Page 41 of Tempting the Highland Spy
Chapter Twelve
Harrison considered himself to be a reasonable man. A patient man. Generally speaking, he was the most even-tempered of all his siblings. So what was it about Gracie Mae Winters that threatened to shatter his self-control beyond all repair?
Had the woman been put on earth to infuriate him?
She simply did not know the meaning of the word “prompt.” She measured time in approximate units. In Harrison’s mind, an hour meant precisely that. Sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds. One twenty-fourth of a day. But to Grace, time was an abstract concept, nearly fluid. An hour ofGrace-timenever quite meant sixty minutes. She might be early. More likely, she’d arrive late. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Half an hour. She did not seem to make a distinction.
He stared down at his pocket watch. At least her daft aunt hadn’t managed to get her hands on that. Despite his status as a government agent, Jones had still not managed to retrieve his timepiece from the woman’s clutches.
Late again.He let out a low breath. It would do no good to be angry with her. Grace was not acting out of spite—this was simply her natural condition.
He went to the window and threw back the heavy curtains, letting in the sunlight. The hotel in which they’d taken residence was one of the finest in Scotland. The Kirkland House had hosted dignitaries and royalty. The furnishings were elegant, yet not too overstated for his taste. The bed was one of the most comfortable he’d ever lain upon.
So why the hell was he miserable?
Opening the window, he allowed a breeze to wash over him. Perhaps the temperature in the room was getting to him. Grace had managed to steam up the bathing quarters with her hot soak in the tub, and the heat had crept beneath the door and invaded the space. At least, that was what he told himself. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with the woman who was taking her time donning her garments behind the dressing screen.
She’d strolled out of the bath in her wrapper, announced her intention to prepare for their first appearance of the morning, then disappeared behind the silky barrier. Actually,disappearedwas not the correct word. If she’d truly become invisible to him, this pent-up energy would not be plaguing him.
If anything, she’d managed to make herself more alluring than if she’d simply dropped her dressing gown to the floor and strutted around just as God had made her.No, he corrected himself with a brisk shake of his head. He couldn’t even convince himself of that. If she’d stripped bare and paraded herself simply to torture him, his heart might damned well have stopped. But the shadows of her curves moving against the silken fabric stirred his male impulses, unleashing a craving for her warmth he’d thought he’d reined in.
If only it didn’t take her so damnably long to get dressed. By his calculation, she’d been behind that flimsy barrier for at least ten minutes. Not one but three gowns hung over the screen, donned but quickly discarded. At this rate, she’d run out of clothing by noon.
Damned shame she couldn’t dress in Mrs. Carmichael’s chamber. Of course, that would break protocol. A curious chambermaid or nosy guest might wonder why a new bride occupied a room with her prim social secretary. They couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion that they were anything but blissful newlyweds.
Even if it drove him to the brink of madness.
Bloody ironic, that. He’d faced down killers without thinking twice. And yet, the sight of Grace’s curves in silhouette made him question his resolve.
His brother would laugh his arse off at the thought. He could well imagine the advice Gerard would offer.Harry, you need to find yourself a woman.
The shame of it was, he’d found a woman—one he couldn’t stop thinking about.
And she was off-limits to him.
He knew better than to want her. Grace was a cheat and a thief.
She was also five and a half feet of luscious temptation.
Bugger the luck, he never should have touched her. Never should have kissed her.
Never should have held her to his heart and made love to her.
Blast the stroke of rotten luck that had brought them together. Again. He could have declined the mission. He didn’t give a damn about whether or not an American heiress killed her father, but retrieving the MacKendrick dagger would be a grand achievement. He relished the prospect of finally outshining his relentless, hell-raising brothers.
But that wasn’t why he’d come to this place.
No, the reason he’d agreed to this mission was humming a song from some West End play as she strolled out from behind the screen. Before her bath, she’d swept up her hair and pinned it in place. Back at the Cogswald Inn, she’d washed away the brown dye, and now, her natural shades of red and golden blond framed her porcelain complexion. A slight pink hue on her cheeks added a sweetness to her rounded face.
Blast it all to hell, his job would be so much easier if she’d had more in common with a crone than a goddess.
“What do you think?” she asked with a hint of a smile.
What do I think?A question that was a trap if ever he’d heard one. If he told her the truth—if he told Grace he’d love to peel the prim ivory blouse with its high lace collar and flowing black skirt from her body and put that comfortable bed to good use—she might well run from the room seeking the straitlaced protection of Mrs. Carmichael and her blasted parasol.
He cleared his throat, as if that might banish the treacherous thoughts in his mind. “You look exceedingly…presentable.”
“Presentable?” Her delicately arched brows shot up. “Well, I think I look a bit better thanpresentable, if I do say so myself.”
