Chapter One

London, Ten Years Later

It is not every day that a man looks into the eyes of a dead woman. All things considered, the imposing Scot who’d once broken Rose Fleming’s heart was taking it rather well.

Rose met MacAllister Campbell’s warm brown gaze. As he rested his hands lightly on Rose’s shoulders, gently stilling her, doubt flashed over his handsome features. Was it her imagination, or had his jaw actually dropped, if only by a fraction of an inch? For a heartbeat, perhaps two, he studied her, as if to convince himself the woman who’d dashed headlong into him was indeed real.

And not a ghost come back to haunt him.

Of all the men she might’ve encountered as she rushed through the crush outside the theater, why did it have to be him?

So many years had passed since she’d last touched him. Since she’d last kissed him on a night when the moon was full and the fragrance of summer blossoms filled the air. It seemed a lifetime since MacAllister had walked out of her life.

But there was no mistaking him. Even after all these years, standing in the shadow of the Larkspear Theater on a gaslit night, she knew the shape of his face, the wave in his chestnut brown hair, and the subtle scent of soap and bergamot indelibly imprinted on her brain.

Questions flashed in his eyes, coupled with a clear sense of recognition. Had he seen through her pitiful attempt at camouflage—a coffee rinse liberally applied over her hair to dull its natural auburn hue and a netted veil on her hat to partially obscure her features?

MacAllister had always taken in the smallest of details. Pity that trait had not changed.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. At the moment, MacAllister Campbell’s powers of observation were the least of her worries.

“Are you all right, miss?” His question was bland, ordinary. Perhaps she was mistaken—perhaps he didn’t recognize her.

She gave a nod, then rose up on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. In the distance, a tall man with a shock of stringy black hair shoved his way through the crowd. A chill washed over her. So, he was following her. The man’s near-constant presence since she’d left the hotel on the Strand had not been a coincidence. Another minute or so and he’d be upon her.

Dear God. The nod had been a colossal lie.

She wasn’t all right.

Not at all.

If the bull of a man caught up with her, she might well join the ranks of the deceased again.

Only this time, it would not be a charade.

Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. She’d likely regret it. But at least she’d be alive.

Since she’d last seen MacAllister, she’d developed a talent for making good use of every resource. And now, she needed MacAllister—well, she needed a man—if only for a very short while.

“Darling.” She flashed a soft smile, curled a gloved hand over his forearm, and urged him away from the gas lamp’s hazy light. “I’m delighted I found you.”

His eyes narrowed. She thought he’d respond, but he didn’t. Had she actually left him speechless? It wasn’t easy to get the better of MacAllister. This might well be a first. The notion was oddly satisfying. Not that she had time to savor the experience.

Peeking over his shoulder again, she spotted the black-haired man. He’d muscled past a burly gent with a walrus mustache. Oh dear.

“Oh, I’ve missed you so.” Taking hold of MacAllister’s jacket lapels, she stepped close to his body. Ignoring the press of a button against her cheek, she buried her face against the tweed. “Hold me. Please.”

His arms enfolded her. “Do you intend to tell me what in blazes is going on?” His voice was low and husky, so familiar, even after all this time.

Glancing over his shoulder to scan the crowd behind him, she glimpsed a flash of her pursuer’s coal-black hair.

His sharp, indrawn breath betrayed the tension in his body. “Who are you looking for?”

“An old friend,” she whispered against his mouth. “I need you to do something…for me.”

“Tell me what you’re up to. I’ve no patience for games.”

Did you ever, MacAllister?

She clung to him like a drowning woman. “Please, hold me.”

To her relief, he played along.

Leaning closer, she lifted the netting on her hat, just enough to leave her eyes still veiled.

“This is no time for words.”

No time for hesitation.

He framed her face in his large, warm hands. “What is this about?”

“Stop talking and kiss me.”

Interest flared in his eyes. And he needed no further invitation. Dipping his head, he pressed his lips to hers. Softly, at first. So very gentle. Kindling a flame she’d thought long extinguished.

Her lids fluttered shut as she savored his touch. A hunger that transcended the moment stirred within her. With a little groan deep in his throat, he intensified the caress, teasing her with the tip of his tongue, parting her lips. Claiming her with a passion that carried her back in time.

A muffled sound, jarring as nails against a teacher’s slate, intruded on her bliss.

Harrumph!

The deliberate throat-clearing came again, this time followed by words. Brash and utterly disapproving.

Hands falling to his side, MacAllister eased away. His eyes darkening with an emotion she couldn’t quite read, he fixed the harrumpher with a glare so heated, it seemed a miracle it did not scorch the gent’s muttonchop whiskers. “Good God, man. Next time, I’ll thank you to look the other way.”

The burly man narrowed his eyes. “I should hope there will not be a next time.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve not seen my wife in a long time.” MacAllister affectionately squeezed Rose’s hand.

Wife. Rose gulped at the word. He’d played along with her ruse, perhaps a bit more than she’d intended.

The hard line of the older gent’s mouth softened. Tipping his derby, he flashed Rose a smile. “Aye, I was young once. Time is indeed fleeting.” As he headed to the theater entrance, he called to MacAllister, “Do not do anything I would not do.”

MacAllister gave a nod, then turned to her. He reached for her hand, taking it in his own. With his thumb, he traced small circles over her skin. A long dormant awareness roared to the surface.

She looked away, avoiding his questioning gaze. Peering past him, she saw no sign of the hired muscle who’d been trailing her for hours. Still, she couldn’t allow herself a sigh of relief.

She’d eluded the bastard. For now. But she wasn’t fool enough to deceive herself. It wasn’t over yet.

Now that the black-haired man knew she was alive, it might not ever be over. The sight of the brute who’d pursued her from Edinburgh had confirmed her worst fears. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t need to. The man was an assassin. No doubt he’d murdered her aunt, God rest her soul, on Merrick’s orders.

And now, the killer had pursued her all the way to London. The man was likely skilled at ending his quarry’s existence. He might have slid a blade between her ribs before anyone in the crowd could stop him—before anyone was the wiser.

MacAllister’s brow furrowed as his attention settled on her left wrist. Of course, he’d noticed the way the cords on the small velveteen bag dug into her skin.

His touch suddenly scorching, she pulled away. If he discovered what weighted the bag—the revolver she carried day and night—he’d have more questions.

Questions she had no intention of answering.

She had to get away. Somewhere inside the theater, the informant who’d promised evidence that would bring Merrick to justice, awaited her arrival. She certainly didn’t need MacAllister trailing her to the rendezvous. Once inside the magnificent building, she’d be safe, if only for the length of the performance.

A sudden flash of black in the distance set off an internal alarm. She froze in her tracks. Had Merrick’s hired thug returned?

Instinct she’d thought long dead reared its head. She edged closer to MacAllister. Even now, his presence provided a measure of reassurance. But the comfort would be short-lived. He was playing along with her, but soon he’d expect answers she wasn’t prepared to give.

She scanned the milling crowd. Detecting no sign of the dark-haired man, she dragged in a breath, steadying herself. Her imagination was playing ugly games. At this rate, she’d be spotting villains around every corner—men like the heartless souls who’d pursued her all those years before.

“Tell me what’s going on, lass.” MacAllister’s husky voice pulled her back to the moment.

She drew back, just enough to put a hand’s breadth between MacAllister’s body and hers. Telling him the truth was not an option.

At least, not all of it.

“I needed a diversion.” Swallowing against a fresh wave of apprehension, she met his eyes. “You provided it.”

“A diversion? Is that what you call this blasted charade?”

She took a step in retreat. “You’ve no idea how very helpful you’ve been.”

“You expect me to accept what just occurred without question?”

“You’ve a right to your questions.” She held his gaze. “And I’ve a right to answer them as I choose.”

“Bloody hell.” The gravel-edged brogue in his voice stirred something deep within her, something she didn’t wish to awaken.

Again, he caught her gloved hand in his. The heat of his body seared through the lace. “What kind of mad game are you playing?”

“If only this were a game.”

His eyes hardened, and he pulled her closer. “I’ve no intention of letting you walk away without an explanation.”

“As I see it, your intentions do not signify. You don’t even know me.”

“You’re wrong.” Gently, he pressed a hand to her cheek, as if to confirm the truth for himself. “I know your touch, Rose. Did you think I could ever forget it?”

She gave a desperate shake of her head. She had to break away. If only her blasted heart would cooperate.

Hiking her chin, she steadied her voice. “I needed a distraction. You were kind enough to provide it. And that is where this ends…where we end.”

“What just occurred was bloody madness. But your kiss is still quite the temptation. Rather surprising, wouldn’t you say, considering you’ve been dead for years?”

Her heart shuddered. Every moment with him left her more vulnerable than the last.

“I am sorry.” She slipped away from his hold. “The woman you knew left this world a long time ago.”

…

MacAllister Campbell had learned long ago to accept two bitter facts of life—loss was an inevitable part of existence, and honor was the only thing no one could steal.

So many years had passed since his blasted sense of honor had compelled him to leave the woman he’d adored. Months later, he’d bowed his head as the bone-deep misery of grief had washed over him. His first and only love had perished in a tragic accident. The loss had damned near gutted him.

Now, like a viper crawling from its den, that pain reared its head anew.

Rose is alive. How is that even possible?

When the beautiful woman had barreled into him, he’d stared down at her, stunned by her resemblance to Rose.

At first, his mind had not comprehended the truth.

Until he’d touched her.

The moment he’d done so, he’d known the truth.

The woman he’d loved still lived. A profound joy had surged through him. Until the bitter reality washed over him, like a torrential rain he hadn’t seen coming. For years, Rose had let him suffer the agony of believing she’d died that day—swept away in the river’s current as her brother lay dead by the wreckage of their carriage.

And now, as he watched her rush into the Larkspear Theater, his mind raced. Who—and what—awaited her there?

Anger surged through his body. The cold, ugly sensation set his teeth on edge. He’d believed Rose was lost to him—forever.

His grief had defied description.

And it had all been predicated on a lie.

On deception.

A single question gnawed at him above all others.

Why?

Why had she run? And why had she—and her aunt, who had surely known the truth—lived this lie?

Now, she was in trouble. In his bones, he knew that. Rose had dulled the lustrous red in her hair, and her lace veil partially concealed her delicate features. But he’d seen the fear flash in her eyes. Not of him. No, she seemed to trust him. She’d been searching the crowd around them.

She was running from someone.

What the hell is going on?

Had someone hurt her? An old, familiar protectiveness crawled out of hibernation. The instinct to defend her still burned strong, defying even his anger at a betrayal that cut to the marrow.

As a younger man, he’d been a fool. He never should’ve left her. He should’ve taken her with him to London, honor be damned.

Believing Rose was dead had been a quiet hell, a torment he could not escape.

But now, she was in trouble.

He would not let her face it alone.

He’d protect her, no matter the cost.