The Highlander Who Loved Me

by Tara Kingston

  “That book is for my eyes only,” Johanna protested.

  A wry grin hiked the corners of Connor’s mouth. “Do ye read it when ye’re in a mood to sleep? ’Twas all I could do to keep my eyes open. I damn near nodded off before I headed to the tavern.”

  The arrogant gleam in his eyes fired her indignation. “Is nothing sacred?”

  “Not when I’m chasing after a daft American who thinks she can deal with the likes of Cranston.”

  She firmed her jaw. “I’ll have you know I came fully prepared.”

  “Are ye talking about that little knife ye carried? Well, that puny blade might’ve made Munro mad, but it’s nae good for more than that. It’s like hunting a boar with a quill. Ye might poke it, but ye’re not going to damage the beast.”

  The infuriating Scot was right, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “I would have concluded my business with those men and been on my way had you not interfered,”

  A dark brow hiked. “If ye really believe that, ye’re spending too much time with yer nose in a book. Men don’t conveniently dive over cliffs in time to rescue the heroine.”

  “You read my notes?” Oh, this man was truly a scoundrel!

  “Enough to know ye’re makin’ a mistake if ye think Cranston is willing to negotiate with anyone. He’ll kill ye and the girl soon as he gets his hands on what he wants.”

  “Dammit, what did you learn from the journal?” Harrison questioned.

  “I didnae have time to study it in detail, but the most obvious conclusion I can make is that Miss Templeton spends far too much time dreaming up men with dark secrets and governesses who are as reckless as she is.”

  “I am a writer by trade, Mr. MacMasters. I was perfectly content to live an uneventful life. I’ve little need for adventure and scandalous unmentionables.”

  His eyes raked her from head to toe. “And that, Miss Templeton, is a bluidy shame.”

  Harrison regarded his brother with a look of weary resignation. So, he was used to Connor MacMasters playing the uncouth scoundrel. “Leave me the journal. I’ll examine it while you get some sleep.”

  “Good enough.” MacMasters retrieved the small book from an inner pocket of his great coat. “Try not to snore.”

  “Snore? How amusing you are,” Johanna retaliated. “My life was well-ordered. I was content. Now, I’ve been forced to leave that behind. But you…you thrive on wreaking chaos wherever you go.”

  “Ah, he’s not such a bad sort,” Mrs. Duncan spoke up. “He’s a rogue, he is. But truth be told, the mon’s got a heart o’gold.”

  “Touching as that testimonial may be, it’s a waste of breath. The lass will never have faith in my good character. And that’s the way it’s meant to be. Natural adversaries, we are.” Connor regarded Johanna with a wounded look so obviously feigned, she wondered that he did not rend his clothing for effect.

  Harrison shot his brother a glower. “Good God, you’ve missed your calling on the stage. You’ve heaped the manure so high, I need field boots to wade through it.” He turned to Johanna. “As your journal has been recovered, we cannot take the risks involved in retrieving whatever else was left behind. That being said, I’ll procure new garments for your journey in the morning.”

  Mrs. Duncan’s keen eyes seemed to measure Johanna. “That actress traipsed off without botherin’ t’take some of her things with her, a few dresses that might fit ye…though they may be a wee bit overabundant in the bodice.”

  Harrison shook his head. “That won’t suit. We want Miss Templeton to blend in.”

  “We can’t be too choosy now, can we?” Another assessing glance, and Mrs. Duncan nodded to herself. “I’ll show the lass to her room for the night. And then, I’ll gather some clothes for the morn. I believe I’ve got just the thing.”

  “If ye happen to have a nun’s habit lying about, that might be exactly what the lass requires.” Connor flashed a sly smile. “Judging from that diary of hers, that’d be my suggestion.”

  “Connor MacMasters, I always did say yer father erred by not applying a switch t’yer behind when ye spouted off.” The rueful set of Mrs. Duncan’s mouth betrayed both her irritation and fondness.

  Looking rather pleased with himself, Connor folded his arms at the waist. He’d managed to exasperate both Johanna and the housekeeper, and the mischievous boy he’d undoubtedly once been gleamed clear in his eyes. “I had my fair share of the switch, I’ll have ye know.”

  “Not near enough, as I see it,” the matron said. “Miss Templeton, I’ll show ye to yer room now.”

  “Thank you. But first, there’s one thing I need to know.” Johanna knotted her hands into fists and planted them on her hips. “Mr. MacMasters, you already have the book, and you had the audacity to read my private journal. As infuriating as those facts may be, I cannot ignore the question that’s nagging at me.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “As I see it, you had little need for me at that point. So why did you follow me when I fled this house?”

  “Was I to leave ye to those curs?”

  “That’s what I am asking you. You had already commandeered everything I possessed that might be of value to you. You are certainly not the gallant sort. And yet, you put yourself in danger to pursue me and bring me back to this place.” She fixed him with a stare. “Why?”

  His jaw set in a tense line, and the mischief evaporated from his gaze. His eyes darkened as he studied her, and all the while, Johanna counted the beats of her heart. She’d asked a simple question, not one that required contemplation, but the embers in his gaze made it clear he had not made light of her inquiry.

  “Lass, that’s a question I’ve been asking myself. Instead of warming my bones by the fire with a tumbler of whisky in my hand, I spent the night dodging bastards who’d cut my heart out and chuckle while they cleaned their blades. And all to save the pretty hide of a daft American. So, the answer to yer question, Johanna Templeton, is plain and simple—I’ll be damned if I know.”

  Johanna followed the housekeeper’s trudging steps to the room she’d occupy for the night. Mrs. Duncan opened the door, lit a lamp, and beckoned Johanna inside.

  “A little rest will do ye good, lass.” Kindness infused the housekeeper’s tone. “I know it’ll do my weary bones some good. Twice tonight I was roused from a sound sleep. I can only hope there won’t be a third.”

  “On my account, I suppose. I am sorry.”

  Mrs. Duncan gave a little shrug. “Don’t go worryin’ yer head about it. The first time I heard ye in the study, I came to see what MacMasters was up to. Between the two of ’em, ye never know what the cat is goin’ to drag in.”

  The housekeeper’s observation pricked at Johanna. What must the matron think of her arrival at Harrison MacMasters’s home under such scandalous circumstances? Well, there was nothing to be done about it. She’d have to make the best of it. Mrs. Duncan might well provide some insight into the MacMasters men.

  “You know them well?”

  “Ye could say that. But don’t think I’ll be spillin’ their secrets.” The matron looked only too eager to talk, despite her words to the contrary.

  “Of course not,” Johanna said. “What line of business is MacMasters in?”

  “Why, he’s a physician, dearie. I thought ye knew that. Doctor MacMasters.”

  “And his brother?”

  “Good heavens, if ye ever find the answer to that question, be sure t’pass it along to me. I couldn’t begin to tell ye. The mon’s a hellion. Always has been. But a good mon, none-the-less.”

  “One does not earn a living as a hellion.” Johanna lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “How does he earn his keep?”

  Mrs. Duncan’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve heard tales…but they’re not fit fer a young lady’s ears.”

  “I am not fresh out of schoolroom, and at this point, I’m not certain my conduct would qualify as ‘befitting a lady.’”

  “Aye, if ye wanted to leave this ho
use, I’d think the door might’ve been easier.” Bobbing her head in agreement with her own words, the housekeeper pulled down the quilt and plumped a thick pillow. “I’ve no place carrying tales. Ye’ll need to find out for yerself.”

  “Won’t you tell me just a bit? I must confess to a great curiosity where Mr. MacMasters is concerned.”

  “I’ve been with this family since Dr. MacMasters was in nappies. ’Tis not my place to gossip.” Mrs. Duncan’s mouth slid into a coy smile. “They’re not the usual sort. Even schooling in England didn’t dampen that wildness in their souls. They’ve got the clan in their blood. No fancy manners will change that. But I suspect ye’ll find that out in time.”

  Without a backward glance, Mrs. Duncan turned and strolled from the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Good heavens, what pursuits were these men involved in that kept even the housekeeper intrigued?

  Mrs. Duncan was right. Johanna would find out soon enough what the brothers were about. She’d no intention of following blithely along with whatever schemes the men were brewing. No, she’d glean whatever good she could from her time with the Scottish rogue and use it to her advantage.

  MacMasters had trailed her since her arrival in Inverness. Could he be in league with the blackguards who’d followed her every move since Mr. Abbott had embarked on what he’d deceptively termed a holiday?

  Her fingers went to her blouse, unfastening the buttons. She shrugged out of the sleeves, draped the soiled garment over the bedpost, and followed suit with her skirt. Despite Harrison MacMaster’s assurances that he’d procure fresh clothing, she might well need to rely on what she’d worn on her back.

  With a sigh, she removed her corset. Sinking into a plumply upholstered chair, she indulged in a long, soothing stretch, then examined the garment. The tiny, pale stitches she’d made within the lining were undisturbed. Another sigh escaped her. She’d no doubt MacMasters had examined her clothing. But they had not detected the hiding place she’d constructed within the undergarment. Judging from their questions and statements, she’d assured herself that her secret had remained safe. But her relief seemed nearly a tangible thing.

  No, MacMasters had not uncovered the scrap of paper she’d concealed there, a remnant of the last correspondence she’d received from Richard Abbott. If the Scot had uncovered her secret, his inquiry would’ve taken a very different tone.

  She’d burned the letter, not long after the ominous final missive had arrived in the post. There was no telling who had knowledge of its bleak contents, but she could take no chances. She’d watched the paper curl and burn in the fireplace, obliterating the strange sequence of digits he’d noted in that precise hand of his. Whether the numbers were connected to a clandestine bank account or had some other meaning, she couldn’t be certain. But she’d memorized the sequence and destroyed the page, salvaging only three brief but priceless lines Mr. Abbott had penned while his danger-fraught existence had apparently unraveled.

  Following her brother-in-law’s instructions, she’d tossed his earlier correspondence in the fire. As the flames consumed the letters, she’d struggled to keep a taut rein on her emotions. Mr. Abbott had implored her to take the train to Inverness and see Laurel safely home. He’d made arrangements for her care while he dealt with the repercussions of a business deal that had taken an ugly turn, or so he’d said. Gathering her things hastily, Johanna had prepared to leave on the next morning’s train.

  That was before the messenger arrived. The scrawny lad had shown up on her doorstep, telegram in hand. The wording on the communiqué was purposefully bland. But its meaning was clear. Laurel was in danger, and it was up to Johanna to ensure the child’s safe return.

  Of course, she’d had reason to suspect something was amiss even before she’d received the message that confirmed her worst fears. She’d had warning of the danger that prowled after her.

  In the days after her brother-in-law had departed the city with Laurel in tow, Johanna had often experienced the disconcerting sense that she was being stalked like a fox in a hunter’s sights. In the midst of an afternoon stroll, she’d observed an elegant black coach parked not far from her residence. Its occupant, a blond beauty who’d draped a striking tartan plaid around her throat, had peered between the open curtains. Meeting Johanna’s gaze, she had not turned away. Moments later, the driver had spurred the horses on, and the carriage had disappeared from sight. A quarter hour later, Johanna had spotted the conveyance at a cross street scarcely a mile from home. A flash of plaid through the slender gap between the curtains had confirmed her suspicion that the carriage was the same one she’d noticed on the Strand.

  At the time, she’d dismissed the prickle at the back of her neck and the sense of dread that had crept through her. Nothing more than her overly fertile imagination at work, she’d scolded herself.

  How very wrong she’d been.

  And there was the peculiar call she’d received from the widow MacInnis. She’d arrived at Johanna’s Charing Cross flat in a state of barely leashed panic, insisting she was being followed, that the same scoundrels who’d engineered her husband’s demise were in pursuit. Her husband’s death was tied to Mr. Abbott’s pursuit of antiquities, or so Eleanor MacInnis had claimed, but her cryptic, distraught ramblings had been too vague to be given any credence.

  Until the next morning, when Johanna had received word of the widow’s fatal plunge from a fifth floor balcony. An accident, or so the constables had said. Others had whispered the grief-stricken woman had taken her own life. Johanna harbored her own horrible, unspoken suspicions.

  Had sinister forces brought about the widow’s death? Had the same dark souls seen to Mr. MacInnis’s tragic end?

  Placing the corset aside, she rose and stepped to the window, drew back the curtain, and peered into the starlit sky for a long moment. She turned, and the fabric fell back in place. Crossing the room soundlessly over a thick carpet, she sank onto the bed. Her thoughts besieged her. If only she’d done something to prevent Mr. Abbott from taking his daughter out of London. If only she’d known what he was up to. If only…

  Blast it all, she would drive herself mad with doubt.

  And what of MacMasters’s role in this ruthless endeavor? Surely his appearance at the tavern where she’d planned to make the exchange had been entirely too convenient. Was he secretly allied with Cranston, intent on eliminating the scoundrel’s henchmen in hopes of claiming a substantial bounty?

  Or was MacMasters one of Cranston’s rivals? The Scotsman believed she possessed something far more valuable than the book. He’d made no secret of that. To what lengths would he go to claim the treasure?

  Connor MacMasters was a dangerous man. There was no denying that. The skills he’d employed against his adversaries had not been learned in a classroom. He’d met every threat without so much as a flinch. This was a man accustomed to violence, to bloodshed. He’d acted as her protector. But she harbored no illusion that the Scot’s actions had been motivated by chivalry.

  No, MacMasters needed her. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, the man needed her alive and at his side. What would he do when her presence no longer served a purpose?

  Her chest tightened. Her breath hovered in her throat. Somehow, she had to use this forced alliance with the devil to further her quest.

  She would bring Laurel home—no matter the cost.

  Surely, MacMasters knew more about the prize he believed she possessed than he let on. The book was indeed valuable. But even she could scarcely believe that so many would pursue the tome and that ruthless bastards would be willing to kill for it.

  There had to be something else. Something more than paper and ink, no matter how pristine those pages might be.

  MacMasters might be the key to discovering the truth.

  He believed her to be an adversary. And a weak one at that. A foolish American immersed in a dull, orderly existence.

  And that would work to her benefit.

 
He’d never suspect she could manipulate him. The brazen Scot’s pride wouldn’t permit him to see the truth. She’d convince him to trust her with what he knew. After all, she was no innocent. He was not the only one capable of seducing an unwary soul breathless.

  She’d wait her chance.

  And then, she’d romance the truth out of his arrogant mouth.

  Chapter Twelve

  Up with the dawn, Connor helped himself to a breakfast of Mrs. Duncan’s black pudding, sausage, eggs, beans, and tattie scones. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed such hearty Scottish fare? He’d endured too much damn time away from the Highlands, breathing air heavy with fog and factory smoke under relentlessly gray skies.

  As sunrise cast shades of gold and rose over the garden beyond the window, Johanna joined him in the dining room. She’d swept her hair back with a black ribbon. Tendrils framed her face. He hadn’t noticed the softly rounded curve of her face the night before. Or the rosy flush over her high cheekbones. Even in the dowdy tent of a dress Mrs. Duncan had found for her—a stark brown garment last worn by the matron’s dearly departed sister—she was a beauty.

  He’d expected her to pick at her meal, pretending a ladylike lack of appetite, but she’d let a little sigh of pleasure escape after taking her first bite of scone with berry jam. She might not have been a Scottish lass by birth, but she’d quickly developed a taste for Mrs. Duncan’s cooking. The sight pleased him beyond reason.

  “We will leave for Dunnhaven this morn,” he said as she spread jam on the biscuit.

  Her feathered brows shot up. “Dunnhaven?”

  “My home. Ye’ll be welcome there.”

  Color drained from her face. “But my niece…time is of the essence. I must find her.”

  “If Cranston is where we believe him to be, he’s no more than a day’s journey from the castle.”

  She placed her half-eaten scone on a plate. “Castle?”

  “Aye. A fortress, in truth.”

  “And if we’re seen traveling together? Isn’t that risky?”