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CHAPTER 1
Edinburgh
April 1893
Desire is a powerful weapon, Gracie. Never let a man turn the tables on you ...
Splaying open her fan to conceal her features, Grace Winters silently repeated her aunt's words as she peered over the ivory lace. Why in heaven's name was the Highlander here? She'd considered many obstacles that might upend the scheme that had lured her back to Scotland.
But she had not counted on him.
As she edged toward the heavy damask curtains at the periphery of the ballroom, her gaze trailed Harrison MacMasters's path. With long, confident strides, he navigated the crush of people who'd gathered to celebrate an American heiress's wedding to an honest-to-goodness baron. While greeting the groom's perfectly poised mother, he'd offered a measured smile, but no number of civil pleasantries could conceal the taut set of Harrison's jaw. He was neither relaxed, nor at ease. Whatever his reason for attending this celebration, he had not come to honor a simple social obligation.
Even before she'd caught sight of him, she'd detected Harrison's presence on some elemental level, one she could not hope to explain. Her primal awareness defied both reason and her determination to ignore the slight acceleration of her pulse that came into play every time he drew near. She resisted the urge to move closer, to openly drink in his chiseled features and lean, muscular body.
How well she remembered the feel of his touch against her skin. The scent of him. The taste of his kiss.
Standing in the shadows, Grace observed Harrison's movements. A current of electric tension coursed through her veins. Her fingertips lightly skimmed the tatted fabric of her fan as she drew in a calming breath. The fragrance of lilies in bloom filled her senses. The dowager baroness had spared no expense for the wedding ball — of course, now that her son had spoken his vows and restored the family fortune in the process, money was no object.
Her fingers tightened around the fan. If only she could shake the unease that gripped her. She could not allow her emotions to get the better of her.
Unlike Aunt Thelma, she'd never enjoyed this dubious work. The old woman enjoyed the plotting, working out every detail of a plan, creating disguises that garnered trust. After her targets let down their guard, the rest was child's play. Or so Aunt Thelma insisted. For Grace, it was anything but easy.
After all these years, her conscience should not trouble her. Time after time, she'd executed her aunt's schemes without a hitch. She had a job to do. Nothing more. It wasn't personal. No one would be hurt.
But tonight, something was different.
Something was wrong.
Apprehension crept over her like cold fingertips gliding over her nape. Blast it, she was letting her nerves whittle away at her confidence. She'd undertaken far more perilous exploits in the past. In the Highlands, her aunt's bold conniving had nearly brought them to the brink of disaster. She'd been thankful to get away undetected. She wondered if she really did have a guardian angel watching over her. She bit back a little smile at the thought. After years of Thelma's schemes, Grace did not doubt her celestial benefactor was thoroughly exhausted.
Perhaps that explained what had happened in New York.
Or perhaps, they'd simply become too confident for their own good.
But that fiasco was over and done. By the stroke of midnight, her role in this plan would be complete. Her debt would be paid. The time of taking risks was nearly over.
The steamer bound for America was scheduled to depart soon after dawn.
She would be on that vessel.
Soon, she would be home. She could breathe easy then.
And she'd never have to do another job.
Grace would never have to worry about her sister's future. Or her own.
But first, she had to steer clear of Harrison MacMasters. Darkening her hair had proven a wise move. He wasn't likely to spot her in the crowd. If she kept out of his sight, she could quietly slip away to complete her task.
She slid Aunt Thelma a sidelong glance. Flirting outrageously with a silver-haired European count whose elegant tailoring emphasized his broad shoulders and lean physique, her aunt was in fine form. The gentleman basked in the attention the matron was only too happy to provide. Pity the noble might soon find himself missing the ruby stickpin in his cravat.
In the middle of a fawning laugh, Aunt Thelma met her gaze. Her beaming smile faded as she excused herself and wove her way to Grace. Her mouth pulled taut.
"What are you thinking, Gracie? You should be mingling ... you never know who will say something that will be of use later. Champagne has a way of loosening lips."
"There's not going to be a later."
"Come now, dear. You don't mean that."
"You think not?" Grace cocked a brow. "I should not have come here tonight. I should have followed my instincts."
Her aunt waved away her words. "Your instincts? You've been listening to me for years, and everything has been splendid. Couldn't be better."
"I beg to disagree. We're taking chances we can't afford to take."
"What's got into you? It's not like you to harbor such doubt."
Grace resisted the urge to glance in Harrison's direction. "Something's come up ... something I had not anticipated."
"I believe you mean someone." Aunt Thelma's voice was a raspy whisper. Her eyes narrowed in accusation. "I saw him come in."
For a heartbeat, Grace wished she could simply slip away from her aunt's penetrating gaze. "Did you know MacMasters would be here?"
"Of course not," Aunt Thelma said. "Not that it would have made any difference. Our best chance at getting what we've come for is tonight. All eyes are on the bride."
"True." Grace composed her thoughts as she studied the intricate lace of her fan. "Still, we may need to reconsider our plan for the evening."
"You're not getting soft on me, are you?" Aunt Thelma's eyes hardened. "Don't try to hide the truth from me, Gracie. I saw how you looked at that man last year ... during that Scottish wedding."
"Your imagination is running wild," Grace replied quickly. Too quickly. And too defensively. "But the fact remains, if he sees me tonight, he's bound to have questions."
The lines around Aunt Thelma's mouth deepened. "You were a blonde at that wedding. He may not remember you."
Grace shook her head. "He will remember me."
Of that, she was certain. After the Highland wedding nearly a year earlier, she'd shared an all-too-brief interlude with the Scot. Every cell in her body had craved a connection with him. She'd seen no harm in indulging her yearning, if only for one delectable night.
Within hours of their encounter, she'd left the Highlands.
Seeing him again had not been part of the plan.
Her night with Harrison MacMasters was supposed to have been a delicious memory. Nothing more.
She never should have returned to Scotland. But there was nothing to be done about it now. It wouldn't be long before she was home — for good. She'd purchase a modest house in Virginia and ensure that her younger sister would never have to tread the path fate had laid out for Grace. Claire would enjoy the benefit of a fine education. Someday, her sister would follow her dream of becoming a teacher. And perhaps, when the time was right, the darling girl who looked so very much like their mother would meet a fine, respectable young man who'd cherish Claire's gentle laugh and kind heart.
Aunt Thelma's brow furrowed. "Well, Gracie, you can't just lurk here, hiding behind that fan. You're not going to let us down, are you?"
"Of course not." Grace let out a breath. "But I will not take foolish chances."
Her aunt briskly waved away the notion. "When have I ever asked you to take an unnecessary chance?"
"To your way of thinking, the end justifies the means, no matter what those means entail. I'm not certain I agree."
"After all these years, I still need to know I can depend on you. I meant what I said — don't let me down."
"I'll take care of my part of this scheme." The words tasted bitter on Grace's tongue.
"Make sure you do." Her aunt's expression softened. "And Gracie — do be careful, dear."
"You've no reason to worry about me."
"Now that's what I want to hear." With a hint of a smile, Aunt Thelma turned back to the silver-haired noble. "I'd best be on my way. I have a feeling the count and I should become better acquainted."
With an enthusiastic swish of her hips, she wove her way through the crowd.
Snapping her fan closed, Grace plastered on a pleasant expression and surveyed the ballroom. She had to maintain the sweet-natured façade she'd perfected, the mask that enabled her survival — even if the very last man on the planet she'd wanted to see just happened to be under the same roof, in a fancy hotel in the heart of the city, in the same blasted room.
Drat the luck, why did Harrison have to be here — of all places?
There was no logical reason for their paths to cross. What interest could he possibly have in the wedding of a Cleveland tycoon's daughter?
Somewhere, in a realm beyond her perception, her weary guardian angel had poured herself a glass of sherry. Grace had a feeling they'd both need one by the time this evening was over.
In truth, what did it matter that Harrison was here? Even if he spotted her, she owed him nothing. Not a word to explain her darkened hair. Nor for her abrupt departure after their one night together.
They'd enjoyed a delicious, passion-laced seduction.
There'd been no promises. No whispers of a shared future.
Truth be told, there'd been few words at all. They'd been swept away with the pleasure of the forbidden.
She'd made sure to be gone before he awoke the next morning.
No, she needed no explanation for her presence here tonight. The ballroom was filled with society types decked out in their finery, eager to see and be seen while hobnobbing with the happy couple. She was simply one more guest of the blushing bride.
After all, he had no reason to suspect she had an ulterior motive.
He would never suspect the truth.
From across the room, her aunt threw her a speaking glance. With one swish of her fan, she instructed Grace to get on with her task.
Swallowing against a sudden lump in her throat, Grace nodded softly. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she uttered a silent prayer and let out a low breath. It wasn't as if this was her first time. After all these years, she did not question her ability. What was it that plagued her now? Certainly not her conscience. After all, stealing from another thief hardly qualified as a sin.
Well, she'd no time to waste contemplating her misgivings. She had to get on with it.
Careful to blend into the crowd, she made her way to the edge of the ballroom. A few more steps, and she'd be away from the genial chaos of dozens of people who'd imbibed just a bit too much champagne
As she approached the archway that led from the ballroom, a beautifully dressed blonde whose perfect features she couldn't quite place crossed her path. The bridesmaid's voluminous white gown brushed against the peridot silk of Grace's dress as recognition lit her gaze.
"Grace ... Grace Winterborne." Uncertainty colored the young woman's soft brogue as her gaze wandered to Grace's newly dark tresses. "I hadn't expected to see you here. What a wonderful surprise."
Winterborne. After years traveling through Europe under the alias, it should not sound foreign to her ears. But still, the name did not feel natural to Grace. Like her ever-changing hair color, the name was simply one more mask she wore to hide the truth.
"Indeed," she said with a smile as she struggled to recall the bridesmaid's name. "It feels like ages since —"
"That was a grand wedding, wasn't it? There's something so beautiful about a Highland wedding."
Ah, now she remembered. The blonde was a relation of the groom at the Highland wedding where she'd first encountered Harrison MacMasters. Still, the young Scotswoman's name escaped her.
"The ceremony was lovely." Grace managed a tepid smile. Impatience coursed through her. She had no time to exchange pleasantries with anyone, much less a woman whose name she didn't remember.
"Lovely," the young woman repeated. A little hiccup escaped her. "Someday, I'll have a wedding ... someday ... I won't be scrambling to catch a half-wilted bouquet." Tears filled her eyes. "Then again, perhaps not. Not after what my Jack did to me ... I loved him so." The bridesmaid hiccupped again, followed by a whimper that escalated into a full-blown wail of misery. "How ... how could he do that to me?"
Good heavens. She'd no idea what sin the cad named Jack had committed — or even who the blackguard was, for that matter — but the young woman's heartache cut through the cool detachment Grace wore like a shield. Reason whispered in her ear. There was no time to comfort this woman who'd let a man get the better of her. She had a job to do, after all, and she suspected her aunt was discreetly tracking her every movement.
Pity her heart didn't listen to reason.
Reaching out, she draped her arms lightly around the weeping woman. Without words, she offered a listening ear, gentle reassurance that the bridesmaid was not alone in this supposedly joyous crowd.
"I'm sorry," the bridesmaid whispered. "I've wept on your dress. I'm such a goose."
"A few tears won't matter," Grace said, meeting the woman's misty-eyed gaze as she gave her hand a soft squeeze.
"You're so kind. I thought ... I thought I could make it through this occasion without dissolving into a puddle of tears. For Cecily's sake. You're only a bride once, and now I'm ruining it for her ... making a scene."
"Don't worry. You've been very discreet," Grace comforted. "Cecily is on the dance floor now — she couldn't possibly see you."
A whiff of Aunt Thelma's rose-scented perfume drifted to Grace. Her aunt had certainly been generous with the powerfully sweet fragrance. Seemingly oblivious to the pointed looks she received, the matron cut a swift path through the dancers. Her perfectly rouged mouth stretching tight with disapproval, she interrupted the tearful bridesmaid.
"My, my, what do we have here?" Aunt Thelma masked the hardness in her eyes with a tone of concern. "Miss McLeod, whatever has happened to you?" she went on, solving the mystery of the woman's identity.
"A wee bout of sadness, that's all," the bridesmaid murmured with a sniffle.
"You've no cause for tears." Aunt Thelma extended a dainty pocket square to the young woman. "Why don't we find a spot of tea, and you can tell me all about it."
"Thank you," the bridesmaid said, nearly a whisper. "I'd like that."
"Shall we find something good to nibble while we're at it?" Aunt Thelma coaxed, slanting Grace a glance.
"You'll feel better with a little food in your stomach," Grace added, giving Miss McLeod's hand a soft squeeze of reassurance.
"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.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Tempting the Highland Spy"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Tara Kingston.
Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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