by Amy Quinton
Right. Plan B it is, then.
Now that her little motivational speech was out of the way, Amelia took one last deep inhalation of breath, rounded the corner, and dashed forward on the tips of her toes, stopping just short of #12.
She jerked her head back over her shoulder, her eyes attempting to pierce the shadows behind her, which seemed to swell and twist between spheres of lambent light emanating from the randomly lit wall sconces. The carnage red carpeting and dark, dingy walls added to the malevolent feel and all but shrieked Danger! in bold, screeching sounds.
But there was no one. Her unease had her hearing and seeing things that simply weren’t there. It was all thanks to that blasted Scot; his intensely daring and constant gaze had put her on edge all evening.
Amelia shook away thoughts of his brooding, soul-dark eyes, filing such reflections away until she had time to examine them.
Amelia turned back around and, once more, wiped her clammy hands on her dress. She was filled with anticipation and a tiny—almost not worth mentioning, really—dose of fear. Because, well, Plan B and all. And then there was what would happen should she fail; she really didn’t want to think about that.
She had to have faith in her disguise: it was utterly foolproof—foolproof!—for it gave her license to hide in plain sight.
But if all that weren’t enough, she could still be Caught by someone respectable, even though it was quite late and reputable people were meant to be abed. Sleeping. However, based on her limited knowledge of English rules of etiquette, getting Caught equaled a Scandal and the End of Life as everyone knew it, so this was important to note.
She snorted. Ha! Really? How dreadful. Such drama for a society that frowns upon drama.
Amelia chuckled softly at the absurdity of it all. In America, people would simply think she was quirky and move on.
On a positive note, her daft thoughts worked better than anything else to quiet her anxiety. Which was fortunate, lest she lock herself in a dark room and hide beneath the covers for the rest of her life.
Focus, Amelia. Sheesh.
Amelia threw herself into a role. She checked the hall once more for good measure, her finger pressed to her lips, her very demeanor all but screaming “I’m lost.”
After confirming once again that the hallway did indeed remain clear of other guests, Amelia finally acknowledged her behavior for what it was: a stalling ploy.
So, without further ado, Amelia lifted her chin, faced the door in question: #12, threw her reticule to the floor…
…and dropped to her knees, setting her right eye to the key hole.
Yes, she was Amelia Chase:
orphan
newly-minted-spy-extraordinaire (in her mind at the very least)
Independent American Woman…
…and a woman who peeked through key holes.
So, some might call her a Peeping Tom should she be Caught, but really, she didn’t make a habit of this. Honestly. And she was on an important, almost—No. Not almost. She would call it what it was: desperate—mission here. Allowances should be made.
She just needed to be certain the room was Dansbury’s. That was all, a trifling thing really. Despite being confident she knew his identity, that confidence didn’t matter when she knew better than most that mistakes happen. Though some mistakes had far more severe consequences than others, as her recent situation could attest.
In this instance, she couldn’t afford to be wrong…not about who he was, and more importantly, not about whether she should reveal who she was in truth.
Unfortunately, all she could see was the shadowy outline of a man—definitely a man—for his shape was far too large to be that of a woman.
Amelia alternated between putting her ear to the lock to listen and then trying once more to see, all to no avail. No sound came from the room and the man standing before the door appeared to be rooted to the spot.
Eventually, Amelia leaned back on her heels, reeling with frustration. She gripped the door knob with her right hand for balance. Now, that she was fully committed to Plan B, she wasn’t quite so nervous.
Wouldn’t it be funny if Dansbury suddenly wrenched the door open with her leaning back like this? She’d find herself sprawled on the floor at his feet, probably opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish out of water and at a loss for words.
For once.
Amelia put her free hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. In truth, she wanted nothing more than to smack the door in sarcastic frustration. She settled for shaking her fist at the door in mock anger.
Blast the man! Why couldn’t he cooperate and make this easy? A sign on the door would suffice.
Amelia rubbed her tired eyes, then leaned forward again, trying once more to see anything useful through the blasted key hole.
She held absolutely still.
She was one with silence, her breathing slooooow…
And steady…
And calm…
If she strained to listen, she might hear…
…Creak…
A nearby floorboard groaned under pressure...
Then a wisp of warm air wafted across her ear, sending a shiver up her spine just before a deep, gravelly voice with a delicious, thrilling Scottish brogue said, “What do ye think ye’re doin’, Mrs. Chase?”
Chapter Three
Mrs. Chase jumped.
He had not expected the lass to jump. And he certainly had not expected her to hurdle right into his chin whilst doing so, causing him to bite his tongue in the process. But she had. And he did. And dammit, it hurt like hell. He swallowed the coppery tang that tainted his mouth.
Mrs. Chase spun around, one hand rubbing her head, her eyes watery with pain, and jumped right into her own accusation. “What in the blazes do you think you are doing, MacLeod?”
“What am I doing?” Really?
“Yes. What are you doing? Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a person when she is…um… When she is…” Mrs. Chase licked her lips. “…erm…concentrating?”
He snorted and stepped closer, crowding her before the door, his eyes drawn to her wetted, plump lips.
Nae, dammit. No lips. Especially not from sneaking, spying, temptresses.
He jerked his gaze up to hers, pinning her in place with his regard and searching for the truth in her golden-brown orbs. Against his better judgement, which was normally quite sound, he felt the beginnings of a smile tug at his lips. “Och, is that what you were doing?”
When he’d witnessed Mrs. Chase follow Dansbury upstairs, he’d become convinced her actions were nefarious. All right, maybe not nefarious. Suspicious, at the very least. He had trouble truly believing her a spy, for based on her behavior downstairs, she obviously wasn’t aiming for secrecy.
And now this? Real spies didn’t spend their evenings peeking beneath locked doors. Obviously. But her reaction to getting caught? Audacious. Preposterous. And utterly suspicious.
If matters with Dansbury weren’t so serious, he’d add borderline charming. But they were. He had to remember that.
With the little space he’d left her, Mrs. Chase reached down and felt around for her reticule, her gaze never leaving his. Still, she smiled when she asked, “Well, what else would I be doing?”
MacLeod very nearly snorted once again; instead he forced himself to look serious rather than incredulous or worse, enchanted. “It looked to me like you were spying on the occupants of this room.” He nodded his head toward the room in question.
Mrs. Chase fiddled with the strings of her reticule, not quite meeting his eyes now. Still, he heard her clearly when she replied, “Ridiculous.”
MacLeod frowned. “So you weren’t on your knees just now, spying through that verra keyhole?” He nodded his head toward the aperture in question.
She looked over her shoulder, following his gaze, then back at him, wetting her lips once more. “Well, that would be silly now, wouldn’t it?” She grinned as if she found him infinitely amusing, t
hen reached up and patted his arm. “M-my, you have quite the imagination, MacLeod.”
Her words of denial were ridiculous. They both knew he’d caught her doing just that.
MacLeod shook his head and found himself once more on the verge of a chuckle. “I can honestly say no one’s ever accused me of that before.”
That’s when he realized what he had to do. Oh, he could play her game; he was here for the night anyway. If she wanted to spend the evening standing in a drafty, smelly old hall while he listened to her invent some imaginary yarn he would not believe anyhow, he could accommodate her and play along. But he was better off questioning her where they were not likely to be seen or heard, especially by Dansbury. And he really should take a more serious, harder look at her motives.
Mind made up, MacLeod stepped forward and leaned down. He was so close, he could hear her shaky intake of breath before she gulped. He waited a second more, then said, “I’m also no’ much of a talker.” He reached out impulsively and tugged at a loose lock of hair, “I’m more a man of action, you ken?”
And without another word, MacLeod scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder. His destination: his own room down the hall.
“MacLeod,” she hissed.
He ignored her.
“Let me go…oomph…you big, oversized, popinjay.” She punctuated each word with a fist.
Popinjay? Him?
MacLeod rounded the corner and stopped before his room, one identified by a distressed red door and tarnished brass numbers proclaiming it room #18. He fumbled around in his leather sporran for a moment, then pulled out a rusted old skeleton key and unlocked the door.
The door scraped and screeched as he shoved it open, the hinges in obvious need of oiling. The floor varnish had worn away in an arc fanning out from the doorway due to years of guests opening and closing a door in desperate want of a good planing.
These features did not slow him down.
He pushed the door wide and felt her cringe when it slammed against the wall.
Good. If the lass were rattled a bit, maybe he could get her to fess up sooner rather than later. He prudently ignored the sense of disappointment that hovered about in the back of his mind over her possible perfidy.
MacLeod put Amelia down before closing the door and locking them in. Then he opened his sporran and replaced the key, never once taking his eyes from hers. Fortunately, there was enough light from the setting moon to make out her features. After lighting a few candles whilst they both kept silent, he leaned back against the door and folded his arms across his chest.
“Nou, speak. And the truth this time, lass, if you will.”
Amelia rubbed her arm and scowled.
He hadn’t hurt her, not really. She was clearly stalling for time while she tried to figure out exactly what to tell him. He could see every bit of her efforts flit across her face in perfect clarity.
He decided to help her along. “So, Mrs. Amelia Chase. Is there a Mr. Chase?”
She shook her head. “No.”
He’d suspected she wasn’t married—what reasonable man would let a woman like her out of his sight for even a minute—and he was surprised to feel a small sense of relief with her answer.
Amelia took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and said, “Fine. Churchmouse, otherwise known as the Marquess of Dansbury, is my brother.”
Och, not bloody likely.
Hell, she’d even inflected her voice at the end, making it sound like a question, not a mark in her favor.
MacLeod narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. “He’s no’ Dansbury.”
Amelia shook her head as if she could not believe he didn’t trust her, which was laughable. She paced over to the fireplace, then spun back around. He watched as she marched back across the floor. “Well, I heard Mr. Kelly. He very clearly called Mr. Churchmouse ‘Dansbury’ earlier in the taproom. No matter what you all said afterward, I know a cover up when I hear one…and not a very convincing one, at that. You all expected me to simply take your word for it and leave the matter alone, so you scarcely tried. But I’ve got news for you, Mr. MacLeod: it won’t work. Do you want to know why?”
He said nothing for he suspected nothing he could possibly say would matter.
Sure enough, she stepped directly in front of him, her skirts tangling with his bare legs, lifted her chin and said, “…because I am an Independent American Woman, and as such, you cannot pull one over on me!”
“He’s no’ Dansbury.”
“Well, I no’ believe you,” she mimicked, putting her hands on her hips for emphasis.
He couldn’t stop his eyes from following the movement nor could he hide the flare of heat he knew burned anew in his gaze. Bloody hell…a woman up to no good should not have curves as attention-gripping as hers. He dragged his mind back to the topic at hand with some difficulty. “He’s no’…”
“Stop!” She stamped her foot and held her hand up to shush him, “Saying it repeatedly won’t make it true all of the sudden, Mr. MacLeod.”
He tilted his head and regarded her, surprised she had effectively shushed him. Him. Didn’t she realize he had the upper hand in this conversation?
She shook her head and stepped away. He hated that his first instinct was to grab her by the arms and pull her back.
“Dansbury does no’ have a sister,” he maintained.
She spun around. “Well, I beg to differ.” Then, she spread her arms out. “I’m very real, as you can see.”
MacLeod stood away from the wall and dropped his crossed arms, bracing them on his hips. He could not help but look her over; she’d all but invited him to do so.
He took his time, savoring the moment. He started with the tips of her toes. Then drug his gaze up her skirts. Slowly. Precisely. He was always thorough in all that he did. Why should this be any different?
Would he see similarities to his friend in her features? He sought the answer in her curves, and as lust crept over him, threatening to overtake his sound reasoning, he was more than willing to find out, all the while praying that the answer was no. God, no.
He heard her breath catch as she watched him study her. He missed absolutely nothing…not the hitch in her breathing, nor the shuffle of her feet beneath her skirts, not even the sound of her chewing on her plump, delectable lip.
On the heels of that thought, he realized an uncomfortable truth—understood how far his plan had backfired—for the temperature in the room climbed with the speed of a bullet. He had a tenuous hold on his lust. His attraction to her had only been loosely restrained, waiting for the opportune moment to break free. He refrained from reaching for her by the tiniest thread of control.
She was so beautiful to behold—voluptuous. Strong. With a kind face and a smile that lit up a room. He could tell she struggled not to reveal her own discomfort beneath the intensity of his scrutiny. It was in the way she held herself—so tense, her fists clinched in her skirts.
He looked to her face once more and was stunned by what he saw there. Her golden eyes were wide and locked on him; his own knees threatened to buckle under the weight of her regard.
In desperation, he cleared his throat and maintained, “I would know it if the mon had a sister.”
“W-well, he does,” she croaked. He could commiserate, for he’d nearly done the same.
He re-crossed his arms, a show of strength to convince her his judgement would not be swayed by her charms. In truth, it was the only way he might have a chance at keeping his own yearning in check. “Prove it,” he challenged.
Amelia lifted her chin and straightened her spine. Och, he reluctantly admired her determination.
“I don’t have to prove anything to you, Mr. MacLeod, and you know it. Neither can you keep me here without cause.”
MacLeod forced a shrug that belied the storm of emotion churning beneath his skin, then paced away toward the fireplace as she’d done moments before. He poked at the fire in the hearth while he gathered the scattered threa
ds of his control. She might be beautiful and voluptuous with a smile he suspected could light up one’s soul if given half a chance, but she’d proven herself false, at least on the surface, and he couldn’t simply ignore that in order to appease her. Despite her vibrant beauty and apparent flair for life that seemed to reach out to some dusty, dark recess in his soul, he would not now, nor ever, succumb to her charms, no matter how strongly he was attracted to her.
Besides, if anyone could keep her here without reason, it was him.
He returned the fire poker to its stand and turned to stand before her, while keeping her safely out of arm’s reach.
Yet she stepped forward, a move that was, again, unexpected, as seemed to be her nature. “Fine.”
She took another step. She was close now, once more in his personal space. She looked down for a moment as if gathering her courage, then back up at him through her long lashes. She quirked her lips, and gifted him with a smile that was sultry and all woman.
The change in her demeanor was sudden and unexpected. Now, he squirmed…and he never squirmed. The desire to loosen his cravat and remove his jacket was nearly overwhelming.
She reached for him and walked her fingers up the sleeve of his coat, two points of heat that branded his arm every step of the way, marking him as hers. He tried in vain to swallow the lump in his suddenly parched throat.
She purred, adding, “Why do you think I’m here, MacLeod?” He saw a flash of fire in her eyes. “Am I a spy acting against the British Crown? Is Dansbury my mark?” Her look turned coy. “Perhaps I am a murderess on the run from the law…”
MacLeod snapped. Any softness he’d felt toward her vanished like smoke caught up in a stiff breeze. Her words too closely mirrored his own worries to be accounted a coincidence.
But when he reached to grab her, she spun out of his arms and threw her hands in the air. “Ugh! You, sir, are impossible!”
Again, her response was unpredictable, and he’d never admit he almost jumped in the face of her outburst. His only outward response was to re-cross his arms, but he no longer advanced. He didn’t trust himself to advance. Hell, he didn’t know whether he wanted to see her jailed or fuck her. And wasn’t that madness?