Page 1 of Highland Spy

Chapter 1

London

February 1605

Connor Grant would need a new woman in his ranks.

He stood against the back wall of the enormous room and stared out into the ostentatious mass of noblemen. King James had knowingly laid the perfect trap.

Candles glittered against sconces to set a low, concealing light over the room, wine flowed with abandon, and crowds pressed into the card tables like suckling pups to a bitch. All of London nobility had been invited, from the highest of dukes down to the basest of poor country cousins.

They’d come in droves, moving about the room in a collection of colored silks and deafening revelry.

Connor glanced down to his naked finger, where once there had sat a golden signet ring, and immediately cut his gaze back to the room before him.

He would not think about why he was forced to be here—only what his task entailed.

“Have you found her yet?” asked a voice.

He turned toward the woman beside him, whose hair was somewhere between blonde and brown, and whose dark eyes twinkled with excitement. A small freckle dotted the ivory skin beside her red lips.

“Dinna worry, Delilah, I havena found her yet,” he answered quietly. “Ye have time to still enjoy yerself.”

And by enjoy herself, he didn’t mean just feeling bonny in her new gown. He meant harvesting conversation to filter through later.

He nodded toward the lavish party. “Go on, but dinna lose sight of me. When I motion for ye, we leave immediately, aye?”

Delilah gave him a nod and sauntered forward—into the controlled chaos of wealth and entitlement. Into the crush of people who had pushed her into his care.

She looked fragile among them, naive almost. Easily underestimated.

He knew better.

None of his women were fragile—not anymore.

The perfect spies.

James preferred them to be Englishwomen. He assumed they were more malleable than their Scottish counterparts and that men of all nationalities appreciated a beautiful woman without prejudice.

James often made assumptions.

Connor worked around them.

He shoved himself from the wall and made his way through the room for yet another look. His trews were too damn tight, but they called less attention than his kilt would have.

He hated having to look for a new girl, a new spy to add to his band of fallen women. Yes, it was an opportunity to spare her before her ruin could be known, but a deep part of him hurt for the women in his employ and what they’d all endured.

At least the king had not summoned him privately. Deplorable though his current task might have been, it was far more palatable than the more delicate assignments he had been receiving from the king over the last three years. Assignments he thankfully did not receive often.

His gaze skimmed a crowd of English nobility who stood near a card table, sifting through the mundane for the extraordinary.

And then he saw her.

A lovely lass with black hair sat at the furthest card table with a stack of coins in front of her. Someone across the table said something, and her mouth widened in a laugh that lost itself in the hum of chatter.

There was something about the way she carried herself—her spine was almost too straight and her gaze slid in a manner he assumed she thought covert.

She glanced at the cards in her hand and, quick as sin, slipped something from her wide sleeves before fanning the stack in front of her.