Tempting the Highland Spy (Highland Hearts) Page 7

  “Believe me, Miss Winters, we have discussed several alternatives. None of them will work,” Simon explained.

  She hiked her chin and pursed her lips, seeming to consider her words carefully. “Given it’s my neck on the line, I would think I deserved the courtesy of being included in the discussion.” She pulled in a breath. “While I understand the need for protection, this is taking the matter to the extreme.”

  “I disagree,” Simon replied coldly, “and that settles the matter.”

  “That’s not good enough.” She gave her head a brisk shake that set her long hair cascading over her shoulder. “Your dictates carry no weight with me.”

  “You are in no position to be setting terms,” he said.

  “You think not?” Grace challenged him. “Mr. Jones, I believed this bargain was between me and the United States government. If I’d known there would be interference from individuals who have no business telling me how to do my job, I would have refused your offer.”

  “There are good reasons for this change to our plan,” Jones said.

  Her delicate brows arched. “Such as?”

  “To begin with, the agent who will be responsible for your security must be able to protect you at all hours of the day and night. Only a man believed to be your husband can achieve this level of contact without arousing undue suspicion.”

  “A brother might…or another male family member.” Was that a twinge of desperation in her tone?

  “We considered that option. It won’t work.” Simon regarded her silently. “You are not unknown in the Highlands, Miss Winters. You have forged social connections, the very links to Miss Fairchild that are of great value to this mission.”

  She nibbled her lower lip. “That won’t matter. I never discussed family connections, or the lack of them.”

  Simon kneaded the back of his neck. “There’s another aspect to consider. You may encounter persons who were guests at the Houghton Manor wedding last year. Or perhaps, they were present at the wedding where you helped yourself to Lady Caversham’s jewels. In both cases, you and Harrison spent a good bit of time…” He paused to clear his throat. “Socializing. No one of sound mind would have confused the two of you as siblings, or kin of any kind, for that matter—especially if they observed your demeanor on the dance floor.

  Grace’s features fell. “Damn.” Her softly spoken word rippled through the room like a crack of lightning.

  “I second the sentiment,” Harrison said. “Would it help if I vowed to be a gentleman?”

  “No,” she said, with a curt shake of her head.

  “Upon my mother’s grave?”

  Her mouth thinned to a razor’s edge. “As I recall, your mother is very much alive and was delighted that she would soon be a grandmother. Has tragedy befallen your family?”

  “Bloody hell, Harrison, it’s not good form to make such jests,” Simon muttered.

  “My ever-so-serious brother is correct. That was out of line.” Harrison smiled despite his best intentions. “Our mother was delighted when my brother’s wife gave birth to a bonny wee babe. A pretty little lass, if I do say so.”

  She shot him a glare. “Evidently, your promise holds no true value.”

  “You wound me, Grace. I am a man of my word. You should know that.”

  “I cannot attest to any such thing.”

  A faint rapping rattled the door. Three taps. A pause. Two taps. A longer pause, then a quartet of staccato knocks.

  With a nod to Jones, Simon moved to the door. After confirming the new arrival’s identity, he escorted her to join them.

  Harrison gazed into the eyes of the person who’d once been the bane of his existence.

  Good God! Simon had summoned Mrs. Carmichael.

  When she’d been a much younger woman, Mrs. Carmichael—she’d been Miss Fielding in those days—had been an ever-demanding governess. When Harrison was a lad, she’d seldom, if ever, missed an opportunity to address and correct her charges’ conduct. A staunch believer that the devil made work for idle hands, the teacher his brother Gerard had dubbed the Untamed Shrew expected discipline at all times.

  Ironically, Gerard had possessed an impressive ability to charm the woman into turning a blind eye to at least some of his youthful indiscretions. Simon and his sister Serena had impressed their governess with keen academic ability, while Connor had won her over with his irreverent good nature and easy mastery of the self-defense tactics she taught with the same precision she demanded in their Latin studies. But Harrison’s penchant for scientific experimentation and the occasional—well, perhaps frequent was the more accurate word—incidents that followed his endeavors never failed to rile her. Not that the governess’s dismay had hindered his endeavors. Even as a lad, not quite tall enough to look Mrs. Carmichael in the eye, he’d engaged her in what seemed a perpetual clash of wills.

  His younger brothers and sister had been spared her exacting demands. By the time they came of age for a tutor, Mrs. Carmichael had spoken her vows with another agent in the Guild. She’d left the MacMasters’ family home, Dunnhaven, on a summer’s day in a carriage with her groom. Harrison had waved farewell with perhaps more enthusiasm than seemed proper, wisely deciding against literally dancing a jig as the coach rattled off into the distance.

  Widowed after a decade of marriage, Mrs. Carmichael was considered one of the Guild’s most accomplished agents.

  And now, she was here.

  So, purgatory does exist.

  A rueful grin tugged at his lips. At least Simon had cleared up that eternal mystery for him.

  The Untamed Shrew clutched the handle of a long umbrella in her slender hands. A blend of exasperation, criticism, and an emotion that might have actually been fondness danced in her gray-blue eyes.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. MacMasters,” she said with a falsely cheerful lilt. Dressed in deep blue from the tip of her hat to the hem of her skirt, the salt-and-pepper-haired matron was tall for a woman, her build as slender as her strained smile.

  “Good afternoon,” he replied.

  Her pale eyes narrowed, and she leaned closer, inspecting a spot on his lapel. With her free hand, she snatched away a speck of lint he hadn’t noticed against the tweed fabric. “Ah, that’s better.”

  Trying not to grit his teeth in irritation, he met her thin smile. “This is a surprise, I must say.”

  “I’m sure it is. I have to admit, I did not quite know what to expect when I received Simon’s communiqué.”

  “Communiqué?” Harrison parroted.

  Ignoring his question, Mrs. Carmichael shifted her attention to Grace, appearing to size her up with a sweep of her pinched gaze.

  “Hello, dear. You must be the thief.”

  Grace blinked, then blinked again. “My, aren’t you the bold one?” Her voice was warmer than the icy flash in her eyes.

  “I’ve always believed in getting the truth out there. No need to be coy.” Mrs. Carmichael toyed with the umbrella. “Please, do not misunderstand me. I have the highest admiration for a talented confidence artist. So many underestimate the skill required to lure in some rich bloke and take what you want, leaving the gullible fool none the wiser.”

  “I would not describe my activities in quite that manner.”

  “Of course, dear. I’ve been told your operations were far more sophisticated.” Mrs. Carmichael’s admiration sounded sincere. “In any case, I do look forward to our collaboration. It will be a pleasure to observe your technique.”

  Grace’s mouth formed a perfect, delectable O. “I must admit to being thoroughly confused.”

  The matron turned to Simon. “You did not tell them I was coming?”

  “I’d planned to…you are a bit early, after all.”

  “Well, I do enjoy the element of surprise,” she said with a wry tone.

  “So it would seem,” Simon replied.

  “Dear, dear, where are your manners?” she lightly scolded. “I suppose I shall simply have to introduce myself.”
She extended a hand to Grace. “Mrs. Margaret Carmichael, senior agent, Highland Antiquities Guild, at your service. I will be your bodyguard.”

  Chapter Eight

  “My bodyguard?”

  Grace had not intended to utter the question aloud, but the words seemed to pop out on their own. My goodness, this woman looked as if she’d be blown away in a brisk wind. Why on earth would anyone appoint a reed-thin matron who was old enough to be Grace’s mother to provide security?

  And why did she need another bodyguard? Wouldn’t Harrison’s protection suffice? Something peculiar was going on here, and she would get to the bottom of it before she went along with this scheme.

  Mrs. Carmichael formed her features into a serene mask. She was likely telling the truth about being an agent. She’d quickly shifted her expression to reveal little emotion.

  “I will be traveling with the two of you. While we are on this mission, I shall assume the role of your social secretary.”

  “I have no idea what use one even has for a social secretary,” Grace admitted. “Won’t others notice the change? After all, I’ve never employed one in the past.”

  “Pishposh,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “Do not trouble yourself over insignificant details. Focus on the job at hand, and I will provide an extra pair of eyes to watch over the both of you.”

  “It’s quite a brilliant idea, actually,” Simon said. “Mrs. Carmichael deserves the credit. Jones and I were discussing the obvious dilemma posed by this plan—Miss Winters deserves to be treated as a lady even as she undertakes this assignment, but the masquerade as husband and wife demands the appearance of shared quarters—when I decided to seek out a woman’s advice. As usual, Mrs. Carmichael devised a viable solution. Her presence creates a need for a second room—a room she will share with you, Miss Winters.”

  Grace considered the proposition. Perhaps, she might work this to her advantage. “While I do appreciate your concern for me, I believe my aunt would be a more logical choice to accompany us. Aunt Thelma made many a dear friendship while we traveled together.”

  Dropping the reserve he wore like a mask, Simon MacMasters stared at her with a look of sheer incredulity while the others shook their heads in unison.

  “That’s…that’s not going to work. Mrs. McTavish is certainly not unknown in Scotland. She leaves an indelible mark wherever she goes.” Mr. Jones tapped the vest pocket of his jacket. “As a matter of fact, I do believe the old girl helped herself to my watch. She’s quick, and she’s good—I’ll give her that.”

  With what appeared to be a Herculean effort, Simon banished the astonishment from his face. “While your aunt does possess a certain charm, it’s more likely than not that someone she’s pilfered from will notice her and put two and two together. In addition, we cannot count on her to restrain her larcenous impulses. Her conduct with Count Alphonso last night is proof of that. We can’t take the chance.”

  Leaning casually against the sideboard, Harrison kept his thoughts to himself. The taut set of his jaw suggested he might actually prefer Aunt Thelma’s presence to that of the wiry matron.

  “You’ve no need for concern, dear. We’ll have a grand time.” Mrs. Carmichael dangled the umbrella from her hand, softly swinging it back and forth like a pendulum. “Mr. Jones, may I conduct a demonstration?”

  “I’m not going to like this, am I?” Jones replied, his tone dry as a desert.

  “You would like it a lot less if I were not merely making a point.” She slanted Grace a glance. “Dear, does your aunt know how to do this?”

  With a sudden lunge, she pressed the tip of the umbrella to the underside of Mr. Jones’s jaw, directly below his earlobe. Instinctively, he grasped his hands around the improvised weapon, but she merely smiled and nudged the steel nub into his skin.

  Grace bit back a gasp. Though the agent had offered a warning, her display of skill was jarring nonetheless.

  “If I had reason to be thoroughly unpleasant, I could kill a man with this umbrella,” Mrs. Carmichael said coolly.

  Jones’s eyes had hardened, dark as ebony. “You can take that damned thing away from me now.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Carmichael said with a hint of cheek as she pulled back her weapon. “I won’t go into the more upsetting details of what one could do with this tool, but suffice it to say, it’s quite lethal under the right circumstances.”

  Grace watched as he rubbed the reddened spot on his throat. “I can well imagine.”

  “I do apologize if I was a trifle overzealous, Mr. Jones. You may have a bruise,” the woman said.

  “I’ll live.” Jones continued to rub his neck. “I damn well wouldn’t want to tangle with her.”

  Simon turned to his brother. “You haven’t said anything. What are your thoughts?”

  Harrison kept his features unreadable. “She’ll do.”

  Mrs. Carmichael flashed him a wry smile. “I so appreciate your abundance of confidence.”

  Grace mulled the situation. This could work. Mrs. Carmichael would serve as a buffer between Harrison and herself. She’d rather share a room with Lady MacBeth than face Harrison’s cool contempt at all hours of the day and night. The matron would be a far more pleasant companion.

  “Well, I for one was most impressed by your defensive prowess. I stand thoroughly convinced of your abilities, Mrs. Carmichael,” she said.

  “Thank you, Miss Winters. Please, call me Margaret. I predict we shall become the dearest of friends,” the agent said in a tone so saccharine, Grace wondered if she were teasing her.

  “And you must call me Grace.”

  Simon frowned impatiently. “Now that we’ve settled that matter, we can move along. Of course, it will be imperative that you maintain appearances. No one must suspect you are not actually sharing a room with your husband.”

  “Of course.” She’d engaged in far more challenging charades.

  Perhaps this would not be so bad after all.

  Then again, that is what she’d told herself when Aunt Thelma proposed their ill-fated endeavor in New York, the job that had led them into Jones’s snare.

  This time would be different.

  She had to believe that.

  If only she could convince herself.

  …

  The next morning, Grace awoke nestled between cool, clean sheets that smelled of lemons, in a finely appointed hotel room fit for a noble’s daughter. With a sigh, she glared at the rays of first light streaming through a gap between the curtains. The dawn had not come any earlier than usual, but somehow, it seemed an intrusion, stirring her from slumber far too soon. Sleep had not come easily, but now, after she’d finally managed to escape into her dreams, the sun had roused her from rest.

  Tugging the covers up to her chin, she stared at the ceiling, mentally tracing the swirls in the plaster. The bed was comfortable, exceedingly so. Pity she hadn’t been able to mute her troubled thoughts throughout the night. Worry had invaded her dreams.

  The subtle dread seemed a constant presence. She had to shake off her apprehension. This wasn’t like her. She’d had years to harden herself. Years to learn how to control the doubt.

  Years to turn off her emotions.

  For so long, she’d worn a pleasant, smiling mask. Pretending to be something she was not. Pretending to live a life that did not really exist. She wasn’t even sure who Gracie Mae Winters truly was.

  She was certain of this much—she could not let her sister suffer for the mistakes she’d made.

  If only she could turn back time. How different their lives would have been if only she’d stayed away from the ice that horrid winter day—the day when everything had changed.

  Rolling onto her side, she gave the pillow a sound punch. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if doing so would push away the thoughts, the memories that tormented her day and night. There was no sense dwelling on the past. No power on earth could change the destruction one foolish, childish act of defiance had wrought.

  Over the years, A
unt Thelma had tried to help. In her own way, she’d done all she could to snatch Grace away from the unforgiving clutches of a grief so profound, she’d wondered if she would ever recover. Her aunt had found a way to provide for the children she’d never expected to raise, leaving no doubt she loved them with all her heart.

  Now, Grace would do whatever it took to help her. She’d get through this final task.

  And then, they’d live their lives in peace.

  Happily ever after.

  The fairy-tale words drifted through her thoughts, but she mentally swatted them away. Such blather was the stuff of fantasy. In her own reality, she would be content simply living out her years without having to look over her shoulder, secure in the knowledge that Claire was settled and happy. A modicum of comfort would do nicely, a small house of her own with a cat curled by the hearth. If only that future didn’t seem as much a fantasy as happily ever after.

  Pulling herself from the bed, she slipped a robe over her nightdress. She’d awoken early, despite the late hour when she’d finally crawled into bed. Truth be told, it seemed a miracle she’d slept at all.

  Padding over the thick carpet, she moved to the dresser and poured water in the basin. She let out a long breath as she splashed water on her face. Goodness, her nerves were on full alert. Was it any wonder? She was set to depart for Stirling within a few hours. She’d be expected to keep her fears and emotions at bay. How would she endure so much time with Harrison, knowing full well that he held her in contempt?

  After he’d come to her rescue with O’Hanlon, he’d regarded her with eyes that seemed to be seeing the truth for the first time. She’d seen disillusionment so profound, it brought pain merely to think of it. On some level, she’d hurt him.

  And now, he detested her for it.

  A wave of anger swept over her. He had no right to look at her like that. Who was he to condemn her for deception? He certainly had secrets of his own. When she’d first made his acquaintance, he’d claimed to be a physician. Dignified. Proper. A gentleman with a soft brogue and a keen intelligence she’d found as seductive as his kiss. Only after Harrison and his brother had foiled an assassin’s murderous plot had she become aware of the cold reality—as skilled with weapons as he was a healer, Harrison MacMasters was far more than a refined man of medicine. He appeared to lead a double life, filled with danger and covert investigations.