Page 4 of Tempting the Highland Spy
“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.
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.
