Tempting the Highland Spy (Highland Hearts) Page 2

  “Thank you, Grace,” the bridesmaid said, swiping a fat round drop from her cheek.

  “You’ll be fine.” Grace made an effort to contain her impatience as she eyed the exit. Time was running out.

  “Now, let’s find a quiet place where you can tell me all about it,” Aunt Thelma escorted the young woman toward a table laden with delicate pastries and finger foods.

  Grace let out a small sigh. The woman in distress was one more complication she hadn’t anticipated. But it was done now. Aunt Thelma had the situation well in hand.

  She turned on her heel.

  And looked directly into the gaze of Harrison MacMasters.

  Blast the luck! A quarter-length of the ballroom separated them. How long had he been watching her? Surrounded by a gaggle of ladies who didn’t seem to notice he was no longer looking at them, he’d set his mouth into a taut line, as if he was puzzling something out. As if he was working out for himself whether or not the brunette he’d spotted was the same woman he’d once taken to his bed.

  A prickle of awareness crept over her skin. Oh, yes, he’d made the connection. She was certain of it. As he studied her, was he remembering the feel of her skin? Had the memory of a passionate touch flooded his senses, just as it had hers?

  She forced herself to look away. Making contact with him would be far too risky. As it stood, he had no confirmation she was indeed Grace Winterborne. Only a suspicion, if that.

  Turning away, she made her way to the exit. She resolved to keep going without so much as a glance behind, but her will was weak. She threw a look over her shoulder. He’d turned his attention to a lovely husband-hunter. Scotsmen were all the rage these days. Perhaps he’d find himself a wealthy heiress. She might even be an American.

  But it wouldn’t be her. Heaven knew she was no heiress. Even her imitation of one was pitifully overdone.

  She steadied her breath. Perhaps Harrison had not noticed her after all. His appearance here was a simple coincidence. Nothing more.

  Yes, that was the most likely explanation. She’d give it no more thought.

  She still had a job to do—the most important challenge she’d ever faced. The stakes were high. And there would be no second chances.

  …

  Harrison MacMasters was, above all things, a logical man. His older brothers regarded him as the pillar of reason, sensible to a fault. So why the bloody hell was he chasing after a woman who didn’t really exist?

  Grace Winterborne was a fiction, a character in an elaborate charade. Of course, he hadn’t known that when he’d first laid eyes on the woman. More than a year had passed since that wedding in a castle in the Highlands. Far from an ordinary guest at the festivities, he’d been part of an operation designed to ensnare a ruthless assassin. He’d taken notice of Grace, but he’d had no cause to question her identity. She’d played the part of an American heiress well enough, and he’d been too focused on the mission—and her beauty—to take note of the flaws in her story.

  His suspicions first flared when she turned up at yet another Highland wedding. That time, she’d been accompanied by an older woman, an aunt whose eccentricities distracted attention from the conniving focus of her gaze. Something had seemed a bit off even then. Grace had a way of endearing herself to those who might do her good. Scottish heiresses she’d conveniently come to meet days earlier were suddenly the closest of friends.

  Still, he’d convinced himself his cynical instincts were off target. It was easier to dismiss his suspicions than to admit the lovely lass was adept at drawing in those who might be of use to her.

  Fools like him.

  From his vantage point, he went through the motions of conversation with one guest or another while keeping an eye on his quarry. She appeared to be doing her best to blend in with the drapes. The hue of her gown wasn’t up to the task of providing effective camouflage. A few shades deeper, and the fabric might not have stood out against the green velvet window coverings.

  Her hair was darker now. When she’d spent the night in his arms and in his bed, her luscious curls had been a shade closer to red than gold. But now, dull shades of brown tinted the strands she wore upswept and crowned by a feminine headpiece. The color was not flattering to her. It seemed stark. Unnatural. Not that it signified. There was no way to disguise her lovely rounded face, the dark eyes, and tempting, sweetly curved mouth. No matter how drab her hair, Grace was still the most beautiful woman in the room.

  He tugged at his precisely placed cravat. The blasted silk was too tight around his throat. Damnable shame he couldn’t pluck it off and pitch it behind the ferns. Odd, how the tie had not seemed constricting before he’d had to enter the ballroom and pretend he wasn’t aware of Grace’s presence.

  Grace—a beautiful name. At least that much of her identity was true. Nearly everything else he’d known about her had been a lie.

  She was an American. But she wasn’t an heiress. She wasn’t making a grand tour of Europe, and her father wasn’t a wealthy tycoon.

  Gracie Mae Winters was a thief.

  And now, it was his job to bring her to justice.

  Blast the foul luck. He’d been an utter dunce to fall for her act. She had a talent for deception. He’d give her that much.

  Damned if she would make a fool of him again.

  She’d stolen Lady Caversham’s prized emeralds right beneath the countess’s nose—and his. Their hostess had been none the wiser until Grace and her daft aunt were an ocean away. The emeralds had been mounted in a necklace crafted centuries earlier. Legend had it that Robert the Bruce himself had bestowed the piece as a gift to his beloved wife. There’d been hell to pay when the officers of the Antiquities Guild discovered he’d been taken in by the most elemental of masculine weaknesses—desire.

  But now, Gracie Mae Winters had once again crossed the Atlantic. She was here, in search of some other trusting soul to fleece.

  Why had she left America—what was she after?

  She’d been spotted disembarking at Southampton a week earlier. The Highland Antiquities Guild had dispatched him on this mission soon afterward. Her presence at the wedding was a significant clue to what had lured her back to Scotland. The bride was rumored to have brought a fortune in jewelry to the estate that would be her marital residence, but the Guild suspected Grace’s interests centered on a jeweled pin that had been in the groom’s family for centuries. The ruby-and-sapphire-laden MacGinty brooch was uniquely valuable, an ancient design tied to the heritage of the Highlands. He’d make bloody sure she didn’t get her slender hands on the heirloom. If Grace had come to this wedding for any purpose other than to convey her best wishes to the bride and groom, he’d find out.

  He’d stop her.

  And then, he’d see to it that she paid for her treachery.

  Chapter Two

  In Grace’s experience, getting her hands on what lay behind a supposedly secure barrier was a simple matter. A bit of ingenuity in fashioning a makeshift key combined with a smattering of patience was all she required to coax open a lock. Over the years, she’d gained access to any number of chambers, sturdy chests, and armoires.

  Finessing a safe, as her aunt dubbed the task, was a far more daunting prospect. She had mastered that skill by the age of sixteen, practicing the technique Aunt Thelma had taught her again and again before they’d attended that highbrow winter ball in a mansion on the Hudson River. Desperate to reclaim jewels taken by her lover after an affair had ended quite badly, a wealthy—and very much married—oil baron’s wife had paid Grace and her aunt to retrieve the piece. It hadn’t really been theft. Had it?

  In any case, the commission they’d received for that job had paid for a year of Claire’s education. As always, twinges of guilt had plagued Grace for weeks afterward, but the little pangs had been a small price to pay.

  Pulling in a long, low breath, she uttered another silent prayer. Her nerves should not betray her. After all, this job was no different from that very first venture. It w
asn’t as if she intended to keep the piece for herself. While Aunt Thelma often insisted on helping herself to a bauble or two, Grace shied away from pocketing any jewels or valuables. It wasn’t as if she was a true thief. She offered a service for a fee.

  Such a shame the law did not agree.

  Slipping away from the ballroom, she detoured into a small closet where she’d concealed her disguise behind a stack of neatly folded linens. The serviceable black wool skirt, starched white blouse, and pristine white cap that served as the uniform of the household staff at the mansion allowed her to blend into the scenery. She’d be rendered invisible to any of the guests she might encounter. An heiress or a noble had no interest in the actions of an austerely dressed housemaid.

  She scooped up a wool blanket. No one would question a maidservant bringing an extra layer of warm bedding to a guest. Moving quickly, her footfalls muffled by the plush carpeting in the corridors, she made her way to the room she’d come to search. The chamber should be empty, but there was no way to be sure the guest who occupied the room had not returned. She didn’t even know who that was. How odd that she’d been provided so few facts about a job of such importance. Her pulse sped. Steadying her nerves, she lightly rapped on the door, the blanket in her arms providing a plausible reason for her presence.

  When silence met her taps, Grace fished a skeleton key from her pocket, opened the white-painted door, then closed it behind her. A small squeak of the floorboard beneath her feet set her senses on full alert. Pushing aside a fresh wave of unease, she prowled through the darkened chamber.

  Navigating the near darkness, she placed the blanket on the bed, tiptoed to the bedside table, and lit a small oil lamp. After closing the door, she carried the lamp to the wardrobe and peered inside. Soft rays illuminated the cabinet. Judging from the garments in the spacious cabinet, a neatly pressed suit in the latest style, the person she’d come to steal from was a man. What had the mystery guest left behind in this room? She’d been given no information on what she’d been sent to retrieve, other than a vague description of the satchel that housed it. For all she knew, the traveling bag contained a fortune in stolen gems. Or a secret document purloined from a spy.

  Good heavens, what had she gotten herself into?

  She shook her head, as if doing so might clear out the alarming thoughts. The very idea that she might come upon something capable of inspiring a penny dreadful was ludicrous. She could not allow her imagination to get the better of her.

  Crouching low, she spotted a small leather case. That had to be it. Placing the lamp back on the table, she brought the case under the light. A doctor’s satchel in alligator skin with brass hardware. Ordinary enough, really. She examined the locks securing the bag. Two leather straps were buckled in place, each secured with a small padlock. Opening those would pose no challenge.

  The gleaming metal lock at the top of the bag was another story. The mechanism seemed designed to taunt a would-be thief. In nearly a decade of lock picking, she’d never seen anything quite like it. Her aunt might have relished the challenge, but time was of the essence. A key was required to release the lock—a key shaped like none she’d ever seen. Rather than the typical slender keyhole, the opening was broad, in the shape of a hexagon. Custom made, no doubt. Frowning, she puzzled over the barrier. Her tools would be of little help. She’d need to improvise. The task would slow her progress, but the challenge was not unsurmountable.

  On another night, working out a strategy would have proven intriguing. But now, the chill of apprehension intensified.

  Blast it! This was no time to be a goose. She had to get on with it. Plucking the cap off her head, she removed the silver comb that held her upswept tresses in place. Her hair tumbled loose, brushing the back of her neck. A few twists of the ornate accessory, and she freed a slender rod concealed within the longest of the three prongs. Tool in hand, she made short work of freeing the strap locks. Reaching up, she snagged two hairpins, contorted them around the pick, and inserted the metal into the top lock.

  Manipulating the makeshift key, she twisted it to open the lock. Stubbornly, the small bolt held tight. Drat the luck. Removing a pair of spectacles from her pocket, she leaned closer. The key she’d fashioned did an adequate job of holding the lock open. But she needed another tool. She retrieved another rod from her hair comb. A few sharp twists of the pick, and the lock surrendered.

  Lifting the lamp, she stared town at the satchel’s contents. Dim light gleamed against polished metal. Reaching into the case, she removed a rectangular box. The container was surprisingly heavy in her hands.

  Studying the box, she considered the best means to access its contents. The lock was ordinary enough. A basic tumbler mechanism. Any number of thieves might’ve been able to open it. Why would anyone go to such lengths to coerce her into breaking into this, a plain container with a latch a novice could break?

  Careful not to drop any of the small wooden segments, she fished the components of her listening tool from her skirt pocket. She’d designed the implement herself, an amplifier inspired by a physician’s stethoscope. After assembling the small, polished wood sections into a tube, she attached a rubber half sphere to one end. Cupping her ear with the soft rubber, she fastened a small stiff-leather hook over her ear to hold the device in place without the use of her hands.

  In a series of actions she’d performed many times over, she set about manipulating the dial. A click sounded the first success. Then another. Finally, the last tumbler slid into place, and the lock released.

  She peered down at the miniature vault. Her thumb rested on the latch. Letting out a breath, she lifted the lid.

  A small book lay within the box. A journal, bearing a simple keylock. Unadorned and utterly nondescript, it was not much larger than the palm of her hand. She removed it from the container. Surprise flickered through her at the weight of the volume.

  Something was very odd about that plain leather-bound book.

  Had someone concealed gold within its pages? Or some other heavy object?

  What in heaven had she been sent to retrieve?

  Hiking up her skirt, she grazed her fingertips along the rear seam of her petticoat, locating the hidden pocket she’d added for concealing valuables. No one would dare to search her there. The book slid easily into the canvas pouch, concealed beneath layers of fabric.

  A sudden creak and a flash of light pulled her attention to the doorway.

  Oh, dear. She was not alone.

  She closed the box without a sound.

  A man towered in the entry. Shadowed against the gaslit corridor, he remained faceless to her. But she could feel his eyes glaring at her as he closed and latched the door behind him.

  No amount of fresh linens would disguise what she’d been up to.

  With long strides, he came to her, seizing her by the shoulders. Fighting her sudden fear, she clasped the box within her hands. She couldn’t let him discover she’d already removed the book.

  She recognized him now. Some society type at the ball had introduced him to her aunt. Grace had overheard the conversation, brief as it was. George O’Hanlon. The Irishman had made a fortune in trade, not all of it legal, or so Aunt Thelma had said. Had she known that he was the man she’d been sent to rob?

  O’Hanlon’s silver-tinged hair had been combed back from his face. Tall and burly, the man was old enough to be her father. But the power in his hands revealed he still possessed considerable strength.

  His eyes gleamed with cold fury as he gave her a rough shake. “What in bloody hell do ye think ye’re doin’?”

  She swallowed against a little cry in the back of her throat as her mind raced. She couldn’t afford to be caught with the book. She had to get away.

  He shook her again. “Who sent ye?”

  “No one sent me,” she whispered, praying the tremor in her voice did not betray the blatant lie. “I thought…I thought you might have some trinket or other you wouldn’t miss.”

  �
��Trinket?” He stared down at the box. “What kind of fool do ye take me for?”

  “I…I’m sorry. I let greed get the better of me,” she murmured. “A rich man like yourself wouldn’t know the struggle to feed a family.”

  He dug his thumbs into the tender flesh beneath her collarbones, and she bit back a cry.

  “Ye think I give a damn about your family?”

  He’d hurt her before this was over and done. That much was sure. She had to find a way out of this mess, away from this brutal man.

  “No, sir.” Stalling, she cobbled together a desperate plan. “It’s just…I’m throwing myself on your mercy.”

  “I’ve got none of that.” His hands slid closer to her throat. “Now, tell me who sent ye. This place is crawling with riches, and yet, ye chose this room. Ye went after what’s mine. Why?”

  “I’ve already told you.”

  His gaze dropped to the tools she’d left lying on the floor. “Did ye open the box?”

  Still clutching the box, she shook her head as she edged away from his reach. “I know what I’ve done is wrong. I…I made a mistake.”

  His eyes narrowed as his mouth twisted into a travesty of a smile. “Ye have no idea.”

  The pendulum on the wall clock kept cadence with her heartbeat. She eyed the rod she’d used to open the lock on the satchel. Though slender, the probe was made of steel, pointed at one end, and sharp enough to pierce his skin. She might not kill him. But she’d buy herself time.

  She needed to get to the makeshift weapon before he did.

  “I won’t blame you if you call the constable,” she said, calculating her next move. Once she reached for the metal probe, there’d be no turning back.

  A thirst for violence colored his gaze. “By the time I’m through with ye, there will be no need for that.”

  Fear ran roughshod over reason. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. She had to get away.

  She took a step back. Then another. Little more than an arm’s length separated them. His mouth pulled into an ugly slash as he stalked after her, blocking her path to the door.