Page 56 of Tempting the Highland Spy
Chapter Sixteen
Harrison lay on his back on the bed in the hotel room, fingers laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling as he willed his mind to go blank. Slivers of breaking dawn slipped between the edges of the curtains, creating ribbons of dim light against the dark surface. Nearly twelve hours had passed since he’d observed Grace charm Belle Fairchild into an invitation to her Highland wedding. Blasted shame the New York heiress wasn’t the only one Grace had managed to entice into wanting more of her friendship—into wanting more ofher.
Grace’s enthusiasm for the varied works of art and her delight at the exhibition were genuine. Sarah Bernhardt could not have feigned the joy in her smile when the painting had been revealed. The sparkle in her eyes drew him in. When Grace smiled, she brightened the room.
Of course, he was a fool where Grace was concerned. He’d already established that. Bugger it, he should have refused this assignment. What unbounded arrogance had possessed him to believe he could ignore the warmth in her gentle laugh and the compassion in her heart?
Compassion—what an unexpected quality for a confidence woman and thief to possess. But what he’d seen was real. He didn’t doubt that. Not for a minute. Grace wasn’t acting when she took to people who were in distress, as she’d done with the weeping bridesmaid at the wedding in Edinburgh. Had the brief delay in her scheme allowed the thug O’Hanlon to catch her red-handed rifling through his things?
Grace warmed to those who displayed loneliness, as Miss Fairchild did when she wasn’t trying so hard to hide it. That wasn’t a performance. And she’d put her own future on the line to etch a deal that would protect her daft, larcenous aunt.
By hellfire, this would be easier if he could ignore the way her expressive eyes warmed when she was around people who seemed to need her. Or the way those same eyes had flashed with mischief as she’d tucked away the slightly scandalous sketch she’d created of some ancient bloke she’d drawn with a kilt covering his manhood, of all the bloody things. He’d caught a glimpse of the sketch. Was it his imagination, or did the fellow bear a rather surprising resemblance to him?
He dismissed the thought. A few more days of this, and he’d be ready for Bedlam. Every morning had become a subtle torture, nearly diabolical in its simplicity. Like clockwork, a quarter hour before the rooster crowed, she’d slip in through the connecting door and glide under the covers, lest a chamber maid become suspicious of their sleeping arrangement. And then, he’d pull himself from the bed and plant himself in a chair.
Judging from the patterns of light seeping in from the window, it wouldn’t be long now before Grace tiptoed through the portal. If he had any sense, he’d leave the bed now and settle himself into his stiff Chippendale-style refuge, with its scratchy upholstery and a back angled just the right way to produce a kink in his neck. If he were out of bed, he’d avoid the temptation to stay there.
Or so he told himself. He’d long since given up on being an optimist about his self-control where Gracie Mae Winters was concerned.
A tinny creak of the hinges alerted him to her impending entrance. She was earlier than he expected, though not by much.
She came in and quietly closed the door, the squawk of metal that desperately needed a coating of oil the only thing betraying her efforts at stealth.
“Are you awake?” she whispered.
“Yes.” He stretched out his limbs and sat up on the edge of the bed. Cool air prickled against the bare skin of his chest.
“Don’t get up,” she said as he reached for his robe. “I’ve come up with a solution to our dilemma.”
“Our dilemma?” Well, that was one way to describe the way his traitorous cock sprang to attention at the very thought of her presence, pulsing against his drawers in rebellion as she neared the bed.
“Yes. I know how to solve the problem. Stay where you are.”
In the scant light, could she see him sitting on the edge of the bed?
“What are you doing?” he said, curiosity getting the better of him. Was she clutching a blanket in her arms? What the devil was she about?
She tiptoed toward the bed, peeling back the covers. If she thought that was a solution to what ailed him, by thunder, she was mistaken.
Leaning over the bed, she placed a blanket she’d rolled lengthwise, like a carpet, down the middle of the mattress, then patted it to form a flexible barrier. What in blazes did she think to accomplish with that? A slab of rough-hewn timber wouldn’t be enough to prevent him from being aware of her. The Great Wall of China wouldn’t keep the subtle lavender-infused scent of her bathwater from wafting to his nostrils, wouldn’t provide enough of an obstacle to curtail his body’s instinctive response to her femininity. That woolen log would do nothing other than ease her own mind.
Good enough, then. At least one of them would be comfortable.
“What in blazes isthat?” he asked.
She hesitated, then sat on the opposite edge of the bed. “I thought you’d be more comfortable with this…with a barrier between us.”
“I’ll take the chair,” he said.
“I really wish you wouldn’t,” she said, a soft, gentle tone infusing her words. “I know how uncomfortable it must be.”
“I’ve dealt with worse, believe me,” he said truthfully. He’d slept on the hard, cold ground during the course of more than one mission. A wing chair in a warm hotel room was hardly a sacrifice.
“Still, I’d much rather you stay here…in the bed. If you’d prefer, I’ll settle into the chair.” She scooted back on the mattress. “It’s only that…I’m concerned about more than our comfort.”
The concern in her voice sounded very real. “You’re worried about some maid’s gossip compromising our cover?”
“Yes.” She lay back, pulling the covers up to her neck. “I really would prefer that you stay here…in the bed.”
