“I am a bit taken aback by your question.” She folded her arms over her chest, her chin jutting out as she appeared to mull her next words. “I will tell you this—there is no other man in my life.”
“In that case, there is no barrier to our future.”
She pushed herself up, leaning against the brass headboard. “Other than an ocean and two very different lives.” She sighed again. “Besides, I’ve no intention of being any man’s mistress—not even yours.”
“Mistress?” Slipping out from under the covers, he wrapped a length of plaid around his body and went to the chair where his waistcoat hung haphazardly over the back.
He retrieved a small pouch from his vest pocket and removed the gold and diamond band.
“What are you doing?” Her voice grew hushed as she seemed to read his intention.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I’d intended to ask this question in a more romantic circumstance. But I can think of no better time than now to tell you what is in my heart. I love you, my sweet Rose. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Oh dear.” Her lips thinned to a seam.
He studied her face. “That is not the reaction I was hoping for.”
Her slender legs slipped over the side of the bed, and she tucked a blanket around her body.
“Please, MacAllister—I need time. This is so very sudden.”
“I’ll give you all the time you need, Rose. But tell me you will consider my proposal.”
“Of course.” She nodded softly. “But you must understand—I cannot make any promises.”
The expression in her eyes was like a punch to the gut he hadn’t seen coming. Like a fool, he’d assumed she’d blithely accept his proposal.
He had to know what was in her heart. Even if the truth cut like a dull blade.
He caught her hand in his. “Tell me the truth, Rose. Do you love me?”
“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.” Her eyes were warmed by emotion.
“Then say ‘yes.’ Tell me you’ll be mine until the end of our days.”
“Darling, I cannot. You see, I’d anticipated one perfect night.” She pressed a kiss to his lips. “Nothing more.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rose bustled about the comfortable chamber she occupied in Jeremy Quinn’s house. Three days had passed since MacAllister had asked her the question that had sent her running. In the uncomfortable, oh-so-civil moments after she’d answered him truthfully, the tension churning within her had been unbearable. She’d had to get away. She had to consider her options carefully. And she could not think clearly when MacAllister was near.
Since that morning, she’d gone about the motions of life. MacAllister had not stayed away. Rather, when he was near, he’d treated her with an infuriating lack of emotion. Allowing her the time she’d requested to work through her doubts, he’d given her precisely what she’d requested. Somehow, that made it more difficult to face the decision she’d made before she’d left MacAllister’s bed.
Her trunk lay open on a wooden bench. As she packed her things, her thoughts drifted back to MacAllister, time and again.
Good heavens, she was a fool.
She wanted him more with every throb of her pulse.
And yet, a ticket for a New-York-bound steamship lay on the dresser.
In the morning, she’d sail away.
Without MacAllister.
Without the man she loved.
Try as she might, she simply couldn’t find it in her heart to leave high and dry those who’d worked so hard to make The Painted Lily a success.
But the very idea of leaving MacAllister was like a dirk to the chest.
Perhaps there was a solution that wouldn’t break her heart.
Shoring up her courage, Rose hailed a hansom to MacAllister’s office. More likely than not, she’d find him there, devoted as always to his work.
When she walked through the frosted glass door, his efficient secretary shot her a questioning glance.
“Mr. Campbell is not available. Would you care to leave a message?”
Rose’s heart sank, but she would not be so easily dissuaded. “He is in his office?”
The secretary hesitated. “I have my instructions—he is not to be disturb—”
The door to MacAllister’s office opened. He stood in the entrance, his expression unreadable. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
She gulped against the sudden cotton in her throat. “I wished to discuss your recent…proposal.”
“Please, do come in,” he said, sounding every bit the businessman.
After she entered his private office, he closed the door behind them. Making no effort to touch her, or even to look at her, he ushered her to a comfortable chair.
“I understand you will soon depart London for America.” He was direct, keeping a polite, overly formal distance.
“I am needed there. Surely you can understand.”
“Of course.” He nodded, the motion stiff. “I presume you have come to decline my proposal.”
“That is not why I’m here.”
One dark brow hiked. “Rose, I’m no fool. You’ve shared my bed. But that fact does not condemn you to a life with a man you do not love. Over time, a marriage resulting from some misguided sense of what is right will become a quiet, civilized hell.”
She came to him, rising on her toes and kissing him, a quick, tender touch of her lips to his. “I do love you, MacAllister. More than you know.”
His eyes darkened. “Then tell me you’ll stay…with me.”
“Surely you can understand…I cannot cast aside my responsibilities. I have a life in America, and there are people who depend on my tavern for their livelihood. I cannot abandon those who’ve stood by me in bad times as well as good.” Reaching up, she stalled for time, brushing back an unruly lock of hair from his brow. “I’ve come to propose a compromise, a counter-proposal of sorts.”
A muscle in his jaw tensed. “This is not a negotiation.”
“Of course it is.” She caught his hand in hers and curled her fingers around his. “Isn’t marriage a negotiation between two people, between two souls who would meld their lives into one?”
His eyes widened, intrigued. “What do you propose?”
“Come to New York. With me.”
She saw the flicker of surprise in his expression. He scrubbed a hand against his chin. It looked as though he hadn’t touched a blade to his jaw in days.
“You intend to sail in the morning?”
“Not long after dawn.”
“I cannot leave London.” Ridges creased his forehead. “My work here is unfinished.”
“Your work?” Rose pulled in a low breath, steadying her resolve. “I understand how difficult it will be for you to go. But I want you with me, MacAllister. We will have a splendid life.”
His eyes met hers, betraying little emotion. “I am involved in an investigation—a case of great importance to the Home Office.”
“Of course.” She held his gaze. “I suspected what your choice would be. But I had to take that chance.”
He plowed his long fingers through his hair. “You know that I want you…blast it, I need you, Rose. But what you’re asking of me—”
Emotion seared her throat. “Is precisely what you asked of me.”
Slowly he shook his head. “My duty is here. You know that.”
She swallowed against her misery. “There are others in the Colton Agency…others in the Empire…capable of fulfilling what you see as your duty. But there is only one man I want in my arms. In my bed.”
Pain flashed over his features. “I’ve devoted years of my life to the Colton Agency. The thrill of the chase…it’s a part of me now.” He dropped his gaze. “I cannot simply walk away.”
“As you once walked away from me?”
His head snapped up, and he looked as if she’d struck him. “I will regret leaving you until the end of my day
s.”
“Well then, that’s that, isn’t it?” She steeled herself against a fresh rush of emotion. “I shouldn’t have come here. We are on two different paths. You have your life here. And I have mine, an ocean away.”
His hands gently weighted her shoulders. Brushing his fingertips over the curve of her face, he studied her. “I love you, Rose. Always keep that truth in your heart.”
She blinked back tears. “Pity it does not ease the pain of leaving you.”
Without words, he pulled her to his lean, warm length. The heat in his touch made her knees weak. When he kissed her, his mouth claimed hers with a fierce, tender hunger.
As she melted into him, he whispered against her lips.
“Remember this, Rose—no matter what, nothing—not time, nor distance—will dim my love for you.”
Rose departed Quinn House in a carriage at dawn. Bertram had arrived before the sunrise, his manner more subdued than usual. Quinn and Irene accompanied her in the coach, each keeping to their own thoughts as they embarked on the short journey to the ship that would transport Rose back to New York.
Peering out of the window, watching the bustle in the awakening city, Rose forced herself to maintain a cheery facade. After all, she was heading home. This should be an occasion for happiness.
Pity she couldn’t convince even herself.
“I hope you will return shortly. You’ve experienced so little of London and the countryside,” Irene said, drawing Rose back from her thoughts. “You would love the Yorkshire Dales in the spring.”
“I do anticipate a return,” she said, unsure of the truth of her words. Could she bear to come back to London if MacAllister were not a part of her life?
Jeremy toyed with the carved wolf-head handle of his walking stick. “Please consider yourself a welcome guest in my home at any time.”
“Thank you,” Rose said, holding a tight leash on her emotions.
Upon their arrival at the pier, Rose spied MacAllister. He stood away from the milling crowd, the wind whipping his dark hair. So, he’d come to see her off. Her pulse raced. Anticipation surged through her.
Had he experienced a change of heart?
Spotting MacAllister, Quinn and Irene lingered near the carriage, offering Rose the gift of privacy—at least, as much as was possible on the bustling pier.
“Good morning, Rose.” As he approached her, MacAllister’s tone betrayed no trace of feeling.
Her heart sank. If he’d decided to join her on the voyage, surely his voice and face would betray some flicker of emotion.
Offering a chaste kiss on the cheek, she greeted him. “I hadn’t expected to see you this morning.”
A subtle smile played on his mouth. “I had to come.”
She blinked, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“Allow me to clear up your confusion.”
Suddenly, he took her in his arms.
“MacAllister, we will create a scene,” she protested lightly.
“Do you think I give a damn? Anyone watching will count me a lucky man and wish they were in my place.”
His hands skimmed over the wool of her burgundy cape, the heat of his body permeating the fabric. Caressing. Adoring.
Dipping his head, he kissed her.
No, not a kiss. That simple word was far too inadequate to describe the passionate touch of his mouth to hers.
He claimed her heart and soul.
She blinked back scalding tears. “You certainly do know how to say farewell.”
“Remember this, Rose—no matter what lies in my path, I will choose you.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Six Weeks Later
“We’ve found it.” Irene Pearson strode into Mac’s office, a smile of triumph on her face.
Mac looked up from the letter he’d been reading. “You’re sure it’s the one?”
“Quite so.” She placed a small, hinged box on his desk blotter.
He flipped up the lid, glanced at the box’s contents, and met Miss Pearson’s gaze. “Good work, Miss Pearson. I’d damned near given up on locating this. I should’ve known you’d ferret it out.”
“I spotted the piece in a merchant’s shop, quite a distance from London. The shopkeeper admitted he’d obtained it through a rather dubious source.”
“Be sure to look into the man’s suppliers,” Mac said. “God knows who he’s been dealing with.”
“Agent O’Dowd and I have planned a more thorough investigation. But first, I wanted to get the locket into your hands,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going. I have an appointment with an informant within the hour.”
“Good enough,” he said. “And Miss Pearson—well done. The Colton Agency is fortunate to have you aboard.”
She hiked her chin a fraction of an inch. “Thank you, Campbell. That means a great deal to me.”
The door closed quietly behind her. Alone with his thoughts, Mac reread the letter from his sister he’d set aside when Miss Pearson arrived. Despite the heartbreak she’d suffered with the unexpected death of her husband some eighteen months earlier, Daphne clung tightly to her cheerful demeanor. Mac had journeyed home to the Highlands soon after Rose had departed on her voyage back to America, attending to needed business regarding their family home and ensuring Daphne would want for nothing when he was an ocean away.
An ocean away. The words drummed in his thoughts.
The idea of leaving London and his investigative pursuits behind tore at him. Since he’d left his home in the Highlands, he’d scrapped and fought and done whatever it took to bring scoundrels to justice, first as a journalist, and later, as a covert operative for the Colton Agency. He had his duty—and that duty was here, in the city. One of the men who’d attacked Rose still roamed free. He hungered to see him brought to justice.
Leaning back in his chair, he studied the patterns in the tin ceiling as his thoughts roamed. He’d dedicated his adult life to a quest for truth. Through gritty investigations, he’d confronted evil and lived to tell about it. Tracking down the most devious criminals in the queen’s empire had hardened him. He’d seen justice done. And through it all, the Coltons and their band of investigators had become like family. In a sense, the Colton Agency was in his blood.
For a time, that had been enough to fill the void in his soul, a wound he’d believed nothing and no one could heal.
Until the moment Rose ran smack into him on a bustling street.
In that moment, it was as if he’d been reborn. The hope he’d dared not hold in his heart had flickered back to life.
As a youth, he’d foolishly walked away from Rose on his quest to seek his fortune in London, to sate his hunger for digging out the truth and finding justice.
But now, the hunger within him had shifted. He closed his eyes. In his mind’s eye, Rose beckoned him to her side. So very beautiful.
So very willing to love him in spite of the years apart, in spite of the pain that had pierced their hearts.
When she’d left for America, he’d promised he’d come to her.
It was high time he honored his pledge.
The very thought of leaving London and the Colton Agency cut to the bone.
But he’d walk away from it all to claim Rose for his own.
The door hinges squawked a low protest as the door swung open. Matthew Colton entered, his expression somber.
“Jennie tells me you’ve booked passage on The Atlantic Goddess.” The man was nothing if not direct.
Mac shrugged. “What of it?”
“Am I to assume you won’t be back?”
“That’s up for debate.” Mac plowed a hand through his hair. “Now that Rose is back in New York, she may well come to her senses.”
“Which is a definite possibility,” Colton agreed. “You’ve no time to waste, Campbell. Any fool can see you’re bloody mad for her.”
“That would be the understatement of the century.”
Colton smiled. “In that case, be sure your
blasted arse is on that ship tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
New Year’s Eve
The Painted Lily smelled of cinnamon and rose petals, rather an unusual aroma to be found in a tavern in the heart of Manhattan. But Rose had spared no effort attending to the ambiance of this night. Since she’d taken over the establishment, she’d put her own stamp on the pub. The Painted Lily had become the place to see and be seen in the heart of New York. Stage performers and society types alike mingled within the cozy space, while Broadway stars frequently dropped by to perform an impromptu song on the polished oak stage.
She wanted this night to go well—very well. The concert and auction she was hosting would bring in a small fortune to benefit the orphans’ home. Why, she’d even convinced Ruth Delacroix, the most acclaimed contralto on the New York stage, to sing for charity that night.
Her efforts to draw patrons to the event had paid off. The place was packed. Now, the thought of standing before the crowd gathered to see and hear the renowned singers prompted a fresh fluttering of butterflies in her belly, but she pushed past it. She’d offered her venue, her profits from the night, and her voice to support those children who lived out their young lives without parents to love them. She could think of no more worthwhile use of her time and funds.
An auction was to take place before the concert, allowing the attendees to bid on items donated by the performers as well as to offer for the privilege of requesting a favorite song or two from the singers.
Slipping into her elegant gown of emerald silk, she summoned her assistant to secure the fasteners in the back, then arranged her hair into a becoming, upswept style, topped with a black feathered headpiece. Satisfied with her appearance, she sipped from a snifter of brandy and readied herself for her duties as hostess.
“It’s time, Miss Lily,” her bodyguard called into her dressing room, addressing Rose by her stage name.
“Thank you, Seth.”
Taking her place on the stage, she introduced the auctioneer for the night’s event to a round of enthusiastic applause. She smiled to herself. Cornelius Drake, an acclaimed thespian on the New York stage, approached his role with good cheer. While the handsome actor lacked the speed of a true auctioneer, his rich baritone voice, chiseled countenance, and charming smile were sure to fill seats and inspire generous donations to their cause.
When a Lady Kisses a Scot (Her Majesty's Most Secret Service) Page 25