Page 11 of Tempting the Highland Spy
Chapter Three
The world tilted beneath Grace’s feet. Or so it seemed.
She resisted the urge to shrink away from Harrison’s penetrating gaze. “Bring me to justice?” Cocking her chin, she regarded him defiantly. “That’s a rather peculiar use of a physician’s time.”
“Admittedly so,” he said. “Your larcenous activities have complicated my life in ways you would not understand.”
“I’ve never stolen from you,” she countered. At least that much was true.
“That’s where you’re mistaken, Grace.”
He looked as if he would elaborate, but his expression went stone-faced and solemn. Contempt flickered in his eyes, cutting bone-deep.
She lowered her gaze. How could she ever hope to explain any of this? A man like him would detest the path she’d taken.
To her right, slow, unhurried footsteps sounded against the polished marble floor. Turning to the sound, she understood why Harrison had suddenly tensed in full alert.
The man who’d led her here—the man who’d set her on this disastrous quest—marched from an adjoining corridor into their path. The American spy she knew only as Mr. Jones had changed his appearance since their first meeting in New York. He’d seemed rough around the edges then, dressed in a tweed suit that would’ve benefited from a good pressing and sporting dark hair in need of a barber’s shears. Tonight, he’d dressed quite elegantly, his black frock coat accentuating his lean, broad-shouldered physique while a precisely tied silver cravat brought out the gleam in his gray irises. His manner relaxed, he spared her a cursory glance before turning to Harrison.
Unexpected recognition gleamed in Harrison’s eyes. “Jones,” he said, nearly under his breath. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I thought you’d have figured that out by now, MacMasters.” A flicker of amusement played on the American’s mouth. “I’ll ask you to move away from my agent.”
“This woman is no agent,” Harrison replied, contempt shading his words. “She is a thief.”
“One of the best,” Mr. Jones said with a smug nod. He edged toward Grace, standing so close she could see the texture woven into the silk of his necktie. Trapped between Harrison and the imposing spy, she took a step back. Jones placed his hand over her forearm.
A muscle ticked in Harrison’s jaw. What was his connection with Mr. Jones? She swallowed hard against a sudden lump in her throat. She had not wanted to bring Harrison into this. Why had fate led him to her—tonight, of all nights?
“Take your hands off of her.” Harrison’s tone was laced with warning. “Now.”
The fingers pressed against her flesh eased away. Mr. Jones’s arm dropped to his side. “She’s not going anywhere.” He shot Grace a glance. “You know better than to double-cross me, don’t you?”
“That goes without saying.”
Anger darkened Harrison’s gaze. “Do either of you intend to tell me what is going on?”
“In due time,” Jones said. “For now, we need to go. The police have been alerted to Mr. O’Hanlon’s presence. It’s to our advantage to get out of here before they arrive.”
Harrison’s jaw hardened. “You knew that vicious cur was in this hotel?”
“Of course. Why do you think we were here?” Jones turned his attention to Grace. “I believe you have something for me.”
“I do,” she said with a small nod.
“Good enough.” Mr. Jones said. “I have a carriage waiting.”
“My aunt—” Grace protested.
“Mrs. McTavish is traveling by separate conveyance. I needed her away from the scene before she raised the attention of the authorities. I don’t need any more complications.”
“If you think I’m letting this woman leave with you, you’re mistaken.” Harrison angled his body between Grace and Mr. Jones. “She is a suspect in several thefts of interest to the Crown.”
To the Crown. Good heavens, what is Harrison’s connection to these investigations?Was he a clandestine agent? She’d been witness to his heroism when a killer had threatened members of the wedding party at the Houghton Estate little more than a year earlier, but she’d attributed his actions to courage and instinct. It had not occurred to her that he might be an operative for the Crown.
A dull weight plummeted into her stomach. When he’d kissed her…when he’d made love to her…had that passion been real? Or was his tenderness merely an act intended to ensnare a thief?
Dear God, how could I have been such a fool?
