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

by Tara Kingston

  Rose’s pulse roared in her ears. The man at the reins of the carriage that had transported her to the theater had been murdered. Surely this could not be a matter of coincidence.

  She pulled in a steadying breath. “Mr. Phipps was the hired driver who brought me to my meeting with Mrs. Rathbone.”

  A muscle ticked in MacAllister’s jaw. “You believe he was in league with the criminals who tried to abduct you?”

  “I suspect he may have been, though I’ve no proof.”

  MacAllister’s expression was grim. “He was killed by someone who wanted to silence him. As Merrick is dead, who the bloody hell is behind this?”

  “There’s something else about Phipps you should know,” Quinn said. “Most recently, he was employed by Edward Fincham. I presume you’re familiar with the name.”

  “Good God,” MacAllister said as Irene’s features pulled tight with tension.

  Rose turned to him. “The name means nothing to me.”

  “Edward Fincham is a long-standing member of Parliament. He’s rumored to be eyeing the office of Prime Minister,” MacAllister explained. “He’s also the man who advised Portia Rathbone when she killed Jacob Merrick. He still serves as her primary solicitor.”

  “Oh dear,” Rose said softly.

  Quinn went to the sideboard and poured a splash of whisky into a cut crystal tumbler. “Anyone care for a drink?”

  “I’ve no taste for it—not now,” MacAllister said as Rose and Irene also declined.

  Quinn took a drink, then set the glass aside. “There’s one more thing—this, perhaps, is the most concerning fact of all.”

  “There’s no need to be dramatic,” MacAllister said gruffly.

  “Don’t be so sure of that. The facts are playing out like a macabre tale,” Quinn said.

  MacAllister’s eyes flashed a little scowl. “What in hellfire are you talking about?”

  “The examination of the body revealed an unusual mark on Phipps’s chest.”

  Irene’s eyes widened. “A scar?”

  “Nothing so ordinary,” Quinn replied. “Phipps bore a tattoo on his upper chest. Judging from the looks of it, it was not recent.”

  “Many men have tattoos,” Irene said. “That in itself is not extraordinary.”

  “Allow me to offer my theory.” MacAllister crossed the room to the sideboard, evidently reconsidering the drink he’d declined. “The mark resembles the gorgon on that vile brooch the widow Rathbone gave to Rose.”

  “Colton had a sketch drawn of the tattoo,” Quinn said. “The details are not nearly as intricate as the etching in that pin. But the symbol on Phipps’s chest, though crudely drawn, was unmistakable.”

  Rose released a low breath. “Symbol?”

  Quinn gave a grave nod. “Someone tattooed a falcon over Don Phipps’s heart.”

  The simple joy Rose had experienced while shopping with Irene quickly evaporated, consumed by a sense of dread she couldn’t quite shake. The snare in which she’d been trapped was expanding day by day. How would she ever free herself from the evil her father had brought upon her family?

  MacAllister had grown uncharacteristically quiet, his expression somber. He hadn’t tried to hide his concern at the revelation that Phipps carried the symbol of the falcon on his skin.

  He’d no idea she’d borne that same mark for nearly twenty years.

  Taking refuge in her chamber, Rose lay on the bed for a brief period of much-needed quiet, peering up at the swirls of plaster in the ceiling. Willing her mind to think about something—anything—other than the tattoo she’d detested since childhood, she mentally traced the ridges and curves of the design.

  After a quarter of an hour or so had passed, she rose and freshened her appearance, then joined the others in the dining room for supper. After a meal accompanied by forced efforts at conversation, she ventured to the library, making a futile attempt to divert her thoughts with an engrossing story.

  Other than the household staff and MacAllister, she was alone in the house. Jeremy and Irene had departed for the Colton Agency offices to be briefed on the latest developments in the case, while MacAllister had proceeded directly to Quinn’s study after the evening meal to pore through files related to the investigation of Bradenmyre’s murder.

  Staring down at the words on the page, tension filling every cell, she found it impossible to relax. If only she had a task, something else to occupy her thoughts.

  Perhaps she might assist MacAllister in his quest.

  She made her way to the study, entering the chamber with a sense of reservation. Sitting at the desk, his wire-rimmed reading lenses perched on the bridge of his strong, aquiline nose, MacAllister looked very intense. She’d always found him handsome in his spectacles, and looking at him now, she felt that same rush of attraction that had crashed over her when she was younger and so much more foolish. That much, at least, had not changed.

  She crossed the room, standing by a leather chair near the desk. “Have you uncovered another connection between the killings?”

  “Yes…and no.” He removed the glasses and placed them on the desk. “Every connection we find between Merrick and Rathbone branches out to someone else, like a spider’s web. If their motivation is to get their hands on you, why kill someone like Phipps, a low-level sot? Each murder draws more suspicion and carries more risk. The killer—or killers—is not acting from a place of logic.”

  She glanced down at the notes he’d made, his handwriting bold and precise. Of those who’d played a part in her near-abduction after she met with Mrs. Rathbone, three were confirmed dead, including the investigator who’d arranged for Rose to be at the theater. Merrick and Sir Louis Bradenmyre had been killed days earlier. It was indeed a vile web, and Portia Rathbone was at the center.

  “I’d have staked every penny I possess that Merrick had my aunt killed. But now, I have my doubts.”

  “Merrick might have played a part. But by now, the news of his death has spread from London to the Highlands. Why would anyone he’d contracted to do his dirty work continue the task?”

  Rose pondered his question. “The more I reflect on my meeting with Mrs. Rathbone, the more I must consider the possibility that someone else is holding the reins.”

  MacAllister came to his feet. Gazing down at her, his eyes darkened, and he pulled her to his lean, hard body. “We will find the answers, Rose. Your aunt and your brother will receive the justice they deserve. On that, you have my vow.”

  Cupping her palm against his face, she drew her fingertips over his stubble-covered jaw, savoring the texture of his skin against hers. “Oh, MacAllister, what are we going to do?” She allowed a sigh to escape her. “I’m not one to give in to fear. But there was something so frightening about Portia Rathbone—the woman didn’t even try to conceal the malevolence in her eyes.”

  “If you’ve had second thoughts about the ball tomorrow night…if you’re having doubts about your safety, you do not have to venture into that jackal’s lair.”

  “I can’t back out now. I must see this through.”

  With a gentle touch, he stroked her hair and brushed a kiss over her brow. “But at what cost? Mrs. Rathbone cannot be trusted. At this point, there’s no way to determine her involvement in these murders.”

  Leaning her head against MacAllister’s chest, the steady beat of his heart offered comfort. Rose closed her eyes, relaxing into his warmth.

  An image of Portia Rathbone’s strained, malice-filled features invaded her thoughts. Suddenly, her eyes opened wide as a realization struck her like a bolt from the sky.

  “The photograph,” she said under her breath. “That’s it…that has to be it.”

  MacAllister regarded her with concerned, questioning eyes. “Rose, what are you saying?”

  She gulped a breath, steadying her wobbly knees. The photograph had horrified her. How could the father she’d loved with a little girl’s innocent heart have consorted with people as evil as Merrick and Mrs. Rathbone? But p
erhaps that horrid picture was the key to unraveling this dreadful web. Had Portia Rathbone given her what she needed to solve this mystery and survive?

  “There is a photograph…of my father,” she began, searching for the words to explain why she’d withheld it from MacAllister. “Mrs. Rathbone gave it to me. I found it utterly repellent. I wanted to hide it away from the world.”

  “Good God, Rose—where is it?”

  “In my traveling case.”

  “I need to see it.”

  Together, they hurried to her bedchamber. Rose retrieved the photograph.

  “This is it,” she said, handing it to MacAllister.

  Moving closer to the gas lamp, they examined the image as Rose peered down at her father’s enigmatic expression. What in blazes had he been doing?

  “By hellfire, that’s him.” MacAllister pointed to an ordinary-looking man of average height. His dark hair appeared to be thinning, and he wore the same peculiar, robe-like garment as the others in the photograph.

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow,” she said. “Who is that man?”

  “If I am correct, that man is Louis Bradenmyre, long before his knighthood.”

  “Good heavens. He was one of them.”

  “Of them?”

  “My father was heavily involved in…shall we say…certain occult rituals. He believed the ceremonies bestowed supernatural powers and protections upon the participants. I believe these people were members of the circle.”

  “Witchcraft?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Rose indicated the lone woman in the image. “Portia Rathbone was one of them. She was quite lovely at the time.”

  “That’s not the word I would’ve chosen.” MacAllister frowned. “I see another link.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He tapped his finger against the image of a tall, fair-haired man whose chiseled, perfectly proportioned features made him well-suited for the stage.

  “Rose, do you know who that is?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen the man.”

  “I’d wager my last shilling that is Edward Fincham in his youth.”

  “Portia’s solicitor.”

  “And current member of Parliament.”

  A bitter chill snaked along Rose’s spine. Did this treachery extend into the government? How many in positions of power were connected with this ugly scheme?

  Placing the photograph back between the pages of the journal, she sighed. “I’d intended to come to my aunt’s aid. If I had known what would come to pass—that she would be murdered and you and the others would put yourselves at risk, I never would have returned from America.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the risks. I won’t let anyone get to you.” His arms enfolded her, his strength filling her with a delicious comfort. “You’re here now…with me. That’s all I care about. Ah, Rose, I’ve missed you so.”

  “After all these years…it doesn’t quite seem real, does it?”

  “Ah, it’s real, my sweet Rose.” He brushed his lips over her cheek, featherlight, soft as velvet. “There is no denying it.”

  A small smile tugged at her mouth. “Being with you…it feels right.”

  He dipped his head, kissing her, a fleeting, tender caress. “No woman has ever compared to you.”

  “You’re the only man I’ve dreamed of since I was sixteen.”

  He kissed her again. Tenderness that melted her every inhibition infused his touch. When he released her, his voice was a gravel-edged rasp.

  “I never stopped wanting you, Rose. And I never will. By hellfire, you’re in my blood.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Rose had stopped believing in happy endings long before she’d crashed into MacAllister on that crowded street in front of the theater. Now, standing here with him so very near, she wanted him with a dangerous passion. Yearning for him might well lead to a broken heart. But devil take it, the temptation to rekindle her belief in happily-ever-after was so very strong.

  Even if she did know better.

  Why had fate led her back to MacAllister? This wasn’t a fairy tale. Harboring fantasies of love, true or otherwise, was a risk she wasn’t prepared to take.

  She had to face the truth—the girl he’d left behind all those years ago no longer existed. Once she would have happily settled into a life of domesticity, contentedly playing the role of wife and mother, never considering what more she was capable of. But now, she knew. She was an independent woman, answering to no man, savoring the freedom to do what she pleased, when she pleased. She was a woman of enterprise. Since she’d taken over The Painted Lily, the business was more successful than ever, and its employees felt like family.

  If she were truly as clever as she liked to think, she’d keep the barriers she’d erected firmly in place. After all, what good could come of opening her heart? She’d endured enough pain.

  She sighed. Was it already too late? She’d never desired a man as she longed for MacAllister. Her hunger for him went far deeper than a desire for his caress and his kiss.

  Pressing her palm to his chest, she felt the steady throb of his heart. He was strong and vital, a man of passion and honor, and she wanted him with a yearning that went bone deep.

  She craved him, heart and soul.

  She wanted him to need her, just as she needed him.

  And in her heart, she knew the truth.

  She loved MacAllister more with every breath she took, with every heartbeat.

  All those years, all those nights, she’d dreamed of him.

  Dreamed of this moment.

  And now, she had a choice.

  She could protect her heart.

  Or she could choose love.

  When time had passed—long after she’d returned to the life she’d left behind in America—she would treasure this night in his arms. After the bustling crowds had departed The Painted Lily and she’d retreated to the quiet of her beautiful, lonely home, she would cherish the feel of his touch against her skin, the sound of his husky voice playing in her thoughts, and the scents imprinted in her memory.

  Closing her eyes, she rested her cheek against his broad chest. His clean, natural essence stirred her senses, and she smiled to herself.

  She would take this chance.

  For this man, she would surrender her heart.

  “Ah, Rose, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice husky with desire. Lacing his fingers through her hair, he pressed soft kisses to the curve of her throat.

  The intimacy of the moment washed over her, and suddenly, she felt rather shy. “Would you dim the light?”

  “Of course,” he said, adjusting the lamp. “We won’t do anything you do not want to do.”

  “I trust you, MacAllister.”

  He smoothed her curls from her face. “You’re perfection. You’re even more beautiful than before.”

  Her fingers grazed his unshaven cheek, reveling in the texture of the tiny nubs of new beard. “Will you kiss me again?”

  Nodding solemnly, he framed her face in his hands. “I want you, Rose. More than the air I breathe.”

  His mouth teased hers, soft as velvet, the taste of him intoxicating as fine whisky. Her arms coiled around the back of his neck. His muscles tensed against her touch, and he moaned against her mouth. Needing her. Wanting her. Just as desperately as she needed him.

  “Darling Rose, I want to bed you.”

  She brushed a tiny caress against his lips. “Oh yes.”

  He kissed her again, a tender possession, stirring her heart as deeply as her desire. “I want to make love to you. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “I want you so desperately.” She caught a breath. “Please, undress me, darling.”

  His brows lifted, and a sly smile curved his mouth at the corners. “A sweeter request I’ve never heard.”

  His clever hands made short work of the tiny fastenings at the back of her dress. Peeling away the garment, he kissed her again, a quick
, soft caress.

  “So bloody lovely,” he said as he removed her corset cover. He stared down at her, his fingertips gliding over the lacy edge of her satin-trimmed corset.

  The look of masculine appreciation as he stripped her corset from her body made her knees weak.

  His fingers glided over her chemise, heating her skin despite the thin layer of cotton covering her. Darkened with passion, his eyes spoke of the hunger in his heart.

  His large, warm hands spanned her waist, and he pulled in a low breath. “You don’t need that infernal thing.”

  “My modiste would not agree,” she said lightly.

  “You’re beautiful, Rose. Simply perfect.”

  A demanding pulse thrummed between her legs, edging her to the brink of desire. An unfamiliar boldness stirred within her. Was it his touch that emboldened her? Or the tender hunger in his eyes?

  “Now, my darling MacAllister, I’d expected you to be quite wicked tonight. I trust you will not disappoint.”

  “If it is wickedness you desire, I will not disappoint, my beauty.”

  With that, he caught the hem of her gauzy lawn shift in his hands and peeled it over her head.

  Baring her to his eyes, he drank her in with a ravenous gaze. She pulled in a low breath, calming her rampaging pulse. It seemed natural to be here with him. Growing more daring, she reached for him.

  “Now, MacAllister, I want to see you.”

  “Do you now?” he teased.

  “Very much, darling.”

  “I cannot deny you.” He smiled as he tugged his shirt over his head. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

  The gaslight cast an ethereal glow over his skin. Her mouth went dry.

  Magnificent. The word echoed in her thoughts.

  Simply magnificent.

  His body was lean-muscled, without an ounce of superfluous flesh. Slowly, she reached for him, skimming her fingertips over the breadth of his shoulders, feeling the sinews of his shoulders and arms, delighting in the restrained strength beneath her touch. A feathering of dark hair accented the contours of his powerful chest. As a younger man, he’d boasted a strapping physique. Now, his body was more chiseled than ever, the planes and angles like living steel beneath her touch. God above, the very sight of him kindled a hunger more intense than any she’d ever felt.