The Scot and I

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He reached for the boy’s tam, and a mane of dark curls tumbled out. Baffled, he began to strip the boy’s clothes from him one article at a time. When soft flesh spilled into his hands, he was stunned. He had uncovered a perfect specimen of femininity . . .

His breath froze in his lungs. He experienced the same sensation he’d felt when he’d first set eyes on the blond woman at the queen’s reception: a ripple of recognition, like a tiny electric current passing through his brain.

When he found himself reaching for her, he snatched his hand away. Things he hadn’t seen before were clicking into place.

“There is no other woman,” he said. “Is there? There is no boy who conducted her to a safe place. You’re one and the same person . . . You’re the woman at the reception. You’re the blond who tried to kill me. I want you to start at the beginning and tell me all you know, or I swear I will have you locked in a dungeon and I will walk away without a backward glance.”

Praise for
The Runaway McBride

“A charming romance . . . Thornton displays her usual deft touch, effortlessly combining delightful characters with an intriguing mystery!”

—
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bestselling author Shirlee Busbee

 

 

“A writer of extraordinary brilliance.”—
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“An Elizabeth Thornton historical always provides a powerful, entertaining, nonstop reading experience.”

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“An unforgettable tale.”—
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“As multilayered as a wedding cake and just as delectable.”

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“Exhilarating Regency romantic suspense.”—
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THE RUNAWAY MCBRIDE
THE SCOT AND I

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

THE SCOT AND I

 

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / June 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Mary George.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-05739-1

 

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One

Balmoral Castle, July 1885

The moment he set eyes on her, Alex knew that this woman was going to be trouble. Though she was pretty enough and trim enough to catch the eye of any red-blooded male, that was not the kind of trouble he had in mind. He was thinking about the case he was working on, wondering if she could be the one.

It was the blond hair that made her stand out. In this corner of the Highlands of Deeside, the natives were mostly dark-haired Celts like himself. This young woman had the look of an English rose. He was sure that her eyes would be blue.

She turned her head quickly, as though she realized that someone was studying her, and their eyes brushed and held. In the split second before she tore her gaze from his, he felt it: a ripple of recognition, like a tiny electric current passing through his brain. Strange, when he knew that he had never met the woman.

Watch her, Hepburn,
he told himself.

After watching her wander among the assembled guests as though she were looking for a friend, Alex dismissed her from his mind. She seemed harmless enough. Besides, it wasn’t a woman he was looking for but a man.
Ca bheil sibh, Mac an diaboil?
Where are you, son of the devil?

A voice at his elbow said softly, “Her Majesty is about to make her entrance. What happens now?” The speaker was Alex’s brother, Gavin. Though the resemblance between them was striking, Gavin’s manner and expression possessed a charm that was entirely lacking in Alex.

“Now we wait,” Alex responded.

His gaze traveled the crush of guests in the castle’s ballroom, noting that the cream of Scotland’s Highland society had come to pay its respects to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. There would be no dancing at this reception. Since her husband’s death, the queen had retired into semi-obscurity. Frivolity was now frowned upon.

A silence fell as the doors to the queen’s gallery opened and Her Majesty entered, flanked by her kilted guard of honor. Alex had positioned himself to watch the guests. He was scanning faces, seeking out anything and everything that struck him as odd. He hoped that his counterpart on the other side was not as vigilant, because he’d soon deduce that this trumped-up drama was a lie, a carefully choreographed trap to ensnare a traitor.

The “queen” was not the queen but only someone who resembled her; the “footmen” in their dark green coats and tartan sashes were not footmen but police officers. He was not part of the official operation but worked alone and reported only to his section chief, Commander Durward, and in his absence, as now, to Dickens, the local man in charge of security.

Gavin had no part in the operation. He was one of the guests, but he’d known that something was up when his elder brother had arrived at the family’s fishing and hunting lodge the week before. They expected trouble at the queen’s reception, Alex had told him. He’d also told Gavin to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open, and that was the only part Alex would allow him to play. At the moment, Gavin was weaving in and out of the guests, doing much the same as Alex was.

As the queen and her escort began to process slowly down the aisle that her aides had cleared for her, every head was lowered. The ladies’ skirts rustled as they made their curtsies. Alex’s bow was perfunctory. When he looked up, he saw the blond-haired woman moving quickly toward him. The thought had hardly registered when she raised a revolver that had been concealed in the folds of her skirts and pulled the trigger. He heard the deafening report of the gun going off, felt the whiz of the bullet as it missed him by a hair, heard the groan of someone behind him who had been hit; then he braced himself as the crush of screaming guests surged and ebbed like waves on an angry sea. It was a relief to see that the queen’s guard had closed ranks around “Her Majesty” and were hustling the look-alike up the gallery stairs and out of the reception area. When a second shot rang out, however, and hit the chandelier overhead, making it teeter alarmingly, the panicked crowd rushed for the set of French doors giving onto the gardens. The “footmen” could do nothing to hold them back.

Alex scanned the pulsating wave of people forcing their way out. There was nary a sign of the woman with blond hair.

“Gavin,” he shouted above the din, “look for a woman with blond hair. Don’t let her get away.” He gestured to the exit he thought she would have made for.