TARAH SCOTT
Award winning author Tarah Scott cut her
teeth on authors such as Georgette Heyer, Zane Grey, and Amanda Quick. Her
favorite book is a Tale of Two Cities, with Gone With the Wind as a close second.
She writes modern classical romance, and paranormal and romantic suspense.
Tarah grew up in Texas and currently resides in Westchester County, New York
with her daughter.
MY HIGHLAND LORD
London Heiress kidnapped
by the Marquess of Ashlund, read the headlines. Yet no one tried to save her.
Phoebe Wallington was seven years old
when a mass assassination attempt rocked Regency England. Her father was the
only accused traitor to elude capture. Now as a grown woman and a British spy,
she is no closer to learning what really happened that day.
Phoebe's
quest for the truth takes a sudden turn when she's kidnapped by a suspected
traitor. But Kiernan
MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, may not live long enough to stand trial.
Someone wants him dead. And Phoebe stands in the killer's way.
A chamber pot, a chamber
pot, my kingdom for a chamber pot.
Flickering light
penetrated Phoebe’s consciousness. Orange and red flames swam before her vision
and she blinked into focus the fire that burned in the hearth beyond the foot
of the bed where she lay. She moved her gaze to the left and saw a door leading
to... Phoebe concentrated in an effort to place her surroundings, but the world
outside that door—the world beyond this moment—remained a mystery. She looked
to the wall on her left, saw an armoire, then the deep alcove even farther
left. She started at sight of the tall form standing at the alcove’s end,
staring out the window.
The highwayman.
He shifted. She clamped
shut her eyes. The pad of boots on the carpet drew near and continued around
the bed to her right. A faint rustle of clothes followed, then silence. She
waited a moment before slitting open one eye. The highwayman reclined in a
chair beside the bed. His legs, stretched out before him, spanned the remaining
length of the bed. His head rested against the chair back and his eyes were
closed. He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and
forefinger as if to ward off a headache. His hand fell away from his face and
Phoebe closed her eyes. Had he seen her? She abruptly felt the dislocation of
air near her face, the sense of his nearness, though she had heard no sound of
movement.
“What possessed you to
take such a foolhardy risk?” he whispered.
A wisp of air brushed
her eyelashes. His sigh.
A soft scratching
sounded at the door and a dull pain rumbled through her head.
The door clicked open
and a voice said, “You must rest, sir.”
Mather.
“If the lady wakens with
you hovering over her as you are, you're likely to give her a start.”
“Unlikely,” the
highwayman replied in hushed tones. Phoebe knew by the location of his voice,
he had straightened away from her. “Any woman who would jump from a moving
carriage isn't easily frightened. I'll be glad when Connor has another look at
her. Until now, she hasn’t moved a muscle.”
“He promised to be here
bright and early,” Mather said.
“Yes,” the highwayman
replied in a dry tone. “I wonder if his dedication is due to concern or
curiosity.” He chuckled. “The good doctor gave me an odd look when I told him
Heddy had fallen from the carriage. Damn, but I hope he doesn’t take it in his
head to contact my father.”
“Old Connor knows which
side his bread is buttered on,” Mather said with such loyalty, Phoebe wanted to
roll her eyes.
“My father is the one who butters Connor’s
bread,” the highwayman said.
“Speaking of,” Mather
began.
“Please," he cut
in, "no more lectures on how my father will whip you should you allow me
to stray from the path of righteousness.”
“As you wish, sir. If I
must, I can face him with the news that you collapsed from fatigue.”
“I doubt he'll pay that
news much heed.”
Phoebe could contain
herself no longer. She opened her eyes and said, “Such a paragon of a father
would surely have your despicable hide for this foolish stunt.”
Both men looked at her.
She stared back at them.
“I heartily wish to meet your father and inform him what a beast of a son he
sired.”
“I see that crack to
your head did nothing to diminish your wit,” the highwayman said.
Phoebe gingerly touched
the gash on her forehead. “My head pounds dreadfully. What happened?”
“You jumped from the
carriage.”
She shot him a reproachful
look. “I know that. What I do not recall is how I came to be here. How did you
find me?”
He raised both brows. “I
believe I mentioned you might have done better to leave off eating those honey
cakes.”
Phoebe frowned.
“When you jumped,” he
explained, “the carriage rocked.”
She narrowed her eyes,
but ended up squinting due to the sudden sharp throb in her head. The pain
subsided, and she said, “If the carriage rocked, it was your large girth
tramping about up top that caused it to do so.”
The highwayman angled
his head. “As you say, madam. We shall call it luck, then.”
“Whose?” she muttered.
“Certainly not mine.”
“I beg to differ. If I
hadn’t discovered you, you might be among the dead, instead of the living.”
“Rubbish,” she retorted,
then added in a quieter tone when the pounding in her head again thrummed,
“Where are we?”
“Glaistig Uain.”
“What is that and where
is it?”
“The Green Lady Inn, not
far from where you jumped from the carriage.”
“Oh,” she replied, then,
“I require some privacy.”
“Whatever you need, Miss
Ballingham, just ask.”
Phoebe flushed.
He regarded her more
closely. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing that a moment
of privacy won’t cure.”
“Mather or I can attend
to anything you need,” he insisted.
“Of all the bloody
inconvenience,” she burst out. “The day I can't manage a chamber pot myself is
the day I meet my maker.”
A distinct stillness
cloaked the room. “Considering the circumstances,” he said in a tight voice, “I
find that jest in bad taste.”
“Never mind.” Phoebe sat
upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“Miss Ballingham,” he
strode around the bed, “you are to remain in bed.”
“I can't remain in bed
when the chamber pot is in the corner.”
She shoved to her feet
as he rounded her side of the bed. The room spun. Her stomach lurched and she
felt herself falling forward. Strong arms grasped her shoulders and she was
pulled against a solid body. Phoebe recognized the smell of sandalwood and
clutched at the lapels of the highwayman’s open jacket. She squeezed her eyes
more tightly shut against the nauseating sense of spinning.
“B-by heavens.” Her
voice, she noted with distress, was not as clear as it had been when she lay in
bed. “I am a bit dizzy.”
Phoebe felt herself
lifted in his arms. She tightened her grasp on his coat against a sense of
falling she knew was ridiculous, but she couldn't keep from burying her face in
his chest in an effort to anchor herself.
"Easy," he
soothed.
"Stupid," she
managed in a mumble.
He didn't answer, and
she was eternally grateful when he didn't move. She became aware of the warmth
that seeped from him into her cheek, then the sure, strong beat of his heart.
She released a slow breath and he must have sensed that her orientation had
returned for he settled her back onto the bed.
Despite the heat of the
room, he pulled the blankets up to her chin then began a methodical tucking in
of the blankets around her. When he bent over her and switched to the other
side, she found herself staring at his angled profile. A hint of whiskers
shadowed his jaw, giving him a dangerous look that had been absent when he'd
appeared in her carriage and grinned like the cat that had just eaten the
canary. His hair was as dark as a raven's and just touched the collar of his
shirt. She had the urge to see if the tresses were as soft as they appeared.
He paused and turned his
face to her. Phoebe pressed back into the pillow before realizing the action.
He lifted a brow and she flushed. Damn the devil, he was pleasant to look upon
and knew it—knew she'd been thinking just that. Something flicked in his
eyes—understanding—and she cursed him again. He went back to securing the
blanket in a business-like fashion until she felt as if she were being
mummified.
She squirmed.
“Lay still,” he
commanded.
The warmth of the
blankets bordered on stifling. She wriggled, then realized the garment she wore
wasn't her gown. “What am I wearing?”
The flash of gray
flannel she’d seen before swooning came to mind. Her cheeks warmed again.
Someone had removed her gown, then dressed her in the nightgown she now wore.
Phoebe glanced from the highwayman to Mather, then fastened her gaze back onto
the highwayman. There was no question which of the two men would have
undertaken the task of undressing her. The culprit straightened, apparently
finished with making her a veritable prisoner beneath the blankets.
“Perhaps you should take
yourself off for a rest.” Phoebe said, gritting her teeth as much against the
throbbing in her head as to control her rising temper.
He gave her a quizzical
look.
“Sir.” Mather stepped
forward.
“Mather,” the brigand
said without looking at him, “I'll stay.” He glanced over his shoulder at the
window where soft light had begun to filter into the room. “Mrs. Grayson may
already be about. If she isn’t, please wake her and inform her Miss Ballingham
requires tea and some of those cakes I know she prepared yesterday.”
“I thought you said I
was too fat and shouldn't eat more cakes,” Phoebe said.
“I said nothing of the
kind.”
“You most certainly
did,” she replied. “You said the carriage nearly tipped over when I jumped from
it.”
He bent, placed a hand
on each side of her on the mattress and leaned in close to her face. “I didn't
say the carriage nearly tipped over. I do say, however, let both those
incidents be a lesson.”
“Lesson?”
“Yes. Not to repeat such
addlepated actions in the future. Mather,” he straightened, “see to Mrs.
Grayson.”
“Aye, sir,” Mather left.
Phoebe, still covered to
the chin, wriggled beneath the blankets. “It's intolerably hot under here.” She
squirmed more. “And I can't do without that chamber pot much longer.”
“Had you continued
sleeping, you could have done without it.”
“What do you think woke
me?”
The corner of his mouth
twitched. “I'll help you with the pot, Heddy.”
“You will not.”
“But I will.” He fetched
the pot and returned to the bed.
She eyed the pot, then
him. “I can manage.”
“As you did a moment
ago?”
“Mrs. Grayson, then.”
His demeanor turned
thoughtful. “Mrs. Grayson is a stout woman. Still… perhaps another maid might
assist her.”
“Slip the pot under the
blanket.”
“If you
miscalculate—"
The door opened and an
older woman entered, tray in hand, followed by Mather.
“Just as you said,”
Mather said. “She was already bustling about the kitchen.”
Mrs. Grayson set the
tray on the nightstand. At sight of the tea and cakes on the tray, Phoebe’s
stomach growled.
“Of course I was,” the
housekeeper said with an indignant sniff. “It is nearly five in the morning.”
“Good morning,
Bridgett,” the highwayman said.
“Morning,” the woman
replied as she slipped an arm beneath Phoebe’s back and gently lifted her away
from the pillows.
The covers fell forward.
Phoebe grabbed for them, but Mrs. Grayson had propped the pillows against the
headboard and was easing Phoebe back against them before she could grasp the
blanket. The housekeeper, urged her arms out of the way, then twitched the
blanket up over her breasts.
“There, now, dearie.”
Mrs. Grayson plucked a folded napkin from the tray and gave it a smart shake
before placing it on Phoebe’s lap. “Are you hungry?”
“That's not all,” Phoebe
said.
Mrs. Grayson gave her an
inquiring look, but the brigand said, "Miss Ballingham requires
assistance.” He lifted the chamber pot for all to see.
Nicki has lived in Charlotte,
North Carolina with her children for the past eleven years and her husband for
the past three years. Her journey has barely begun and she loves every
minute of it. Every day of her life seems to bring new adventures, some
bigger, better, shinier and prettier than others. She's still
getting used to that new life smell she's experiencing, a combination of hope,
love, and happiness. (The perfect scents to build a new life on...)
