by Amy Quinton
And still, he kept running.
Another bolt exploded nearby, a warning. And then, utter silence.
With a burst of speed, MacLeod ran faster.
Alain. Alain. Alain.
A shout in the distance sounded like cannon shot in the deafening calm. Then a bellowed plea, “Alaistair!”
It was the last thing his brother said before the sound of a lone gunshot pierced the air, a deafening silence ensued.
MacLeod roared his fury, his horror. “Alain!”
Chapter One
1814 - Five Years Later: The Quiet Witch Inn, England
The woman did no’ belong.
It wasn’t her bold, colorful attire—red of all things—which stood out like a brace of candles in a darkened room. Nor was it her loosely pinned, golden-brown locks, which danced upon her shoulders with every turn of her head, threatening to fall apart and spill down her back at any moment. Hell, it wasn’t even the flamboyance behind her every move: her over-bright smile coupled with the way she flung her hands about while she spoke to everyone, without an apparent chaperone in sight. The women of his acquaintance would never be so bold. More’s the pity.
She laughed and smiled and appeared utterly carefree—at least, on the surface.
But it was what else he saw…the strain behind her smile and the subtle anxiety peeking out from the depths of dubious eyes…that suggested all wasn’t as it seemed.
MacLeod narrowed his eyes, and as he beheld her striking presence, one word pierced his mind like an unexpected shot in the dark:
Trouble.
Aye. She wasn’t just troubled. She was trouble.
Then she glanced his way, and in that unplanned moment, their gazes collided and locked. An unexpected stab of heat scorched the back of his neck and skated down his spine. He could have sworn an echoing shiver danced its way down hers, the signs were all there—a subtle twitch of her shoulders, a slight hitch in her next step.
But then she looked away, and he found himself able to breathe once again. Christ, he hadn’t even known he’d stopped.
Aye. Major Trouble. The kind that wise men avoided if they knew what was good for them.
Still, he followed her with his eyes as the rest of the patrons at The Quiet Witch Inn faded comfortably into oblivion. He no longer saw the accumulation of grime that characterized the tap room’s interior décor. Nor the sound of boots treading across the dusty, wooden floor, or the cackling laughter of the pair of old biddies at the far table. It was all a muted backdrop to the colorful magnificence of this woman’s presence within the room.
Alaistair MacLeod was not accounted a poetic man, and he was old enough at thirty-six not to allow his cock to make the decisions in the general course of his everyday life. But as he watched her, he couldn’t help but note she was a vision in red, with curves as rounded as the bend of a twisty mountain path in his beloved Highlands.
Poetic, indeed.
As his eyes devoured every inch of her, an unsettling feeling pooled in his groin. Like a recalcitrant teenager, his ill-behaved cock practically stood up and took note.
MacLeod shifted in his seat, irritated by his body’s inconvenient response.
Red walked over to a couple of men seated at the bar, a mug of ale before them as they leaned on their hands and likely contemplated life, or perhaps the loss of their youth. Both men jumped to attention in a most comical fashion, probably unused to seeing such a woman in an inn as remote as this. She bestowed upon those men a smile to light up the room, which had both men grinning like fools, half in love with her already, and left him ready to march across the room, flinging tables and patrons out of his way in the process, before throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her out the door and away from this dusty, godforsaken place.
Which was barbaric, and absurd, and never going to happen.
MacLeod tightened his grip on his mug of ale and leaned to the left as someone, or something, blocked his view.
“Stuff it. Do you hear? Don’t say a word,” came an angry voice from above.
MacLeod looked up and noted fellow agent for the Crown, Clifford Ross, otherwise known as the Marquess of Dansbury. Dansbury flung back his chair, then sprawled out in his seat, his arms crossed…a rare mood for the normally amiable man.
Ciarán Kelly, another agent who was already seated and MacLeod’s all but forgotten companion, laughed and said, “Oh, but ye should see the look on yer face, my friend. Priceless. Got under your skin, has she?”
She was Lady Beatryce Beckett, whom Dansbury was protecting from powerful, criminal men, including one murderous assassin. MacLeod and Kelly were both tasked with providing support for Dansbury and Lady Beatryce as they fled these dangerous men.
As Dansbury and Kelly continued their pointed barbs, MacLeod contributed nothing toward their banter. In truth, he was only vaguely aware of his friends continued repartee. Rather, he was far too preoccupied…still…with the woman in red as she moved on to a new table and a new conversation.
He scrutinized her every move as she bobbed in and out of clusters of rowdy patrons, speaking volubly to everyone around her. Her voice, deep and husky, vibrated and wormed its way beneath his skin. She laughed loudly and frequently, smiling all too broadly and ensuring everyone took note of her presence.
Aye, it worked. They all noticed.
Including him.
Hell, especially him. Oh, he was doing a fine job of convincing himself it was because her actions were suspicious; he was only doing his duty, right?
But then how did he explain his lack of attention toward everything else going on around him, and in particular, his lack of response to Dansbury and Kelly, the reasons he was here in the first place?
Seemingly out of nowhere, Dansbury slammed his fists on the surface of the table, momentarily capturing MacLeod’s attention and making their mugs of ale—and some of the nearby regulars—jump. “That woman will be the death of me if I do not kill her first.”
Determined to ignore his friend’s uncharacteristic outburst and Kelly’s usual teasing replies, MacLeod wiped his hand on his kilt and reached for his drink, his eyes comfortably resettling on her once again.
Still, Dansbury and Kelly’s ribbing continued around him and served as a distant irritant. And they were becoming more and more difficult to ignore with each passing minute.
MacLeod managed it a few minutes longer, just, until Kelly said, “I don’t understand why ye despise her so much. She nearly married Stonebridge, so she can’t be all bad. And I hear tell yer uncommonly rude to her. She is…”
MacLeod dropped his mug to the table and blurted out the truth as he saw it, hoping to put an end to their grating arguments. “Och, he’s rude because he wants to tup her, ye ken?”
Dansbury spewed his drink all over their scarred table, his face registering disbelief at the sentiment. MacLeod wiped his face on his sleeve and scowled at his friend. “Now, cannae we just get doon to business?”
As if he weren’t utterly preoccupied with something else up until that point.
Dansbury sputtered and held up a finger, “But I feel compelled to address your last point…”
“Deny it all ye want, my friend,” Kelly interrupted, “we all know the truth. The Scot is right. I’m telling you, the rest of the room fairly burned in the wake of yer lust. Even I gave Bertha an extra look.” Kelly shivered in disgust. Bertha was the Innkeeper’s wife, a rather large, somewhat soiled woman with a decided lack of interest in bathing; a bacon and biscuits enthusiast to be sure.
Dansbury barked out a laugh, and just like that, the man’s good humor was restored. It was a skill that had always baffled—and completely eluded—MacLeod.
Dansbury sought out MacLeod’s gaze. “How are you, my friend? Enjoyed your trip here with this here talkative rogue, I take it?”
MacLeod stared at his friend over the rim of his mug. He refused to answer such a baited question. He didn’t want to admit that Kelly’s nattering irritated him�
��the man was never quiet—or that their gleeful banter at his expense was growing tiresome. And he really didn’t want to admit he felt that way because he was equally frustrated by his inability to ignore the woman in red. Or that there was some truth to the barbs they aimed his way.
Aye. He knew he was a difficult man.
Dansbury shook his head when MacLeod didn’t respond. “Right. Out with it.”
MacLeod didn’t waste another breath. “There were people here, asking aboot ye, before you arrived. It was a good thing ye changed yer clothes, they were asking aboot a pair of aristos.”
MacLeod heard the woman in red laugh out loud and couldn’t help but look over at her, his eyes drawn to her as if she ensorcelled them to do so.
Damn it.
“Who were they? Do you know? Did you find them?”
“Nae. But it doesna sit well that they looked fer ye here. This place isna easy to find and not the most obvious of places to search, ye ken?”
A flash of red caught his attention, and once again, his eyes flickered across the room. He genuinely couldn’t help it.
“You’re right. It is a concern, though they could have gotten lucky. I’ll be more vigilant, just in case. Any leads on who is pulling the strings?”
“Nae. Stonebridge has everyone in his command on it, though.”
“Well, it can’t happen fast enough. Lady Beatryce is driving me mad.”
“Yea, it sure looked like it a little while ago,” taunted Kelly.
MacLeod looked past Dansbury’s shoulder once again, ignoring Kelly. “Aye, I hear ye. We’ll be trailing ye for added protection, ye ken?”
“Thanks. Now, why do you keep looking over at the American, MacLeod?”
MacLeod jerked his attention back to Dansbury, surprised to be discovered, but with no intention of defending his actions. How could one explain the unexplainable? And even though he’d just been caught out by Dansbury, he looked over to the woman again.
To find her walking straight toward them.
MacLeod jumped to his feet, his chair scraping the wooden floor with a loud grinding sound as he did. Och, she walked with a grace that rendered every man mute. Her every gesture…every step…fluid and sensual.
He swallowed hard.
She smiled as she neared, of course. “What’s with all the brooding? You gentlemen look like you could use another drink,” she assumed. “I’m Mrs. Amelia Chase. From America. You know, the colonies?” She laughed at her quip. “How are you gents this fine evening?”
Her voice, so much clearer now with her proximity, was husky and bright; the sound enveloped every inch of him, hard, gruff edges and all.
Dansbury made the introductions, using his assumed identity rather than his real name. “Clifford Churchmouse. It is a pleasure. This man is Lord Alaistair MacLeod and the man impolitely seated is Mr. Ciarán Kelly.”
“Churchmouse? Are you the strong silent type, then?” She laughed, again, and continued, “Lord MacLeod, Mr. Kelly. May I join you?”
“Nae.” MacLeod shook his head no, though he desperately wanted to say yes. He wanted to study her, determine all the ways in which she was put together. And he absolutely needed to touch her, ever so gently, to see if her skin was as soft as it appeared. These were patently ridiculous thoughts. They had a job to do; this thing…she…was an unwelcome and dangerous distraction.
“Of course, allow me.” Dansbury spoke over him and pulled out a chair, damn the man.
MacLeod accepted that he’d been overruled and retook his seat. He ignored the inanities that ensued as he considered the woman before him. Might as well. Besides, Dansbury was the charming one; he could do the talking. MacLeod was content to watch, unable to participate in small talk even at the best of times.
So. Who was Mrs. Chase?
For one thing, she was not a typical lady. It might have been the bold way she looked him in the eye when she spoke. It might have been the carefree laugh, rare to hear in his circle of acquaintances…apart from Dansbury, and more recently, the Duke of Stonebridge. Perhaps it was the way she introduced herself to everyone in the taproom, which in itself was curious. It was as if she were looking for something.
Or someone?
Something wasn’t quite right and he wanted to know what. Worse, he wanted to ask her things that were too personal for public consumption…even in front of his friends.
MacLeod studied her hands. Her nails were clipped and tidy, her fingers long and tapered. When she spoke, she twirled her hands about in the air; she was quite animated…so very alive. But when she was listening, she fiddled with the strings of her reticule, twisting and turning them around her fingers until they began to knot.
“Dansbury, weren’t you…” Kelly began, then his voice trailed off.
MacLeod jerked, then glared across the table at the Irishman. What. The. Fuck?
“D-Dansbury?” Mrs. Chase turned to look at Dansbury. Of course, she didn’t miss Kelly’s lapse.
“Aye.” Kelly interjected. “We call him Dansbury because Churchmouse is just plain odd. And since he used to work fer the Dansbury estate, we took to calling him that.”
Kelly tried to explain away his gaffe, but it was a ridiculous excuse only an idiot would believe.
“You worked for the Dansbury estate? Do you know the marquess well then? Are they…are they nice…people?” asked Mrs. Chase.
“Fairly well, I’d say.” Dansbury smiled. “They are extremely nice people. Very giving. And you? Do you know the marquess?”
“I’m a…his…No…” She seemed unsure, which was curious and damning. “…but I look forward to meeting him some time. I’ve heard great things.”
MacLeod narrowed his eyes as he noticed her rubbing her hand along her skirts, an unmistakable nervous gesture.
And like that MacLeod’s interest turned from mere…curiosity…to bloody outright suspicion.
She couldn’t possibly fall for that tripe Kelly made up, could she? No reasonable person would.
So then, what was her aim with this line of questioning? Why did she not call Kelly out for his gaffe? Was she simply being polite? To his knowledge, that wasn’t a trait Americans were known for. Unapologetically bold and brash, yes. Timid and reserved, not on your life.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Chase excused herself and returned to the bar. She sat with her back to the wall, facing the room at large. It seemed she no longer had any desire to flit about and pester the other customers.
MacLeod sat back and observed it all with an apprehensive eye.
He was rewarded for his troubles half an hour later when Dansbury left to retire upstairs. MacLeod watched with an unsettling mixture of satisfaction and exasperation as Mrs. Chase followed Dansbury with her eyes then stood and quietly slid up the stairs after him.
“Dammit, sometimes I hate being right…” MacLeod muttered before tossing back the remains of his drink. Then he stood, adjusted the lay of his kilt, pushed in his chair, and threaded his way to the stairs, following on the heels of an enigma.
Och, trouble was right.
Chapter Two
Upstairs at The Quiet Witch Inn
The faded green door to room #12 closed with a soft click.
Sigh.
Mrs. Amelia Chase blew away the stray hairs from her falling coiffure as she peeked around the corner in time to see the verdant door snap shut. Such innocuous things, doors: simple and useful. Yet this particular door was so much more, for this door might very well open, or bar, the way to her future. For better or worse.
Maybe.
Hopefully?
No. She was by nature an idealist despite her colorful past, and besides, there was no room in her plans for uncertainty. The room simply had to belong to Churchmouse, or Dansbury, or whatever he wanted to call himself. He was the last person to climb the stairs ahead of her; she knew, for she’d been watching him all evening.
Amelia pulled back around the corner and braced herself against the wall. She closed her
eyes and concentrated on the feel of rough wainscoting beneath her clammy fingertip. Small fibers of wood seemed to reach out and thread across her fingers as she brushed them along the wall, following the grain.
But then Amelia’s hand slipped and she fell completely against the wall, breaking her concentration.
Arg. What a time to develop a case of the nerves.
She’d never been hampered by anxiety in the past, why now? Perhaps her recent brush with the law…? No. She would not go there. And dash it all, she was close, so close.
So where, then, had her infamous confidence hied off to?
She could read the measure of a man in a matter of moments. Dansbury/Churchmouse: honorable, charming, good-humored. Kelly: a rogue, a flirt, loved women; would never hurt one. MacLeod:
Hmm…MacLeod. Self-contained. But like a banked fire, scratch at the surface and discover an inferno buried beneath. And yet, she had the irresistible urge to poke at him and make him ignite. Yes, it was juvenile but compelling. Too bad she hadn’t the time to play that game with him.
But the point was, none of them were setting off her internal ‘this way lays danger’ alarms.
Amelia wiped her damp hands on her dress and squared her shoulders. Now was not the time to be thinking about broody Scotsmen. She was Amelia Chase: resourceful and persistent. She had a job to do and she refused—refused!—to doubt herself now.
Amelia peeked around the corner once more, her gaze drawn to #12 like a magnetic compass pointing north. Her options were:
A: she could boldly knock upon the door to #12, proclaim herself Mr. Churchmouse’s long lost sister (all the while accusing him of being the Marquess of Dansbury in disguise—Ha! Ha! Caught you!), and hoped he believed her story, or
B: she could try Plan B, the details of which were still somewhat ill-formed, stupid, insane, and quite honestly too ludicrous to mention out loud.
Alas, she was Amelia Chase, a Plan B kind of girl…adventurous, courageous, and a brazen voice for the disadvantaged…but always looking out for number one.