When a Lady Kisses a Scot (Her Majesty's Most Secret Service)

by Tara Kingston

  “I should go.” Her voice sounded calmer than her slightly trembling fingers.

  “Absolutely not.” He tested the bindings, assuring himself the man could not work free.

  “I don’t intend to put you or anyone in this house in further danger. If I leave now—”

  “If you leave now, you will put others in jeopardy. Whoever is after you isn’t going to stop tonight.” He tugged on another knot. Satisfied with the sturdiness of the binding, he met Rose’s eyes. “Do you know who this man is?”

  “I’ve never seen him before tonight.”

  “He goes by Cutty. He’s hired muscle for one of the most ruthless bastards in the Queen’s empire. Given his crimes, he should’ve swung by his neck a long time ago, but he connived his way into a lenient sentence. He’s been free for weeks now.”

  “But why…why would he come after me?”

  “That’s what I need you to tell me.”

  Confronted with Cutty’s violence, Rose blanched, pale as fresh-washed linen. “This is a nightmare from which I cannot awaken.” Her words were a mere whisper, and he questioned if they’d been meant for his ears, or if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.

  Mac pressed a hand over hers. “In this house, you will be protected.” He spoke the words as a vow.

  Beneath his touch, her fingers trembled, a scarcely perceptible shiver. “Protecting me is not your responsibility.”

  “You’re safe here, Rose. When Mrs. Manfred returns, she will show you to your room.” He gave her hand a little squeeze. “Tomorrow, we’ll get to the bottom of what the bloody hell is going on.”

  She sighed. “Every moment I’m here…my very presence endangers everyone under this roof.”

  “As you’ve seen, we are prepared for any threat. You’ve no need for concern.”

  “MacAllister, I could not forgive myself if…if something happened to you…to any of you.”

  “Escorting you to a hotel carries its own set of risks,” he went on. “Leaving before the sunrise is not an option. In the morning, we’ll see to your security.”

  “Very well,” she agreed, reluctance flavoring her hushed tones.

  Seeming to steady her emotions, she met his gaze. He drank her in. God above, she was as lovely as the last time he’d laid eyes on her. If anything, she’d matured into a beauty akin to a work of art.

  As the clock in the hall chimed the quarter hour, Rose dropped her gaze, severing the invisible connection between them.

  “Mr. Colton will dispatch security within the hour,” Mrs. Manfred announced as she swept into the room. “He sounded most intrigued by the…situation.”

  “The man does relish a new challenge,” Mac said. “And the Yardmen—I presume Colton’s requested backup to transport these blighters to jail.”

  “They’ll be here straightaway.”

  “Good enough. Thank you, Mrs. Manfred.”

  “’Tis only my duty.” The faintest of smiles pulled at the matron’s mouth. “Shall I see Miss Fleming to her room?”

  “Yes. Please.” Rose spoke up. “I’ll be able to think more clearly after I’ve had a bit of rest.”

  “Morning will come soon enough, my dear,” Mrs. Manfred said, her tone growing gentle. “Ye need sleep.”

  “Thank you.” Rose turned to MacAllister. “I didn’t want to draw you into this. Of all the men in London, I never thought I’d encounter you again.”

  For a long moment, he studied her. For so many years, he’d thought she was lost to him forever. He’d dreamed of her then, feverish, desperate nightmares. Again and again. If he’d had any reason to believe she had not perished in that accident, no power on earth would have kept him from finding her.

  Now, she regarded him with a practiced reserve. Her face had always been so expressive, her intelligent green eyes betraying even the most subtle nuances of emotion. When had she learned to hide what she was feeling, what she was thinking?

  “Ah, Rose, haven’t you learned by now that Fate has a rather twisted sense of humor?”

  Chapter Eight

  Lying in an unfamiliar bed, wearing a prim flannelette gown that wasn’t even her own, Rose stared up at the shadows on the ceiling, drawing in calming breaths. Fear she’d managed to hold at bay throughout the evening surged through her with a vengeance. When she’d first stared into the eyes of the thug who’d hunted her through the city, she’d clung to her composure. Indeed, at the time, her will had been the only thing holding her together. But now, she trembled with shock and exhaustion.

  She’d never dreamed she’d encounter MacAllister in that bustling crowd, let alone lead him into danger. Instinct urged her to depart on the next ship out of port, sail across the Atlantic, and not look back. After all, she’d been too late to save Aunt Helen. The dear woman had died protecting her. Just as her brother had done all those years before.

  But she craved justice for her aunt. For her brother.

  For herself.

  How she longed to see Cyril Merrick earn his due. If she had her way, he would live out the rest of his days in a dank, squalid cell. Death was too good for the snake.

  She’d come so far. Her hired investigator’s inquiries had been productive. Perhaps she’d instruct Mr. Crabtree to track down the woman named Portia and discover why she hated Cyril Merrick. Quite possibly, MacAllister might provide assistance to her quest. As a journalist, he had access to researchers and the most daring investigative reporters. Pity any attempt to enlist his aid might deepen the scars on their hearts.

  Their reunion had reopened old wounds. MacAllister had said little about the lies Aunt Helen had crafted—a deception meant to protect Rose.

  But the questions were in his eyes. Soon, he’d want answers.

  Answers she wasn’t prepared to give.

  MacAllister had already put his own neck on the line to help her. Her very presence endangered everyone in this house. Tonight, she had little choice in the matter. She had not anticipated the turn of events that had led her here.

  But in the light of day, she’d leave this place—and MacAllister—behind. She could not risk his safety any longer.

  Closing her eyes, she pictured him. When he’d left Scotland to pursue his fortune, he’d been a man, but his eyes had still possessed the optimistic glint of youth, the fervor for a path very different from what his father had envisioned for him. Long and lean, with those intense brown eyes and chestnut hair that had always looked like it needed a good trimming, he’d been scarcely more than a lad in those days.

  Now, his hair was fashionably trimmed, the hints of silver at the temples only adding to his appeal. Maturity had etched lines of care into his still lean, angular face, and rather than enthusiasm, his expression betrayed a well-honed cynicism.

  He was more handsome than ever. Too handsome for her own good. When MacAllister looked at her, his eyes spoke louder than his words. She could be drawn into that magnetic gaze until the end of her days.

  Rolling onto her side, she gave the pillow a thump. It wasn’t like her to romanticize a man—any man. Heaven knew she’d had her pick of men in New York. Handsome men. Rich men. Self-made tycoons and heirs to fortunes. Night after night, they’d come into her tavern to watch her performances. Her voice had been her gift, the key to her survival. She’d arrived in America with two assets to her name—her ability to carry a tune and a passably pretty face. With her mentor’s guidance, she’d honed her rather unremarkable talent and her looks into potent lures.

  But when she’d lifted her gaze to MacAllister’s tonight, for a brief moment—a heartbeat, perhaps—it was as if nothing had changed. Once again, she was seventeen, gazing into the eyes of a brilliant young man she adored—a driven man she wasn’t meant to have.

  An image of MacAllister wielding his walking stick flashed through her mind. He’d eliminated the threat posed by the black-haired thug and his vile associates with nothing more than a slender length of wood and a cudgel. Where had he acquired the cunning defense tactics?
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  She had not thought of him as a violent man. Searching her memory, she could not recall an incident when he’d resorted to physical force. Other than the one time Angus had impugned his honor, and in a fit of anger the fists had flown.

  The leering face of the man who’d pursued her invaded her thoughts. Despite the heavy down comforter, she shivered. How had Merrick persuaded an established criminal to come after her? Had he bribed him with valuables? With money?

  Or had the vicious blackguard thrown in his lot with Merrick for a far darker reason? The prospect chilled her to the core. How many others had Merrick drawn into his web?

  Merrick would never stop, not until he got what he wanted—payment of her father’s debt. Staring at the ceiling, she drew her fingertips over the curve of her hip, envisioning the mark she’d borne since she was a child. The tiny inked falcon was scarcely larger than the nail on her thumb, but she despised the very sight of it. She remembered her cries as the needle had been driven into her skin, but there’d been no escape for her then. Even her mother had been unable to protect her.

  How she missed Mama. She’d been good and kind, and at one time, she’d loved Rose’s father quite fiercely. But then, he’d begun to stay out very late at night. At times, he hadn’t returned until dawn.

  Her mother’s tears had not moved him. Not even the night he’d taken Rose away to be marked forever.

  Flinging the covers aside, she lit the oil lamp on the side table. Steeling herself for the truth, she lifted her reticule from a drawer and removed the brooch Portia had pressed into her hand.

  The carved shell gleamed iridescent beneath the dim lamplight. The image carved into detailed relief did not resemble any she’d ever seen. Rather than a goddess or beauty in profile, the figure etched into the shell depicted a monster, a figure like the gorgons she’d read about in Greek mythology. Lifting the piece closer, she examined the image. Rather than curls, serpents writhed around its head.

  As she studied the brooch, it was as if she was looking upon an embodiment of evil. Why would her mother have possessed such an unsettling piece?

  Perhaps Portia had lied.

  But why would the woman concoct such a bizarre story?

  Rose drew her thumb over the carved relief. A sense of unwellness washed over her. The taste of bile was bitter against her tongue.

  Placing the offensive piece back within the velvet pouch, she set the reticule aside.

  She unbuttoned the top button of the cozy pink nightdress Mrs. Manfred had provided her, then pressed her fingertips to the locket she wore close to her heart. She’d treasured the necklace for more than a decade. Slipping it off, she held it beneath the lamp. Light danced off the multicolored crystals. She drank in the patterns, the play of gaslight against the gold and silver.

  Mama had always loved the ornamental gems—red as rubies, blue as sapphires. In the center, a small diamond gleamed unevenly. After her mother’s death, Rose’s father had presented her with the locket as a remembrance. In the eyes of some, the pendant would be of little worth. But the feel of it in her hand was a comfort, conjuring warm memories of a time before the fear, before the loneliness.

  Before she’d been forced to leave everyone she loved behind.

  Wiping away a tear, she fastened the pendant around her neck, buttoned her gown, and extinguished the lamp. Sliding beneath the covers, she let out a sigh and closed her eyes. She could not allow her feelings to run wild.

  With a silent prayer, she eased into a relaxed state, willing away the memories and the fear.

  In the morning, she’d face the truth again. But for now, she’d say a prayer for forgiveness and find her way to sleep.

  …

  Mac had never greeted dawn with any particular fondness. He much preferred moonlight, the sounds of the night serving as a tonic for his soul. But on the morning after the criminals had displayed the foolish audacity to invade his home, he pried his body out of bed and braced himself for the day ahead.

  And a blasted miserable day it would be. He was scheduled to meet with Matthew Colton after taking his morning meal. Colton, the head of the elite investigative agency known unofficially as Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service, would have inquiries.

  Damned shame he didn’t have answers.

  This sense of not knowing what the hell he was doing set his teeth on edge. For nearly a decade, he’d been the one asking the questions. He’d assumed the role of editor at the Herald before he’d reached his twenty-sixth birthday, and his position at the Colton Agency employed his skills as an interrogator. Now he was in the unfamiliar position of facing questions for which he had no answers.

  After dressing for the day, he headed straight for the dining room. He’d awakened with a hell of an appetite. The night before, he’d bypassed his evening meal. When he’d departed his home that evening, he’d been intent on a few hours of leisure: pub fare and a couple of drinks at his club. A round of billiards had been on his agenda, not physical combat with a criminal who was targeting a woman, no less.

  Descending the staircase, he spotted Rose. She lingered by the window in the rear hall, gazing down to the courtyard beyond his home. Alone with her thoughts, she appeared not to notice his approach. To a less trained eye, she might have appeared calm, almost relaxed. But her long, elegant fingers were laced together, as if to steady them, while she held her delicate jaw at an angle that betrayed the tension in her body. She was far from relaxed.

  Seizing the unhurried moment, he studied her with a journalist’s keen eye for detail. Her modest dress in a muted shade of blue had been trimmed with black velvet. He recognized the garment as one his sister, Daphne, had left behind after her most recent visit to the city. Evidently, Mrs. Manfred had taken it upon herself to provide Rose with an appropriate day dress, even if his sister was shorter than Rose by at least three inches, and the garment exposed a bit more of Rose’s ankles than was perfectly proper. That brought a smile to his face.

  Over the years they’d been apart, Rose’s naturally slim figure had grown more curvaceous, more softly rounded. With her vivid emerald eyes and soft rose-pink mouth, she was a goddess come to tempt a mere mortal like him.

  Her hair had been pulled back and pinned at the nape, just as she’d worn it the night before. Her tresses were brown, a shade considerably darker than her natural hue. Most likely, the dull tones were the product of some concoction she’d applied to disguise her appearance. She’d said little about the reasons for her charade. But her deliberate evasion could not hide one indisputable truth—she was frightened.

  Why had she left the safety of her refuge, knowing full well the threat she’d face when she returned?

  Whatever Rose was hiding, he must know, in order to protect her. He had to convince her to trust him.

  “Good morning, MacAllister.” She swiveled her neck, glancing at him before turning back to the window. “The sunrise was beautiful. Such a pity you did not witness it.”

  “I had other priorities—sleep comes to mind.”

  “The commotion last night was…most regrettable,” she went on. “I did not wish to bring such chaos to your doorstep.”

  “Commotion? Is that what we’re calling an assault by armed intruders these days?”

  She shrugged, even as her mouth tensed with strain, contradicting the gesture. “Does it really matter? We both know what happened.”

  “I beg to differ.” He met her gaze. “I know how to describe the events, but I’ve no idea as to their cause. What the bloody hell is going on?”

  “I fail to see how I can add to your understanding of what unfolded. After all, you were there. Perhaps, you might answer a question for me.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Would you care to explain how your useful acquaintances helped you get away last night? I’d envisioned all manner of horrible fates befalling you, especially given that one of the men who came after me was disguised as a constable. How did you escape?”

 
“I have friends in high places.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” The faintest of smiles played on her lips. “Not the most original of responses.”

  “Be that as it may, it is imperative that you tell me everything you know about what happened last night.”

  She turned away, gazing out over the flowers in the courtyard. “I’ve told you all you need to know.”

  “Rose, I cannot help you if you don’t tell me the truth.”

  “As I recall, I did not request your assistance.” Her voice was soft, but the coolness of her tone sliced through him like a knife in desperate need of sharpening.

  She’d spoken the truth. Damned shame he could no sooner rid himself of the desire to protect her than he could turn back time.

  “I suppose that is true. After all, I could’ve stood back and lost you again.”

  “Lost me? I didn’t realize you had such a flare for the dramatic.”

  “Rose, I trust you realize how maddening this situation is. Yesterday, I sat down to a breakfast of steak and eggs, a day as ordinary as the last. Until I saw you—until I discovered everything I’d believed—everything I’d been told about you—was a lie.”

  Slowly, she faced him, her mouth drawn tight. “Please believe me, MacAllister—I am so very sorry to have caused you pain.” She held his gaze. “But the deception was necessary. As long as everyone thought I’d died that day, I was safe.”

  “And now…” He raked a hand through his hair. “Now your secret is out.”

  “That would appear to be the case.”

  “Who is behind this—who sent those vermin after you?”

  She held his gaze. “I don’t know.”

  He tipped up her chin with one finger. “Don’t lie to me, Rose. Your father was murdered days before you fled the Highlands. Was his killer behind these attacks?”

  Her mouth thinned to a seam. “Yes.”