by Tarah Scott
“Elise?”
She snapped back to the present. “I—” Her gaze caught on his hands—hands that had once touched her, had once—the urge to cry sprang up. No, she wouldn't cry. She had made her bed. She would live with the consequences.
“I wondered how things went with Lady Ross's trial,” she said. “Is it over?”
Marcus reached around his back and pulled out the revolver stuffed into his waistband.
Where had the revolver lain when he made love to his mistress?
“It is over,” he replied. “She claims to know nothing of a plot to kill Kiernan.” Marcus glanced at her. “I suspect she wanted you dead. Though she denies that as well. I don't know how, but it is clear she was in league with Ardsley. Margaret had no reason to kill Kiernan.”
Elise started to ask how he could be so sure when he said, “She won't face prison.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “England is not about to put one of her noblewomen in prison, even if she is Scottish. She is to go to America.” Marcus's expression abruptly darkened. “Do you intend on standing in doorways the remainder of our marriage?”
She blinked.
“Or is it that you simply find it too abhorrent to be in a room with me?”
“I… no. I only thought—”
“Thought what?” he demanded.
“I didn't want to intrude. It is late—”
“So it is.” Marcus began unbuttoning his shirt.
“Good Lord,” she muttered. “It's not as if you have invited me into your bed—chambers.” She added “chambers” in a rush, seeing his fingers halt on the third button and the sudden gleam in his eyes.
His eyes narrowed. “Am I to understand it is I who have stayed out of your bed?”
“You say that as if you're surprised,” she snapped.
“By God,” he thundered. “I will settle this now.” He started around the bed.
Elise rolled her eyes. “You have no energy to settle anything.”
He stopped short. “What the blazes does that mean?”
“It means, I have made my bed and I'll lie in it.” Alone.
Marcus charged across the room. Elise backed up. He grabbed her and tossed her on his bed before she could blink. His lips crashed down on hers in a bruising kiss. Shock ripped through her. Energy pooled in the pit of her stomach, then between her legs. His hand covered a breast. Elise arched into him. She wanted him, but could she live with the fact he had another woman? He yanked up her night rail and reached between her legs. Yes. She could live with anything if she had him. His fingers probed. Marcus abruptly pulled away from her.
He touched her cheek. “Steven is well,” he said. “There is no need to cry.”
“Cry?” She lifted a finger to her cheek, but even as she did, she realized she was crying.
“Unless…” Marcus said.
Elise looked at him.
“You can't forgive me for Steven. I am sorry. I understood the consequences. I could not change—”
“Forgive you,” she interrupted. “You have done nothing to forgive. It's my fault, even your taking a mistress. I can't blame you for wanting—”
“A what?” He looked startled.
“What?” she repeated.
His brows puckered in a fierce frown. “We have been in Ashlund two weeks and already you have me consorting with other women?”
“There's no better explanation for the late nights, your state of dishevelment.”
“My state of dishevelment?” His gaze swept across her body. “You seem to have forgotten what my state of dishevelment is like when I make love to a woman.” He kissed her mouth, her cheek, her ear. “When I make love to you,” he whispered.
Elise drew a sharp breath as he rocked against her. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“There is no more Margaret,” he whispered. “No more Ardsley, and”—Marcus slid a hand beneath her and lifted her hips to meet each thrust of his hips—”there is no mistress.”
He pulled his arm from around her, then reached between them and unfastened his trousers. His erection sprang free of its constraints and Marcus drove himself into her.
“There is only you,” he said, and began the rhythm that bound them together as one.
####
My Highland Lord
Highland Lords Series
Book Two
Tarah Scott
Acknowledgements
My deepest thanks to Nikki at Close Encounters with the Night Kind for being my first official beta reader. You rock, girl!
My undying gratitude goes to Evan Trevane, my good friend and critique partner, who read this book with an eagle eye. My hero wears a kilt, and you made sure no one mistook it for a skirt.
Thank you to Kimberly Comeau, who brainstormed with me and read the tough sections—many times over!
No book is complete without a spectacular cover. Thanks to Melissa Alvarez at Book Covers Galore for another beautiful cover.
Chapter One
London, September 1837
“Please, Frederick,” John Stafford rasped. He lifted his trembling hand from the bed’s coverlet. Light from the candle on the nightstand flickered with the small disturbance. “Bring me that chest.” John pointed at the desk in the corner of the bedchamber before his hand dropped back down beside him. He dragged in a heavy breath.
Frederick's mouth thinned in concern. “John, you must—”
“The chest,” John cut in with a small measure of his old vigor.
His friend sighed, turned, and crossed the room. He lifted the small chest from its two-decade-long resting place. When last the chest had been moved, John was Sheriff of Bow Street and supervisor of the Home Office spies. The chest's contents proved the innocence of one of the conspirators in the most daring assassination attempts of their time.
Frederick returned to the bed, set the chest on the nightstand, and gave John a questioning look.
“Remove the documents,” John said.
John closed his eyes in anticipation of the familiar creak of hinges as Frederick opened the chest. How many times had he raised that lid only to slam it shut again without touching the contents? The rustling of papers ceased and Frederick gave a low cry of surprise.
John opened his eyes. “Yes,” he said as Frederick laid the stack of envelopes on the bed. “That is, indeed, Lord Mallory of the House of Lords.” John pushed aside envelopes until he uncovered the one he wanted. He tapped it and whispered, “Read this aloud.”
Frederick removed the sheets of paper from their envelope, sat beside John on the edge of the mattress, and began.
April 26, 1820
In early February of this year word reached me, John Stafford, chief clerk at Bow Street, and head of the Bow Street officers, that Arthur Thistlewood, leader of the radical Spencean Philanthropists Society, planned on February 15 to assassinate the king's ministers. Thistlewood had been reported as saying he could raise fifteen thousand armed men in half an hour, so we feared riots would break out, which might allow him to carry out his assassinations.
I sent one of my officers George Ruthven to infiltrate the Spenceans, and then recruited from within their ranks, John Williamson, John Shegoe, James Hanley, Thomas Dywer, and George Edwards. Edwards was such an adept spy that he became Thistlewood's aide-de-camp. Little did I know the terrible part Edwards would play in this operation.
When I had investigated Arthur Thistlewood and the Spenceans in 1816 at Spa Fields, Home Secretary Lord Sidmouth sent me spies, and he was apprised of the men I now used—in fact, George Edwards reported not only to me, but to Lord Sidmouth. So I was surprised when Lord Mallory dispatched another spy from the Solicitor General's office, Mason Wallington, Viscount Albery.
Oddly, Thistlewood unexpectedly abandoned the idea of the assassinations planned for February 15. We feared he would make an unexpected move to murder the Privy Council, so we quickly set a trap. Thistlewood snapped up the bait like a starving lion. He believed that Lord Harrowby was to
entertain the Cabinet in his home at Grosvenor Square Wednesday, February 23, 1820, and, as we anticipated, decided to assassinate the entire Cabinet while they dined. The Spenceans chose the Horse and Groom, a public house on Cato Street that overlooks the stable, as their meeting place, so we dubbed the operation 'The Cato Street Conspiracy.'
God help me, at the time, I felt no compunctions about entrapping Thistlewood and his men. Thistlewood was mad—he believed God had answered his prayers in finding a way to destroy the Cabinet—and his followers were, at best, murderers. The reform they claimed to be fighting for was nothing more than an excuse to seize power. However, given what I learned in the years since The Cato Street Conspiracy, I have questioned a thousand times our methods in bringing these men to justice.
On the day of the intended assassinations, I positioned Bow Street officers near the Horse and Groom. I had readied my own pistol when, at the last moment, a message from the Home Office deterred my participation in the arrests. How many times I have wondered at this bit of 'providence.' It was all too convenient that I was absent during the arrests that day.
I directed Richard Birnie, a Bow Street magistrate, to take charge, and left him with my officers to watch for the conspirators. Thistlewood’s men soon arrived and, at seven-thirty that night, Birnie ordered the arrests.
A fight ensued and Thistlewood escaped. Several of the top conspirators were apprehended, but our spy Mason Wallington mysteriously disappeared. While making the arrests, Richard Smithers was run through by Thistlewood, and I was frantic at the possibility we had lost another good man. We arrested Thistlewood the next day, and eleven other conspirators were apprehended within days. Then, to my shock, Barry Doddard, a young officer from a neighboring magistrate, named Mason Wallington as the twelfth and only major conspirator to elude capture.
Upon hearing Doddard’s accusations, I immediately wrote Lord Mallory informing him of the mistake. Mallory replied that Wallington had long been suspected of dissident actions and was believed to be in league with Thistlewood. I simply couldn't believe this. Wallington had a reputation as a devoted Englishman and spurned the tactics employed by the Spenceans.
I informed Mallory of this, but he countered that Wallington had openly criticized the government and had even quoted Thistlewood’s philosophies concerning the lower classes and the rights of women. I couldn’t accept this, but Lord Sidmouth intervened, ordering me to desist. Wallington was a wanted criminal and if he was found, Sidmouth ordered me to turn Wallington over to him.
I considered paying a visit to Thistlewood in Coldbath Fields Prison, but realized my visit would be reported to Sidmouth. Besides, Thistlewood was reported to have said that he had hoped it was me he killed instead of Smithers. I had no recourse but to obey Lord Sidmouth's orders. At the age of thirty-six, Mason Wallington became a fugitive.
Frederick lowered the document and John pointed to the envelope farthest from him. “Now that one.”
Frederick picked up the second envelope and removed the letter. He cleared his throat and began again.
July, 1824
Four years have passed since Mason Wallington was branded a traitor. Despite Sidmouth's orders that I forget the matter, my conscience demands I act. Whether guilt or innocence is the result of my findings, I shall, as always, record all matters true and faithfully. I begin with Wallington’s superior, Lord Niles Mallory.
Frederick looked at John, the short letter finished.
“Wallington has a daughter,” John said. “She has been a victim of the lie too—” A heavy cough cut him off.
“John!” Frederick leapt to his feet and filled the glass on the nightstand with water from the pitcher.
Frederick slipped an arm beneath his back and lifted him forward until his mouth met the lip of the glass. John took several small sips. He breathed deeply, nodded he was finished, and Frederick settled him back onto the pillow.
Frederick set the glass on the nightstand. “Rest. We will finish later.”
John grasped his friend’s hand. “The girl has a right to the truth. I cannot go to my peace knowing I leave her in turmoil.” John closed his eyes, remembering the day she had come to him. He couldn’t escape her questions or the pain in her eyes when he turned her away without answers. He looked at Frederick. “See that she gets the letters.” His voice weakened. “Swear.” He tightened his grip on Frederick’s hand in one final squeeze. “Swear.”
“I swear,” Frederick promised, and John lay back on his pillow and slept.
Chapter Two
Edinburgh, Scotland
The criminal was alive and well. Yet, the one man who could have exposed him was dead. Phoebe stared at the clipping of the obituary notice printed in the Times five days ago. The knowledge of his death settled around her as black as the darkness surrounding her carriage. The lantern flickered with the sway of the carriage as she slid her gaze over the paragraph that extolled Bow Street Sheriff John Stafford’s criminal expertise, and past the mention of his involvement in The Cato Street Conspiracy. A man’s life reduced to two paragraphs. For the hundredth time since she'd first read the obituary, she settled her gaze on the final line.
September 1837, John Stafford died in his London home.
Phoebe refolded the clipping, set it on her lap, and pulled another document from her reticule. She ran her fingers along the age-yellowed edges of the only letter her father had written to her mother, the letter she had shown John Stafford when she'd visited him in his home five years ago. She unfolded the foolscap and, with a deep breath, began reading. Her lips moved in tandem with the words she'd long ago memorized.
May 20, 1820
My Dearest Amelia,
Please forgive this letter so long overdue. I am well and I have found safe haven—at least for the moment. You have, no doubt, heard the news that I am wanted for high treason, and now you know that my suspicions were correct. Amelia, you cannot know how my accusers make even the most abhorrent criminal look like one of God’s angels. I sorely underestimated the depth of their deceit. Fool that I am, I did not anticipate being branded a traitor in their stead.
I know your heart is heavy, my love, but no more so than mine. It is shocking to learn that one’s leaders are willing to sacrifice their countrymen for money and power. Ironically, had I known then what I now know, I would be guilty of their accusations. Do not shudder. I know I speak treason, but you cannot comprehend the fine line between reason and desperation when all choices have been eliminated.
Would it shock you to hear that I relish the day I shall destroy my accusers? They have taken all I hold dear: you, our darling Phoebe and, lastly, my freedom. While I cannot like Arthur Thistlewood—his motives are not pure as he would have us believe—in one thing he was right: those few rich and powerful men who rule supreme in our society have stolen our rights.
I have a plan, which, of course, I cannot elaborate upon here, but I must uncover the truth. Otherwise…well, otherwise, I am no better than Thistlewood—or those men who brought him to justice.
I do not know when I will have another opportunity to write. Give Phoebe my love, and do not despair. I have not.
Your loving husband,
Mason
It wasn't until her mother's death ten years ago that Phoebe learned her father sent this letter. The letter, hidden amongst her mother's personal correspondence, had been folded with a newspaper clipping dated February 24, 1820, the day after the Spencean Society's planned assassination of the Cabinet. The newspaper clipping, a statement made by Lord Sidmouth to the London Gazette concerning the charge of high treason against Thistlewood and his murder of Bow Street runner Richard Smithers, also mentioned the bounty on Thistlewood's head. The paragraphs were framed by a note written in her father's hand on the sides.
Sidmouth could not have yet known that Thistlewood killed Smithers. Here is proof positive the noose had been put around Thistlewood's neck before he even planned the assassinations.
“Why?” Pho
ebe whispered. Why had her father been falsely accused and why had he cared that the government ensured Thistlewood's capture? Thistlewood was a known murderer, a man—A sharp sideways jostle yanked Phoebe back to the present. “What in—” Another jolt cut short the exclamation.
She yanked back the curtain and peered into the darkness. No lights dotted the countryside as they should have, and moonlight revealed open fields beyond the road.
She quickly refolded the letter and clipping, stuffed them into her reticule, then opened the door an inch and called, “Where are we, Calders? I don’t recognize this road.”
“Taking a shortcut, Miss,” came the muffled reply.
“Wha—” The coach listed, and she slammed the door with the force of the movement, tumbling back against the cushion. “By heavens.”
Phoebe seized the handle again. The door was yanked from her grasp and flung open. A man filled the doorway. She jerked back as a rush of air guttered the lantern flame. Her heart jumped when she lost sight of the intruder for an instant, then the light flared to life again. The man gripped the side of the open doorway of the slowing carriage, one leg braced on the floor. She took in eyes bluer than any she'd ever seen, an angled face, and a fit body leaning forward on one powerful leg—a leg clad in finely cut trousers. Thievery paid well these days!