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

by Tara Kingston

  “Not everything in life requires an explanation. Some things simply are…the way they are.”

  Leaning closer, he eased his arm around her.

  “Just like this,” he murmured as he dipped his head.

  His lips brushed hers. The lightest of caresses. Yet, stirring a need she should know better than to feel.

  Slowly, he intensified the contact. Parting her lips, he deepened the delicious contact. She closed her eyes, savoring every sensation, every moment.

  She’d yearned for his tenderness. For his caress. For his touch.

  And now, she drank it in.

  His hand danced over her shoulders, along her middle, skimming her ribs, kindling a rush of awareness. He moaned, low in his throat, a sound of deep longing. Of tender need.

  “God above, I want to touch you, Rose.” His raw words seemed a plea.

  “Yes,” she whispered against his mouth. “Oh, yes.”

  His fingers swept over her bodice, over her breast, cupping her soft flesh against his palm. Caressing her with infinite patience, his thumb circled little arcs around her nipple, kindling a sweet, delicious pleasure.

  How she yearned for his touch. She’d endured so many lonely nights. And now, she was swept into her fantasy come to life.

  A sigh escaped her, and she melted into him.

  In the back of her mind, she heard the sounds of the carriage slowing to a halt.

  As MacAllister stilled, her body and heart lodged a futile protest. She didn’t want this moment to be over. But there was nothing to be done about it.

  Bertram rapped lightly on the door. When MacAllister opened it, the driver appeared to force a look of decorum. Had he noticed she was now sitting very close to MacAllister? Or had the telltale signs of their kiss been apparent even in the dim gaslight?

  The driver’s mouth curved in a sly smile. “I presume ye intend to see the lady inside.”

  “Of course,” MacAllister replied with a casualness that didn’t match the heat in his gaze.

  Bertram headed toward the rear entrance of Quinn House. MacAllister leaned close and kissed Rose again, a swift, sweet touch of his mouth to hers.

  “If I don’t get you inside, Colton will be here with guns blazing,” he whispered against her lips.

  “Colton? He’s here?”

  MacAllister nodded. “Somewhere in the vicinity, observing to ensure we weren’t followed.”

  “I see.” She smoothed her hair. “Well, then, we wouldn’t want to shock Mr. Colton now, would we?”

  “It would take a lot more than this to shock that man.”

  “You believe so? He seems rather staid, really.”

  This time, MacAllister actually laughed beneath his breath. “Someday, when we have more time, I’ll tell you more about the Coltons. Theirs is an unconventional story, to say the least.”

  “I would very much like to hear it,” she said as he led her from the carriage. “I do so adore a love story.”

  “It wasn’t always a love story,” he replied. “In the beginning, Jennie believed him to be a criminal of the worst sort. But fate sometimes has a way of making us question everything we once believed.”

  As they walked into the regal town house, her hand resting on MacAllister’s arm, the truth of his words crashed over her.

  “Indeed.” She gazed up at his strong profile. “Fate does present its share of surprises.”

  …

  Mac was not a man who readily succumbed to temptation. Oh, he enjoyed the act of seduction, the subtle games of attraction between the male and female of the species, but not the variety which might result in an emotional entanglement. Willing young widows who wanted passion without the restriction of vows, actresses who desired a man but not hearth and family, title-hunting heiresses who sought nights of passion before they settled in as the dutiful wife of Lord High-and-Mighty—those were the women he took to his bed. He admired their freedom and their independence, their eagerness to indulge their senses and cast propriety to the wind. Emotional involvement had no place in his life, much less in the form of a beauty from his past who deserved far more than a night in his arms.

  So why in blazes had he kissed Rose—again?

  He poured himself a Scotch and settled into the leather wing chair in Quinn’s library, warming himself by the hearth. By hellfire, what was in his blasted head? In the carriage, he’d wanted to comfort her, to show her tenderness. To taste her lips and hear her soft sighs as she welcomed his touch.

  Damn it, he knew better.

  But he hadn’t been able to stop himself.

  Jeremy Quinn entered, splashed whisky in a glass, and joined him by the fire.

  “Campbell, Jennie is worried about this investigation.”

  “That’s bloody ironic. After all the chances your sister has taken in pursuit of an exposé, she’s concerned about this situation?”

  “Someone is out there who’s eliminating everyone who stands between them and Miss Fleming. The primary suspect is dead. And though Miss Fleming believes she is the target, she hasn’t revealed what the killer wants with her.” Jeremy lifted his glass to his lips and took a drink. “Is it possible she’s somehow involved?”

  Mac stared at the glass, focusing his thoughts. Jennie and her brother were not inclined to be drawn in by farfetched theories. The idea that Rose was somehow tangled with these jackals was patently absurd. They might as well implicate the queen herself.

  “Impossible.”

  “Could she have betrayed them?” Jeremy focused his gaze on the crackling fire. “She claims to have been on the run from Merrick for nearly a decade. But she’s offered no proof. And no rationale as to why they’d pursue her.”

  By the saints, the man was getting under his skin. “Rose is not a criminal.”

  “Can you be sure? Good God, man—there’s a trail of bodies following her path.”

  Mac downed the rest of his drink and came to his feet. Leaning an elbow against the fireplace, he met Jeremy’s questions head on.

  “She is innocent. I’d stake my life on it.”

  “It might well come to that.” Jeremy set down his glass with a clink against the marble tabletop. “Don’t let down your guard with anyone. Especially not with Rose.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  After hours of tossing and turning, Rose welcomed the dawn. The investigator’s wide-eyed, unseeing stare had filled her nightmares. The poor man. Had Mr. Crabtree died because of the work he’d done for her? Had Merrick’s cronies decided he needed to be silenced?

  Comforted by the soft rays of morning light streaming between the curtains, she pulled her bedcovers up to her chin and closed her eyes. MacAllister’s tempting smile flashed in her thoughts. She sighed and savored the sweet memory of his caresses the night before.

  Some things simply are…the way they are.

  His words had taken her by surprise. He’d always been so analytical, so apt to seek the rational cause for any event. Time…and life…had changed him.

  She wasn’t sure if the realization pleased her or not. It would be far easier to harden her heart against the stiff-upper-lipped, logical man who’d walked away from Scotland than the man she’d kissed the night before. Hadn’t she learned to keep her invisible armor at the ready? Trust was reserved for a scant few, and even then, it had to be earned. She’d carved out a living in a bustling city filled with both good-natured souls and others who were no better than vermin on two feet.

  At The Painted Lily, she’d encountered all sorts. She’d learned to smile, sing, and tease—not really leading men on, simply creating the spark of interest that kept them coming back night after night, filling her coffers while they enjoyed a bit of hard-earned leisure.

  She had drawn crowds to the saloon with her voice, a flirtatious smile, and a flash of ankle. Or, on a particularly bawdy night, a glimpse of her stocking-covered leg beneath her petticoats.

  She’d had her fair share of men try to entice her with their wealth and status. Han
dsome gentlemen. Swaggering men of industry, intoxicated by money and accomplishment. Distinguished men of government who’d sought a mistress on the side.

  She’d kept her head with the rogues and gentlemen alike, never bestowing so much as a kiss. And if any got too close her well-muscled bodyguard was there to convince the man of the error of his ways.

  Now, she’d given in to a yearning she knew better than to sate. A taste of MacAllister could lead only to a hunger for more. He’d always had that effect on her. She couldn’t begin to explain the awareness that rippled through her when she was near him. His very essence set her senses on high alert, the slightest touch of his skin to hers triggered cravings so intense, they seemed akin to madness.

  Like Pandora, she’d succumbed to temptation and opened the box, one that might well lead to yet another broken heart.

  Still, she could not help but smile when she thought of his lips feathering over hers.

  So very seductive.

  So very tender.

  Of all the men I might’ve encountered outside that theater, why did it have to be you?

  Lying on her side, she eased back into slumber. An hour or so later, the sound of a light rapping stirred her from sleep.

  “Rose—it’s Irene Pearson. Might I have a word with you?”

  “I’ll be right there,” she called out drowsily. Popping out of bed, she slipped into her dressing gown and opened the door. The bright gaze of a woman who’d obviously enjoyed a far better night’s sleep than she had met her sleepy eyes.

  “I wanted to prepare you for this morning’s agenda,” Irene said, entering the chamber. “Mrs. Colton would like a word with you after breakfast. She’s proposing we shift the focus of the investigation. Assuming, of course, you are amenable.”

  “I cannot imagine I would have cause to object.”

  “Very good.” Irene flashed a crisp smile. “I do hope you will view me as an ally in this inquiry.”

  “There’s no reason to do otherwise. Is there?”

  “Of course not,” Irene answered quickly. Perhaps too quickly. “Well then, I will see you at breakfast. Quinn’s cook is busy in the kitchen. Mrs. Hamstead’s scones smell heavenly.”

  Given the nervous knot in her belly, Rose had little appetite, but she managed a nod and a smile. “I’ll be dressed in a few minutes.”

  Irene turned to the door, then paused. “And Rose, might I add—if you truly want us to help you, you cannot think to deceive us, even by omission.”

  Jennie Colton arrived shortly after the morning meal. As Rose entered the library where she waited, Irene’s admonition played in her thoughts. Why would the agent warn her against deception? What could they possibly suspect?

  “Good morning.” Jennie glanced up from an open volume that covered half the surface of an immense oak desk. “I’ve been researching the lands around Bradenmyre’s country estate. There isn’t another house for miles.”

  Irene crossed the room to gaze down at the map. “Is it possible he was the victim of a robbery gone wrong? If the man possessed valuables in such an isolated spot, he would’ve made an easy target.”

  “We haven’t eliminated that possibility,” Jennie said. “But given the condition of Bradenmyre’s body, and the fact that he was found floating in the Thames, many miles from the place we believe he was killed, it’s not likely the crime was driven by a simple motive.”

  “Damnable shame about his death,” MacAllister said. “Bradenmyre was a likeable soul. No known enemies. No criminal entanglements.”

  “No known criminal entanglements.” Jennie pursed her lips as she leaned closer to make a note on the map. “At the risk of offending Miss Fleming’s delicate sensibilities, she needs to know the truth.”

  “I don’t believe that is necessary,” MacAllister said with a little scowl.

  Rose spoke up. “Please, do not hold back to protect my sensibilities, delicate or otherwise.”

  Jennie pointed to a spot on the map. “Sir Louis Bradenmyre lived in a grand home. Oddly enough, his household staff claims they heard nothing suspicious the night he went missing, despite signs of a violent struggle. Blood was found in several locations, including a corridor along which it appears his body was dragged.” She drummed her fingers against the map, appearing to search for the appropriate words. “His carriage was found abandoned in the countryside outside London, stained with what we believe is his blood.” She strolled around the desk. “Rose, I’m not telling you this to frighten you.”

  Rose met her direct gaze. “Well, I’d say you’re doing a fine job of it.”

  “Given what you’ve experienced, you already know these men are utterly ruthless. As such, it is imperative that you be completely forthcoming with us.”

  Heat rushed to Rose’s cheeks. “I have not deceived you in any way.”

  Jennie’s mouth thinned. “The men who attacked you have connections with major crime organizations, some of which have enterprises that have spread as far as the United States. Are you aware of an American acquaintance who may be involved with these men?”

  Rose felt her breath catch in her throat. “Surely you don’t believe I have ties to criminals.”

  “At this point, we must rule out the possibility,” Jennie said, her voice terse.

  MacAllister turned to Jennie. “You’re on the wrong path here.”

  “I am not implying that Rose is involved in any wrongdoing. But if we are to solve this case, we must know precisely what we are dealing with.” Jennie settled her attention on Rose. “Our investigators have some questions regarding your finances.”

  “My finances? Good heavens, whatever do you mean?”

  “Our researcher took the liberty of telegraphing contacts in New York. They did a little footwork on our behalf. The name of a tavern came up—The Painted Lily.”

  Rose hiked her chin, indignation flowing through her veins. “I am the owner of The Painted Lily. What of it?”

  “Miss Fleming, tell me this—how did a woman who fled Scotland with little more than the clothes on her back come to own one of the most heavily patronized taverns in New York City?”

  “Evidently, your contacts did not provide you with the full facts.” Rose hiked her chin. “You see, I performed at Fanny D’Arcy’s saloon—with my clothes on, might I add—for years. I made a good living on the stage, and I saved every blasted penny that was not invested in stage attire or used to put a roof over my head and food in my belly.” Rose pictured the chanteuse who’d taken a chance on her years earlier. “When Fanny retired to the country, she sold the place to me. I paid her a fair price, but I must admit, she offered rather favorable terms. She said I was like a daughter to her. We remain in frequent correspondence.”

  “Well, then, I’d say that explains it,” Jennie said crisply. “Now, shall we discuss the investigator you hired? How did you come to employ his services?”

  “My solicitor in New York arranged Mr. Crabtree’s services. He came highly recommended.”

  “What was your impression of the man?” Jennie continued.

  “He seemed a straight arrow, very direct. Pleasant enough. But I’d met him only once, shortly after I arrived in London.”

  “What precisely did you hire him to find out?” MacAllister asked.

  “He was to make inquiries regarding Merrick and his activities.”

  MacAllister settled his gaze on Rose. “It’s conceivable that Crabtree discovered the truth about Merrick’s death. If he’d uncovered evidence that the fire in which Merrick perished was not an accident, the killer would’ve had motive to silence him.”

  “It’s certainly possible. In his last communication, he’d mentioned a source in high places.”

  “Someone knew he would be at Café Suzannah,” MacAllister said.

  Jennie nodded her agreement. “Rose, there’s a good chance you were not the target last night. Crabtree’s killer might not have realized you were there.”

  “Or, the assailant may have been interr
upted.” MacAllister was matter of fact. “One of the restaurant’s staff who’d ventured into the alley to dispose of refuse came upon the attack. When the man called for help, the killer ran off.”

  “There’s one more thing,” Jennie said. “At the time of his death, Crabtree was in possession of an envelope addressed to Rose.”

  “Do you have it?” Rose asked, her stomach clenching with tension. Had the investigator taken the missive from the hotel where she’d been staying?

  Had the man she’d trusted been working against her interests?

  Jennie produced an envelope from a folio lying upon the desk. “Do you recognize this?”

  Rose peered down at the envelope. Her name was penned in dark ink, the letters even and precise, but there was no address, no postage—evidently, the missive had been delivered by courier rather than through the post. How in blazes had Crabtree obtained it?

  Rose stilled as her breath caught in her throat. The wax seal had been broken. The envelope was empty.

  She handed it back to Jennie. “I am appalled that you and your associates saw fit to confiscate my personal correspondence.”

  “The letter was missing when Mr. Crabtree was found. We may assume the killer got his hands on it before making his escape.” Jennie pointed to the writing on the envelope. “Do you recognize the script?”

  “I don’t believe Mr. Crabtree wrote that—his penmanship was rather distinct.” She let out a sigh. “Have the Yardmen searched his flat? His office?”

  “Rest assured, his residence and place of business will be thoroughly inspected.” A tense little vee formed between Jennie’s brows. “The inspector recovered another item—a brooch. I found it rather unusual.”

  Rose felt her stomach twist. Could this piece be connected to the grotesque cameo she’d received from Portia?

  “Do you believe it to be pertinent to this investigation?” MacAllister seemed taken by surprise.

  “That remains to be seen.” Jennie kept her focus on Rose. Under her observant gaze, Rose felt like an insect being studied beneath a magnifying lens.

  “Well, then, let’s see it.” Impatience flavored MacAllister’s cool tones.