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

by Tara Kingston

  Especially that most vulnerable part of her—her heart.

  Loving MacAllister had left an indelible mark. The very thought of his tenderness stirred yearnings she couldn’t entirely banish.

  And now, she was heading into perilous territory.

  If she was clever, as she liked to think, she would not allow him to take liberties.

  She would shield herself from the danger present in his every kiss, in his every touch.

  Setting the book aside, she went to the window. The beauty of the grounds beyond the house enchanted her. Though the garden was not large, the appealing landscape design offered a delightful mix of greenery and vivid, colorful flowers. Would it be possible to create such an oasis at her home in New York?

  Perhaps she’d look into purchasing a home in the country when she returned to America.

  If she made it back home.

  Dash it all, such grim thoughts served no purpose. She had to keep her chin up. She had to focus on what she would do after her task here was done and Merrick’s associates had received their just deserts.

  Only then could she return to the life she’d crafted.

  Irene rapped lightly against the stained trim on the doorway. “Would you mind some company?”

  “Come and join me, please,” Rose said with a lightness she did not feel.

  “Mr. Quinn is ingenious,” Irene said as she crossed the room to where Rose stood. “He’s quite accomplished. I’m told he recently returned from a journey with the Egypt Exploration Society.”

  “How very interesting.” Rose eyed the elegant fan in Irene’s right hand. “That’s quite lovely.”

  “Actually, this fan is the reason I’m here.” Irene smiled coyly. “Mr. Quinn modified it for use as a self-defense device. Mrs. Colton asked me to train you in its proper use.”

  “Allow me to guess,” Rose said. “The ribs are reinforced with metal.”

  “Clever.” With a flick of her wrist, Irene opened the fan. “As you can see, the lace is intricately tatted, and the ribs are carved from a sturdy teak wood. Each has been hollowed out and filled with bits of lead. But there’s more.”

  “Fascinating,” Rose said, examining the fan.

  “Indeed.” Irene motioned her to stand back. “The device is highly unique. You need only to press this lever at its base—and then, look what you can do.”

  With a quick movement of her free hand, Irene slid the ribs into an interlinked chain. She snapped her wrist in a crisp motion. “This would have quite a bite.”

  The linked ribs made a sound like the crack of a whip. Another snap of her wrist, and the weapon crackled against the carpet.

  “This would take a man to ground,” Irene said. “Especially if applied behind the knees with some force. The possibilities are limitless.”

  “Most impressive,” Rose agreed. “But my cudgel would produce a similar effect.”

  “Perhaps, but this allows one to put distance between herself and the assailant,” Irene said. “Come, take a look. The key is this tiny lever. Once you’ve completed your task, simply press the lever again, slide the ribs back into place, then fan them out. No one will even know you possessed a weapon.”

  “May I try it?”

  Irene passed the fan to Rose. “Of course.”

  Rose tested its weight in her hand. “I trust it will not accidentally deploy.”

  “I’m confident it won’t. But do be sure to avoid the lever until you’re ready.”

  Rose grazed her thumb over the small latch, familiarizing herself with the feel of the device. Taking a step away from Irene, she put a bit of pressure on the lever.

  As she’d anticipated, the fan’s ribs slid out of place. With cautious movements, she smoothed them into a weapon. “I’ll need more practice.”

  “Definitely, but it won’t take long for you to gain confidence with the fan.”

  Rose glanced at the china vases on the shelf behind her. “Perhaps we might take this out to the garden. I’d be a bit more adventurous without the worry of breaking a priceless antiquity.”

  “A marvelous idea,” Irene said. “After we practice, we can bring our fans along on an excursion.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I find myself in desperate need of an evening gown. I’d hoped you might advise me on selecting an elegant fashion—I’ve far more tweed and wool in my wardrobe than silk.” Irene peeled back the jacket she wore buttoned over a prim white blouse, revealing a pistol secured in a concealed holster. “I am prepared for any occasion. Other than a fancy ball, that is.”

  “We do need to change that.” Rose smiled as a touch of pleasant anticipation brightened her mood.

  “Splendid. I’ll arrange a visit to the dressmaker’s shop this afternoon.”

  Was it Rose’s imagination, or did Irene actually appear nervous? How ironic, given that earlier, she’d felt a twinge of envy over the agent’s unflappable manner.

  “I’d be delighted to go.” Rose pictured the scandalously cut red gown in her trunk. Perhaps a less revealing ensemble might better suit her purposes. “As it turns out, I also require a dress for the occasion.”

  “Wonderful. Of course, I will notify Mr. Campbell.” Irene’s smile dimmed. “He’d have me locked away in the Tower if I did not take every precaution.”

  “I’m not a prisoner, Irene. And it is the middle of the day.”

  “I wouldn’t count on him thinking about it that way. He’s taken personal responsibility for your safety.” The agent’s blond hair rippled over her shoulders as she gave her head a quick shake. “If the man objects, he can bloody well accompany us.”

  Rose sensed a kindred spirit in the agent. “Brilliant. That would be a torment he had not anticipated.”

  Irene flashed a cheeky grin. “Quite so. I think I’m going to enjoy this.”

  …

  There was a special hell for fools, and damned if Mac wasn’t already paying it a visit. He’d accompanied the women to not one—not two—but three dressmakers’ shops since they’d departed Quinn House shortly after noon. At this rate, the guests would be exiting Portia Rathbone’s blasted ball before Rose and Miss Pearson selected their gowns for the event.

  Agent Pearson had insisted she was quite capable of providing security for Rose, armed with a pistol and her diabolical fan, but he had other thoughts on the matter. If something were to happen to Rose or Irene while he went about his business, he’d never forgive himself.

  He’d accompanied the women to the dressmaker’s shop, observing the scene and mentally plotting the mystery novel he’d pen someday—whenever in blazes someday actually came—while waiting by the carriage. At least, that was his intention.

  Life did not always proceed according to plan, no matter how well thought out. During the visit to the first two shops, he’d kept a comfortable distance, even as time seemed to slow. By the third shop, each minute seemed to crawl, as if dragging a heavy weight behind it for good measure.

  For his part, Bertram had left his perch on the driver’s bench and ventured into the pub next door, expressing his intention to assess any threats within the saloon. The old man was most likely attempting to charm the proprietress, a fetching redhead named Millie who possessed an inexplicable soft spot for the old man.

  Reminding himself of both his duty and his determination to protect Rose at all costs—including, perhaps, his own sanity—Mac continued his vigilant watch. Until a petite woman with an enormous silver-haired coiffure bustled out of the shop and darted straight to the carriage.

  An internal alarm sounded. Instinctively, his hand went to the gun holstered beneath his jacket. His fingers rested on the weapon he kept out of sight. Surely this wisp of a woman was not an assassin.

  He met her pale gaze as she flashed a put-on smile. “Mr. Campbell?”

  Alert for any sign of a trap, he kept his eyes on the woman. “What’s happened?”

  A little furrow appeared between her brows. Annoyance, perhaps. Or w
as she simply weary?

  “The lady requests your presence within the shop. She says she has a question only you can answer.”

  Was this some sort of code? Was Miss Pearson or Rose in distress?

  Senses on full alert, he followed the woman into the shop. If this was indeed a trap, he certainly didn’t expect a matron his mother’s age to be the one to lure him into it.

  Moments after he entered, Rose swept out of the dressing room, wearing a gown of blue silk with a skirt adorned with a multitude of brightly hued plumes. She paused, then slowly turned for effect.

  “What do you think?”

  God above, he’d been summoned to give his thoughts about a dress. Of all the blasted things, she wanted to know what he, of all people, thought of the gown.

  He should’ve been relieved that it wasn’t a trap. Somehow, this was worse.

  Much worse.

  The earnest look in her eyes made it clear she genuinely wanted his opinion. He rubbed his jaw, buying time.

  If he were wise, he’d tell her she looked lovely and they’d soon be on their way.

  But as she’d reminded him, he was honest to a fault.

  “I think it looks like a blasted peacock.”

  The woman who’d summoned him shot him a glare. Bloody good thing she wasn’t an assassin. “I’ll have you know that gown is newly arrived from Paris.”

  “I presume the bird that gave its life was also French.”

  Rose nibbled her lower lip as Miss Pearson chuckled from behind a louvered door. “I don’t feel this is my color,” Rose said to the woman. “There is one last gown I would like to try. You know the one—”

  “Very well, miss. I’ll bring it to the dressing room.”

  “Thank you,” Rose said, then turned to Mac. “Perhaps you might wait here a few minutes. I would appreciate your opinion. I’m rather partial to this next gown, but I’d like to know a man’s thoughts.”

  For reasons he couldn’t quite put into words, the notion stunned him. He’d rather walk across a pit filled with vipers and jagged glass. “Wait… here?”

  “Well, I suppose you could return to the carriage, but then we will need to summon you again. The modiste was none too pleased the last time I asked her to venture out of her shop.”

  A quarter hour later, he continued to bide his time in a quiet corner of the shop, resting his weary body on a stool he’d wager had been occupied by many a man before him. God above, what could be so difficult about selecting a gown?

  At least Miss Pearson had not sought out his opinion. He’d overheard her picking Rose’s brain for insights into the latest designs. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have believed she was somehow signaling for help. For nearly two years, he’d viewed Irene Pearson as a no-nonsense agent who did not put an emphasis on current fashion.

  Finally, Rose swept out of the dressing room. Emerald silk draped her soft curves. The gown was cut in a Grecian style, the rich hues complementing the forest green hue of her eyes. In that moment, she might have been a goddess come to life, luring mere mortals like him to do her bidding.

  “So, MacAllister, what do you think?”

  If he told her the full truth of what was running through his mind—if he described the image of his hands peeling the silk from her body and tossing it to the side of a warm, sturdy bed—the dressmaker would keel over from shock.

  No, honesty was definitely not the best policy in this case.

  She watched him, waiting for his response, her expression genuine and appealing. Her question was direct and innocent, yet there was an intimacy to the scene that did not escape him.

  She trusted him. Even though the decision was far from monumental, the notion pleased him beyond all reason.

  “It suits you,” he said simply.

  “You like it?”

  He nodded thoughtfully, drinking her in. She was indescribably beautiful in the gown. And yet, she didn’t quite know how he saw her.

  “Yes, you could say that.”

  “Thank you.” Her smile was broad and warm and real. Ah, what he would give to have her look at him like that until he was old and grizzled.

  “You’ll take that one?” The dressmaker sounded relieved.

  “Yes. And the hat that goes with it.” Rose smiled again. “Thank you.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  When their purchases were wrapped, Mac escorted the women back to the carriage. Bertram rambled out of the tavern, smirking as he caught sight of the packages in Mac’s arms.

  “Ye thought ye were immune, Campbell,” the old man laughed under his breath. “But women are sorceresses, I tell ye. They know how to cast their spells.”

  Indeed. Rose certainly knew how to enchant him. She’d cast a spell he’d no desire to break.

  Chapter Nineteen

  In Rose’s experience, few in society went about their business without wearing a mask of some sort or another. The Colton Agency’s driver, the old gent who went by Bertram—whether that was a given name or surname, she couldn’t be sure—seemed an exception. The man wore his good nature on his well-lined face.

  As Rose left the dressmaker’s shop with Irene at her side, the driver greeted her with a craggy-toothed smile and a tip of his hat.

  “Campbell, you’ll have to fight the fellas off with that walking stick of yers to keep ’em from these lovely ladies,” the old man teased.

  MacAllister’s smile did not reach his eyes. “I cannot say the possibility had not occurred to me. In fact, I’ve already done that, the night Miss Fleming and I became…reacquainted.”

  “If I were ten years younger, I’d give ye a run for yer money,” the driver said with a laugh.

  MacAllister cocked a brow. “Ten, you say?”

  “Ye’re a cruel one, ye are,” Bertram said. “All right, twenty. Ye’re not a young buck yerself, Campbell.”

  “Flattering as this might be, Bertram, you’d be wasting your time,” Irene said with a light laugh. “Don’t you know I’ve already given my heart away?”

  “Ah, dashin’ a fella’s hopes—ye’re as cruel as he is, lass. And who might the lucky gent be?”

  “Now that is a secret, Bertram,” Irene said. “A lady never tells…”

  “And what about you, my dear?” Bertram said to Rose as he ushered them to the carriage. “Has someone claimed your heart as well, beating this poor gent to the punch?”

  Rose met his easy grin, though she’d no urge to smile. Something about the question weighed on her. It seemed a ridiculous notion to contemplate bestowing her love on any man, much less a man she hadn’t seen in such a very long time. She’d far more important matters to consider, such as simply staying alive.

  “I haven’t given my heart to a man, but to a place,” she said. “New York is my home now. It’s a part of me.”

  Her gaze flickered to MacAllister. His mouth thinned, his only show of emotion. “I’ve traveled there. It’s not very different from London.”

  “I must beg to disagree.” Smiling to herself, she pictured Fanny and Seth and the reed-thin, bespectacled barkeep named Gilford who’d become her close confidant over the years. Fanny had always been a devoted, wise friend, a woman who’d selflessly given Rose a start when she might’ve turned her back on a shy, naive lass. Seth and Gilford had stuck with them through tough times when the money wasn’t rolling in and debts were mounting. Now that business was good, she could not let them down. “You see, there is one crucial distinction. I’ve created a family there, of sorts. I don’t know what I would’ve done without them.”

  He studied her for a long moment, silent. His right hand went to the back of his neck, kneading it, as if to massage away a bit of tension in the muscles. The faintest hint of a smile touched his lips as he met her eyes and held her questioning gaze.

  “Whoever would’ve guessed that a shy Scottish lass would become the toast of Manhattan?”

  “There are times when circumstances force us to change…to develop courage we didn’t
know we possessed.”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “I don’t see that you’ve changed, Rose. You’ve always had more courage than all the men I know combined.”

  They entered the coach and returned to Quinn House as the sun splashed pinks and reds against the horizon. Jeremy Quinn met them in the entry hall soon after they’d crossed the threshold.

  “Campbell, might I have a word with you?” Quinn turned to Rose and Irene. “Please, feel free to join the discussion.”

  “Of course,” Irene said. “I’ve no intention of being left uninformed of whatever has happened.” When their host frowned, she added, “You’re not very good at hiding your thoughts, Mr. Quinn.”

  “No, I suppose I’m not,” he said, raking a hand through his hair.

  They accompanied Quinn into his private study. Once inside, he closed the door behind them.

  “There’s been a development of which you all need to be aware,” Quinn said. “Colton brought the news. There’s been another murder.”

  “Has the victim been identified?” MacAllister asked, a forced calm in his tone.

  Quinn nodded. “The man went by the name Phipps, though it’s believed to be an alias.”

  Phipps. Dear God—the driver.

  MacAllister’s jaw set in a grim line. “Where did the killing take place?”

  “The man’s body was found in the Thames,” Quinn said. “He was dead when he went into the water. Like Mr. Crabtree, he’d suffered a wound to the throat.”

  MacAllister frowned, appearing deep in thought. “Was Phipps a suspect in any investigations?”

  “I don’t believe so. He was not under investigation by the Colton Agency, and the Yardmen had no known interest in his activities.”

  MacAllister’s forehead furrowed. “So, if I am understanding this correctly, a man was killed and dumped into the river. Quite frankly, that’s not a remarkable occurrence. What connection does Colton see between this man’s death and the current case?”

  “Don Phipps was a driver by trade, a chauffeur who’d worked for some rather highbrow families. He was once Bradenmyre’s personal driver—at the time, he was known as Donald Lester.”