Chapter Eight
Johanna stared down at the pavement beneath her dangling feet. Had she misjudged the distance to the ground—or did the drop appear more intimidating when one was suspended like a trapeze artist above unforgiving cobbles? She gripped the window casing with all the strength she possessed, but soon, she’d have to banish her fear and peel her fingers loose. She could only pray she’d land on her feet with at least some semblance of her dignity intact.
Perhaps she should have simply made her exit through the door. After all, that had been her intention until she spotted a narrow-eyed biddy roaming the hall. She’d had no desire to confront a stern-browed matron who’d ask questions she didn’t wish to answer and who could ruin her escape.
It was bad enough she’d been stripped nearly bare by the physician—if indeed he even was a man of medicine—and interrogated by the towering Scot. Connor MacMasters had ruined her chance to rescue her niece, shattering the plan into thousands of irreparable shards. At least the arrogant devil had left her clothing within easy reach. Perhaps he didn’t think she’d dare to leave the well-appointed prison. He’d soon find out he’d underestimated her. She’d donned her garments and her shoes and seized the first chance to bolt.
She glanced again at the hard stones below. Regret spoke up, loudly and insistently. She really should have taken her chances and marched right past the woman who had strolled the corridor like a petite, white-capped sentry.
Ah, there was nothing to be done about it now. And when had she become such a ninny? As a girl, she’d been fearless. The apple trees in her grandfather’s yard had posed little challenge to her abilities. She’d scamper up onto a branch and pounce on her brother as he rambled by, preoccupied by his fascination with all things possessing roots and leaves. He’d gone on to become a botanist of some renown, while she…well, she was hovering like a mad woman over the pavement outside a stranger’s house. Too skittish to let go. Yet too desperate to find her niece to stay with her supposed benefactor a moment longer.
Drat it all, there could not possibly be more than ten feet between her and the ground. But she couldn’t afford to break an ankle or twist her shin. A small strip of grass filled the gap between the house and the street. If she aimed for that spot, she’d most likely land unscathed.
From the room beyond the window, the men’s voices drifted to her ears. Muffled. Blurred by walls and doors. They weren’t in the chamber yet. But they were near.
Near enough to stop her if she didn’t cast aside her trepidation.
The inner door creaked open. Heavy footsteps pounded the floor despite the plush rugs laid over the wood planks. Bollocks! The curses she’d picked up in London increasingly found the tip of her tongue.
Summoning her courage, she pulled in a breath. She cast a glance to the night sky. Another sip of air, and she muttered an ineloquent plea to the heavens. With a whoosh, she plummeted to the ground.
The air she’d just inhaled rushed from her body. The jolt rippled from the soles of her shoes to her shins. Up the length of her legs. Along her spine. No pain. Simply the shock of impact. Thank heavens she’d managed to drop onto the grass and not the unforgiving stones.
Leaning out the window, the physician peered down at her. A scowl turned his full mouth down.
“Have you gone mad?” he called to her.
Not bothering to reply to his impertinent inquiry, she snatched up the satchel she’d tossed out the window before making her unconventional exit. The case seemed none the worse for its mistreatment. Her aim had been sound as she’d hurled it onto a small, neatly trimmed shrub that had cushioned its landing.
She dashed along the pavement, thankful she was on a street in a city and not stranded in some remote hideaway.
But where could she go at this hour? Any respectable inn would turn her away. No woman of quality would roam the streets after midnight.
If only she’d remembered her cloak. In seizing her moment of opportunity, she hadn’t thought to locate the heavy cape. Cool air nipped at her cheeks and sliced through her garments. Even the stout wool of her skirt did little to ease the chill of the Highland night.
Wrapping her arms over her chest, she hurried along the street. No doubt she’d be followed, and soon enough. She’d have to find a place to hide until the immediate threat passed. Gas lamps provided ample illumination, both a blessing and a curse. While she certainly needed them to find her way through this unfamiliar city, the light would also provide the Scotsmen with a resource to spot her in the night.
The physician—Harrison MacMasters, if her fuzzy brain recalled correctly—resided on a street lined with impeccably kept brick town houses, some bearing signs indicating their use in a profession, while others were utilized as residences. Forcing her feet to move at something swifter than a snail’s pace, Johanna turned the corner and came upon a house cloaked in shadows. Dark. Desolate as something conjured in a child’s nightmare. Or the troubled dreams of a twenty-five-year-old woman who’d crossed an ocean to care for her dying sister and darling niece.
The child’s chestnut curls and keen brown eyes flashed into her thoughts. Laurel was precocious. Excited by life. Eager to learn. Utterly irrepressible, even when she had been faced with the reality of her mother’s death and her father’s all-too-frequent absences. The girl had taken to Johanna with a fierce devotion, as though she’d recognized a kindred spirit.
Misery whipped through Johanna at the thought, but there was no time to wallow in the pain of missing her niece’s impish smile, with its radiance that would cheer the surliest of curmudgeons.
No, there was not one moment to waste. She had to get to her niece. How frightened the child must be. Did she know her father’s fate? Or had the scoundrels who held her as a pawn spared the girl that horrible truth? Johanna could only pray that was the case.
With a tiptoe-soft stride, she crept across the trimmed lawn and concealed herself in the shadows. Please, dear God, don’t let the residents have a dog. Nothing with fangs. And nothing that barked. Even a perturbed cat’s meow might alert anyone who pursued her. Heaven knew the cat she’d left with dear friends in London could rouse a mummy from its slumber.
Something scampered by her feet. Pressing her knuckles to her mouth, she swallowed a cry. She glanced down, seeing no sign of the creature, whatever it was. An owl’s screech unleashed goose bumps over her arms. If only she could stop worrying about what might be slinking through the darkness, in biting range of her leather-clad toes and ankles.
Snap! A twig cracked. Behind her, in the darkness beyond the gaslight’s reach. Low. So close to the ground, surely a night creature was the culprit.
Another screech. The owl’s enormous eyes locked with hers. This time, the sound was welcome, a reminder that every creak and groan was not tied to a villain of some sort.
Out of the night, a hand clamped over her mouth. Callused fingers muffled her scream.
She smelled it then, that cloud of spirits that could not entirely disguise the Scotsman’s natural, healthy male scent. His masculine essence surrounded her as his arm coiled around her, pulling her to his long, solid length. He’d slipped into the liquor-soaked greatcoat again. A small blessing, that. The sensations might well have proven all too heady had nothing more than linen cloth offered a barrier between them. As it was, heat radiated through the layers of fabric, infusing her with awareness.
Connor MacMasters held her tight. How very unfair of him to smell so tempting. A man doused in whisky should repulse her. Not spark a desire to soak up his warmth.
“Stop struggling,” he rasped against her ear. “We’ve got company.” MacMasters nudged her chin so she faced the street. A black brougham crept along the road, slowing as it neared the corner. A gilded crest adorned the elegant conveyance.
“Recognize the driver?” MacMasters went on, easing away the hand that had silenced her. “He’s not the charming sort that I am. I’ll wager the man inside the coach is even less hospitable. I’ve got
to get you back to my brother’s residence. No one would dare invade that place. It’s a bluidy fortress.”
The physician’s residence a fortress? Harrison MacMasters seemed proper. Civilized. Good heavens, what sort of men had she stumbled upon? What dangerous dealings necessitated a stronghold?
The coach stopped and the driver lumbered off his perch. Munro. Johanna’s heart crept to her throat. Had the hoodlums tracked her to this place? Or were they searching blindly, hoping to stumble upon her? Surely, at this point they did not intend to bargain for her niece’s life. No, they’d simplify their task. How easy would it be to seize her and help themselves to the satchel? She’d be vulnerable to any cruelty they might inflict, to any debauchery they might crave.
She’d be prey. Nothing more.
The door to the coach swung open. The well-dressed man MacMasters had left sprawled on the pavement behind Kincaid’s Pub emerged. Rubbing the heel of his hand against his head as if to soothe an ache, Ross turned to Munro, uttered a few words she could not make out, and surveyed the street.
“I should’ve killed the bastards,” MacMasters muttered.
Shivers trickled along Johanna’s spine, icy splinters against her skin. Blast it, this was no time to allow fear to get the better of her. She squared her shoulders and rose on her toes until her lips were level with the Scotsman’s ear. “I suppose you have a plan.”
“Nae, lass.” He caught her hand in his. “I’ll be making it up as I go.”
Chapter Nine
MacMasters pulled Johanna deeper into the shadows. For such a large and muscular man, he moved with a fluid grace. Sleek. Stealthy as a panther. And every bit as dangerous. His large hand covered hers. The heat of him filled her. How absurd that she should feel a keen awareness of this man. Here she was, creeping through the night like a fugitive, and yet, something deep and primal assured her she’d be safe with him.
Pity the few shreds of logic she still possessed heartily disagreed.
Silencing the nagging harpy in the back of her thoughts, she followed MacMasters through the shadows. Judging from the tension in his frame, skulking around in the darkness chafed her protector’s bold nature. If he’d been on his own, he would’ve confronted the blackguards and eliminated the threat. To himself. And to her. She had no doubt of that.
Good heavens, she was doing it again—romanticizing this man into a hero. Into her hero. Truth be told, she had no inkling of his motives. His actions were not those of a chivalrous defender. More likely than not, he safeguarded his own interests by keeping her alive.
Still, her instincts insisted the Scotsman would not betray her. He could’ve helped himself to the satchel and left her to her own devices. Instead, he was shielding her from the human predators who pursued her. Why?
A flicker of movement jerked her attention from the Scot. A blurred shadow roamed beyond the alley. Was this one of Ross’s cronies?
The shadow stilled. Silent. A stray beam of moonlight glinted off metal. A gun. Or a blade. Whoever lurked in wait had come armed. Fear welled in Johanna’s throat, but she muted it.
MacMasters followed the path of her gaze. His voice was a rough whisper. “Stay here. Keep to the darkness.”
Prowling through the night-shrouded alley, MacMasters crept toward the figure. Soundless. Each stride precise.
The silhouetted figure cocked his head. Listening, perhaps. He entered the alley. A few hesitant steps. Did he sense the threat MacMasters posed?
MacMasters emerged from the shadows. His fist plowed into the man.
The figure buckled and plunged to the ground, unmoving.
Devouring the distance between them, MacMasters reached for her. He guided her toward the far wall of the structure. Stretching an arm over his head, he swept his hand over the rough textured brick.
“Damnation, it must be here.”
As if the words were an incantation, a muted click met his efforts. Johanna’s eyes went wide. The wall shifted. Opened.
He tugged her inside a tomblike chamber. The wall slowly closed behind them. She’d never known such a dank blackness. Terror infused every nerve, and she prayed nothing else occupied the utterly dark cell.
Without a word, MacMasters coiled his fingers around hers and guided her forward. Stumbling over her skirts, she blinked wildly in a futile effort to detect some flicker of light.
“Are we to hide here like rodents?” she murmured.
“Nae. This is a tunnel.”
“A tunnel?”
“Bringing ye here is a matter of last resort. There will be hell t’pay, but ye left me no choice.”
He seemed to count the measured strides. Dipping his head, his low voice brushed her ear. “Stand away in case my brother is less than hospitable.”
He knocked against a wall, a peculiar succession of taps. A door swung open. Lamplight flooded her vision.
Harrison met them at the entry. Wielding a rifle that looked better suited to a hunting expedition than a weapon for defense, he scowled. “You’ve violated security protocol. Have you lost your blasted mind?”
“Ross is tracking her.” MacMasters wasted no time getting to the crux of the issue.
Comprehension washed over his brother’s face. “Hell and damnation, Miss Templeton could have been killed.”
“That’s why I brought her to this bluidy fortress.”
A small nod marked Harrison’s understanding. He led Johanna through the door to a dimly-illuminated chamber. The room was the man’s private armory. Weapons mounted on racks lined all but one wall. Shotguns. Rifles. Pistols. The crossbow mounted in the center of the space brought to mind some warrior of old, defending an ancient castle from a horde of renegades.
Harrison made no move to stow his long gun. Rather, he carried it as he escorted her to the study from which she’d made her unconventional exit. “Thanks to you and your attempt at being an escape artist, I am readying for the defense of this property rather than enjoying a brandy by the fire.”
“I did not ask to be brought here, Dr. MacMasters. Not the first time. Not now.”
“I’m well aware of that. It seems you’ve tapped into my brother’s long-buried chivalrous instincts.”
“Hah!” The word popped between her lips.
MacMasters narrowed his eyes. “Much as I hate to agree with the lass, this has nothing to do with chivalry.”
“Humph.” Harrison marched to the sideboard, poured steaming tea from a carafe into a china cup, and presented it to Johanna. “You look chilled. This will warm you.”
Uttering her appreciation, she placed her valise on a table and accepted the delicate vessel. Tiny, precisely rendered flowers adorned the fine porcelain. How odd that such beauty would catch her eye after the brutality she’d witnessed this night.
She took a sip, then another. The tea—Darjeeling, if she had her guess—trickled down her throat, spreading a welcome warmth through her veins, though it did nothing to ease the trembling of her hands.
Harrison slugged a richly scented amber liquid into a tumbler and downed it in one draught. He met her eyes. “Better?” The single word carried genuine concern she hadn’t expected.
“Yes.”
His gaze swept over her, a quick, surveying glance. “I have one question that puzzles me above all others.”
“And what might that be, Dr. MacMasters?”
“How the bloody hell did you even get those skirts out the window?” The query contained no trace of humor. Rather, exasperation colored his tone.
“Persistence is one of my strong suits.” She echoed the flinty quality of his voice.
Connor MacMasters plowed long fingers through his thick, dark hair. “Aye, just what we need. A persistent lass who’s attracted the interest of men like Ross and Munro. What in the name of Zeus were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?”
Johanna hiked her chin. “I am not a prisoner and will not be treated as one.”
Harrison’s eyes narrowed. Was that a flash of wry amu
sement in his gaze? “Next time, I suggest you use the front door.”
“An excellent suggestion.” She took another sip.
“What do they want with you, Miss Templeton? You need to tell us the truth.” Harrison sounded so reasonable. But she hesitated to reveal the truth to these men.
“I have a contract to fulfill.” Each word stuck to her tongue. Even such a vague explanation seemed too much to offer.
“A contract? With those killers?” MacMasters’s brows formed an imposing inverted vee.
“Call it what you will. I have something they want. And they have something quite precious to me. An exchange must be arranged.” She kept her emotions tightly leashed, but she couldn’t entirely still the tremor in her voice. Damn the man, making this cruel situation intolerably worse.
Was it her imagination, or did the harsh set of his features ease? Not soften. No, that word would never apply. But the tense set of his jaw relaxed, and his eyes regarded her with something that looked like compassion.
“You said the man you knew as Richard Abbott gave ye the book. Was there a closeness between the two of ye?” MacMasters studied her beneath hooded lids. “Ye’ve feelings for the mon?”
Good heavens, was MacMasters suggesting she harbored some romantic attraction for Mr. Abbott, some twinge of illicit emotion? The very notion brought a bitter taste to her mouth. She’d never been able to fathom how her sister had fallen so hard and so fast for the swift-talking charmer. And now, anger percolated in her veins. The selfish cad had taken Laurel to Scotland and immersed the child in his dangerous dealings. Had his daughter been a disguise of sorts, a prop he used to play the doting father on holiday? Or had Abbott been unable to flee the country without the one thing in his life he’d still loved?
She stared down at her toes for a heartbeat, drawing in a breath to bring her emotions under leash. When she met MacMasters’s eyes, his gaze pierced every defense.
The Highlander Who Loved Me Page 7
