The Highlander Who Loved Me

by Tara Kingston

  A foul odor drifted to her nostrils. She shifted a glance to the source of the stench. A mammoth man thundered toward the table. He looked and reeked as if he hadn’t seen the inside of a tub in months. A mop of hair that might have been blond beneath a coating of filth brushed his pale, unruly brows. His stained jacket hung from a body as formidable as the trunk of an oak.

  Ross gave a disdainful sniff. His upper lip curled. “Bloody hell, Munro, did you fall into a trough of manure?”

  “Ye think I give a rat’s arse about your opinion?” The behemoth moved closer to Johanna, effectively trapping her in the corner. He licked a thick tongue over blubbery lips. “So this is the lass his highness is waitin’ on.”

  Ross offered a nod in confirmation. He pinned Johanna with his gaze. “I need to see it—the book.”

  “Of course.” She placed the valise on the table and removed a leather-bound volume. Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus. Mrs. Shelley’s masterpiece, embellished in the author’s own hand more than seventy years prior.

  Johanna’s brother-in-law had given her the pristine first edition before he left London for what he’d dubbed a holiday in Scotland. A token of his appreciation, or so he’d said. She hadn’t questioned his motives. After all, she’d left her home in Philadelphia at the first inkling of her sister’s illness. Some eighteen months later, her beloved, even-tempered older sister had taken her last breath on a rainy Sunday morning. After the funeral, Johanna had remained in London, determined to provide her sister’s child with the nurturing the girl’s father was ill-equipped to provide.

  Now, her brother-in-law’s intentions had taken on an entirely new meaning. Had the gift been far more than a thoughtful gesture? Had he left the book with her to shield his ill-gotten gain until he could retrieve it?

  The thought wrenched Johanna’s stomach anew. In her heart, she’d long questioned the man’s character, but his devotion during her sister’s illness had gone a long way toward redeeming her opinion of Cynthia’s mate. But now she’d discovered how very mistaken her renewed faith in Richard Abbott’s good nature had been.

  Presenting the book like an offering, Johanna kept her gloved fingers firmly on the tome. She was not about to surrender it, not until she had Laurel safely at her side. “I believe this is the item you’ve come to claim.”

  Ross offered a cursory examination. He brushed a fingertip over hers. His eyes narrowed. He seemed to sense her aversion to his touch, even as he traced a slow path over the back of her velvet-sheathed hand. “Final judgment on that matter belongs to my employer.”

  “You can have the book.” Despite her words, Johanna tightened her hold on the leather cover. Blast it all, she would not meekly surrender the volume to this scoundrel. “I’ll take the girl and be on my way.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said, infuriatingly civilized. “You’ll need to come with us. After the book is determined to be authentic, the child will be released.”

  The talons in her belly moved higher, digging into her heart. Johanna wanted to curl into a miserable ball, but she forced iron into her spine and met his gaze. “This is unacceptable. I was promised an exchange—the book for my niece. Where is she?”

  His lips quirked again. The bastard was actually amused with her show of spirit. Johanna itched to slap the hint of a smile off his handsome face.

  Eyes cold and flat as a viper’s met hers. “She is not here.”

  Fear welled in her throat, bitter as poison. She choked it back. “I believed we had an arrangement.”

  Ross’s mouth hardened, flat and cruel. “I must advise against making demands. Given the chit is the offspring of a man who foolishly betrayed my employer, I would not try his patience. What happens to the child is up to you.”

  “I fully understand. But I must insist that you bring my niece to me before I hand over the ransom. I have a driver waiting—”

  “Munro sent the gent on his way. He can be…persuasive.” Ross nodded to his odious associate. “See Miss Templeton to the coach.”

  The big man clamped his paw on Johanna’s shoulder. A leering grin marked the man’s ruddy face, his grotesque smile proudly displaying festering nubs. “Come with me, lass.”

  She jerked away. “I assure you, it is not necessary to put your hands on me.”

  “Leave her be,” Ross said in a tone of quiet command. “You know how I feel about theatrics.”

  Johanna kept an iron-clad hold on her valise. Pulling in a slow inhalation, she came to her feet. “When you are ready to make the exchange, you may contact me at the MacBride Hotel.”

  Ross slowly shook his head. “An ill-considered choice, Miss Templeton. Perhaps, you don’t value the child’s life as much as we’d believed.”

  “I’ve come a long way. I’m not so foolish as to hand over the ransom when you have not brought my niece to me. I expected to bring her home. Tonight.”

  “If you leave, you may never see her again. Will you be able to live with that?” So very calm and controlled, that evil voice.

  Terror carved a jagged wound in her heart. “Please, bring her to me. Our negotiation will be at an end, and we may both go on our way.”

  “Negotiation?” The word seemed to play on his tongue. “I am afraid you are mistaken. This is not a negotiation. We will obtain that volume. One word from me, and Munro will wrench it from your hands. I do believe he would appreciate an excuse to hear your bones snap. Fortunately for you, my employer would prefer to obtain your cooperation rather than employ violence.”

  She steeled her spine. “I am prepared to surrender the book. I have complied with his instructions in every way.”

  A half-smile touched his mouth. “Surely you did not believe that would be all there was to it? You were entrusted with a rare and valuable book, an item that by all rights should be in the possession of my employer. He has questions…questions only you can answer.”

  Her heart raced, but she steadied her voice. “I am afraid that he will be disappointed. I was not privy to any secrets. I simply watched over my niece after her mother took ill.”

  “What you know and do not know is of no concern to me. Come with me now, and there will be no trouble.”

  She counted five heartbeats, then another. “If I refuse to accompany you?”

  “I believe you already know the answer to that.” He pinned her with his cold, unwavering gaze. “The only question is whether or not the brat will live. And that, Miss Templeton, is up to you.”

  A primal warning crept over Johanna’s skin and weighted her limbs. Leaving with these men was a dangerous proposition. No one in the tavern would notice her departure. By the end of the evening, no one would even remember she’d been in the establishment. She could disappear, and no one would be the wiser.

  But like a chess master, the smooth-voiced gentleman had achieved his checkmate. He’d left her no option. No way out. These unscrupulous blackguards had a prize more valuable to her than a sultan’s treasure.

  She had to get to Laurel. No matter the cost.

  …

  Connor MacMasters swirled the whisky in the tumbler, watching the amber liquid slosh as he mentally mapped out his next move. The barkeep shot him a look, filled a tankard with ale, and slid it down the counter to a lean, bearded fellow. He eyed Connor again, seeming to question why a drunk who’d staggered into the tavern on legs that could barely hold him wasn’t actually drinking.

  Connor put the glass to his mouth and took a hearty swig, then another. That would do for now. He had to keep his faculties sharp. God only knew what he’d be called upon to do if the pretty lass in the burgundy suit actually left with those no-good bastards.

  One look at the woman, and he’d known she was trouble. An American, or so he’d been told. A writer of penny dreadfuls, of all things. J. M. Templeton. Johanna, by birth. He didn’t have an age, but with her sweetly rounded face, she couldn’t be much past five and twenty. Ringlets of reddish-brown hair framed her delicate features.
He’d first spotted her beneath the noonday sun as she’d disembarked at the station in Inverness. She’d marched right past him, clutching a leather satchel, her shoulders squared, her strides brisk and determined.

  Tall for a woman, she filled out her proper traveling suit in all the right places. Not buxom by any means, but her curves would certainly draw a man’s eye. God knows they’d got his attention. Now if only his cock would stay out of it and let him think.

  He doubted she’d recognized him when he’d made his entrance into the tavern. For his surveillance at the depot, he’d combed his hair in a civilized manner and worn a well-pressed suit. A stark contrast to his current disguise. God above, he could pass for a soused buccaneer. Truth be told, he might’ve overdone it with the whisky. He could scarcely stand the smell of himself. A drunk who’d actually stumbled into a vat of alcohol wouldn’t reek so badly.

  Miss Templeton had regarded him with a mix of disdain and fascination. Blue eyes the color of Loch Lomond on a rare, sunny day had met his. Her intelligent gaze seemed to search his features. Only the drawn set of her full mouth betrayed her duress. That, and a look deep in her eyes that revealed emotions she didn’t want anyone to see. Fear. And something more—a spark of awareness. She might be prim and proper with her high lace collar and cameo brooch, but he’d swear he’d seen a flicker of hunger that went gut-deep.

  And then, those plump lips of hers had pulled into a taut seam. Good thing she still had the sense to hide that elemental impulse deep within, out of reach. He’d abandoned his good sense the moment he agreed to chase after a very fetching, entirely reckless American writer who was about to throw herself into a viper’s nest.

  She’d been in Scotland for two days, traveling by train from London through Edinburgh. He’d tracked her to a hotel there, but she’d set out for Inverness before he could make a positive identification. His contacts didn’t always get the facts straight. But this much was certain—Johanna Templeton left England at the summons of one of the most vile men ever to step foot in the Highlands. Geoffrey Cranston’s interest in the American could only mean one thing. She had something he wanted, and Cranston intended to get it, at any cost.

  Was it possible she possessed a map to the Deamhan’s Cridhe—the Demon’s Heart ruby? Cranston had stolen, bribed, and killed in his pursuit of the artifact. He’d eliminate anyone and anything that stood in its path.

  Including Johanna Templeton.

  Now, Connor had been tasked with shadowing her movements. He’d discover what business she had with Cranston. If she knew the way to the jewel, he’d glean that information from the lass. And he’d try his damnedest to keep her alive and away from Cranston.

  From his spot at the bar, he kept an eye on her. She was huddled in a back corner with Cranston’s chief lieutenant, John Ross. The Englishman never went anywhere without his brawny, ox-witted assistant, Angus Munro. The slight sag of Miss Templeton’s shoulders quickly followed by a straightening of her back made it clear she was keeping up a brave front. What did these bastards want from her?

  Most likely, her connection with Richard Benedict had led her here. The man’s clandestine pursuit of antiquities on behalf of well-monied collectors had aroused suspicion from London to Inverness. But which of his underhanded dealings had brought the bloke to the Highlands? He’d gone missing, along with the agent who’d trailed him. Bluidy shame. Fitzhugh had been a good man with a family. Benedict had a more dubious agenda, one that had likely led to an untimely end.

  Connor didn’t have many answers. But damned if he wasn’t going to find out.

  Miss Templeton stood, stiff as a puppet with its strings held too tight. Munro made a grab for her, but she pulled away. Good for her. Her chin hiked up, even higher and more rigid than before. Connor couldn’t see her face, but the defiance eased from her movements, replaced by a grim determination.

  Connor took another draught of whisky and set the glass on the counter. His task had been clear—trail the American, find out what the hell she was up to, and retrieve whatever she had in that satchel she clutched like a lifeline. Engaging with Cranston’s men wasn’t a part of it. He couldn’t endanger the mission by revealing himself. Not yet.

  He’d already disobeyed protocol once during his time with the organization. The carnage of that day still haunted his nightmares.

  He moved closer to the men, careful to keep to the shadows, out of their line of sight.

  “Surely you did not believe that would be all there was to it?” Ross’s goading inquiry drifted to Connor’s ears. “He has questions…questions only you can answer.”

  Damnation! The bastards meant to take her to Cranston. And then, God only knew what fate was in store for her.

  Stalking toward the door, he made short work of the head start Ross and Munro had on him. He couldn’t leave Johanna Templeton to their mercy. He’d deal with the consequences later.

  Chapter Two

  Johanna eyed the coach waiting in the alley behind the tavern, an elegant conveyance that bespoke its owner’s affluence and taste for fine things. In the moonlight, touches of gilding gleamed against the sheen of its polished ebony walls, while the sleek, chestnut carriage horse bore the hallmarks of fine breeding. This was not some broken-down nag. No, this animal had power in his strong, lean haunches and legs. Tethered to an iron rod barring the tavern windows, it snorted and laid its ears back as Munro passed. So, even the beast found the human’s vile presence an offense to its keen senses.

  “What’d ye have in that bag?” The smelly boor stared down at Johanna. Breath as sickening as the stench wafting from his body struck her full in the face. Making no effort to hide her disgust, she pressed a hand over her nose and mouth.

  “It makes no difference to you.” Ross spoke before Johanna could muster a reply.

  Munro cocked a thick brow. “Ye expect me t’believe there’s nothin’ more than a bluidy book in there? Me ma didnae birth a fool.”

  Ross’s eyes narrowed. “You will be fairly compensated.”

  If the big man took note of the anger brewing beneath the gentleman’s tautly controlled demeanor, he ignored the warning. “We need t’be sure we get our share. I got a bad feelin’ about this.”

  Tension pulled Ross’s handsome visage tight. “Do your job and keep your mouth shut.”

  Munro snorted. “That fine suit of clothes ye’ve got dinna make ye a better gent than me.”

  “If you can’t find a way to shut that hole in your face, I will.” Ross’s fingers clamped over Johanna’s wrist even as he kept his attention on the big man. “You were hired to drive. Not talk.”

  Munro offered another derisive snort and threw open the carriage door. “If ye’ve a mind t’make a fool of Angus Munro, ye will regret it.”

  Johanna tugged up her skirts to her shins and placed one foot on the carriage step. The big man’s leering gaze riveted to her stocking-covered calf. The uncouth barbarian nearly slobbered at the sight.

  Ross snatched the oaf’s flat-brimmed cap from his head and thwacked it against his thick skull. “You’re not getting paid to look. Get on with it.”

  Munro extracted his hat from the gentleman’s hands and placed it on his head. “Step inside, lass,” he said, the cockiness stripped from his booming voice.

  Johanna froze. The sole of one shoe rooted to the pavement, even as her other foot balanced on the step. Her heart thudded a wild cadence, each beat frantic as a deer bolting from a hunter’s sights. Once she was inside this luxurious prison, she’d be at the mercy of these men. What would stop them from taking the satchel and leaving her lifeless body in some godforsaken spot? What would become of Laurel then?

  “Get in,” Munro said, harsher this time. “Or should I pick ye up and put ye there? Maybe ye’d like that.”

  Revulsion shuddered through her, so pronounced she felt sure it rippled her clothing along the length of her spine. She’d give this bastard no excuse to manhandle her. But she would not cower at his crude attempt at i
ntimidation.

  She cast a scathing glance over her shoulder. “If you touch me, you will find my knee firmly embedded in your bollocks.”

  Ross laughed, coarse and surprisingly hearty. “I do believe she means it, mate. No sense rushing her. Miss Templeton will come along with us.” He paused and gave a little cough. “Unless she doesn’t give a shilling for her niece’s future.”

  Johanna lowered herself from the step and met his hardened eyes. “What guarantee do I have that this is not a ruse? How can I be certain you represent the man who holds my niece?”

  “You desire proof?”

  “Yes.” Amazing, how the small word weighted her tongue.

  “You try my patience.” He shot his hulking partner a glance. “Munro, show it to her.”

  An ugly smile pulled at the big man’s mouth. He dug in his pocket, producing a pale, thin cloth wadded into a ball. His lips widened as he peeled away the fabric.

  “Oh my.” Johanna’s pulse hammered against her ears. She reached for the single chestnut-brown curl, still tied in the emerald lace ribbon she’d woven through Laurel’s hair that last morning in London. In the lamplight, the tendril gleamed hints of copper. She longed to touch it, that single, tangible link to her sweet-natured niece.

  Munro snatched it away. “The wee lass howled like a banshee. Ye’d have thought we took her ear.” His fingers closed around the cloth, and he shoved the trophy into his jacket. “Maybe next time, we will.”

  “As I see it, you’ve got two choices,” Ross said, low and coolly menacing. “You can come with us now. Peaceful, like the lady you are. Or Munro will pry that case from your pretty hands and my associate and I will be on our way. We’ll transport the brat back to London. Little chit like her won’t take up much space in a trunk. Especially not once she’s in pieces.”

  The lack of anger in his tone made his words all the more terrifying. The taste of horror was bitter against Johanna’s tongue. Surely these men would not commit such violence against a child.