He regarded her as if she’d gone mad. “What in blazes are you talking about?”

  “There is a certain ceremony…one Miss Fleming should pray she never witnesses. The ring is a vital component of the ritual. You must keep it out of the hands of anyone connected with Merrick.”

  Rose studied her expression. If Portia was lying, she was a master at the art. “How did you come by the ring?”

  “Let’s just say I reclaimed it…from a friend.”

  “You’ve contradicted yourself,” Rose said. “You said you had no inclination to help me, that you would do nothing to protect me. And yet, you’re telling us that hideous ring will protect me. Why would you put it in my hands if it might assist me?”

  “Perhaps you have misread my motives. I did not give you the ring to assist you in your quest. Rather, I take great pleasure in ensuring Merrick’s plans, regardless of who is intent on carrying them out, do not come to fruition. There are some evils in this world that even I cannot abide.” She rang a small bell on the marble-topped side table. “Rose, perhaps we might continue this discussion later.” Portia pulled in a labored breath. “When I send for you, come alone.”

  “Continuing this discussion will serve no purpose,” Rose said with a calmness she did not feel.

  “I would not be so sure of that.”

  The door opened, and the bodyguard stepped inside.

  Rose turned away. “Good night, Mrs. Rathbone.”

  “Keep this in mind, Rose. If I call for you, do not make me wait. If I decide to offer you more than I already have, I assure you the gift will not remain on the table for long.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Do not make me wait. Portia Rathbone’s softly spoken command echoed in Rose’s thoughts. What kind of sinister game was the widow playing? What was the nature of the so-called assistance she dangled like bait? The very thought of confronting the evil in Mrs. Rathbone’s eyes once again twisted Rose’s stomach into knots. But she’d force herself to endure the woman’s hateful gaze if it meant getting to the truth.

  As she entered the ballroom on MacAllister’s arm, Rose spotted Edward Fincham standing to the side, engaged in conversation with a top-hatted man and a raven-haired woman in a gown of plum velvet. Rose recognized the pair as performers who’d been on the stage that night at the theater.

  MacAllister nodded toward Fincham. “Let’s have a talk with the man, shall we?”

  As they drew near, recognition flared in Fincham’s eyes. “Why, if it isn’t MacAllister Campbell. I understand you’ve left the Herald. How in blazes is that rag digging up dirt without your guiding hand?”

  “The paper certainly doesn’t need me to sniff out scandal. The city is brimming with it,” MacAllister replied.

  “I do adore a good scandal,” the actress said, her sapphire gaze lingering on MacAllister. “It makes life so much more interesting.”

  “You’ve enjoyed your fair share, Miss Thomas,” MacAllister said, his tone dry as sand.

  “Miss Thomas? That’s sounds so very…formal.” She swept her long, unbound hair over her shoulder. “Please, do call me Eleanora.”

  “Formality suits the occasion,” MacAllister said, then set about the perfunctory introductions.

  Her companion, Willard Nash, bore a pinched expression on his handsome face. “We really must be running along. Portia isn’t going to wait all night.”

  “Let her wait,” Eleanora retorted. “The orchestra is in fine form, and I’m in the mood for a dance.”

  Nash appeared far from enthused, but he took the actress’s arm and led her into the crush of dancers.

  Fincham settled his gaze on Rose. “I feel as if I’ve made your acquaintance in the past.”

  “I don’t believe that is the case.”

  Fincham’s brow furrowed, and he leaned closer, seeming to inspect her. Goose bumps crawled over her skin.

  “It’s coming back to me now.” Fincham paused to take a drink from the tumbler in his hand. “I remember your father, John Fleming. The man wasn’t fond of London, as I recall. He much preferred living out his days in the quiet of the Highlands.”

  “How did you come to know him?” Rose forced a bland tone.

  “We met while we were students at university,” Fincham said. “As I recall, he was quite a serious fellow, always planning his next move.”

  “Father was always alert for an opportunity.”

  “He was an ambitious man. Blasted shame what happened to him.”

  “His killer was not brought to justice. But perhaps I will remedy that.” She held her voice steady, her words calm and composed. Quite a miracle, considering the dull misery in her heart.

  MacAllister seemed to sense her pain and edged ever so slightly closer for support.

  Fincham gave a solemn nod. “Indeed. The hangman’s rope is too good for the likes of the scoundrel.” He took a step back, taking her in. “You look so very much like your mother. But I’m sure I’m not the first to tell you that.”

  Rose gulped against a flash of pain the memory unleashed. “I consider that quite a compliment.”

  “Believe me, I’m not one for idle flattery,” Fincham said. “Your father was a very fortunate man.”

  Until he was drawn to evil. The thought seemed a dagger to the gut.

  “What brings you here tonight, Campbell?” Fincham’s expression hardened as he eyed MacAllister. “I didn’t think you possessed a taste for mingling with society types.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me on that. I’ve no use for toadies and sycophants seeking a wealthy patron’s favor.”

  “Blunt as always, I see,” Fincham said. “On that note, I shall take my leave.” He flashed Rose a sly smile. “Miss Fleming, it was a pleasure. Do take care. Perhaps we shall meet again very soon.”

  “That would be lovely,” she said, the words sounding false even to her own ears.

  “Indeed.” Fincham pivoted on his heel and made his way through the throng.

  MacAllister leaned closer and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “He made a point to let you know his connection to your father. I’d wager he was trying to rattle
you.”

  “I must admit, he succeeded.”

  He lightly placed his palm against the small of her back, reassuring her with his touch. “There’s something about him I don’t trust.”

  Before Rose could respond, a man behind them cleared his throat, announcing his presence.

  “Miss Fleming?” the immaculately attired gent said. “This is for you.”

  “Thank you.” She took the note from his hand, studying the bold, flowery script as the courier took his leave. “It would appear Portia Rathbone has summoned me.”

  “You’re not going alone.”

  Opening the missive, her suspicion was confirmed. “She wants me to come to her private suite.”

  “I don’t give a damn what the shrew demands,” MacAllister said.

  “But we can’t take a chance on compromising this investigation,” Rose objected.

  He slowly shook his head. “I will not expose you to that woman’s venom without someone there to protect you. I am going with you.”

  …

  Something was afoot. MacAllister’s internal alarm was on full alert. Blast it, he felt it to his bones.

  Edward Fincham had seemed on edge. The man had tried to cover his uneasiness with glib remarks and sly smiles directed at Rose, but he’d been unable to hide the taut set of his jaw, nor the way his eyes searched the room, as if waiting for a sign of some sort.

  His presence did not feel like a coincidence. What had the man thought to achieve by emphasizing his connection to Rose’s father?

  Now, as they ventured to the fifth floor of the hotel in response to Portia Rathbone’s precise summons, his instincts warned him not to let his guard down. If the widow believed he would stand aside while Rose complied with her demand for a private audience, she was bloody daft.

  He was struck by Rose’s spirit. She couldn’t hide her fear. Yet, she would not be deterred. Chin up, shoulders back, she walked toward the viper’s chamber with determined strides.

  “Wait at the door while I speak with her. I suspect she won’t reveal anything if she knows you’re here.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going to play that woman’s blasted games. She knows full well I intend to protect you.”

  “Very well. I suppose you’re right.” Her weighted fan dangling from her wrist, Rose rapped upon the door. A woman’s desperate scream stilled her movement.

  “Don’t!” Irene rushed toward them with Quinn at her side. “Don’t go in there.”

  Instinctively, MacAllister reached for Rose, pulling her back, shielding her with his body.

  The door crashed open. Portia Rathbone’s bodyguard barreled past them, running toward the staircase.

  “Help me.” Mrs. Rathbone’s plea was a ragged whisper. “Damien—oh, why?”

  “Stay with Rose,” Mac ordered as he entered the chamber.

  Blood pooled beneath Mrs. Rathbone, soaking the rug. Staring up at him, eyes glazed with shock and fear, she grimaced in pain. “Stop him,” she rasped. “Please…don’t let him…”

  He crouched low, straining to hear her desperate murmurs. “What does he intend to do?”

  “Mur…der…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Who is he after?”

  “Betrayed…me.”

  “Tell me—who was he sent to kill?”

  “Me.” She gasped a breath. “Daughter… He’ll kill…”

  “There’s someone else—another target?” he demanded.

  She nodded weakly. “Daugh…ter.”

  Bloody hell. The bastard could be after anyone in that ballroom. There was no telling what carnage the blackguard had been sent to inflict.

  Rose and Irene hurried to Mrs. Rathbone’s side.

  “Go after him, MacAllister. You must stop him,” Rose urged. “Please, do be careful.”

  “I’ll stay with Rose.” Irene crouched by the widow’s side, oblivious to the crimson stain marring her new gown.

  “I’m coming with you,” Quinn said.

  “No—stay here. Don’t hesitate to kill anyone who threatens these women.”

  “Aye,” Quinn said, his expression grim. “Get the bastard.”

  Bugger it, what if this was a trap?

  There was little choice. Quinn was a fair shot, but Mac could take out a moving target from across the ballroom.

  He had to stop the killer. God knew who might be hurt—even an innocent bystander in the assassin’s way.

  “Stay with Rose, no matter what,” he directed as he turned away. “I’m trusting you to protect her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kneeling by the widow’s side, Rose slid a pillow under her head. “Be strong, Mrs. Rathbone. We will get you help.”

  “Too late.” Gasping for air, blood trickled from her mouth. “Too late for me… Stop him.”

  “MacAllister has gone after him.”

  Eyes staring ahead, a breath rasped from Portia Rathbone’s throat. The rise and fall of her chest stilled.

  Quinn crouched by them and pressed his fingers to her pulse point. “She’s gone.” He solemnly closed her eyes with the flat of his hand.

  “This seems a nightmare from which we cannot awaken.” Rose came to her feet and turned to Quinn. “Go after the man who did this. MacAllister may need assistance.”

  “I can’t do that…I cannot leave you.”

  “Irene, please tell him to go—MacAllister may need help.”

  The agent retrieved her pistol from a leg holster concealed beneath her petticoats. “Quinn, I will escort Rose to one of the secured rooms and lock us both in. We’ll be safe there.” She pulled in a breath. “See if Campbell requires a backup.”

  “You’re sure of this?”

  “Quite so.” Irene glanced down to her gun. “I assure you, I know how to use this. There’s no need for concern.”

  Reluctance showed in Quinn’s eyes. “Miss Pearson, don’t take any chances.”

  “I won’t.” Irene met his gaze. “Now go.”

  “Good enough.” With a glance over his shoulder, he made his way down the corridor with long, sure strides.

  “This never gets easier. I suppose there’s no way to fully harden yourself.” Irene’s throat visibly constricted as she moved away from Mrs. Rathbone’s lifeless form. “Come with me. I’ll secure us under lock and key.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’ve prepared a room on the floor below this one. No one will get past the door once we’re inside.” Irene’s mouth pulled tight with tension. “Do keep your weighted fan at the ready. I don’t anticipate a problem, but it’s best to be prepared.”

  As Irene closed the door behind them, Rose’s pulse thrummed in her ears. She clutched her fan a little tighter. Was her imagination playing tricks on her, or had the gaslight in the corridor dimmed since they’d gone into Portia’s suite?

  “Dear Lord.” Irene stopped in her tracks as they neared the stairs.

  A man’s body lay sprawled at the top of the stairs.

  “Is that Quinn?” Rose gasped.

  Irene pressed Rose behind her. Assuming a broad stance, she held her revolver in both hands, prepared to employ it against a threat.

  “Stay back while I check the staircase.” Methodically, Irene scanned both the descending and ascending steps. “Clear,” she said finally, then knelt by Quinn’s side and felt for a pulse. “Thank heaven. I see no sign of a wound. He’s been knocked unconscious.”

  Rose let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “We must find a physician.”

  A door opened suddenly. Irene and Rose spun around, meeting the startled gaze of the portly, white-haired gentleman who stood at the threshold.

  “Good God.” The old man stared in horror at her revolver.

  Behind them, a floorboard creaked.

  Quick as a snake, a large figure, clad in black, lunged from the shadows.

  His cudgel slammed into Irene’s skull with a sickening thud.

  Her eyes went wide. “No,�
�� she murmured as her knees buckled beneath her.

  Rose rushed to catch her. Cradling Irene’s body against her own, she eased the unconscious woman’s collapse to the floor as the old gent darted back inside his room and slammed the door shut.

  “He wasn’t the one you needed to worry about.” The attacker snatched up the gun that had tumbled from Irene’s limp hand. Dressed in black from head to toe, a balaclava helmet covering his head and hair, only his eyes and mouth exposed, he smirked at her.

  Rose’s mind raced. She’d tethered her pistol in a holster on her calf. Blast it, with her cumbersome skirts in the way, she would not reach it before the man stopped her.

  But she could buy time. The fan tethered to her wrist might disable him long enough to access the gun.

  Her thumb rested on the lever of the fan as she mentally worked out where she might strike first. “Who are you?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” He tucked Irene’s gun inside his jacket. “Come with me now, and no one else will get hurt.”

  “Why would I do that? It’s not as if you can promise me my safety.”

  Clamping his hands over her shoulders, he dragged her away from Irene. “My associate said you wouldn’t make this easy.”

  Rose tapped the lever of the fan with her thumb. “The man who sent you—he was right.”

  With fluid, practiced motions, she transformed the device into a thick, weighted rope.

  She snapped the metallic whip against him, slashing his upper arm.

  “Bollocks!” he cried out. “What in bloody hell do you think you’re—”

  She hit him again. Harder, this time.

  He bellowed in pain, his voice coarse with shock.

  “You little witch,” he growled, advancing on her.

  She needed time to get to her pistol. Again, she lashed out. The whip tore into his shoulder, drawing blood. “Get away from me,” she said.

  Once again, she slashed at him, catching him across the upper chest. A grunt of misery met her efforts, but still, he was relentless.

  Without warning, strong hands seized her from behind.

  As the unseen man restrained her, the man in the balaclava wrenched the weapon from her hand. She clawed at him, tugging at the knit covering his face. Tearing at her throat, his rough fingers coiled around the pendant she wore over her heart.