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

by Tara Kingston

  His brow furrowed. “I dread to ask—what do you have in mind?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Jennie smiled. “You will escort Miss Fleming to the ball. Her very presence might unnerve Mrs. Rathbone. With any luck, the widow might well make a mistake. A bit of liquor is known to loosen lips, as is nervous tension. If she suspects a journalist is investigating her activities, she may well become unnerved by the prospect.”

  “You know how I abhor those functions,” he shot back. “All that forced merriment is enough to create dyspepsia.”

  “We need you there, Campbell.” Jennie flashed a challenging gaze. “Mrs. Rathbone is no doubt well aware of your position at the Herald. Your very presence may trigger a sense of alarm that could lead the woman to betray a secret or two. You will be far more effective than another agent she does not connect with the press.”

  “Have you considered that we do not need to draw attention to Rose’s presence in London?”

  “At this point, the villain who’s targeted her knows she’s still in the city,” Jennie said. “If there were any doubts, her attempt at a rendezvous with Mr. Crabtree erased them.”

  MacAllister set his jaw, seeming to ponder Jennie’s words. “I will not be a part of a plan that does not ensure Rose’s safety,” he countered. “At this point, the wisest course would be for her to leave the city.”

  Rose studied him beneath her lashes. The caring in his voice was very real, and it touched her heart. But she would not scurry off and hide like a frightened child.

  “I’ve no intention of leaving London,” she spoke up. “I won’t lie to you—Mr. Crabtree’s murder stunned me. But I must see this through.”

  He turned to her, heat warming his dark eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I will not run, MacAllister. Even if I wanted to escape the danger, there is nothing to stop the threat from pursuing me. We both know my secret is out. Whoever is behind these attacks is well aware that I am alive. Hiding—whether behind four walls or an ocean away—would be futile. I intend to see the scoundrels who put my aunt in her grave brought to justice. I won’t rest until they’re behind bars. Or dead.”

  “Indeed,” Jennie agreed. “We need to lure the vermin out of the holes in which they lurk. It is high time Rose Fleming makes her presence known throughout London.”

  MacAllister’s eyes narrowed. “You’re suggesting she abandon her alias?”

  “That is precisely what I am saying,” Jennie said.

  “And what of the risk? If we are going to pursue this strategy, we must have a plan in place to ensure her safety,” he said. “We cannot assume anyone on the hotel staff or any of the guests are beyond suspicion.”

  “Quite so,” Jennie agreed. “We will assign our top agents to infiltrate the premises. There is also the matter of your invitations. I will see that the two of you, as well as Miss Pearson and Jeremy, are added to the guest list.”

  Rose edged closer to MacAllister. His nearness calmed her racing thoughts. This was all proceeding at a lightning-fast pace.

  Rose sighed. “I never intended to draw you into what is essentially my battle.”

  MacAllister drew his fingertips over her cheek. When he spoke, his gravel-edged tones gave her hope she hadn’t realized she possessed.

  “Rose, this is our battle.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rose glanced down at her dress, smoothing out a crease in the silk with her fingertips. With puffed, leg-of-mutton sleeves and a choker collar, the pale green gown was a practical choice for the day, but would not do for an elegant ball attended by London’s elite. The small traveling bag she’d brought to Quinn House contained two other dresses, each as plain as this one. Another gown—one of her most scandalous stage costumes—remained tucked away in the trunk stored at MacAllister’s town house. If she wished to find her image on London’s tabloids, the form-fitting red gown would certainly do the trick. She smiled to herself. Perhaps she would choose that dress for the evening. At the very least, she’d provide an effective distraction.

  Mac walked into the library, his expression dour. “I will be leaving shortly—I’m in need of proper attire for the evening.” His mouth turned down into a little scowl. “Perhaps I’ll even throw in a top hat.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t wear one of those ridiculous things.” Truth be told, she’d much rather he left his silky chestnut brown hair uncovered and accessible to her fingertips.

  “I trust you’re referring to the hat and not the suit. I can well imagine the expression on the matrons’ faces if I walked in without benefit of clothing.”

  “Actually, I imagine many of them would not truly object, despite their protests to the contrary.”

  He shot her a playful scowl. “Just my bloody luck—that woman would have to be hosting a blasted ball. I’d prefer to approach the situation directly rather than milling about in a starched shirt and too-tight necktie, feigning merriment.”

  “I suspect the timing of the event so soon after my encounter with Mrs. Rathbone is not a coincidence.” Rose pictured the widow’s beautiful features and icy expression. “Have you ever met her?”

  “No, but I’m told she’s as cunning as a snake.”

  “There’s something about her, an evil I can’t quite put into words.”

  MacAllister brushed a stray curl back behind her ear. “I don’t underestimate Mrs. Rathbone’s capacity for violence. After the woman plunged a knife into Jacob Merrick’s heart, she displayed no trace of emotion. No regret. No grief. She described what she’d done as matter-of-factly as if she’d shot a rabid dog. But I don’t attribute such coldness to evil.”

  “MacAllister, I know what I felt. There’s something about her that gives me the shivers.”

  A slight smile warmed his features. “If she’d given me that hideous little carving of Medusa, I might well feel the same way.”

  “You believe she’s the one who sent the package with the mourning ring?”

  “I wouldn’t discount the possibility.”

  “I do not wish to ever see it again.”

  He clasped his hand over hers, the strength and gentleness of his touch reassuring her, infusing her with a sense of faith in what the future might hold. “I suspect Mrs. Rathbone or whoever sent you that ring wanted to stoke your fear.”

  “They’ve done a fine job of it.” Leaning closer, she drank in the faint notes of his soap. She’d always been partial to the aroma of bergamot. Mingled with his natural essence, the aroma stirred the longing she wished to ignore.

  “The only question is why? If she’s setting a trap, it wouldn’t make any blasted sense for her to convince you to flee.”

  “I can’t puzzle out why she’d want to frighten me off,” Rose said. “Especially given what she wants me to do.”

  A vee formed between his brows. “What did she ask of you?”

  Rose let out a low, steadying breath. “She wants me to kill him—to kill Cyril Merrick.”

  “Bloody hell.” MacAllister coiled an arm around her waist, drawing her near. The heat of his body warmed her. “The woman might well be mad. Promise me you won’t go near her unless one of us is with you.”

  “I don’t believe she would try to harm me.”

  “Anyone connected with Merrick is dangerous.” MacAllister pressed the softest of kisses to her temple. “I won’t lose you again, Rose.”

  “I’m so very sorry… sorry I didn’t tell you the truth.”

  “Rose, if only I’d known.” His voice was low. And raw. “If I’d suspected you were in trouble, I would’ve come for you.”

  She swallowed against the fresh pain. “If you’d defended me, you would have died. Just as Angus did.”

  “I would have taken that risk without a moment’s hesitation. You know that, don’t you?”

  She leaned into his hard, muscular chest. Amazing, how his presence lent her strength when doubt threatened to overwhelm her.

  He threaded his fingers through her hai
r. “When I look at you now, Rose, it’s as though I’m twenty-one again, wanting you as much as the air I breathe.” Gently, he swept his fingertips along the curve of her face. “Being here with you…keeping you safe…is something I must do.”

  “I know how deeply Angus valued your friendship. I do hope you’re not acting out of a sense of duty.”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “If Angus were alive, he’d punch me in the gut right about now.”

  “Why?” She searched his face. “What do you—”

  His mouth curved at the corners. Not quite a smile. But a promise of what was to come.

  “Because…” He framed her face in his hands. “I’m going to do this…”

  He looked into her eyes, studying her for a heartbeat, perhaps two. And then, his lips claimed hers.

  Teasing. Tempting. Tantalizing.

  With a low moan, he edged her toward the bookshelves. Cupping her bottom in his hands, he pressed her back against the stacks. Engaging her in a seduction without words, he deepened the kiss. Parting her lips. Touching and tasting. Stirring her senses with every passionate caress.

  Restrained power rippled through every flex of his muscles, every touch of his hands against her skin. Sweeping her fingers through his neatly trimmed dark hair, she heard herself sigh. She’d yearned for him for so long.

  Suddenly bold, she molded her body to his. He was tall and lean and strong. And very intent on her pleasure. Allowing herself another soft sigh, she savored the tenderness of his embrace.

  His arousal bucked against his trousers, his rigid shaft pressing to her softness, stirring her hunger to another level of need.

  Dear God, much more of this, and she’d drag him over to the settee and sate the desire he so ruthlessly kindled.

  What was it about this man that swept her away with every kiss?

  A man’s voice in the corridor jerked Rose back to reality. MacAllister groaned. His hands fell to his sides, and he eased away.

  “We will continue this…discussion,” he said, smiling devilishly. “Tonight, if that would please you.”

  “I can think of nothing I’d like more.”

  He dipped his head, murmuring against her ear. “There are no words to describe how good you feel in my arms.” His husky rasp sent a delicious whisper of sensation through her body. “Ah, Rose, I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

  …

  Damn the luck. Mac wagered Jeremy Quinn’s conversation with Miss Pearson in the corridor beyond his library was not pure coincidence. Had they stumbled upon the scene and opted for the most discreet approach they could muster?

  Blast it, it was none of Quinn’s concern. It wasn’t as if he and Rose were youths in the first flush of attraction.

  No, that would make more sense than what he was feeling at the moment. Standing there within touching distance of Rose, his erection throbbing with need, wanting her with a fervor he had not felt since he’d held her that night before he’d said goodbye.

  Bugger it, he’d been a fool.

  And perhaps, now, he was an even greater dunce.

  She wasn’t a girl now. She was a woman, beautiful and confident, despite the fear that would have crippled a less steadfast soul.

  Truth be told, he knew little of the life she’d made for herself. Christ, he was only now learning of her past, of the time when she’d literally run for her life.

  For all he knew, there was another man, waiting for her. Somewhere in New York, a man might be composing a letter to Rose at that very moment, confessing how desperately he needed her, how much he ached for the very sight of her.

  Just as he had.

  He wanted to know everything about her. What brought her joy? What experiences had shaped her? How had the years changed her wants and hopes and dreams?

  Rose had left Scotland behind and begun a new life. Independent. And evidently, ambitious. Since he’d first encountered her outside the theater, she’d asked for nothing, other than a kiss she’d employed as camouflage. Through the years, she’d found the strength to do it all, on her own. Her spirit fascinated him. She’d pushed past her fears to make her own way. What would it be like to spend his days and nights with a woman of such courage and drive?

  If she were his, he’d never get enough of her.

  He’d learn what would give her pleasure, her secret desires.

  Ah, he knew a bit of an answer to that already. He stopped himself from smiling at the thought. When he kissed her, she didn’t try to play coy, didn’t try to hide her reaction to his touch. Would she welcome the feel of his mouth against her skin? Did she want to touch him as much as he hungered for the satin feel of her skin beneath his fingertips?

  Quinn strolled into the chamber, his attentive gaze fixed on Rose. She’d done nothing to coax his interest—not deliberately, at least. But when they were in the same room, Jeremy Quinn couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Not surprising, really. God knew Mac could scarcely focus his attention on anything else when she was near.

  “It wasn’t my intention to interrupt your conversation,” Quinn said smoothly. “Please, do carry on.”

  “Actually, there is a matter we need to discuss.” Mac glanced down to check the time on his pocket watch. “Have you looked into the security for Mrs. Rathbone’s ball? Colton indicated you’d engineered devices the women might employ for self-defense.”

  “I do have something in mind. It’s not the most original of weapons—I cannot take credit for its design, but I have made a change or two that I believe improves its ability to deploy. The device requires a minimum of training and will bring a man to his knees.”

  “I could simply bring my blackjack,” Rose said with a little smile.

  Quinn’s brows hiked. “You’re familiar with the use of a cudgel?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t think of going onstage without it.”

  Mac slowly shook his head. “There’s a great deal I don’t know about you, isn’t there?”

  Her eyes flashed with challenge. “We all have our secrets, MacAllister. Perhaps, someday, I will be in a position to learn yours.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  As the morning waned, Rose retreated to Quinn House’s well-stocked library. The events of the previous days had taken their toll, and her weary mind craved an escape. Selecting a travelogue from the shelves, she lounged on a plush blue-velveteen upholstered settee, perusing the images of an excursion through Italy. Perhaps, someday, after this nightmare had ended, she’d do a leisurely tour of the continent. She’d always longed to see the historical landmarks of ancient civilizations. What better place to start than Rome?

  Closing her eyes, she relaxed, and her thoughts drifted. In her imaginary jaunt through Europe, she’d head to Greece, and then, on to Paris. The itinerary she mapped out in her mind was the stuff of dreams.

  And perhaps, when she did embark on the actual journey, she would not be alone.

  Alone.

  The word echoed in her thoughts. Life in New York had been rather peculiar, really. She’d been surrounded by people at most hours of the day and night, patrons who wanted her to entertain them, employees who bustled about, earning their daily bread through their service to the tavern’s customers, men who wanted a mistress and thought they would be the one to break through her barrier of frost.

  The existence she’d carved out for herself in Manhattan had been fulfilling, if a bit lonely. She’d built a good life for herself in New York. Just a year earlier, she’d had a house constructed, a spacious residence done in the Italianate style. The leaded glass windows alone had cost a pretty penny, and she’d commissioned lamps by Tiffany himself. But when she’d paced the halls at night, the only sound she’d heard was the soft tap of her own heels against the polished wood floors, and when she’d navigated the congested streets of the city, she’d longed for the scent of heather in the air.

  For years, she’d pushed aside any thought of marriage, of family, but now, the notion appealed to her. What would it be like to h
ave a man who adored her, and perhaps—just perhaps—a child to love and nurture?

  For so very long, the thought of speaking her vows with a man had seemed as absurd as the suggestion she might travel to Paris on wings of wax. More than one man had proposed marriage since she’d arrived in New York. She’d declined them all. Pity none of those gentlemen had set her heart to racing.

  Only one man had the ability to make her pulse beat faster with a mere brush of his lips against her cheek. But MacAllister had walked away so very long ago, and the intervening years apart had served to steel her heart.

  The beautiful tavern owner who had taken Rose under her wing had offered her sage advice. You’ve a good heart, Rose. But it might well be your greatest weakness, my dear.

  Fanny D’Arcy had been as coolheaded in business as she was hot-blooded in her stage persona. An eager student, Rose had learned from the best.

  Fanny had taken a chance on Rose when she had little to offer, other than a pretty face and the ability to carry a tune. When she’d arrived in Manhattan, Rose had been a scrawny, nearly virginal Scottish lass. When Fanny had hired her to tote steins of ale to her patrons, it had seemed an act of mercy.

  Over time, Fanny had acted as a wise older sister to Rose. An Ohio farm girl born Edie Smith, Fanny had crafted the stage persona of an exotic French woman with an exacting attention to detail. When she’d stepped onto the stage of her establishment, Edie had disappeared, replaced by the seductive, tantalizing Fanny.

  Under Fanny’s demanding tutelage, Rose learned the art of temptation. She’d crafted an ability to masterfully weave subtle seduction into her interpretation of lyrics and movement. Catering to the wealthy and not-so-rich alike who had flocked to hear Rose’s seductive, throaty singing voice and feast their eyes on whatever revealing gown she’d chosen for the performance, she’d filled her coffers night after night.

  Many men had tried to lure her into a love affair—if that was the term for the arrangement many of them sought. But Rose had refused them all. She knew better than to give in to a man’s entreaties. She’d keep them wanting more rather than give them power over her.