What the Scot Hears Read online

  What the Scot Hears

  Agents of Change, 3

  Amy Quinton

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  What the Duke Wants

  What the Marquess Sees

  What the Rake Remembers

  Also by Amy Quinton

  Published 2017

  Published by Amy Quinton. Copyright © Published 2017, Amy Quinton. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  * * *

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  What the Scot Hears

  England 1814: Reticent Scottish Lord pursues Mouthy, Independent, American Woman… She is an outspoken American orphan with a questionable past and a dubious purpose. He is a man of few words on the lookout for a traitor. How could they NOT get along?

  * * *

  Mrs. Amelia Chase is a highly-opinionated, 23-year-old woman from America on the run from her past with a penchant for self-preservation and a healthy love for Shakespearean insults. Much to a certain Scotsman’s dismay:

  * * *

  She isn’t:

  Quiet—not with her tendency to talk to everyone about anything…

  Demure—highly overrated if one cannot wear red and show off one’s curves…

  Equine-savvy—she once fled some currish, toad-spotted, coxcombs—er, villains—in a stolen carriage at a pace slower than a meandering walk. Oh, and mistook a common mule for a thoroughbred. But other than that…

  * * *

  And she is:

  Brave—Smart, Loyal, Witty. Er, charming. Plus, Modest, Lonely, Secretive—Um, forget that last part…

  And In love—with a distrustful Highlander of all things…

  * * *

  Lord Alaistair MacLeod is an agent for the Crown and a man with secrets. He doesn’t speak of them, he doesn’t dwell on them, and he certainly doesn’t let them define his future. Much. One thing is for certain, he definitely doesn’t share his confidences with a peery, outspoken American woman who is obviously trouble, acts highly suspicious, and is far too nosy for her own good… No matter:

  He is always:

  Focused—men who cannot stay to task are foolish…

  Pointed and Reserved—enough said…

  * * *

  And he isn’t:

  Cheeky—like a certain American firebrand…

  Led by his… ahem…even when following on the heels of a curvy, red-wearing… ahem

  Or In love… especially not with a Troublesome, Meddlesome, so-called Independent American Woman…

  * * *

  Can he trust enough to embrace such an enigmatic woman? Can she awaken the passions of such an intensely private man?

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my editor and cover artist, Jessica Cale, for the superior editorial work and beautiful cover art. Jess, you are an amazing person and a phenomenal editor.

  Thank you!

  I appreciate all your hard work and assistance in helping me bring this story to life <3.

  * * *

  I would also like to acknowledge my friend and fellow author, Angela Mizell, for all her help brainstorming this story. Angela, your assistance made this story better than I could have possibly imagined.

  * * *

  Thank you!

  To all you Ladies, Lasses, and Sassenachs who love a great Scottish Romance, who swoon over a kilted man, and who enjoy the sound of a deep, Highland Brogue…this one’s for you…

  Prologue

  March 1809: Southern France

  It was time to face the day, though Lord knew, he wasn’t ready.

  Eyes still closed, Lord Alaistair MacLeod reached out and slid his hand across rumpled, silken sheets seeking the familiar shape of his lover. Where warm woman should have been, his hand met nothing but cool silk. Och, after five hours of loving, he was surprised she could even move, much less get out of bed.

  He certainly couldn’t.

  Aye, he was thoroughly knackered. Pleasurably so.

  After what felt like mere seconds, MacLeod was startled awake once again. He blinked once, twice, surprised he’d managed to fall back asleep at all, much less so deeply. Worse, he realized he might…might…have been roused by the rumbling, earth-tremoring sound of his own snore.

  And that certainly wouldn’t do.

  MacLeod reached for the headboard, forcing himself to stretch his weary arms and legs and savoring that loose-limbed, post-coital feeling. He rolled over and sat up, only to lean back on one elbow.

  He found his lover standing naked in the open window, absentmindedly playing with the pendant of her necklace. Her face, strikingly dark, was set in quiet contemplation as she stared off into the distance. A moment later, her face lit up and turned a soft golden hue as the sun’s rays breached the horizon, bathing her in delicate morning light. She tilted her head back then, as if cherishing the warmth of those gentle beams.

  He waited until she opened her eyes. “Och, come back to bed, love.” He patted the empty space next to him. “I need ye.”

  Delilah turned and smiled, a sultry, fixed expression, while he tried his best to ignore the haunted look that crossed her face before she did. She all but sauntered over, as confident as he in her nudity, then crawled upon the bed and reached straight for his cock which jumped eagerly in agreement. But MacLeod didn’t want her for that. Or not only that. He needed more from her. He wanted her. The woman. A companion who would be more than a lover.

  “Nae, lass. Come up here, where I can hold ye in my arms a spell before we must rise to face the day.”

  She pouted, her lips turned down in a petulant frown, “But I want to play with this fellow right here…” and squeezed his cock.

  “Nae, lass. Not now.”

  She stoked him again and a corresponding shiver chased up his spine, but still...

  “‘Lilah…”

  She frowned her displeasure, but obeyed nonetheless, the insatiable minx.

  “Alaistair, darling, you know I tease,” she purred, “yet still, you don’t laugh.”

  She didn’t wait for
him to answer, and he didn’t intend to; she knew he didn’t find humor easy. Instead, she walked her fingers up his chest and added, “Darling, must you leave? You never tell me where it is you go. I worry, you know.”

  He stroked her back while he held her close, pleased to know she cared, but uncomfortable with her continuous pressure to talk about his work. “Aye, I know it, love, but you know I canna.”

  She tweaked his nipple and threw him a mischievous grin, while she ran her fingers through the hair on his chest. “How about a hint, Alaistair? Tell me something…you know you talk about your trust, our trust. Trust me now. Tell me something, so I can imagine you doing what it is you men do all day.”

  He sighed; they seemed to have this conversation daily. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to give her something, and besides, she was right. He needed to have more faith in her if he was to expect her trust him in return. “If you must know, I’ll be seeing my brother, Alain.”

  His heart accelerated a moment over revealing even that much, though surely he was overreacting. He ignored the anxiety that threatened and kissed her nose, while desperately searching for his earlier peace.

  She pouted when she realized that was all he was willing to say. He found it adorable, mostly, and soothed her ruffled feathers with, “Och, love, you will stay busy as you always do and before you know it, it’ll be tomorrow. Then, you’ll have me all to yourself. For days.”

  Her eyes watered. “You promise?”

  “Aye, of course.”

  “Well, then…let us get moving. The sooner we start, the sooner tomorrow will come.” Already, she was pulling out of his arms and leaving the bed. He stifled a surge of disappointment. After all this time, she still resisted being physically close for anything other than fucking.

  What a pair they made. His seriousness, her mercurial moods. His physical need to touch, her distance and distrust. For that matter, he wasn’t precisely an open book. As a British spy for the Crown, he couldn’t afford be. And in truth, her own emotional distance should make her his ideal partner.

  Further, she trusted him enough to agree to be his wife. Considering he was the only man to gain such trust in her twenty-six years of life was saying something.

  MacLeod climbed out of bed and began to dress, though it was apparent Delilah was still annoyed. She glared in the mirror of her vanity while she brushed her hair with hard, angry strokes.

  When he was ready, he placed his hands on her shoulders, giving them a brief squeeze. He tried his best to make amends. “‘Lilah—you know what I want to see you wearing when I return?” He kissed her on the neck and once behind the ear. She stilled, waiting. “Wear the red cloak tonight, you know the one?”

  She smiled with wicked intent. He could always get through her fits of temper with passion. “You mean the one I was wearing the first time we met?”

  “And nothing else…”

  “Ah, darling.” She clasped his hand. “How could I forget?”

  He squeezed her shoulders once more and dropped a final kiss to her shoulders. “Guid. Until tonight, my love.”

  It was warm for early spring in the south of France. Warm and damp and dark.

  Tempestuous winds whipped through trees and rustled fallen leaves, proclaiming the approach of an early summer storm. Moisture hung on the air and lighting sliced the ebony sky with streaks and flashes of brilliant blue light. The tempest itself was far enough away that the accompanying sound of thunder could not be heard and no rain yet wetted the ground. But still, the storm’s angry vitality was decisively felt. It saturated the very air, inundating every living thing in the vicinity.

  Including Alaistair MacLeod.

  MacLeod stood beneath the branches of a massive oak and balled his hands into fists as he inhaled the warm, humid air. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind as it raged and battled with the earth. His blue and green kilt lashed his legs, his shirt sleeves whipped his arms. He wore no coat, for he could not afford to have his movement restricted in any way.

  MacLeod drew power from the turbulence surrounding him, its raw energy and intensity fueling his senses. Enhancing his strengths. Underscoring his mood.

  Preparing him for what lay ahead.

  But this night, despite employing his usual meditations, his normally focused thoughts were as unsettled as the oncoming storm, for he waited beneath the branches of this immense oak for his twin to arrive.

  Along with his enemies.

  His twin, Alain MacLeod, was the other half of his very soul. Light to his dark. Boisterous to his calm. Droll to his gravity. No one in the world was more openly friendly and gifted with putting others at ease than Alain. Unlike himself, who only ever seemed to make others uncomfortable. Except for Alain.

  And Delilah.

  Yet Alain was the only person who knew him completely. The only person he could speak to about anything and everything: good, bad, or indifferent. They communicated without words, as if connected by some invisible force on every level of their being. They felt each other’s pain, each other’s joy…hell, each other’s boredom.

  The last time they’d talked, Alaistair had opened up to Alain about his secret passions and dreams, for even though he was innately serious, he did have both. And Alain had encouraged him to step out of his habitual existence, to embrace his fondest desires.

  But despite all that was best about his twin, Alain simply wasnae a spy. He had no training in the art of espionage. No guile. No skill for subterfuge.

  Again, unlike him.

  But Alain was so verra useful as bait. And he wasnae weak, either. Merely…honest. Almost too trusting and gregarious.

  It was all in service for the Crown, of course. Their actions tonight would save lives. Many, many lives. And what was life without a small amount of risk and adventure?

  A twig snapped in the distance and MacLeod froze, listening for further sounds to identify as human in origin. It was too early for his brother to be here. Far too early.

  A low hum began to buzz in his ears and rumble beneath the surface of his skin causing the muscles in his neck and back to twitch.

  Damn. No’ yet. No’ yet. God, no’ yet.

  It was nothing. It had to be. With this wind, it could be anything. A fallen branch was far more likely.

  MacLeod took another deep breath and rubbed one hand along the back of his neck.

  Yesterday, he and the Marquess of Dansbury had been cocky and arrogant, certain of their abilities and their genius, for their plan surely was brilliant. It had taken no effort at all to convince Alain to do his part. He merely needed to befriend a few of the locals, lead them out here, and the enemies they sought would play right into their hands.

  Their scheme was simple and perfectly inspired. How could they not succeed?

  The hum intensified.

  Shite, they should no’ have contacted Alain…

  But alas, wishing for change didn’t result in it.

  They had thought their scheme foolproof. Foolproof! That sort of overconfidence should have given them pause. Should have compelled them to reconsider…

  Och, it was too late.

  MacLeod sucked in another deep breath and counted to ten. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to take a full fifteen seconds to expel all his air. He tried to restore order to his chaotic thoughts.

  He never doubted himself. Never. And he would not begin now.

  Another streak of lightning lit up the sky, causing the trees around him to appear to shift malevolently. A trick of light and shadows.

  And again, a twig snapped, but this time the sound was followed by the soft murmur of several voices, scarcely distinguishable above the howl of the wind and the swishing of fallen leaves. One voice in particular was a touch louder than the others. That man spoke slowly and laughed openly, freely. MacLeod knew that cadence and that laugh as well as he knew his own.

  Alain…

  His brother was here. Early.

  Suddenly, the wind died down as if Mother Natur
e herself held her breath in warning. As if she knew.

  Och, no, Alain…

  Alain’s laugh, so unfettered and gay, was interrupted mid chuckle.

  MacLeod didn’t miss a beat as he sprang into action and ran, full on towards that sound. He was as silent as a cat and as fast as the wind. He pumped his arms and legs, practically flying across the ground, as he sprinted ever closer toward his brother.

  Alain. Alain. Alain, he recited with each pump of his arms.

  His twin’s mounting anxiety was palpable. He could taste anxiety on his tongue, feel it in the back of his throat.

  Alain. Oh, God, I’m coming, Alain.

  Alaistair pushed harder, his heart racing in terror, running faster than he’d ever run in his life. He heard the first crack of thunder, as a particularly bold bolt of lightning streaked across the sky overhead. In the ensuing light, he caught sight of a familiar red cloak as it disappeared through a copse of nearby trees. An overwhelming feeling of betrayal almost brought him to his knees, he stumbled a bit but remained on his feet.