“Don’t even try it.” O’Hanlon reached for her.
She twisted away. Powering the motion with her body’s momentum, she swung the box hard. The metal slammed into the side of his face.
Whoosh. Air rushed from his gaping mouth. Stunned by the blow, he clutched his head.
Seizing her chance, Grace ducked low.
Clawing at her, his fingers closed over her upper arm. She dropped the box and snatched up the slender rod. Steeling herself, she tightened her grip and plunged the probe into his hand.
His pain-filled bellow echoed off the ceiling. He reached for her again, but she plowed the rod into him again, piercing his shoulder as she missed the more vulnerable area of his chest.
Turning on her heel, she fled.
Frantic, she freed the latch and threw open the door. His footsteps pounded the floor behind her.
She darted from the room—and crashed into a man’s broad chest.
Harrison MacMasters stared down at her. Questions darkened his eyes.
“Watch out,” she cried as O’Hanlon followed close behind.
With the slightest of nods, Harrison pressed her behind his back.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his calm, quiet voice not disguising its strength.
“Get out of my way,” O’Hanlon said. “Ye’ve no need to protect her. She’s nothing but a thief.”
“Is she now?” Harrison rubbed his jaw, as if contemplating the question. “In that case, shall we summon the authorities?”
“Bugger off,” the older man said. “I don’t need a copper meddling in my business.”
Harrison stood his ground. Steady and calm as a champion pugilist sizing up an opponent, he studied the other man. “And if I do, as you put it so eloquently, bugger off, precisely how do you intend to remedy the situation?”
O’Hanlon cocked his head. Suspicion flared in his eyes. “Ye’re working with her, aren’t ye?”
“Working?” Harrison glanced down at his ebony cutaway coat and paisley waistcoat. With a seemingly idle movement, he unfastened the button on his jacket. “I’d hardly say I’m dressed for labor. Or for thievery, for that matter. But rest assured, I’ve no intention of letting you put your hands on this woman.”
“Ye’re a damned fool. The tart’s got somethin’ that belongs to me. And I intend to get it.” O’Hanlon pulled a revolver from his pocket.
A fresh wave of fear crashed over Grace. Her heart raced. If O’Hanlon pulled the trigger—no, she would not think of it. She had to do something. She’d brought this about. She could not allow Harrison to suffer the consequences of the sins she’d committed.
“No,” she spoke up, finding her voice. “Lower your weapon—I’ll give you what you want.”
She attempted to step in front of Harrison, but with one arm, he pressed her back.
“Stay behind me,” he said, his tone edged with flint.
“I know ye took that damned book.” O’Hanlon ground the words between his teeth, his expression contorted with anger. “I need it.”
“Holster your weapon, or you will regret it,” Harrison said. Grace sensed the tensing of the muscles in his back and shoulders, like a tightly wound spring.
O’Hanlon scowled. “Hand over the book before this fool gets ye killed.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure we’re the ones in danger,” Harrison said, his tone hard as flint. “I’ve little tolerance for a man who attempts to intimidate me with a gun. And even less for a man who threatens a woman.”
Quick as the slice of a whip, Harrison struck. His motions smooth and fluid, he slammed the edge of one hand into O’Hanlon’s arm while his other hand cracked against the man’s wrist.
With a howl of pain, O’Hanlon released his grip. His weapon clattered to the floor.
Harrison seized him by the collar. His fingers dug into the fabric, tightening his grip as he pinned O’Hanlon to the wall. Beneath the fine wool of his jacket, his muscles bunched with restrained power. The gentleman she’d known had taken his leave, replaced by six feet of protective, dangerous male.
Grace’s mouth went dry.
“Take yer bleedin’ hands off me. Ye’re going to regret this,” O’Hanlon muttered.
“I suspect you’re right. But that doesn’t change a damned thing.”
“Ye’ve no right to interfere with my business.” O’Hanlon’s words were low and raw with menace. “I’ll kill ye—”
Harrison’s fist plowed into the brute’s jaw. Eyes wide with shock, O’Hanlon’s head drooped forward. Slowly, Harrison guided the man down the length of the wall. Legs outstretched, upper body slumped over his knees, O’Hanlon was oblivious to the world around him.
Harrison reached into his vest pocket and retrieved a set of handcuffs. Crouching at the unconscious man’s side, he secured O’Hanlon’s arms behind his back. Muscles straining against his shirt, he dragged the unconscious man through the door of his chamber.
The aftermath of fear coursed through her veins, but Grace fought to steady herself. “What will you do with him?”
Closing the door behind him, Harrison met her questioning gaze. “I’ll leave that to the authorities to figure out. He’s wanted by the law.”
“How do you know that? Surely you’re not acquainted with that man.”
Tension pulled his full mouth taut. “He’s a known criminal. Why in blazes were you alone with him?”
She gulped a breath, searching for the right words. As she’d suspected, they were nowhere to be found.
“I can’t explain… Not now.”
Harrison’s warm fingers closed around hers. The contact jarred her. His gentle, firm touch shouldn’t feel so comforting. So right.
His eyes searched hers as he cupped a palm against her cheek. “Did he hurt you?”
The heat of his touch washed over her, kindling memories of his tenderness. Of his passion. Why had she let down her guard? Hadn’t she known better?
Why had she ever been foolish enough to open her heart?
“No,” she murmured, struggling to control the emotion rushing through her veins.
“You’re sure—you’re telling me the truth?”
“Yes,” she managed. Her pulse roared in her ears. Why was it so hard to find her breath? She could not stay with him. Every moment they were together put him in greater danger.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice low and husky.
Pulling away, she gave her head a brisk shake. “I’ll be fine…on my own,” she said, her voice stronger than she’d expected as she put distance between them.
“I can see that.” His gaze swept over her. Rather than questioning the scene he’d come upon, his expression shifted to a look of weary resolve.
Accusation flared in his eyes.
He knows. The realization slithered through her. His presence here was not a mere coincidence.
He knows I am a thief.
Had he come to stop her—did he think to protect her from herself?
Harrison reached for her. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”
I have to get away. The words played in her head in a rush of sudden alarm. If she did not deliver the contents of that satchel—no, she could not even consider that possibility. She could not risk any complication that stood in her way.
“I don’t need your help.” He would never understand what she’d done. Or why.
Harrison was a physician, a man of integrity.
Sadly, integrity was not her stock in trade. She’d never made a penny from honor, had she?
On the other hand, thieving had put food in her sister’s belly.
Thieving had put a roof over their heads.
In truth, integrity was rather overrated.
Pity Harrison would not agree.
Behind them, a low moan drifted from O’Hanlon. It wouldn’t be long before he regained consciousness. “Our mutual acquaintance is stirring. I must be on my way. I suggest you do the same.”
He stared down at
her. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”
“You think not?” With a swish of her skirts, she turned on her heel. “Goodbye, Dr. MacMasters.”
Without a glance back, she rushed toward the stairs at the end of the corridor. Making short work of the steps, she hurried to the lower floor.
She’d nearly made it to the ballroom when Harrison blocked her path. A determined, broad-shouldered male stood between her and escape. Oh, dear. She hadn’t planned for this.
When she’d made her bargain with the devil, she had not anticipated that this man—of all the men in the world—would be the one to ruin it all.
Staring up at him, she pulled in a low, calming breath. If she told him the truth, he’d insist on helping her. He was an honorable man, chivalrous in an old-fashioned way. Perhaps he felt a duty to her, given what they’d shared in the Highlands. Such a shame her conscience would not allow him to be drawn into the web that had ensnared her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. “You are in danger.”
“I understand that…better than you know. But I don’t give a damn.”
“It’s not your job to protect me.”
A brow quirked as he stared down at her. A sudden coldness infused his tone. “Grace—if that is indeed your name—I’m afraid you’ve mistaken my intentions.”
“Your intentions?”
His mouth was a hard slash. “I haven’t come to protect you.”
An icy prickle of warning coursed along her nape. “Then why…why are you here?”
“I’m here to bring you to justice.”
Chapter Three
The world tilted beneath Grace’s feet. Or so it seemed.
She resisted the urge to shrink away from Harrison’s penetrating gaze. “Bring me to justice?” Cocking her chin, she regarded him defiantly. “That’s a rather peculiar use of a physician’s time.”
“Admittedly so,” he said. “Your larcenous activities have complicated my life in ways you would not understand.”
“I’ve never stolen from you,” she countered. At least that much was true.
“That’s where you’re mistaken, Grace.”
He looked as if he would elaborate, but his expression went stone-faced and solemn. Contempt flickered in his eyes, cutting bone-deep.
She lowered her gaze. How could she ever hope to explain any of this? A man like him would detest the path she’d taken.
To her right, slow, unhurried footsteps sounded against the polished marble floor. Turning to the sound, she understood why Harrison had suddenly tensed in full alert.
The man who’d led her here—the man who’d set her on this disastrous quest—marched from an adjoining corridor into their path. The American spy she knew only as Mr. Jones had changed his appearance since their first meeting in New York. He’d seemed rough around the edges then, dressed in a tweed suit that would’ve benefited from a good pressing and sporting dark hair in need of a barber’s shears. Tonight, he’d dressed quite elegantly, his black frock coat accentuating his lean, broad-shouldered physique while a precisely tied silver cravat brought out the gleam in his gray irises. His manner relaxed, he spared her a cursory glance before turning to Harrison.
Unexpected recognition gleamed in Harrison’s eyes. “Jones,” he said, nearly under his breath. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I thought you’d have figured that out by now, MacMasters.” A flicker of amusement played on the American’s mouth. “I’ll ask you to move away from my agent.”
“This woman is no agent,” Harrison replied, contempt shading his words. “She is a thief.”
“One of the best,” Mr. Jones said with a smug nod. He edged toward Grace, standing so close she could see the texture woven into the silk of his necktie. Trapped between Harrison and the imposing spy, she took a step back. Jones placed his hand over her forearm.
A muscle ticked in Harrison’s jaw. What was his connection with Mr. Jones? She swallowed hard against a sudden lump in her throat. She had not wanted to bring Harrison into this. Why had fate led him to her—tonight, of all nights?
“Take your hands off of her.” Harrison’s tone was laced with warning. “Now.”
The fingers pressed against her flesh eased away. Mr. Jones’s arm dropped to his side. “She’s not going anywhere.” He shot Grace a glance. “You know better than to double-cross me, don’t you?”
“That goes without saying.”
Anger darkened Harrison’s gaze. “Do either of you intend to tell me what is going on?”
“In due time,” Jones said. “For now, we need to go. The police have been alerted to Mr. O’Hanlon’s presence. It’s to our advantage to get out of here before they arrive.”
Harrison’s jaw hardened. “You knew that vicious cur was in this hotel?”
“Of course. Why do you think we were here?” Jones turned his attention to Grace. “I believe you have something for me.”
“I do,” she said with a small nod.
“Good enough.” Mr. Jones said. “I have a carriage waiting.”
“My aunt—” Grace protested.
“Mrs. McTavish is traveling by separate conveyance. I needed her away from the scene before she raised the attention of the authorities. I don’t need any more complications.”
“If you think I’m letting this woman leave with you, you’re mistaken.” Harrison angled his body between Grace and Mr. Jones. “She is a suspect in several thefts of interest to the Crown.”
To the Crown. Good heavens, what is Harrison’s connection to these investigations? Was he a clandestine agent? She’d been witness to his heroism when a killer had threatened members of the wedding party at the Houghton Estate little more than a year earlier, but she’d attributed his actions to courage and instinct. It had not occurred to her that he might be an operative for the Crown.
A dull weight plummeted into her stomach. When he’d kissed her…when he’d made love to her…had that passion been real? Or was his tenderness merely an act intended to ensnare a thief?
Dear God, how could I have been such a fool?
“You have been busy, haven’t you?” Mr. Jones flashed Grace a wry smile. “MacMasters, we have a mutual interest in this woman. I’ll ask you to come with us. I need a word with you—with both of you—and this is not the place.”
The carriage ride from the grand hotel where the bride was still celebrating her nuptials to the nondescript building on a street lined with small shops was mercifully brief. Seated on the coach bench across from the men, Grace held a tight rein on her racing thoughts as she peered out the window into the fog-shrouded darkness.
For their part, the men said little, exchanging a few terse, bland words that shed little light on what lay ahead until the conveyance slowed to a stop. Mr. Jones helped her from the carriage, and they entered what appeared to be a barrister’s place of business.
“Please, do make yourselves comfortable,” Jones said, indicating a pair of leather wing chairs positioned before a large, polished mahogany desk in the gaslit office.
“No, thank you.” She’d much prefer to stand, prepared to walk away from this man and his shady business forever.
Keeping a rigid distance between them, Harrison held himself with a clear sense of reserve. Letting out a low breath, Grace met his gaze. Was that a look of betrayal in his eyes? As the Brits would say, how bloody ironic. He’d romanced her into believing he cared about her when all along, he’d been on a mission. He hadn’t intended to wound her heart. No, that had been an incidental casualty.
She swallowed against a fresh surge of apprehension. Oh, how she wanted to get this over with. Jones would have his blasted prize, she’d join Aunt Thelma, and then, she’d be on her way. Mr. Jones would not turn her over to Harrison. He’d rather see her return to America, where he might continue to use the leverage of a pardon to coerce her into employing her unique talents.
A handsome man wearing thin-rimmed spectacles walked into the room. Was it
her imagination, or were the hues in his neatly trimmed hair nearly identical to Harrison’s golden-brown hair? And the eyes behind the clear glass lenses—why, they were a deep, vibrant green, only slightly darker than the Highlander’s forest-hued irises.
Harrison’s eyes flashed daggers. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I see you’ve located Miss Winterborne,” the bespectacled man observed, a touch of wry humor gleaming in his gaze.
“Why wasn’t I informed that Jones was involved in this mission?” Harrison demanded.
“There was no need for you to know.”
“Simon, I’ve no patience for your subterfuge. Tell me what this is about, or I will escort her from these premises and bid the both of you to go to hell.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Mr. Jones said, the subtle drawl in his words marking his American origins.
“What in thunder is going on?” Harrison’s voice dropped low and raw.
The man named Simon removed his spectacles and wiped the lenses with his linen pocket square. “We needed to assess her abilities. I’d think that would be obvious.”
“Well, now that the family reunion is over, we can get on with our business,” Mr. Jones said.
Family reunion. So, Simon was kin to MacMasters. That explained the resemblance. Deep within her, her stomach did a little flip. It was all so very odd.
Was Harrison part of a conspiracy?
Jones settled his attention on Grace. “I believe you have something I need.”
“Yes,” she said. “I require a bit of privacy to access it.”
The American agent cocked a dark brow. “Ah, the places women find to conceal valuables. That’s the one good thing about all those layers of clothing you wear. We’re all gentlemen here—we will avert our eyes.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “And if I refuse?”
A smirk danced on his lips. “I don’t think you will like the alternative.”
“She will do no such thing.” Harrison shot Mr. Jones a scowl, then motioned her to follow him. He opened an adjoining door. The space was small, no larger than a water closet, but it would suffice.
“Thank you,” she said, excusing herself into the darkened recess. Maneuvering around the layers of clothing, she wiggled the small book from its hiding place. With a sigh, she readjusted her skirts and returned to the office.
Tempting the Highland Spy Page 3