Maggie offered a mocking bow. “I shall do my best, my liege.”
“Make sure ye do,” he said, all traces of humor eradicated from his voice.
“The shortbread’s nearly done,” Mrs. Bailey said, changing the subject. “Yer wait willnae be long now. But first, ye must eat supper.” She filled a bowl to brimming with stew and carried it to an adjoining room. “Come along now. Before it cools.”
The cook placed the bowl on the dining table, luring MacMasters like a snake charmer coaxing a cobra from its basket. Johanna trailed his steps and seated herself across from him.
As Mrs. Bailey set another well-filled bowl on the table, Johanna savored the delectable smells. Earlier that evening, she’d believed herself incapable of eating more than a bite or two to preserve her health. The warmth and delicious spices emanating from the porcelain vessel brought about a change of heart. She dipped a spoon into the stew and enjoyed a hearty bite.
“Ye’ve outdone yerself.” Connor paused between spoonfuls to address Mrs. Bailey. “Ye’ve no idea how much I’ve missed yer cooking.”
A broad smile lifted Mrs. Bailey’s thin mouth. “Ye won’t find a meal like this in London, I tell ye.” She strolled toward the kitchen door, as if ready to fetch another bowl for the man she looked upon with unveiled fondness. “Will ye be wanting anything else?”
“I’d be forever in yer debt if ye’d bring me a slice of that bread ye had in the oven when we arrived.”
“That bread is intended for the morning meal. Ye know that, Connor MacMasters.”
“Aye, I do. But my stomach is pleading ignorance.”
He flashed a grin. Quite charming, that smile. Something warm and languid coursed through Johanna’s belly at the sight. Something she’d boxed up and tucked away in the recesses of her heart.
She pushed the ridiculous thought to the side. She hadn’t come to the Highlands for some romantic fling. There’d be no time for such foolishness.
“Och, ye’re a rascal. Like yer father before ye. I’ll be back in a trice.” The cook bustled away, leaving Johanna alone with Connor at the massive table.
Johanna fixed her gaze on him. “When were you were in London?”
“I’ve spent many a day and night in that fog-shrouded place.”
He hadn’t answered her question. His evasion was not entirely unexpected. “You were not impressed with the culture to be found in the city?”
He plunged his fork into the culinary concoction and speared a cube of meat. “My purposes in that hell-hole didn’t permit nights at the theatre or rubbing elbows with intellectuals.”
“What precisely brought you there?”
He popped the bit of lamb into his mouth and chewed for a long, leisurely moment. Finally, he acknowledged her question. “Most recently?”
Watching the expression in his eyes shift to something far darker than his mood with Mrs. Bailey, Johanna took a sip of water. “Yes.”
He washed the bite of stew down with a swig of ale, then rested his fork against the plate.
“You.” The single syllable was spoken in a calm, quiet tone, but might well have been a gunshot for the reverberation it triggered within her.
“I beg your pardon.” She chased her reply with another drink. A gulp, this time.
“You, Miss Templeton.” The flash in Connor’s eyes betrayed he’d taken note of her shocked reaction. “I was sent to London to keep an eye on you.”
“On me?” She forced a lightness to her voice, when in truth, it seemed he’d plowed an elbow into her ribs. “My, what an utter waste of time that must have been for you. Quite ordinary, my life there.”
One of his dark brows arched. “Ordinary? If that was the case, ye wouldnae be sitting here now.”
The door to the kitchen creaked open, and Mrs. Bailey scurried to the table as if offering nourishment to a starving man. She regarded him as one might a long-lost son who’d returned to the family fold.
“Eat up, lad. I can’t have ye wastin’ away.” Mrs. Bailey set a tray with warm bread and a small bowl of butter before them. She shot Johanna a glance. “You, too, lass. Ye need a bit more meat on those bones.”
“Thank ye.” MacMasters broke off a hunk of bread and dipped it in his stew. “We won’t be needing anything else.”
The cook swept her palms over her apron. “If that’s the case, I’ll be heading t’my room. I’ll be up with the cock’s crow, and now, I’ll need t’have another loaf in the oven before yer father sets down t’break his fast.”
“Good night t’ye,” MacMasters said with genuine warmth. He waited until the door closed behind Mrs. Bailey, then shifted his gaze to Johanna. “Ye harbored no suspicion of yer brother-in-law? A sharp lass like ye had to ponder his dealings.”
In truth, she’d had her concerns about her sister’s husband, about the secrecy that clung to him like an ever-present shadow. But she’d never confronted him with her suspicions.
Regret dug into her belly. Not that questioning Mr. Abbott would’ve made any difference. He was Laurel’s father. It had been his right to take her from London.
She glanced at her plate, then forced herself to meet MacMasters’s gaze. “He did not view me as a confidant. Far from it.”
He inclined his head, the smallest of nods, even as his eyes pinned her. Perceptive and sharp. “And yer sister? She knew nothing of his activities?”
“If she did, she did not share her observations with me. Cynthia had been ill for quite a while, well over a year. My focus was on her comfort and Laurel’s well-being. Mr. Abbott was seldom present. And when he was, he seemed a fleeting presence, coming and going with little regard to what was occurring within his home.”
His expression thoughtful, he appeared to consider her remarks. “Ye’ve seen his associates? Perhaps in passing?”
“Never.” Johanna tapped her fork against the rim of the bowl. Drat the nervous habit. Since childhood, she’d made a conscious effort to obliterate the tendency, and she’d succeeded. Until this nightmare with Laurel had shredded her good intentions and resolve.
MacMasters downed more stew and bread, washing it down with ale. “Ye’re sure of that?”
“Yes.” A memory flashed in her thoughts. “No, that’s not quite right. There was one man who visited the flat, a respectable gentleman. One afternoon, not long after his death, his widow arrived unannounced. She was agitated. Quite irrational, really. I had no information she found to be of use, and to be frank, she appeared on the verge of hysteria. Soon after she departed my residence—”
“She was killed,” MacMasters supplied.
Johanna nodded. “Her name was Mrs. MacInnis. Rumor had it her grief was too much to bear.”
“I am well aware of her identity.”
“You knew her?” Johanna studied his features. “You were aware she’d visited my flat?”
“Only after the fact. That bit of intelligence reached me after she was murdered.”
“Murdered?” The word stuck on Johanna’s tongue like over-cooked porridge.
“MacInnis’s widow didnae kill herself. Eleanor MacInnis fell to her death, but that fall was no accident.” MacMasters spoke as easily as if he remarked on the next day’s weather prospects.
“But how…how do you know this?”
He plowed long fingers through his dark hair. “Because I know who murdered her.”
Chapter Seventeen
The occasional creak of the boards beneath Johanna’s feet offered the only break in the oppressive silence of her bedchamber. She paced the floor restlessly, merciless tension energizing her exhausted body. By all rights, the plump feather bed should have beckoned her. But the notion of slumber seemed only slightly less preposterous than the prospect of dancing over the gleaming crescent moon.
The revelation that MacMasters had observed her comings and goings for days—if not weeks—before he showed his face at the tavern set her off-kilter. How long had he been spying on her? God above, the Highlander even knew about
Mrs. MacInnis’s death. From the moment Johanna had first learned of the widow’s fatal plunge, she’d sensed the tragedy had been no accident.
MacMasters knew who bore responsibility for the unfortunate woman’s demise, or so he claimed. He’d refused to elaborate, but he’d made one thing clear—Eleanor MacInnis and her husband had died because they’d known too much about what Cranston coveted.
And now, MacMasters held that very object. Since he’d confiscated the volume, he’d hidden it away, out of sight. As if uttering a vow, he’d assured her he would indeed surrender the book to ransom Laurel. Pity Johanna did not believe the man could be trusted to give up his prize. Indeed, whoever had first made the claim of honor among thieves was either a trusting dull-wit or a liar.
Johanna’s bare toes dug into the plush carpet. Soft fibers cushioned her feet. She’d bathed in soothing hot water in a claw tub tucked away in a small, adjoining chamber and slipped into a nightdress Maggie left on the bed, a garment so modest, even Johanna’s grandmother would have approved. Despite the flannel’s warmth, a chill crept along her spine and spread through her core to her limbs.
She hugged her arms across her chest. The shiver had little to do with the night air and more to do with the apprehension swirling deep within her. Losing control of Laurel’s ransom was unacceptable. She had to get that book from MacMasters. Where could the Scotsman have stashed it?
His chamber would be a logical place to begin her search. He’d entered the room only two doors from her sleeping quarters, but she’d heard the door open and close with a thud, minutes later. Had he headed to his father’s study? Given the time he’d spent with the laird of the MacMasters clan while Johanna had readied herself for dinner, it seemed a reasonable conclusion. The two men were most likely warming themselves inside and out with a blazing fire and fine Scotch.
With any luck, she’d be able to sneak an exploration of his chamber. In even a few minutes in his quarters, she might uncover the book. After all, he’d had no time to put anything beyond a cursory effort into concealing the tome.
Taking a small lamp from a bedside table in hand, she tiptoed to her door. The squawk of hinges prickled her flesh. Loud as a gong, or so it seemed. Surely her senses exaggerated the reverberation. Peculiar how she’d paid no notice to the blasted noise when she’d entered the room.
Her awareness heightened, she scanned the corridor for MacMasters or his family. Satisfied that she was indeed alone, Johanna crept along the carpeted hallway. She pressed her ear to his door. No hint of snoring. No sounds of slumber. Not even the faint ticking of a clock. No sign of the Scot.
Her fingers curved around the latch. Unlike her contrary chamber door, the mechanism lifted with no more than a quiet snick. She slipped inside and closed the oak panel behind her.
Lifting the lamp, she swept her gaze over the chamber. Her attention hovered over the bed, as if some secret part of her had expected—no, hoped—to find Connor MacMasters splayed over the mattress in all his masculine glory. She banished the carnal image, even as a peculiar hollowness twisted low in her belly. She’d gone daft since she’d left London. Absolutely, positively daft. That was the only explanation for the scandalous and shockingly pleasant path of her thoughts.
The heavy curtains over the far window shimmied. Icy fingers of warning skittered over her skin, but she marched to the window. A cool night breeze touched her face and brushed against the drapes. No villain there, lying in wait. She let out a sigh of relief.
Still, the sensation that she was being watched prickled gooseflesh over her arms.
She shot a glance behind her.
Nothing there. Yet, the feeling that someone had her in his sights refused to be banished.
She tiptoed to the massive armoire by the window. Intricately carved and polished oak, smooth beneath her fingertips. She pulled open the door, shining the oil lamp’s dim light on the contents of the immense wardrobe.
Empty.
The blasted chest contained not a single shirt nor trousers. Not even a kilt. Had she stolen into a room other than the one she would’ve sworn MacMasters entered?
The protest of unoiled hinges behind her set off an internal alarm. Blast the luck! In her desperation to locate the book, she’d grown careless. How had she failed to notice the shadowed door on the side wall—the door to MacMasters’s bathing chamber? Had he been there all the while she fumbled about like an inept burglar?
“My, lass, this is a surprise.” His husky burr was slow and deliberate and so very male.
Johanna lowered the lamp and slowly pivoted to face him. Oh my!
Connor MacMasters stood before her. Fully, gloriously naked.
Gulping a breath, she forced her gaze to remain above his waist. His hair was damp, and he hadn’t shaved yet. Thick, dark stubble accented the strong contours of his jaw. Her gaze trailed lower. A slight sheen glistened on his broad, muscular shoulders while tiny beads of moisture dotted the dark hair on his chest.
That full, sensuous mouth of his quirked at one corner. “Have ye come to show yer appreciation for my chivalry? Or have ye decided my company is preferable to the specters that roam this old house?”
Liquid warmth filled her, a longing that penetrated to the bone. For a moment in time—a heartbeat, perhaps—she could think of nothing but the taste of his kiss, the feel of his lips against hers, the sound of her name in his raspy burr, whispered in a moment of passion.
That hint of a smile broadened. “Something wrong, Miss Templeton?” His tone faintly teasing, he put undue emphasis on her state of wedlock—or lack of. “Am I to believe ye werenae expecting me?”
She forced her head to shake in weak denial. “I…I wondered where you were. I heard noises.”
“Noises, eh?” He arched a dark brow. “The rattling of chains? Ghostly moans? Or weighted footsteps, perhaps?”
“Nothing like that. Probably just a mouse.”
His other brow lifted. “After all ye’ve been through, a mouse sends ye running?”
“I detest the filthy little creatures.” That, at least, came out with the conviction of truth. “I thought you’d gone to sleep.”
“Not yet.”
Damn him, the Scot made no move to put on a stitch of clothing. Not so much as a towel. Unable to help herself, her gaze dipped lower to the etched, muscular plane of his abdomen. A line of sable hair traced a decadent path from his navel lower, to a thick patch of hair even darker than that on his head.
She snapped her eyes up. He caught the motion, his mouth twisting with wry amusement he made no effort to hide.
“Am I to believe ye entered my chamber—searching for me, no less—because you feared a rodent might launch an attack?”
“I feared no such thing,” she countered. Her pride chafed at the incredulous humor in his voice. “I was alarmed. Nothing more.”
He folded his arms at the waist and rocked back on his heels, infuriatingly casual for a man who stood without a stitch to cover him. “By the saints, I’m the one should be alarmed. ’Tis not often that I emerge from my bathing chamber to find a comely lass beside my bed, threatening to compromise my fine reputation.”
“Compromise…your reputation?” The words plopped from her tongue like the last stubborn drops of molasses in an upended jug.
“Aye. I am an unmarried mon. What would anyone think, finding me alone in this room with a bonny lass who’s gone to such lengths to seduce me?”
“Seduce…seduce you?” Dash it all, she sounded like a parrot that had fallen off its perch and landed on its head.
“I can think of cruder terms. Would ye enjoy that?” He prowled toward her, his toes sinking into the plush carpet with each step. Lamplight gleamed over the contours of his chest, warming his skin with soft, golden rays.
She gave her head an urgent shake, as if to clear it. Stiffening her spine, she held his gaze. “I assure you there’s no need.”
His head moved slowly up and down in agreement. “Verrae true. Who needs ta
lk at a time like this?”
A time like this? She pulled in a breath, willing her heart to slow its beat, and cocked her chin. She would not let this man intimidate her. “For heaven’s sake, put on some clothes.”
“Have ye forgotten ye’re the one who snuck into my chamber? Getting a man’s hopes up, only to crush them.” That arrogant smile quirked his mouth as he watched her intently. “If you dinnae anticipate my state of undress, lass, why are ye in my room?”
Cotton filled her mouth. If only he’d put on a dressing gown or a shirt. Even one of those lengths of cloth he called a kilt would’ve helped her order her muddled thoughts.
She swallowed hard. “I suspect you know full well why I’m here.”
He gave a slow nod. The piercing sharpness in his gaze left no doubt he’d deduced her motives. But still, a teasing twist played on his lips. “To lead a man astray, no doubt.”
“Lead you astray? What rubbish.”
“Och, ye wound me with yer teasing ways.”
“Will you please get dressed?”
Her breath caught as he reached for a length of plaid that lay carelessly strewn over a quilt rack.
“As ye wish.” With a bold wink, he wrapped the fabric around the lower half of his body.
“That’s better.” The words burst from Johanna. Suddenly, she could breathe again.
He leaned back, and his gaze sauntered over her. The heat in his eyes, nearly a physical touch, warmed her. Once again, her defiant heart beat a wild dance. Definitely not a waltz. No, this was a tarantella. Exhilarating. Thrilling. Utterly rebellious.
“Aye, ye are indeed a temptation. I’ve seldom seen a more appealing sight. Most women would don silk or satin or some ridiculous lacy get-up that left them half bare. But you…you, Miss Templeton…have chosen cotton from head to toe.”
“Oh my.” Had the whisper actually made it past her lips? Mortification spiraled through her veins. She’d forgotten the matronly nightdress she wore.
The Highlander Who Loved Me Page 14
