“Think about it carefully, Miss Templeton. The child’s blood will be on your hands.”
Behind the ruthless cur, lightning slashed across the sky as if to underscore his threat. A clap of thunder roared against Johanna’s ears. A cell-deep warning screamed at her to run from these vile men.
But they’d offered her no alternative. If she refused to go along with their scheme, they’d take what they wanted and her niece would die.
Munro looked ready to pounce, an alley cat sizing up a mouse. He thought her entirely vulnerable. Foolish brute.
She did possess one advantage. As men often did, they’d underestimated her. With the briefest flick of her wrist, she slid one hand along the seam of her skirt, over the folding knife she’d concealed in her pocket. If she needed to defend herself, the element of surprise would work in her favor.
Crash! The rear door slammed into the stone and mortar of the tavern wall. Suddenly, they were no longer alone. A shadowed figure filled the portal, then staggered to the cobbles below.
The devil in the black greatcoat. Bloody perfect. The epithet she’d adopted during her months in London sprang to the tip of her tongue.
As the door creaked shut behind him, he stumbled and pressed a hand to the wall, seeming to steady himself against the rough stones. The pungent aroma of whisky surrounded him like an alcohol-laden fog. His dark mane flopped over his brow, shading his features as effectively as a disguise.
He swatted a handful of renegade strands from his face. His gaze caught Johanna’s.
Eyes bright with surprising clarity met hers. “My love, why are ye leaving me?”
Johanna stared, speechless. This simply could not be happening. With the kidnapper’s henchman ogling her like a tasty morsel, she’d all she could do to keep her wits about her. An amorous drunk was a complication even her cagiest heroine could not have foreseen.
The sot cocked his head, as if awaiting her reply. Eyeing her with the look of a man who’d discovered a long-lost treasure, he lurched toward her, his legs far less steady than the intention behind his pleading gaze. “Come to me, my bonny lass.”
Ross closed one hand over her forearm in an iron grip. No pain, but undeniable power in that hold. “You were instructed to come alone.”
“I do not know this man.” She kept her voice even and controlled, even as her knees threatened to quake. Pity she wasn’t one of her intrepid heroines. Any of her adventurous governesses would know what to do in this situation. But penning villains had not prepared Johanna to face men of this ilk. Still, she had to remain strong. Any show of weakness would bring out their cruelty.
“My employer does not like complications.” Ross gritted the words between his teeth.
A wave of panic rippled through her. He was nearing the end of his patience. If that slender thread did indeed snap, the aftermath would prove disastrous. She steadied her tone, praying the tiny waver in the notes did not betray her fear. “I assure you, I’ve never seen this man before tonight.”
“Give me the case.” Each syllable was clipped and brutal.
“No.” Her fingers dug into the handle of her satchel.
“Mo cridhe.” My heart. Slurring the endearment, the drunk consumed the ground between them, one slow, clumsy step at a time. “Ye dinnae have t’leave.”
“Quiet him.” Ross flashed a gleaming revolver for emphasis.
God above, the inebriated devil was going to get them both killed. Johanna sucked air into her lungs and slowly exhaled. Frustration and fear fueled her heart’s rapid beat.
“My darlin’, where—” The Scot teetered on his feet. If only he would collapse into a heap and be done with it.
“Hush.” She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “I am not the woman you’re looking for.”
“Aye, but ye are, lass.” He drew out the words, stilted and unnatural. But his gaze was clear. Without a trace of intoxicated haze. Yet, he staggered on legs as unsteady as reeds in a storm.
Ross nudged her corseted ribs with his pistol. She swallowed hard against a fresh jolt of fear.
“Go inside and have another drink,” she said to the drunk, more forceful now. “I am not the one you seek.”
“I willnae let ye leave me.” Beneath the swath of dark hair shading his features, his gaze flickered to Ross. “Not with that bluidy bastard.”
Ross crooked his arm, aiming the gun at the sot’s broad chest. “Step away or I’ll kill you.”
“Ye willnae take the lass. Ye cannae have her.” The brawny Highlander eyed the men. Alert. Aware. Seeming to track their movements. Yet, he’d braced his legs wide, as if to steady himself.
Johanna pulled in a breath. She had to coax him back into the tavern. “Go…back in—”
Lightning sizzled in the mist-shrouded sky. Ross jerked his attention toward the jagged bolt. He cocked his head. “Bloody hell.” Recognition flared in his eyes. “MacMasters. You’ll die tonight, you bastard.”
Quick as a viper, the Scot struck.
The flesh and bone of his fist plowed into Ross’s throat with a sickening thud. The Englishman sank to his knees, wildly clutching the point of impact. A grotesque gurgling sound escaped his lips.
Thwack. The drunk’s boot plowed into Ross’s gun hand. The pistol clattered to the ground.
Another kick. The gun skidded over the cobbles, out of reach. As Ross sprawled over the pavement, still as a toppled statue, his partner let out a sound that seemed more growl than words.
Another crackle of electricity rent the sky. Light gleamed against the dagger in Munro’s right hand.
With his left, he caught Johanna’s wrist. She bucked against his hold. No use. She wrenched her arm, fighting his control. A slash of his blade, and pain seared her, quick and razor sharp. Beneath her heavy cloak, a sickening warmth trickled down her sleeve.
She bit back a scream.
“Give me the bag.” He dragged her to him, his arm a brutal manacle. Suddenly, she could scarcely draw breath.
Icy terror washed over her. With his partner dead to the world, Munro had nothing to hold him back.
Could she reach her knife? The slightest movement would jar him. He’d kill her if he realized she was not helpless. She could not chance it. Yet.
“Take yer hands off the woman.” The devil in black’s command was clear. Confident. Without a trace of sotted slurring.
“This is not yer fight.” Munro’s low rumble brushed her ear. “I’ll take the case and be on my way. Or else, I’ll cut her scrawny throat.”
The rough desperation in his voice intensified the threat. Johanna’s pulse thundered in her ears. She eased her fingertips along the opening in her skirt. Her fingers curled around the knife.
Munro’s muscles went taut. She stilled. Her breath hovered in her throat. Had he caught on?
“Ye’re not getting what’s in that bag o’hers.” Was that fear in Munro’s voice?
She slid the knife from its hiding place. She had to free herself before he lashed out.
The devil’s gaze flickered to her clenched hand. His eyes narrowed. He gave a slow shake of his head. Had he realized she was armed? “Ah, ye’ll let her go. I know ye for the coward ye are.” He whipped a long gun from beneath his greatcoat. “Release the lass. Now.”
“Go t’hell.”
The rifle’s click pierced the night. A slow smile lifted the corners of the devil’s mouth.
“Wrong answer.”
Chapter Three
The reeking prison of Munro’s hold fell away. Johanna darted from his reach. Beneath her cloak, wetness pooled against her sleeve and a dull throb radiated the length of her arm. Pulling in a breath, she braced herself against the discomfort and kept her focus on the devil in black. MacMasters, Ross had called him. The rogue now had a name.
Training the long gun on Munro’s barrel chest, he prodded him. “Throw down the knife.”
The big man opened his hand. The jagged blade clattered to the ground. MacMasters kicked it out of reach
.
“I know ye’ve got weapons in that pile of rags ye call a coat. Off with it.”
“T’hell with ye.” The words rang hollow given the fear in Munro’s eyes. In the moonlight, Johanna couldn’t see if his brow was beaded with perspiration. But she could see the tremors wracking his massive hands, the way he stood, stiff and unnatural, as if he’d locked his knees to stem their knocking.
Her gaze flickered to the gaslight glinting off the barrel of Ross’s pistol. Pity MacMasters stood between her and the weapon. Edging toward the tavern door, she studied him. His eyes betrayed neither cruelty nor mercy as he leveled the gun at Munro’s gut.
“Ye ready to die tonight?” he asked, each word edged with flint. “Ugly way to do it.”
Munro muttered an unintelligible epithet and shrugged his foul-smelling jacket over his shoulders.
“Put it on the ground.”
The filthy garment fell to the pavement. A dull clang confirmed there’d been at least one knife tucked within the jacket.
MacMasters raked him over with a scrutinizing eye. “What other weapons do ye have on ye?”
Munro fidgeted on his boat-sized feet like a child desperately trying not to soil himself. “None.”
“Ye’re a poor liar.” MacMasters’s eyes seemed to bore through the other man. “Get rid of the sgian dubh. In yer boot.”
“Dinnae be pulling the trigger when I reach fer it.” Munro’s massive shoulders drooped. Crouching, he retrieved the dagger.
“Drop it, Munro, or I’ll put a bullet in yer head.”
The big man pitched the weapon at the devil’s black-booted feet. “So ye know my bluidy name, do ye? Who sent ye? The countess?”
“Ye’ve got more pressing worries.” With a swift step, MacMasters slammed the stock of the long gun against the larger man’s temple. Munro’s eyes rolled up into his head. A groan escaped him as he sank to the ground in a massive heap.
MacMasters whipped around. Johanna took in his movements. Sleek. Graceful. Lethal. Ah, how her readers would swoon over a daring hero such as this man. He came to her, his strides long and sure.
“Did the bastards hurt you?”
“No.” The lie seemed to echo in the night. Concealing her knife in her pocket, she eyed the tavern door. Once inside, she’d have a chance to evade him. Perhaps she’d find a driver for hire, someone who’d ask few questions and transport her to the castle in the Highlands where Laurel’s captor skulked.
She took a step in retreat, then another. Whatever the devil with the brogue was up to, this was not the scene where the hero rides to the rescue. No matter how dashing a figure the man cut in his ebony greatcoat. No matter how his eyes flashed with courage. No matter that he’d dispatched Ross and Munro without so much as pulling a trigger. MacMasters had an agenda all his own.
Dangerous. Deceptive. And possibly, every bit as lethal as Ross and his hulking associate.
Had he come after the book, as well?
Whatever his motives, she couldn’t allow MacMasters to get his hands on the volume Mr. Abbott had entrusted to her. As long as she had that book, she had a bargaining chip. Whoever held her niece wanted the rare first edition, and they were willing to kill for it. Without their prize, she’d be powerless to save Laurel. The child would be nothing more than a burden to be disposed of, a witness to be silenced.
Lines formed between MacMasters’s dark brows. “I won’t hurt ye, lass.”
Had the rogue expected a hero’s welcome? “Am I to trust the word of a man who’s murdered two souls before my eyes?”
“Not murdered.” He cast each man a derisive glance. “Though the bluidy bastards would deserve such justice, they’ll be well enough in time.”
“Who are you?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“I believe it does. I’d like to know who came to my rescue.” Oh, what she wouldn’t have done for some theatrical training. Her voice sounded strained and tinny. Of course, with her heart pounding so hard it threatened to burst from her chest, her ability to form any words seemed nothing short of miraculous.
MacMasters studied her beneath hooded lids. He kept his distance. Or so it seemed. Did he see through her act? Despite the potent aroma of whisky that followed him, the man was neither alcohol addled nor a fool. And her performance was indeed rather pitiful.
He stepped past Munro, who lay sprawled face down on the rough pavement. He motioned her to the coach. “Thoughtful of those jackals to provide a fine carriage.”
“Quite so.”
He settled the long gun on the driver’s bench, then closed the distance between them. “Ye’ve no need to fear me, lass. I mean ye no harm.”
Her knees threatened to go to jelly, but she met his gaze head-on. “I’m not going anywhere with the likes of you.”
“I’d wager I could change yer mind.” His eyes bored into her. Perceptive. Intelligent. And not in the least bit reassuring.
He caught one wrist between his long fingers, unyielding, yet gentle. Electricity surged through her at the contact. Nearly a head taller than she, this man was strong and vital. He exuded raw physical power. What would it be like to be held by this man, to drink in the intoxicating mix of masculine strength and the delicious temptation of his touch?
His arms snaked around her. Drawing her near, he studied her. What was he searching for? He’d told her he meant her no harm, but he didn’t trust her. That much was evident. His eyes had narrowed and his gaze penetrated hers, seeming to seek some truth she couldn’t define. What did he hope to find in her eyes?
He dipped his head ever so slightly, bringing his mouth tantalizingly close to her own. His firm lips quirked at the corners and his warmth surrounded her, even as one large hand swept lower. Over her waist. Skimming the curve of her hip. Stirring her most primitive instincts.
She pulled in a breath and steeled herself against the all-too-tempting sensations. After all, she was not a debutante fresh from the schoolroom. She was a woman, experienced in the ways of men.
Pity none of those gentlemen had prepared her for him.
He’d staggered into the tavern, a drunk in his cups. Now, his movements were confident, his touch sure. No trace of clumsiness. No awkward fumbling. No mangling of syllables and words.
But the distinctive odor of liquor wafting from the man…good heavens, that was it! He’d used that distinctive smell as a form of camouflage. The reek emanated not from the man, but from his garments. Had he applied alcohol to his clothing to appear to be an inebriated lout? Had his uneven gait and swaying stance been nothing more than a disguise?
But why?
Why would he go to such lengths to get to her?
He held her against his lean, hard length, seeming to draw the very breath from her body. For the moment, her questions retreated. She’d written so many tales of daring heroes, imaginary men spun from dreams of chivalry and the myth of one true love. And now, it seemed a living, breathing knight with a brogue had stepped from the pages of her fantasies. She’d been on her own for so very long. She prided herself on her independent nature, her ability to make short work of problems and take care of herself. She’d faced down every challenge that came her way. Alone. Without a man. So why did the way this Highland stranger marched into her life and acted the part of her protector unleash an entirely unprecedented thrill in her heart?
And still, he held her. The curve of his deliciously wicked mouth intensified, as if he’d read her thoughts. This was foolish. There was no time for a dalliance, much less with a man she didn’t even know. If only his nearness did not ignite her awareness of him. Spreading his heat through her limbs. Stirring embers she’d never even known lay dormant. Tantalizing her with the possibility of more.
Her senses drowned out her mind’s logical protests as his long fingers dipped lower. His touch fueled the budding flames within her core, the hunger for sensation that seemed a momentary insanity.
His other hand traced the curve of her body. Exploring. T
easing.
Searching for a weapon.
Blast the Scot and my own foolish heart.
The realization dowsed the kindling fire as ruthlessly as a blustery downpour. With all the power she could muster, she shoved the heels of her hands hard against his broad shoulders. His restraining arm fell away, and he stepped back, dangling the folding knife between his fingers.
“Aye, ye’re a clever one, all right.” His mouth quirked into a wry smile. “I knew ye’d come armed. And I don’t doubt ye’d use the blade.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Suddenly, he seemed not a gallant hero, but an arrogant, cynical foe. “Indeed.”
He moved back a single step, just enough that she could clear her head. “Ye need to trust me.”
“Unfortunately, I do not see it that way. You’ve only served to complicate my affairs.”
“Complicate your affairs?” He cocked a brow. “I saved yer life.”
“I had matters well in hand.”
He stowed her knife in his coat. “Is that so?”
“Of course. We had an arrangement.”
“Those dogs don’t honor arrangements. They know violence, and they know greed. Nothing more. We need to leave. Now.” He eyed the bag in her hand. “What’s in this, the queen’s jewels?”
Stepping closer, she fought to strip the emotion from her tone, from her features. “In a manner of speaking.”
He reached for the valise. “Whatever ye’ve got in this fancy bag, it’s safer with me.”
The cocky gleam in his eyes might have been appealing if she didn’t feel as though her heart was being torn in half. Of course, he didn’t know about that. He didn’t know about Laurel.
Or did he?
Suspicion snaked through her belly, barbed and ugly. She couldn’t hide her fear, but she refused to retreat again.
“I am afraid I must disagree.”
His eyes flashed. “Ye don’t trust me.”
“Not in the least.”
He inclined his head toward the men splayed on the ground. “Do ye at least trust me more than those two louts?”
“To be perfectly frank, I have no reason to harbor any faith in you. I had dealings with these men—a matter of great urgency. I can only hope the damage your interference has caused is not beyond repair.”
The Highlander Who Loved Me Page 3
