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

by Tara Kingston

  “MacAllister, I want you to make love to me.”

  She felt no shame. No false modesty. Only the knowledge in her heart that being with him was right, as natural as taking a breath.

  Passion flared in his eyes. He enfolded her in his embrace, kissing her breathless.

  And then, she was in his arms. He carried her to the bed, placing her gently upon the center. As she lay there, watching his every move in the glow of the gaslight, he shed his trousers and came to her.

  Lying by her side, he gathered her in his arms. So very close, now. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

  Murmuring words of love, he anointed her body. Kiss upon kiss. Passionate caresses that made her toes curl. With infinite patience, he kindled her desire to flame, until she arched against him, needing his touch with a desperation she wasn’t afraid to show.

  Needing his love.

  Needing him.

  Delighting in the textures of his body, so very different from hers, she explored him. Solid, powerful muscle and bone. Crisp hair fanned lightly over his chest. The velvet texture and hardness of his erect shaft.

  When she was thoroughly, utterly mad for him, he prowled over her.

  “Tell me you want me, my sweet Rose.” His sweet breath was warm against her lips.

  “More than anything, I want this—I want you.”

  Claiming her mouth in a kiss that spoke of dreams long denied, he smoothed her dampened hair away from her face.

  She canted her hips, eager for him. Slowly, gently, he filled her. Taking his time to please her. Stirring her raw, elemental need. Each movement edged her nearer and nearer to the cusp of fulfillment.

  “My sweet, sweet Rose.” His voice was a raw, desperate rasp. “Don’t deny your pleasure, my love.”

  His gravel-edged words stirred her passion to a mad, feverish pitch, and she heard herself moan against his mouth.

  “Come for me, love,” he coaxed. “Give me your pleasure.”

  His husky plea undid her.

  With a little gasp, she tumbled over the edge of the precipice. Pure bliss engulfed her.

  He kissed her, again and again, muffling her soft cries of delight.

  Later, they lay sated and content, drinking in the pleasure to be found in each other’s arms.

  “I want you in my bed, darling,” he whispered against her ear. “Every night. Every morning.”

  With a drowsy sigh, she curled up against him, savoring his wicked, passionate words. She could not get enough of him. She wanted him until the end of her days, even if it wasn’t fated to happen.

  “Sleep well, my love.” His voice was soft as silk. “I want to hold you until dawn.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mac awoke in the middle of the night to the feeling of a warm, beautiful woman curled up against his body. Her breaths soft and even in slumber, she rested her head against his heart, the gentlest of smiles curving her full mouth. God above, she was beautiful. And now—at least for this night—she was his.

  Her tenderness intoxicated him. Indeed, he was under her spell, and he’d willingly remain in that state until the end of his days. She’d offered him a precious gift—her trust.

  In all his days, he’d never wanted a woman like he wanted Rose. Clever and courageous and gentle, she was a beauty in face and spirit. She was perfection.

  Drinking in the soft lilac aroma of her cologne, he drifted back to sleep. When he awoke after the dawn, he rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow. She’d slipped into her dressing gown and brushed her hair with a boar-bristle brush.

  “Good morning.” She met his eyes, sleep making her voice a bit throaty.

  “Good morning, Rose.” The sight of her, clothed in her gown and wrapper, might have appeared prim, perhaps even chaste, to another man. But after the night they’d shared, she might’ve been clad head to toe in flannel, and the sight of her would still heat his blood.

  “I trust you rested well,” she said as her gaze trailed over him.

  He’d pulled the sheet to his mid chest, but her eyes flashed with a seductive challenge.

  “You could say so.”

  Gifting him with a smile that was temptation personified, she strolled over to the bed—scandal be damned—and slid her dressing gown off her shoulders. Early morning light filtered hazily through her cotton shift, silhouetting her slender, luscious curves. His cock responded with an ardent demand.

  Well aware of the effect she had on him, her lips curved into a teasing little grin.

  “It occurs to me that it was rather dark in here last night. I’d love to see you—all of you.” Her velvet voice was a near whisper.

  “The bed is still warm,” he said, even as the voice of his conscience needled him. During the night, they’d enjoyed far more privacy than in the light of day. Quinn’s household staff, minimal as it was, was no doubt up and about. Could they be counted upon to be discreet?

  Reading his expression as clearly as if he’d printed his thoughts in the Herald, she frowned. “Why, MacAllister…you aren’t concerned about tarnishing my sterling reputation, are you?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Darling, any concerns about my good name were put to rest long ago. When a woman performs on the stage as I do, the truth of what she does behind closed doors—or doesn’t do, for that matter—does not signify. Most would rather believe innuendo and whispers.”

  A fierce protectiveness kindled within him. “They’ve no right to speak ill of you.”

  “Of course they don’t—but they do.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “The very same clientele who patronize my establishment five days of the week will avert their gaze if we pass on the street. It’s simply a cost of doing business.”

  A cost that had taken its toll on her. He’d glimpsed the wisp of sadness in her eyes, the roughness in her voice she couldn’t quite hide.

  “Bloody fools—they don’t deserve a woman like you.”

  And in truth, neither did he. The thought plowed into Mac like a fist in a barroom brawl.

  Perhaps, with time, he might change that.

  Sitting beside him on the bed, Rose wove her supple, smooth-as-silk fingers through his hair. An innocent gesture, yet wildly sensuous. Heat surged within him, stirring his need for her.

  “I don’t care to talk about such things,” she said. “For this moment, I’d like to savor this chance we’ve been given.”

  Her fingers skimmed lower, wandering over his chin and jaw, her fingertips dancing lightly over the bare skin of his chest.

  “Do you have any idea what you do to me, Rose?”

  “I believe I do,” she said. “Most likely, because you possess that same power over me.”

  “I’ve dreamed about you…so many nights, I’d wake, feeling in my bones you were still alive. Longing for you with a desperation akin to madness.”

  “I’m so very sorry.” She pressed a little kiss to his chest. “If only I could turn back time.”

  “We have the present, Rose.” He studied her face, drinking in every curve. “And the future.”

  Wistfulness deepened the green of her eyes. “We also have our past.”

  “Would you like to know what I used to think about on those nights, the memory that kept me sane when I longed for you?”

  He pictured her as she’d been in those heady, early days. Rounder in the face, her eyes had betrayed the innocence of her unscarred heart. So very lovely. So very trusting.

  “I hope it was a pleasing memory,” she said softly.

  “I remember the first time I heard you sing. Your voice was more beautiful than any I’d ever heard.”

  “I believe I remember that day. Angus had his guitar, and he was strumming a melody. Together, he and I wrote the lyrics to a ballad.”

  “You sang a love song. I remember every note of it. Every word.”

  “Do you now?” She smiled. “It was merely a little ballad we composed for the sheer enjoyment of it.”

  �
��It might as well have been a love spell. I’ve been enchanted ever since.”

  Her soft smile broadened to a fetching little grin. “MacAllister, will you kiss me again?”

  The sound of his name on her lips seemed a sonnet.

  “What choice do I have?” he whispered. “I am under your spell.”

  …

  Rose nestled against MacAllister’s lean, muscular body. The heat of his skin warmed her, and she pressed closer. Every moment in his arms seemed a treasure she had not dreamed she might once more possess.

  He kissed the bridge of her nose, a sweet little caress, and rested his head on one elbow. She shifted to look at him, and the sheet covering her hips and legs slipped away. She made no move to pull it back. She was in no hurry to cover herself. When she was with MacAllister, she felt no shame, no reason to conceal herself from his gaze.

  He gazed down at her. His attention settled on her upper thigh. Eyes narrowing, his expression transformed and hardened in the span of a heartbeat.

  “Bloody hell, Rose.”

  Good heavens. How had she forgotten? Why had she left that exposed, much less to his eyes?

  Leaning closer, he brushed a fingertip over the symbol she’d borne since girlhood.

  “The falcon,” he murmured, more to himself than for her ears. “You’ve been marked.”

  In those moments of shock, he’d destroyed her bliss. His clever, observant eyes had seen through to the truth. A sudden wave of panic rushed over her.

  Dragging in air, she steadied her breaths, calmed her rampaging pulse. “Yes,” she said. “A very long time ago.”

  “Who did this to you?” His voice had grown cold and hard, and she didn’t doubt he would be capable of violence against whoever had inflicted the tattoo on her flesh.

  “My father…and others.”

  “The bastards,” he said under his breath. “If your father was not already in his grave, I’d put him there.”

  “He regretted what he’d done…to his dying day.” She tugged the sheet up and tucked it beneath her arms. “He said he’d made a terrible mistake.”

  “And you all paid the price.” MacAllister’s jaw hardened. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “I didn’t know what was happening. Honestly, I don’t remember much about that night. I was so very young. I can still see the immense full moon glowing in the sky. Mother was crying, hysterical as she tried to dissuade him, but Father insisted I had to go.” The horrid memory brought a bitter taste to her mouth. The bile nearly choked her, and she turned away, staring at the wall.

  The light pressure of his hand against her back comforted her. “You don’t need to relive the foul event.”

  She pulled in air, each gulp more ragged than the last. Facing him again, she caressed his cheek. “But I must tell someone—you need to know the truth.”

  “Then tell me. But slowly. And at your own pace.”

  “Yes,” she said softly, drawing her fingertips over his chin, over the contours of his ruggedly handsome face. “Father insisted he had to take me with him that night, or it would be too late. Later, I learned the ceremony he and the others conducted was tied to the cycle of the moon and some celestial pattern I didn’t understand. Mama was frantic to stop him. He…he raised his hand to her that night.” The memory was a battering ram slamming into her chest, her belly. “He’d never hurt her before, but he was desperate that night. Nothing would stop him.”

  “Where did he take you?”

  “I don’t know. As I recall, it wasn’t very far from where we lived. He promised me we’d go to Edinburgh the next day and he’d buy me a new doll, a present for my birthday.”

  “Do you remember anything about the place?”

  “The house was very large—to my eyes, as a child, it seemed enormous. There were other buildings near it, part of an estate, I believe. I recall seeing horses in a pasture, and a stable.”

  “Who was with him that night?”

  “Merrick was there. I’d seen him before at our house. Once, he cuffed Angus on the ear for being disrespectful, or so he’d said. Mama asked the man to leave, but Father rebuked her. He was a horrid man. I still don’t understand why he had such an ugly influence over my father.”

  “Do you remember anyone else who was in the photograph?”

  “I don’t think so. It was very dark, lit only by candles, and they all wore those bizarre robes.” She closed her eyes, willing herself to face the horrible memories. “More than their faces, I can remember the feel of the needle entering my skin. Again. And again.”

  “The craven bastards. Merrick got his just deserts.” MacAllister’s jaw clenched, and he let out a low breath. “Do you recall what happened next?”

  “In the morning, Father did just as he’d promised. He took me to the finest doll maker’s shop in Edinburgh and instructed me to select any doll I wanted.” Rose stared down at the floor, mentally tracing the pattern in the carpet, as if that might soothe her. “I told him I didn’t want one, but that made him angry, so I selected a china doll in a fancy little dress. When we returned home, I placed it on a shelf in my room and never touched it again.”

  “You were a brave girl, Rose.” He swept the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. “You still are, darling.”

  “I was not brave.” She flopped on her back, staring at the ceiling. “I had no choice in the matter then. Nor on the day I ran from my home. Father had been dead and buried for nearly a fortnight. Angus was there. He’d gotten word that Merrick had plans…plans that involved me.”

  “Devil take it, why didn’t he tell me? I would’ve moved heaven and earth to get to you.” Anguish made his voice raw.

  “There was no time…no time to do anything but run.”

  He draped a soothing arm around her. “Do you know why Merrick was coming after you?”

  She shook her head. “I can only speculate as to his ultimate intentions. I do know this— somehow, the mark tied me to Merrick. My aunt was desperate to keep me from him.”

  “Can you tell me what happened to your father?”

  “After Father was killed, Aunt Helen told me he owed Merrick a debt that was to be paid…by me.” The words were like poison on her tongue. “Father had regretted what he’d done, and he’d intended to set things right. Merrick had him killed.”

  MacAllister enfolded her in his embrace, holding her close to his heart. His breath warm against her ear, he pressed soft kisses to her temple. “I should’ve protected you then.”

  “You had no way of knowing what was going to happen. None of us did…until it was too late.” Pain welled in her throat, scalding tears she didn’t want to shed. “I’d rather we didn’t talk about this anymore.”

  MacAllister lowered his gaze, silent for a long moment. “Given everything you’ve told me, I feel it would be exceedingly unwise to subject you to a situation where you will encounter Portia Rathbone and be surrounded by her associates. I believe a change of plan is in order.”

  “Surely you are not suggesting we decline to attend the ball?”

  “That is precisely what I am saying. And it isn’t a suggestion. I intend to put a stop to this blasted scheme.”

  Wiggling onto her elbows, she propped herself up and shot him a glare. “And if I wish to go through with it?”

  “The plan is too dangerous,” he said in a tone that brooked no disagreement. “The risks are unacceptable. I should’ve put a stop to it in the beginning.”

  “Might I point out—this is my decision to make.”

  He traced the curve of her face with his finger, his touch infinitely tender. “Rose, I will not lose you again.”

  Smiling to herself, she rolled onto her side. She looped her arms around his neck as she pressed herself to his body. “You will protect me. I have full confidence in you.”

  “There are too many variables,” he said gruffly. “Too much that might not go according to plan.”

  She brushed a caress over his mouth, delighting in the
taste of his kiss. “Has any of this gone according to plan? When I saw you standing near the theater, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was far from a deliberate reunion. And yet, I’d say things are turning out rather well.”

  The tiny vee between his brows deepened. “You won’t be dissuaded, will you, darling?”

  She gave her head a resolute shake. “I must do this, MacAllister. I must see this through.”

  A fiery determination filled his eyes. “Then by hellfire, this time I will be there when you need me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The strains of a waltz played in the background as Rose entered the ballroom at the Downeyfield Hotel. She’d anticipated a grand affair, but the opulence she encountered at first glance went far beyond her expectations. Everywhere she looked, lavish displays of elegance met her gaze. Between the guests dressed to the nines and Portia Rathbone’s luxurious tastes, it was evident the hostess had spared no expense for the evening.

  At Rose’s side, MacAllister cut a striking figure. His hair had been neatly trimmed for the occasion, and his strong jaw bore a faint hint of five o’clock shadow. Rose curled her fingers closed against her palm, stifling the urge to reach out and savor the texture of his skin.

  He’d selected a jacket of fine black wool, which emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and narrow hips. His shirt was snowy white linen, and a burgundy silk waistcoat and cravat lent the ensemble a touch of color. And—be still her Scottish heart—he’d chosen to wear the colors of his clan. His kilt’s vibrant hues of green and blue drew the eye to his powerful, lean-muscled legs, while the sgian dubh at his calf highlighted his heritage as a proud Scot. With the resolute set of his jaw, he looked every inch the Highland warrior—a dangerous enemy, and a fierce defender of those he loved.

  A beauty Rose recognized as an American heiress flashed him a coy smile, while a society grand dame cast him an appreciative look without a hint of reserve. Evidently, Rose was not the only one he left breathless this evening.