Tempting the Highland Spy (Highland Hearts)

by Kingston, Tara

  “Then who is getting married?”

  Simon seemed to bite back a chuckle. “You’ll never believe it. It seems, after all these years, our old friend Fergus is ready to take another bride.”

  If Simon had declared that Fergus Royce had become Her Majesty’s personal driver, Harrison might’ve been less shocked.

  “Good God. Did he convince one of the barmaids at the pub he had a fortune hidden away? I wouldn’t put it past the old scoundrel.”

  Simon shook his head. “Fergus and his bride are well matched. She certainly won’t be cowed by him.”

  “Who is it?”

  “The Untamed Shrew.”

  Harrison stared at his brother. “I’ve no patience for foolish jests.”

  “I’m telling you the truth…all of it. Evidently, their mutual loathing concealed…tender feelings.” With that, the laughter Simon had tried to repress escaped his careful reserve.

  “Good God, they’ll kill each other.”

  “That is a distinct possibility.” Simon laughed again. “They say the ways of love are a mystery. This match is proof positive.”

  …

  One week and a day after Simon had arrived at Raibert Castle with the astounding invitation, Harrison sat in the old chapel at his family’s ancestral home, watching in restrained disbelief as Fergus Royce and Margaret Carmichael uttered their vows. Many of his fellow guests appeared to be as stunned as he was. At some point, he’d half expected the man and woman standing before the altar to realize they’d carried the jest a bit too far.

  But evidently, his assessment had been wrong. Fergus and his bride—how odd to think those words in connection with Mrs. Carmichael—fairly beamed with happiness, their smiles displaying true delight that they’d found each other.

  Following the ceremony, the guests gathered with the happy couple in the ballroom of the main house, celebrating the happy occasion with the craggy-faced groom and the woman he loved. As Fergus and the newly minted Mrs. Royce drank a toast to one another, emotion radiated in the matron’s eyes. Love. Joy. Happiness.

  Love. The word played in his thoughts. He’d always been a logical man. As such, it seemed a fanciful concept which had never merited much consideration. What poets called love was little more than a romanticized explanation for the elemental drives that ensured the human race continued to repopulate its ranks.

  Somehow, in the last few months, his pragmatic view had changed.

  Once he’d met Grace, he couldn’t explain away love as a mere extension of desire. The very notion now seemed hollow and incomplete. No, love was so much more complex than the simple desire to bed a woman.

  He knew that now. Damned shame it was too late.

  Lifting his glass in another toast to the couple, he tossed back the liquor. Picturing Grace in his mind’s eye, his hunger sprang to the surface. Throughout months of lonely, desolate nights, he’d tried to tell himself it would pass, that he’d forget her.

  Bloody hell, he was wrong. There was no forgetting Grace.

  His passion for her would never die. The longing was a slow torment, night after night. His need for Grace couldn’t be slaked in another woman’s arms. The very thought of her triggered a fresh wave of need. Not only for her touch, but for so much more. He yearned to hear her soft, gentle laugh, and to touch the rich, silky curls that framed her face. If he could, he’d gaze into her perceptive, oh-so-clever brown eyes all night long. And if he had another chance, he’d kiss her sweet mouth, and treasure the smile that could melt the hardest of hearts.

  God, he wanted her.

  But like a dunce, he’d let her go.

  Gracie Mae Winters had left on a steamer ship bound for America two weeks after she’d completed her mission. Accompanied by Mr. Jones and her aunt, Grace had departed Scotland a free woman. He’d ensured both American and Scottish pardons for Grace and Mrs. McTavish were in place before they took their leave. In saving Belle Fairchild Raibert from the evil of the man she’d married, Grace had saved the government from having to endure a scandalous and ugly international incident. She’d put her neck on the line for the benefit of Scotland. It was only right she be granted her freedom.

  Freedom to return to America.

  Freedom to return to the sister she adored…the sister she’d supported with the money gained through her thieving and trickery. The woman who’d possessed only one well-washed nightdress had paid for a fine education for her younger sibling.

  Yes, Grace deserved her freedom.

  Damned shame that freedom had taken her an ocean away.

  As the wedding festivities continued, Harrison forced himself to join with the guests in wishing the newly married couple well. Despite the urge to slink off into some dark corner and drown his hunger in whisky, leaving was out of the question. After all, Fergus and Margaret would only have this one night to celebrate their nuptials. He, on the other hand, would have a lifetime to regret his own stubborn stupidity.

  By hellfire, he’d watched Grace leave. He’d stood there like a blasted dolt and said nothing as the woman he adored made her way up the gangplank and sailed back to another life, far from him.

  She’d turned once, looking over her shoulder as she boarded the ship. And then, she’d stood there, waving farewell to Mrs. Carmichael and to him. He’d seen the silent hope in her eyes, an emotion he’d tried to ignore. She’d wanted him to ask her to stay. In his heart, he knew that.

  But he’d kept his damned mouth shut—even as she’d left him.

  Forever.

  Scowling to himself, he poured another two fingers of scotch, as if that might numb the bitter pain. As the evening wore on, and the toasts grew more jubilant, more and more whisky found its way into his glass.

  “Harrison MacMasters, ye’re never at a loss for words,” Fergus called out, fueled by liquor and his own good-natured way. “But ye’ve been as quiet as a mouse sneakin’ past a hungry cat tonight. Ye’re happy for old Fergus, are ye not?”

  “Of course,” Harrison said, raising his glass and taking another drink. “How could I not be? Ye’ve tamed the shrew, my friend.”

  A little gasp went up from someone in the crowd, but Margaret Carmichael Royce laughed out loud. “I see the Shakespeare I insisted you read was not an utter waste.”

  “Aye, The Taming of the Shrew.” He lifted his glass in a half-hearted little toast, though he wasn’t quite sure of what he was toasting.

  The Untamed Shrew smiled, evidently unaware of his befuddlement. He’d dodged a bullet with that one, hadn’t he? Silently vowing to hold his tongue until he could get the hell out of there, he took one more drink from the tumbler—after all, there was no sense wasting good whisky.

  Draining the glass, he turned toward the door. He damned sure didn’t feel like pretending to be happy. And why did the room seem to be swaying? Was it a trick of the light?

  A few steps later, he stumbled. Pitching forward, he nearly plowed into a matron who’d piled her hair upon her head like a cake with too many layers. Righting himself, he’d nearly made it through the crowd when he came within inches of toppling into some gent in a ridiculously tall hat.

  Bollocks, was that his own shoe he’d tripped over?

  The room was starting to tilt.

  And spin. He may as well have been trapped inside a children’s toy.

  He had to get out of there.

  His dignity depended on it.

  “Bluidy hell, what’s happenin’ to ye?” Connor appeared in his vision, seemingly out of nowhere. “What the hell are ye doin’?”

  “Why are you here?” Harrison struggled to focus. “Can’t you see I’m trying to find the door?”

  “It hasn’t gone anywhere since ye last walked through it,” his brother said with a chuckle. “Come along, Harry. Ye’ve had too much to drink.”

  Who was he to tell Harrison he’d over-imbibed? Connor was the reckless one.

  Not him. Not too-bloody-sensible Harrison MacMasters.

  “Get out of my
way,” Harrison said, each word a bit more of a struggle to mouth. With that, he spotted the door again. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.”

  Harrison turned toward the door. Light from a chandelier gleamed off a silver tray. A hired server darted around him.

  Clumsy fool—he should watch where he’s going.

  He tugged at his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles, and maneuvered past another server.

  And straight into the path of one of his mother’s acquaintances, Lady Whatever-Her-Deuced-Name-Was.

  The matron flashed a piercing scowl, then made an abrupt turn to her left.

  He didn’t know the precise moment when the fabric covering her bustle-clad behind ripped.

  He only heard an ear-shattering wail, followed by the sight of a woman garbed in a purple gown, frantically grasping for the fabric that had formerly covered her rather generous arse. Given the layers of undergarments beneath the silk, her distress was not entirely justified.

  His gaze dropped to his right foot planted squarely on a long swath of cloth that perfectly matched the rest of her gown. An enormous bow had fallen from her dress, draping over his partially flexed knee.

  Oddly enough, he could not remember stepping on her gown. But the evidence spoke for itself.

  “My apologies,” he said, and set about remedying the situation. He was a gentleman, albeit a clumsy one, so he did what any gentleman would do. He knelt down and retrieved the fabric and the bow. Rather gallantly, if he said so himself.

  And then, he set about an attempt to reattach both the silk and the billowy bow to her petticoat-clad backside.

  “Good heavens, what are you doing?” The woman’s shrill exclamation might have awakened every ghost that ever resided in the centuries-old house.

  “Be still, Lady Whatever-Your-Name-Is,” he managed. “I intend to—”

  His brother’s wife, Johanna, rushed to the woman’s side. “Oh dear, Harry—what do you think you’re doing?”

  Why does everyone keep asking me the same blasted question?

  “I am rectifying my mistake,” he said, feeling quite reasonable.

  “No, that’s not going to work.” Johanna placed a hand on his arm, stilling him. “Please, give me the bow. And the rest of the fabric.”

  “But I…I must fix this,” he protested.

  “Harry, you can’t fix this.” She took the silk from his hand. Looking past him, she nodded toward his brother. “Connor, please, see that your brother gets some coffee in him…or some tea.”

  Swaying slightly on his feet, he spread his legs wide to steady himself. “I don’t see a need for coffee, not at this hour.”

  Johanna’s expression was glum, even as the matron’s cheeks had colored to the hue of a ripe berry. As his sister-in-law clasped one hand over his, reality washed over him.

  “I know you don’t now, dear. But I suspect in the morning, you’ll realize how very badly you needed it.”

  Summer was in bloom at Dunnhaven. Harrison had always looked forward to the warmth and the abundant beauty of his ancestral home. He might spend weeks and months away from the place, but the old castle and grounds were a haven beyond compare.

  He walked alone through the woods on the border of the grounds. He drank in fresh air, filling his lungs. After last night, he needed it. His head thundered with the after effects of too much whisky and too little sleep. He’d made an arse of himself. There was no denying that.

  Pushing the thought aside, he savored the peace and the quiet, the subtle smells of a woodland in its full glory. His family home seemed a tonic for both his pounding head and his melancholy thoughts.

  Damned shame the sights and the smells of this magnificent countryside could erase neither the memory of his boorish behavior nor the stubborn, dull ache in his chest.

  Ordinarily, his ties to this land of his birth were like no other. This was his home. The home of the ancestors who’d gone before. The home of those he loved most in the world.

  Save for one lass who’d stolen his heart as skillfully as she could make off with a purloined brooch or some rich biddy’s jewels.

  His boot heels crunched over the dried leaves on the forest floor. When he thought about Grace, a longing unlike anything he’d ever experienced filled him. God above, he was the rational sibling among his rowdy brothers. He was the one who’d learned not to let his cock rule his head.

  The thing of it was, it wasn’t his cock’s demands that were plaguing him.

  No, the never-ending ache he’d experienced since the morning she’d sailed away came distinctly from the region of his chest. Of his heart.

  Grace had gone on with her life in America.

  And like a colossal fool, he’d let her go.

  Without him.

  He’d never realized it was possible to crave the sound of a woman’s voice. Not until he’d yearned for Grace.

  He wanted her with a desperation that defied all logic.

  But until that moment, he hadn’t considered why.

  He could never deny the physical longing, the craving for passion and tenderness and carnal pleasure in her arms.

  But there was more.

  So much more.

  He yearned to hear his name on her lips, spoken with her soft, velvet drawl. He hungered for her melodic laughter and the way her brows knit together when she frowned. He needed her touch against his hand and the feel of her head nestled against his shoulder.

  He needed her.

  He loved Grace.

  And like the most daft of dolts, he’d clung to his duty as she’d left him forever.

  His anger was not with her.

  It was with himself.

  Why was he such an idiot?

  Wandering out of the woods, he spotted Connor and his wife, Johanna, walking hand in hand. Connor carried their wee bairn in the crook of one arm. Their son had been born only weeks earlier, and already, he had a head of dark hair and his father’s demanding ways.

  “It’s good to see you out here, Harry. This warmth is like a tonic.” Johanna smiled, her coppery-brown hair gleaming in the sunlight. She’d always been beautiful, but now, since the birth of their child, she’d gained a radiance Harrison could attribute only to joy. Like Grace, his brother’s wife was an American—a writer of sensation novels, of all things—and she’d come to love the Highlands.

  Managing a bland smile, he gazed down at the baby. The little boy giggled, and for the first time in weeks, a sense of happiness filled Harrison. How would it feel to hold his own child? To be with the woman he loved—the woman he wanted to make a life with—forever?

  An arrow of fresh doubt pierced his gut. By now, Grace would know if she were carrying his child. When they’d made love, he’d taken great care to lessen the possibility. But even the most time-tested method was far from foolproof.

  An image fluttered into his thoughts, quick as a blink. Grace, holding a sweet-faced babe with a smattering of golden curls. Smiling softly, she drew her finger over the infant’s plump cheek.

  What would it be like to hold their child in his arms? To watch a bright-eyed daughter grow to be a spirited woman like Grace? Or to half-heartedly scold an impish son who’d played a prank reminiscent of his own boyhood?

  How would it feel to be with her until the end of his days?

  He banished the questions to a dark dungeon in his thoughts. Blast it, a life with Grace wasn’t meant to be.

  He couldn’t pull her away from her sister. She’d gone through hell and back to provide for the girl. He couldn’t break a bond like that.

  After exchanging a bit of idle conversation with his brother and sister-in-law, Harrison made his way back to the house. He spotted his father sitting on a tree stump not far from the main house, surveying the gardener’s latest crops.

  “Has Bidwell come up with another hybrid seed?” Harrison inquired.

  Da shook his head. “Not that I know of. That’s not why I’m here. I wanted a few moment’s peace. Uncle Archie’s go
t his bluidy pipes out again.”

  “At least it’s not dawn,” Harrison said, looking at the bright side.

  “Thank God for small favors.” His father shot him a glance. “I’ve been meanin’ to talk to ye, son.”

  “What do you have on your mind?”

  “Yer mother is concerned about ye,” Da began, his brogue far more pronounced than Harrison’s. “And so am I. Somethin’ is troublin’ ye—is there anythin’ we need to know?”

  Harrison shook his head. He damned sure didn’t intend to discuss Grace with his hard-nosed father.

  “Dinnae lie to me,” his father persisted. “Ye’ve never had a talent for it.”

  “There is nothing wrong.”

  His father cocked a brow. “After that show ye put on last night, ye expect me to believe that?”

  The look on his father’s face pierced the shield he’d erected around himself. “I’m certainly not the first man to wind up in his cups at a blasted wedding.”

  “Ye’re not the first man—but that’s a first for ye, son. It’s that lass, isn’t it? The one Simon told us about.”

  Damn his brother and his big mouth. Was nothing sacred?

  “She’s an American, like Johanna. But unlike Johanna, she’s back across the Atlantic.”

  His father regarded him, seeming to mull his words. “Then why the bluidy hell are ye here?”

  The question stunned Harrison, but when he answered, he spoke the truth. “This is my home. My duty is here. The MacKendrick dagger is still concealed somewhere on Raibert’s estate. I won’t rest until I find it.”

  Da looked at him as if he’d grown two heads, and neither had a brain in it. “Let me make sure I’m understanding this—there’s a good lass…a lass ye care for…in America—but ye’re here to find the sgian dubh.”

  “Of course. I would not turn my back on my duty.”

  “God above, Harry, yer mother and I raised ye to have more sense than that. A good woman is more important than duty to a quest. Besides, who’s to say ye cannae have both.” His father rose and began to walk to the house. “Bluidy hell, if I’d figured that way, ye wouldnae be on this earth. Neither would yer brothers nor yer sisters. I love yer ma—I would’ve moved heaven and earth to have her. Nothin’ would’ve stood in my way.”