When a Lady Kisses a Scot Read online

  “I needed a diversion.” Swallowing against a fresh wave of apprehension, she met his eyes. “You provided it.”

  “A diversion? Is that what you call this blasted charade?”

  She took a step in retreat. “You’ve no idea how very helpful you’ve been.”

  “You expect me to accept what just occurred without question?”

  “You’ve a right to your questions.” She held his gaze. “And I’ve a right to answer them as I choose.”

  “Bloody hell.” The gravel-edged brogue in his voice stirred something deep within her, something she didn’t wish to awaken.

  Again, he caught her gloved hand in his. The heat of his body seared through the lace. “What kind of mad game are you playing?”

  “If only this were a game.”

  His eyes hardened, and he pulled her closer. “I’ve no intention of letting you walk away without an explanation.”

  “As I see it, your intentions do not signify. You don’t even know me.”

  “You’re wrong.” Gently, he pressed a hand to her cheek, as if to confirm the truth for himself. “I know your touch, Rose. Did you think I could ever forget it?”

  She gave a desperate shake of her head. She had to break away. If only her blasted heart would cooperate.

  Hiking her chin, she steadied her voice. “I needed a distraction. You were kind enough to provide it. And that is where this ends…where we end.”

  “What just occurred was bloody madness. But your kiss is still quite the temptation. Rather surprising, wouldn’t you say, considering you’ve been dead for years?”

  Her heart shuddered. Every moment with him left her more vulnerable than the last.

  “I am sorry.” She slipped away from his hold. “The woman you knew left this world a long time ago.”

  …

  MacAllister Campbell had learned long ago to accept two bitter facts of life—loss was an inevitable part of existence, and honor was the only thing no one could steal.

  So many years had passed since his blasted sense of honor had compelled him to leave the woman he’d adored. Months later, he’d bowed his head as the bone-deep misery of grief had washed over him. His first and only love had perished in a tragic accident. The loss had damned near gutted him.

  Now, like a viper crawling from its den, that pain reared its head anew.

  Rose is alive. How is that even possible?

  When the beautiful woman had barreled into him, he’d stared down at her, stunned by her resemblance to Rose.

  At first, his mind had not comprehended the truth.

  Until he’d touched her.

  The moment he’d done so, he’d known the truth.

  The woman he’d loved still lived. A profound joy had surged through him. Until the bitter reality washed over him, like a torrential rain he hadn’t seen coming. For years, Rose had let him suffer the agony of believing she’d died that day—swept away in the river’s current as her brother lay dead by the wreckage of their carriage.

  And now, as he watched her rush into the Larkspear Theater, his mind raced. Who—and what—awaited her there?

  Anger surged through his body. The cold, ugly sensation set his teeth on edge. He’d believed Rose was lost to him—forever.

  His grief had defied description.

  And it had all been predicated on a lie.

  On deception.

  A single question gnawed at him above all others.

  Why?

  Why had she run? And why had she—and her aunt, who had surely known the truth—lived this lie?

  Now, she was in trouble. In his bones, he knew that. Rose had dulled the lustrous red in her hair, and her lace veil partially concealed her delicate features. But he’d seen the fear flash in her eyes. Not of him. No, she seemed to trust him. She’d been searching the crowd around them.

  She was running from someone.

  What the hell is going on?

  Had someone hurt her? An old, familiar protectiveness crawled out of hibernation. The instinct to defend her still burned strong, defying even his anger at a betrayal that cut to the marrow.

  As a younger man, he’d been a fool. He never should’ve left her. He should’ve taken her with him to London, honor be damned.

  Believing Rose was dead had been a quiet hell, a torment he could not escape.

  But now, she was in trouble.

  He would not let her face it alone.

  He’d protect her, no matter the cost.

  Chapter Two

  Rose smoothed her skirts, easing the crinkles from the dusky blue silk. Reaching up, she tucked a rebellious tendril of hair behind her ear. It wouldn’t do to appear disheveled as she made her way about the grand theater, mingling with the heiresses and nobles who’d turned out for the evening performance. She needed to blend in. If she drew the wrong kind of attention, her contact was likely to stay hidden, concealed among the crowd of well-to-do Londoners.

  The letter she’d received from her hired investigator had been most specific. Mr. Crabtree had located an informant who possessed evidence connecting Merrick to her aunt’s death. They’d offered an exchange—crucial facts for a substantial price. Rose would receive the information—in whatever form it might take—while the hundreds in the theater took in the performance.

  Mr. Crabtree had provided Rose with a ticket to a private theater box. He had assured her the evidence she sought would be found there, but he couldn’t say precisely who—or what—would be waiting for her.

  Struggling to maintain an air of nonchalance, she entered the small compartment.

  She was alone.

  As she discreetly swept her gaze over the space, her attention flickered to the heavy brocade draperies. Was it possible something had been left for her within their folds, or bunched under the carpet beneath her feet? Nothing. With a subtle motion, she dropped her fan to the floor and dipped low to peek under a chair. Rising, she eased her curls back into place and sighed.

  Had this been nothing more than a wild goose chase?

  An unexpected knock startled her. A young man in an usher’s uniform entered without waiting for an answer.

  “Miss Lily York?” Addressing her with the alias she’d adopted, he presented her with an envelope. “I’ve been asked to deliver this to you.”

  “Thank—”

  The door closed abruptly behind him.

  Her pulse pounding in her ears, she opened the envelope.

  A skeleton key bearing a number etched on its shaft lay within the heavy paper.

  Her heart raced. Perhaps the key fit a lock on a dressing room. It seemed a clear invitation.

  But what if it was a trap? What would she encounter if she responded to the unwritten summons?

  As she grasped the key, a whisper of warning prickled along her nape. She shook it off. By Minerva’s spear, she would not be daunted by her own trepidation.

  She would find the answers she needed.

  She would see that Merrick faced justice.

  Finally, she would be free of the terror that had haunted her for years.

  Quietly, she left the box. The weight of the gun in the velvet reticule tethered to her wrist provided a measure of reassurance. If someone lay in wait, they would find themselves on the wrong end of her Sharps Pepperbox.

  As she found her way to the dressing rooms, the swells of the orchestra reached her ears. Whoever had arranged this had intended the others in the theater to be engrossed in the opera while she ventured from the private box.

  Pushing past a flicker of hesitation, she inserted the key in the lock and slowly opened the door. A single oil lamp on a small round table cast light over what appeared to be an unused chamber. A leather-bound journal rested at the base of the lamp. Had it been left for her?

  She entered the room, closed the door behind her, and examined the small book. Leafing through the volume, she swiftly scanned its contents. Page after page, the ivory vellum was unmarked—save for a single page bearing her fath
er’s name, inscribed in a bold hand.

  John Fleming.

  A postcard-sized photograph tucked between two pages slipped from the journal.

  Narrowing her gaze, she took in the youthful faces captured by the camera’s lens. Four men and a woman had posed for the camera, each dressed in a flowing, embroidered garment.

  A vein in her temple began to throb. Good heavens! Was that her father?

  Lifting the image closer, she studied it. She’d been seventeen at the time of her father’s death, certainly old enough to remember his manner, his style of dress, his personality. He’d always been such a proper man. She’d seldom seen him without a waistcoat and tie. He’d been quiet, as well. Withdrawn, really, and utterly serious. Certainly not the type to attend a masquerade.

  The young man in the photograph seemed to stare back at her with an intent gaze. In the image, his dark hair bore no touch of gray, and he’d combed it back, not a strand out of place. He’d regarded the camera as one might confront an adversary, with no trace of humor touching his expression. A full robe like what she imagined a medieval king might wear covered his clothing. Like those his companions wore, the garment bore a symbol—the falcon.

  A mark which precisely matched the tattoo on her left hip.

  Around her, the air felt thin. Gripping the back of a chair to steady her suddenly weak knees, she forced herself to examine the photograph.

  One of the men in the image was a fair-haired young buck. She’d never before seen the handsome gent. Nor the lovely woman at his side with raven hair and immense eyes.

  But the third man in the photograph—now that was a different story.

  She knew his face. Youth could not disguise the cur’s identity. Nor the viciousness that flared in his eyes, despite the slight twist of a smile on his lips.

  The ground swayed beneath her feet.

  Or was that the near-buckling of her own knees?

  Cyril Merrick stood behind her father.

  Why had her father associated with such evil?

  The question sliced through her heart.

  Breathing deeply to steady herself, she tucked the photograph and journal into a pocket hidden within the flowing folds of her silk skirt. She’d had the garment made for her performances on the stage of her New York tavern—the blackjack she concealed within the pocket had proven useful when overly enthusiastic patrons did not abide by her rules.

  Beyond the door, heavy footsteps thudded along the corridor. Edging close to the wall, she extinguished the light and slipped the gun from her reticule. If someone entered, she would have the advantage of surprise.

  The steady march neared the room, then continued on. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Quietly, she opened the door, waiting out of sight, gun in hand.

  Had the informant decided to maintain their faceless anonymity? Had she risked her safety for this rendezvous, only to receive nothing more than a cryptic clue?

  Squaring her shoulders, she braced herself and slid the gun she still clutched into her pocket. The corridor was quiet. Too quiet.

  She left the room and calmly made her way along the corridor. A man in an elegant top hat approached and offered a thin smile, then continued to one of the dressing rooms. A woman in full costume hurried by without sparing her a glance.

  As she neared the auditorium, the sound of the audience’s applause reassured her. She was no longer alone. No longer vulnerable.

  Ducking into a corridor, she placed the gun in her velvet bag.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the usher who’d delivered the missive. He came straight to her and boldly pressed another note into her hand.

  “For you, miss.” Offering no further explanation, he turned on his heel and walked away.

  What the devil is this about? She’d come to meet with the informant, not be led on a merry chase. Tearing loose the wax seal, she peered down at the scrawled message.

  Do not leave.

  Her heart raced. She’d come to learn the truth.

  Could she bear to face it?

  Returning to the theater box, she turned the latch and stepped inside.

  This time, she was not alone. A woman with vivid blue eyes and a complexion as pale as fine linen met her gaze. Seated in a polished wood and wicker wheelchair, she wore an elegant, black velvet gown and pearl ear fobs that drew attention to her beautiful face. Beneath the gaslight, silver strands glimmered in her upswept dark hair, while a triple strand of pearls connected by a delicate cameo graced the woman’s long, elegant neck. Something about her delicate, finely lined features was oddly familiar.

  Had they met in the past?

  The woman’s thin mouth crooked at the corners, not quite a smile. Something about the expression in this seemingly harmless woman’s gaze set Rose on edge. “I’m glad you returned.”

  Rose’s pulse thudded in her ears, but she kept her tone measured. “Who are you?”

  “My, you are your father’s daughter. So very impatient.” The seemingly innocent words bore an unexpected coldness.

  “How well did you know him?”

  “I understood the man. I knew what drove him. Perhaps, better than most.”

  Rose swallowed against a wave of apprehension. “I came here seeking information. You’ve provided yet another piece of the puzzle. But no answers.”

  “In time, you will find I’ve offered you the key to discovering the truth.” Derision marked her cultured tone. “I must warn you—once you discover what you’re after, you may well regret it.”

  “I am willing to take that chance.”

  The woman’s thin brows drew together. “I can well imagine the questions you must have.” She patted the chair at her side. “Come, dear. Please join me.”

  Rose moved to the seat, perching on the edge. Closer now, she took in the nuances of the woman’s features.

  Somehow, she knew her face.

  She’d seen those eyes before.

  The photograph tucked between the pages of the journal flashed through her thoughts.

  Dear God. It’s her.

  …

  MacAllister leaned against the bar at the Hawk’s Nest Tavern, keeping an eye on the door. He’d given his driver instructions to watch for Rose if she left the theater before the end of the play. Given the look of fear that had drawn her features tight, the odds she’d actually gone in for the performance were slim.

  The barkeep glanced at the nearly full stein in Mac’s hand. “Ye’re wound tight as a watch spring. Somethin’ on yer mind?”

  “No.”

  The affable giant who went by the name Gus wiped a spill off the counter. “Ye’re a bloody poor liar, ye know that, Campbell?”

  Mac swirled the amber liquid in the glass. Gus was right, but there was no point continuing this conversation. God knew he couldn’t explain how the woman he’d mourned for years had wound up in his arms, only to rush away.

  “Nothing new there.” He took a swig of ale as the door swung open.

  As a rush of cool air brushed over Mac, a large-boned man with filthy dark hair strode inside and cut a path to the bar.

  By hellfire, Mac had seen that cold-eyed face before. Years earlier, the London Herald had published an exposé that had brought Arthur Brock’s crimes to the attention of Scotland Yard. Brock had dodged the hangman by singing like a bird about his ruthless employer. Mac had recently gotten word that the mob enforcer was now a free man. Brock had been lying low since his release. What the hell was he doing now?

  “Will it be an ale for ye tonight, sir?” Gus eyed the man with a practiced wariness.

  Brock nodded. Placing a coin on the counter, he took the drink and sidled closer to the bar. “I’m looking for a woman.”

  “This is a quality establishment. Ye won’t be finding any of that sort here.”

  “I’m not lookin’ for a doxy, mate. The woman I’m after fancies herself to be a lady. Pretty redhead—but these days, she’s darkened her hair—comes to here
on me.” He motioned to his chin. “She knows how to connive her way into a man’s protection. She calls herself Lily.”

  Mac’s fingers tightened around the handle of the stein. Was the bastard talking about Rose?

  “There’s no one named Lily here,” Gus said.

  Brock’s eyes narrowed. “Ye’re sure of that?”

  “You heard the man,” Mac spoke up.

  “The wench has somethin’ that belongs to me. I’m intendin’ to get it back. If ye’re hiding her, ye will regret it.”

  The alarm in Mac’s thoughts blared louder. He’d sensed Rose had been running from someone. Was this bastard pursuing her?

  Gus shot the blighter a scowl. “I don’t want trouble in here. You need to leave.”

  “If the woman’s not here, there won’t be any trouble.” Brock slopped more of the ale into his mouth. “I’ll be gone soon enough. But mark my words—if the wench is here, I won’t forget that.”

  Gus leaned over the counter. “Get the hell out of here. Now.”

  Mac kept his eyes on the brute. “You heard the man.”

  “Bugger off.” Biting the words between his teeth, Brock slammed the stein down on the counter and stalked away. “If ye see her, tell her I’m lookin’ for her.”

  The door crashed shut behind him.

  Mac slid a few coins to the barkeep. “If a woman fitting that description shows up, send a messenger for me.”

  “Aye, I’ll be sure to do that,” Gus said with a nod. “That bloke is trouble.”

  “Watch your back, my friend.”

  “You as well, Campbell.”

  Mac ambled to the door, his walking stick swinging in an easy rhythm. “As long as I have my trusty companion at my side, I’ve no worries.”

  Chapter Three

  Studying the woman in black, Rose stood transfixed. High cheekbones. Strikingly intense eyes. A mouth that bore no trace of warmth. The shock of recognition crashed into Rose like a cold, storm-tossed wave. This was the woman in the photograph with her father. Garbed in an embellished robe, her fingers intertwined with those of a killer, she’d been young and very beautiful then. But there was no mistaking the set of her mouth or the coldness in the woman’s indigo gaze.