“Harrison has developed a plan, a ruse to deflect unwanted interest in our journey.”
Her lips thinned, as if she’d held back her reaction to his words, then curved into a wan imitation of a smile. “How clever. Are there more like you there… More MacMasters?”
Clever? The lass had grown cooperative. Too much so, truth be told. Were her placid responses a ruse of her own?
“Aye. We’ll formulate our strategy once we know what ye’ve got.”
She tapped a fingernail against the plate. “You truly believe there’s something else, something more valuable than the book?”
“That, Miss Templeton, is what we need to find out.”
…
Attired in a scratchy wool jacket and a stiff-collared shirt, Connor tugged at the linen constricting his throat. At least he hadn’t been forced into tailored trousers. Instead, a kilt in the clan MacMasters’ plaid allowed his bollocks some breathing room. His disguise was simple enough. He’d escort Johanna Templeton—cloaked in mourning garb that concealed her face and shrouded her figure—to his family’s estate. Few would question the grieving widow of a long-lost, albeit purely imaginary, MacMasters cousin.
The thought of Dunnhaven tugged a smile to his lips. The castle had been constructed long before Elizabeth sat on the throne. Rumor had it Queen Victoria had become so enamored with the rugged landscape and the MacMasters’ brick and stone family seat, she’d seen to the construction of her own Highland retreat, Balmoral. Ah, the memories of his family’s grand old place… As boys, he and his brothers had had their fair share of adventures in the rugged countryside surrounding the castle, and he couldn’t number the scoldings he’d received for sliding down the banister of the massive staircase in the main hall.
With the clock ticking toward mid-morning and breakfast long past, he paced the floor, his boots pounding the creaky wood. This was no time to sit around with his thumb up his arse. Where was the bluidy carriage Harrison had arranged? His brother insisted Fergus Royce was the best driver around. The fact that the man was as hard drinking as he was craggy faced hadn’t been a concern. With any luck, the old sot could be trusted to be more loyal than he was punctual.
Johanna strolled into the parlor. She’d traded the mud-brown dress for widow’s weeds. Even shrouded in ebony silk, Johanna possessed a loveliness that couldn’t be muted. Despite the lack of color or ornate design, the soft drape of the fabric emphasized her curves and her fresh-picked-peach complexion. Fiery intelligence lit her wide blue eyes. A rush of awareness hit him square in the gut. Elemental. Primitive. The hunger set his cock on alert like a rooster at first dawn.
Damnation. He shoved his body’s demands to the recesses of his weary brain. He had a mission to complete. Seducing the woman who held the key to his pursuit wasn’t a part of his plan. God above, she’d want no part of him by the time he was finished with that infernal book she treasured.
He wanted her in his bed. He couldn’t lie to himself about that. She’d felt good in his arms. Too bloody good. Blast it all, he knew better than to allow his bollocks to take the reins. He could resist the temptation to discover for himself the beauty she concealed beneath all those yards of fabric, the prim and proper layers of clothing she favored even when she wasn’t cloaked in mourning black. He’d find a way to resist the enticement of her silken skin and the soft, subtle sway of her hips. He’d learned long ago how to control his carnal urges.
Damn shame it wasn’t that simple.
There was something about Johanna that he craved, something that had nothing to do with her beauty. Was it the spirit that glimmered in her eyes? Her quiet strength? Or the conviction in her voice when she spoke of the quest that meant everything to her?
Deep within him, he wanted her trust. He didn’t deserve it. God above, he couldn’t be the noble hero she needed. In the long run, it wouldn’t matter if she believed him a hero or a villain. He’d do what he’d come to do. If that meant she detested him, so be it. There was no choice in the matter. His mission could not be compromised, regardless of how his gut twisted at the thought of deceiving her.
Why did he give a weasel’s arse if the lass had faith in him? He must complete his task. If Johanna sought the priceless ruby his ancestors had dubbed Deamhan’s Cridhe, he’d determine what she knew. If necessary, he’d track down the gem himself and ensure its protection. Geoffrey Cranston and those of his ilk, collectors who sought the stone’s rumored powers, could not be allowed to take possession of the Demon’s Heart.
He’d see to his duty. Of that, there was no question. So why did it feel like a punch in the gut when she looked at him with doubt in her eyes? Just as she was doing now.
Her skirt swished against her high-topped shoes as she crossed the room.
“Stay clear of the windows and doors,” he warned. “We’ve no way to know who’s followed us here. The brick walls provide protection.”
She regarded him with the same dismissal he’d shown the governess who’d warned him of the risk to life and limb when he had coasted down that winding banister.
“If you believe we’ve been followed, why are we traveling in daylight? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to wait until dark?”
“These bastards are night predators. They may creep out of their holes when the sun is shining, but it’s not likely. If they do, we’ll have fair warning.”
She slipped into a high back chair nestled in a far corner of the room. Her gaze flickered to the lace edging the cuffs of her mourning blouse. She gave a little sniff of disdain. “A bit macabre, isn’t it?”
“We need a plausible explanation for ye to be making yer way to the castle. From the moment we leave this place to the time we step foot on MacMasters’ land, ye’ll act the part of the grieving bride of some long-lost relative. God knows there are enough reckless MacMasters men scattered throughout the Highlands. No one will question that one met an untimely demise.”
“And this?” She dangled the lace mourning veil Harrison had handed her as if it were tatted from cobwebs. “Something about this doesn’t feel right. Are we tempting fate?”
“Nay, lass. Your brother-in-law did that when he tangled with the likes of Geoffrey Cranston.”
“Perhaps we should make inquiries in the city. Surely Cranston is near.”
“If the bastard was close, I’d know.”
Her eyes narrowed in distrust she didn’t try to hide. “How is it that you’re so certain of that, Mr. MacMasters?”
“I know the man and his ways.”
Anguish marked Johanna’s face. Damn shame he couldn’t offer gentle words to silence her apprehension. The truth of the matter was brutal, more foul than she could have imagined. Cranston’s motives were malevolent. Cold-blooded. And at their heart, unholy.
Rumors of Cranston’s pursuit of a wicked treasure had swirled from London to Aberdeen. Centuries old, the vile prize he sought had been hidden by elders of the MacMasters clan days after Queen Elizabeth had condemned her Scottish rival, Mary Stuart, to the executioner’s ax. Legend told of a cursed gem, the Deamhan’s Cridhe—a ruby the color of blood that brought tragedy to innocents. Like so many before her, the Queen of Scots had fallen victim to the Demon Heart’s evil. Or so the whispers alleged.
Tasked with securing the jewel where its powers could do no further harm, Laird Dougall MacMasters and his men had done a damn fine job of it. To this day, the cursed ruby’s hiding place remained a secret they’d taken to their graves.
Connor put no stock in the ramblings of uneducated men who blamed witches and omens of doom for their misfortune. There was no curse. No inherent evil in a blasted bit of rock.
But Geoffrey Cranston believed in the gem’s power and sought to harness its dark strength. By all accounts, he had been a brilliant businessman before a mad pursuit for power, not of this world, had consumed him. He’d become obsessed with arcane rituals and relics. The Demon’s Heart would be the crown jewel in his collection.
The jackal had already demonstrated the l
engths to which he’d go to acquire the wretched stone. Already, treasure seekers and museum curators—anyone unfortunate enough to possess the slightest crumb of knowledge—had been slaughtered in Cranston’s ruthless quest. Anyone who might block his possession of the Demon’s Heart was an obstacle to be eliminated.
Johanna was in Cranston’s path. Did she truly believe she could charge into Cranston’s realm unscathed? Her spirit intrigued him, but Connor had to rein her in. She was brave, but too damn naive to envision the evil that lay ahead. He’d protect her, whether she desired his assistance or not.
He caught her gloved hand. Through the soft velvet, her heat blended with his. His eyes snapped to her mouth. She’d relaxed against his touch, her lips forming a plump pout he longed to taste. Blast it to hell, this hunger was a distraction he didn’t need.
Forcing his thoughts away from the temptation of that gorgeous mouth, he met her gaze. “Cranston wants the book. I’ll not argue that. But the book is not his ultimate prize. He’s already got blood on his hands to possess it. He’ll kill again if we don’t get to the artifact he is seeking first.”
Connor watched her throat constrict. Her lower lip trembled. The single tear trickling down her cheek was like a punch to the gut.
Her blue eyes darkened to the color of a stormy sea. “How can I be certain you’re not after whatever bounty he’s offering?”
He didn’t blame her for doubting him. Hell, aside from those who bore the name MacMasters, Connor didn’t trust a damn soul.
His fingers firmed around hers. Pretty words would not reassure her. Honesty would have to do.
“The truth is simple. But hard to stomach. At this point, ye can only be sure of one thing. Ye’re in danger, as is the bairn. There’s no way to know if I’m a villain. Not yet. But I give my word I will protect ye. I will bring the child back to yer arms. That’ll be all the proof ye need.”
…
The truth was not only simple. It was ugly. And jagged edged. The reality clawed at Johanna’s insides. No one could guarantee her niece’s safety. Not until the bastard who held the child prisoner got what he wanted.
Heaven knew she longed to believe MacMasters’s vow. She desperately needed to trust him, to have faith he would bring Laurel back to her. But she’d heard her share of promises that meant nothing. Meaningless words, discarded as carelessly as one might forget a drunken boast. Words that had left scars on her heart as deep as any blade could wield.
He released her, putting an arm’s length between their bodies. Had he also sensed the heat between them, the innate response of her female body to his?
He stood before her, every inch the Highlander. For a heartbeat, she drank him in.
Every powerful inch.
A precisely tailored black jacket clung to his broad shoulders, while his sage cravat lent an air of formality. From the waist up, he might have been any well-dressed gentleman, smartly attired in keeping with London fashion. But from the waist down…oh my. A hint of rebellion lurked beneath the strikingly masculine garb. Rather than staid, properly-pressed trousers, he’d donned a kilt of vibrant red, green, and black tartan plaid. The colors of his clan, most likely. A white sporran hung from a leather belt around his hips, while his legs, strong and solid as tree trunks, were sheathed to the knee in black hose. The fine knit clung to hard-muscled calves and sinewy shins. He’d tucked a small dagger within his right stocking, the carved bone handle of the sgian dubh within easy reach. Connor MacMasters seemed a warrior come to life, the danger in his eyes leashed by the slenderest of threads.
Astonishing, how the tartan draping his lean hips brought out such undeniable manliness. As a girl in America, she’d giggled at drawings of men wearing garments that left their legs—and heaven only knew what else—exposed. The very idea of the male of the species wearing so very little had seemed scandalous. Had tailors devised drawers that could be worn beneath that length of plaid?
Heat rushed to her face. Flushed bright as a strawberry, she bet. The rowdy twinkle in his eye only confirmed her suspicions. Devil take it.
“I appreciate your willingness to assist me, Mr. MacMasters.” Johanna forced her gaze to the thick Aubusson carpet beneath her feet. Pulling in a breath to compose herself, she lifted her gaze, careful not to drop her attention below his perfectly tied cravat. “But I cannot help but wonder why you are putting yourself at risk.”
One dark brow arched. “Ye dinnae believe I’m moved by yer niece’s plight?”
“No, it’s not that. After all, who but the foulest of humanity would not be concerned about a child in danger? But there is a substantial difference between concern and the willingness to put one’s life on the line.”
His jaw twitched, as if he’d felt a twinge of indignation. “I’ve stuck my neck out for far less worthy quests.”
“Even so, a question continues to nag at me.”
“And what might that be?”
“I am not a fool. I know there must be some reward you expect from this endeavor. What precisely do you hope to gain?”
His eyes locked with hers. His response came without emotion, as though the pronouncement was the most rudimentary of conversation. “Revenge.”
Chapter Thirteen
A heavy rap upon the front door of the townhouse seemed to punctuate MacMasters’s matter-of-fact pronouncement, even as the single word echoed in Johanna’s thoughts. Revenge. So, this was not a mere treasure hunt for the Highlander. His involvement in her quest to get to Cranston was personal. Intensely so. She should pursue the issue, learn the root of his motives. But he’d turned away, watching as Mrs. Duncan ushered in the caller. There’d be time later, while they were on the road, to glean more of the Scot’s secrets.
“’Tis high time ye brought yer arse here, Fergus.” MacMasters folded his arms over his chest and stared daggers at the scarecrow of a man who entered the parlor.
For his part, the old gent marched into the room as if he were master of the house. Leaning his grizzled body against the archway, he shot MacMasters a scowl. “Ye’re damned lucky I pried myself outta bed this mornin’. Leavin’ behind a warm, sweet lass t’deal with the likes of you wasnae easy. But I gather ye’re needin’ my services.”
Services, indeed. Johanna hazarded a guess the driver’s stock in trade boasted substantially more violent expertise than taking the reins of a carriage. Judging from the crevices that etched his face, he’d survived several decades of his exploits. A tweed coat and black trousers hung loose on the man’s lanky frame. Beneath the coat, tell-tale bulges betrayed a shoulder holster and pistols. At his hip, a large knife in a sheath hung from a thick leather strap. He’d come prepared for more than maneuvering a coach through the Highlands. He’d come prepared for battle.
Humor flashed in MacMasters’s eyes. “Sweet lass, eh? Did this one have a tooth in her head?”
“I couldnae tell ye. In the dark, I cannae say that I gave a damn.” Fergus turned his attention to Johanna. Tipping his flat-brimmed cap, he offered a craggy smile. His gaze lingered. “I trust those widow’s weeds are a disguise.”
“Ye’re looking at the bereaved widow of Alastair MacMasters.”
Confusion shadowed the old man’s rough-carved features. “Who the hell might that be? I’ve known every MacMasters in these parts goin’ back more than fifty years.”
Connor winked. “The poor dead sot’s the long-lost offspring of my conniving mind.”
“I should’ve known there’d be a woman in the midst of this endeavor. But they won’t be looking fer a widow. Ah, ye’ve got yer da’s cunnin’ mind.” Fergus shot Johanna a leering glance. “Yer lass is a beauty, she is.”
Johanna hiked her chin. “I am not this man’s lass. We share a common purpose. Nothing more.”
Fergus grinned. “Ye’ve got spleen. I like that.”
MacMasters gave a snort. “I’m a hell of a lot more interested in what she’s got in that satchel than the rosy flush on her cheeks. She came here to do business with
Cranston.”
The driver’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “Cranston? Bluidy hell.”
MacMasters nodded. “Ye see now why you were summoned. Ye took yer damned time getting here.”
“Leaving my bonny Agnes this mornin’ was nae easy, lad. My heart aches with the pain of separation.”
“Good God, ye pile it so high, I doubt I’ve the strength to muddle through it.”
Fergus scowled. “The way I see it, ye’re in need of my services. I cannae say I’ve any use for the likes o’ye, MacMasters. If I’m not prompt enough to suit ye, I’ll be on my way.”
“Bah. Ye’ll be well compensated. Ye know that.” MacMasters waved away the old man’s threat. “We’ll make it worthwhile for ye to pull yerself away from yer lovely and get yer arse here.”
A greedy gleam filled Fergus’s eyes. “Silver?”
“Aye. The usual rate.”
“Ye’re expecting a bit of excitement on the road?”
MacMasters shrugged. “There’s no way to tell. Cranston has men throughout the area. If ye’re questioned, the lass is the grieving widow of a MacMasters who sailed to America years ago.”
“And yer part in this?”
“I am escorting her on behalf of the family.”
“What’s in this for you, MacMasters?” The question sounded blunt on Fergus’s thin lips.
MacMasters regarded Johanna for a long, silent moment. “That’s yet to be seen.”
“Ye’re not holding out on me, are ye? I might be in need of a different arrangement, a cut of the profits.”
“Ye think I’d cheat ye, old mon?”
Fergus eyed MacMasters as if trying to read his features. “I don’t think it. I know it.”
“Och, ye wound me. I’ll have ye know I am a man of honor.”
The driver chuckled under his breath. “Honor? We both know ye’re not the noble type. Though with a woman like this, ye might change yer mind.”
The cagey grin faded from MacMasters’s face. “The lass needs a hero. But I’m sure as hell not it.”
…
Twilight dimmed Johanna’s first view of the MacMasters’ family estate, but even shaded in muted grays and heathers, Dunnhaven Castle was a magnificent sight. A massive structure of stone and block, the fortress-like homestead possessed a unique, intriguing beauty. A towering keep overlooked the sprawling main house, while domed turrets at each corner and large, abundant windows added to the castle’s striking elegance.
The Highlander Who Loved Me Page 11
