Not that he blamed her. Christ, if he were in her boots, he wouldn’t trust a soul around him.
Somehow, he’d have to convince Johanna to stay here. She’d be safe with his family. The castle was a stronghold. Everyone in his family counted a thorough knowledge of weaponry among their skills. Even his grandmother knew her way around a long gun. There’d be no shortage of defenders in the event of an attack.
He slumped against the bed, sprawling on his back as he stared at the ceiling. Johanna would rebel against any suggestion that she stay behind while he went after her niece.
Hellfire, there was no choice. He couldn’t drag her along on this mission. Protecting a woman who possessed no experience dealing with deception and violence would put both their lives on the line.
He pounded a fist against the mattress, then snatched the quilt over himself and closed his eyes. If he deceived her by leaving her behind when he went after the stone, she’d despise him for the rest of her days.
Most likely, there’d be no choice. Better to suffer her hatred than see the bright spark in her eyes snuffed out forever.
He’d do whatever he had to do to find the damned ruby and protect Johanna and the child.
Chapter Nineteen
The wail of bagpipes wrenched Johanna from a fitful sleep. She’d tossed and turned all night, her dreams of mayhem and distress jarring her awake again and again. Now, as the first high-pitched notes drifted to her ears, she opened her eyes. Was this yet another nightmare? Beyond the drawn curtains, not so much as a sliver of light streamed into the chamber. The sun had not yet shown itself. Surely, no one had risen for the day.
Flopping onto her side, she thumped her pillow. The quest might be futile, but she’d still struggle for some much needed rest. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to convince herself she was in the midst of some bizarre dream. The piper’s notes were lower now. Mournful. Quiet, yet penetrating her consciousness. How very odd that she’d hear bagpipes in her restless slumber. And more so, why couldn’t she force the blasted sounds to end?
She shook her head to clear cobwebs of sleep from her brain. Pushing up on her elbows, she cocked her head toward the door. The unmistakable cry of the pipes penetrated the walls, each note filled with sadness borne of loss.
Good heavens, she wasn’t dreaming.
Moments later, silence fell. Glorious, pristine, not-even-crickets-chirping silence. Johanna plopped back onto the pillow and let her lids flutter shut. Her relief was short-lived. With what seemed a renewed vigor, the piper’s hearty notes intruded through the sturdy wall. The gloomy tones were gone, replaced with a boisterous bellow, one part battle cry, one part celebration.
She pounded the pillow harder and pulled it over her ears. Was this some diabolical plot to weaken her resolve by depriving her of rest? Who could possibly believe a serenade would be welcomed at this ungodly hour?
Drat, drat, and drat. She pushed herself up, gave the pillow another wallop with her balled hand for good measure, and swung her legs off the bed. The piper’s melody slowed. Pensive now. Lovely, in fact, as though welcoming the morning with a musical interlude.
She pressed her feet to the cool wooden planks. Shivering, she dashed onto a rug by the hearth. She’d always been a bit of a ninny when it came to being chilled. If only she had strong arms to enfold her, the strong, daring man she’d dreamt of—the man who’d played the hero in her turbulent dreams. If only he did not look so very much like Connor MacMasters.
That man was not her hero. Oh, she believed he’d protect her. Heaven knew he’d proven that. He was courageous and confident and bold. He’d defended her against the brutal louts who might well have left her for dead. But he was neither noble nor chivalrous. She held no such delusions. Everything the Highlander had done to defend her had been motivated by his own agenda. He sought a treasure, while she wanted one thing alone—her niece’s safe return. The book was the key, the ransom her captor had demanded. Would MacMasters hold to his own purposes when a child’s life hung in the balance?
Snatching up a dressing gown, Johanna shrugged into the garment. Even combined with the thick flannel of her nightdress, the thin fabric offered little warmth. She wrapped her arms around her. What had come over her, dreaming of MacMasters? She knew better than to allow her fanciful thoughts to get the better of her judgment. Even so, she’d been so close to surrender. He’d stirred her senses to a frenzy. She’d craved his touch, his heat, his scent. Never in her life had she wanted a man as she wanted him.
Ah, her attraction to the Scot was intense and bone deep, a fierce hunger unlike any she’d ever known. A pure, instinctive wanting. She needed to rally her defenses. There was no disputing that. After all, she was not some whey-faced virgin fresh from the schoolroom.
She was not an innocent—at least, she did not consider herself as such. After all, she’d been engaged, a lifetime ago. Or so it seemed. Young fool that she was, she’d believed herself in love. She’d given her heart, freely and without reservation, never suspecting the man she had adored would leave her illusions of love in jagged shards beneath the heels of his well-polished boots.
Still, she was not unworldly. She’d known the touch of a man, cautious and controlled as it had been. Heaven knew her betrothed had conducted himself with restraint in all matters. Timothy had been reserved, a product of his dignified nature, or so Johanna had told herself at the time.
Of course, that was before she discovered her fiancé had wanted another.
That was another time, so very long ago. She’d been naive. All too trusting. She’d never again make the mistake of surrendering her heart to a man.
But how glorious it would be to surrender her body to a powerful, magnificent Highlander for one decadent night.
Cautious. Controlled. Reserved. The words simply did not apply to MacMasters. Johanna suspected the brash Scot was as bold in his personal endeavors—most especially, in his bed—as he was when he acted the protector. The image of his large, muscular body, chiseled with a sculptor’s precision, strolled into her thoughts, sly and seductive as he’d been in his bedchamber. Even without so much as a stitch to cover him, the man exuded temptation, the likes of which she’d never known. He was a wicked one, with that cheeky smile and that delectable mouth.
Heat washed over her, rising from her neck to her cheeks. She struggled to banish the image in her mind’s eye, but the Connor of her thoughts met her gaze and winked, turning to reveal a strong, carved bum. Good heavens, she’d gone entirely wanton. Since Timothy had severed their betrothal on the eve of their wedding with an oh-so-civil farewell, she’d never been fanciful in her personal affairs. And this was certainly not the time to consider indulging her decidedly imprudent fantasies. Thank heavens her rational mind had asserted itself the night before.
A soft tapping against the door pulled her from her decadent thoughts. “It’s Mrs. Bailey,” the housekeeper called through the wooden panel. “I’ve come with a dress for ye.”
Still bracing herself against the stubborn memory of the night before, Johanna tugged the belt of the dressing gown tight around her. “Please, come in.”
The stout panel squealed on its hinges. Mrs. Bailey marched in, her manner direct. “Lady Kathleen asked me t’find a dress for ye, something more appropriate than the trousers Maggie provided ye last night. Sometimes, I dinnae ken what the lass is thinking.”
“I had no complaint with the ensemble. I found the pants quite comfortable.”
Mrs. Bailey gave a reproachful shake of her head. “’Tis kind of ye t’be so accepting, but we are proper, even here in the Highlands. Maggie marches t’her own piper, of that ye can be sure.” The housekeeper held out a gown. “I believe ye will like this.”
“Thank you.” Johanna’s gaze skimmed over the dress from hem to collar and back again. Deep blue silk, soft and smooth, trimmed with creamy lace around the demure high collar and sleeves. Pearl buttons adorned the darted bodice. Quite lovely, indeed.
“Is i
t to yer likin’?”
“It’s wonderful.”
Mrs. Bailey nodded. “Miss Maggie and ye are close to the same size. The lass’s wardrobe is overfull as it is. Since she’s developed her fondness for trousers, anything with skirts is sorely neglected. She’s happy to pass this onto you.”
“I will return it, once my traveling case is recovered.”
The housekeeper crooked a brow. “Ye left it behind in Inverness?”
“Unfortunately, there was no time to collect it.”
“There seldom is.” Mrs. Bailey’s sliver of a smile faded as her attention dropped to the rug. She shifted on her feet, ever so slightly. Did the housekeeper feel she’d said too much?
Somber notes filled the chamber, surrounded them. The piper had grown quieter, yet the sounds seemed closer. Mrs. Bailey’s gaze shot toward the door, and her eyes crinkled with amusement.
“That fool is at it again.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “’Tis bad enough he’s up with those pipes of his before the cock crows, but now he’s traveling about with his performance.”
Edging closer to the open door, Johanna allowed the sad yet beautiful tones to wash over her. “Who is playing?”
“Ah, that’s Archie…Lord Archibald, he’s calling himself now. Laird MacMasters’s uncle. The man’s at least eighty, yet he strolls these halls every morn, fit as a rooster, rousing everyone from their sleep.” Mrs. Bailey peeped from the room, quickly surveying the hall. “One can only hope…”
“One can only hope…what…Mrs. Bailey?” Johanna could not restrain herself from asking the question.
“One can only hope he hasn’t gone for his air bath.” The housekeeper turned to her. “Well, that gave me quite a fright. Thankfully, Lord Archibald donned his kilt this time.”
“This time?”
Mrs. Bailey’s nod was solemn, but the twinkle in her eyes spoke of mischief. “There’s been many a time he roamed these halls with those pipes of his, bare as the day he came into this world. Says he’s bathing in the air. The old man claims ’tis the secret to youth.”
“Good heavens.”
“He says it was an American who gave him the idea. Archie discovered that brilliant man from the colonies—Benjamin Franklin, I believe it was—liked to walk around without any clothes, bathing in the air. After that, ye could never be sure when Archie would decide to strut about without a stitch t’cover him.”
“Oh.” Johanna struggled for words. “But Franklin…well, I’m not an expert on the subject, but I’d imagine he kept to his quarters while taking his bath.”
Mrs. Bailey shrugged. “Myself, I think Archie likes the excuse t’create a bit of mischief. He’s been known to put his God-given talent with the pipes…and what the heavenly father blessed him with…on display when the laird and Lady Kathleen entertained some very stuffy, very important guests. He has a wicked sense of humor.”
Johanna bit back a giggle. “I suppose I should consider myself fortunate he didn’t choose today to display all his talents.”
“Well, lass, ye might not believe it, but he really is quite an impressive sight. The man is a MacMasters, after all. ’Tis a pity he didn’t take t’cavorting like that when he was younger. He’d have been a strapping specimen in those days.”
Was it Johanna’s imagination, or had Mrs. Bailey actually thrown a wink? Bold, yet somehow, entirely fitting in this household.
With a smile, Mrs. Bailey headed for the door. “Let me know if ye need anything.” She pointed to a bell pull to the left of the door. “Just ring.”
“Thank you.”
The door closed quietly behind the housekeeper, leaving behind a sudden silence. The piping had ceased. In its place, the quiet loomed, and for a moment, Johanna found herself missing the alternating joyful and mournful tones.
The man is a MacMasters, after all. Mrs. Bailey’s matter-of-fact statement echoed in Johanna’s mind. A MacMasters man. Impressive, indeed, if Connor was any indication of the men in his bloodline. The Scot’s build could put a Greek statue to shame.
Fixing her attention on far more practical matters than an octogenarian bagpiper, Johanna set about preparing herself for the day. The dress Mrs. Bailey brought fit well enough, though the bodice was a bit snug, emphasizing her bosom more than Johanna preferred. Well, there was nothing to be done about it. All in all, the gown was beautiful. How fortunate that she and Maggie shared similar proportions.
Sweeping her hair into a loose knot at her nape, Johanna arranged the rebellious strands into some sense of order. Her obstinate tresses took on a mind of their own, curling here and there, just enough to doom her attempt to control them. Tiring of a struggle she was destined to lose, she tossed the pins she still clasped onto the dresser and went about freshening her complexion.
She’d completed her toilette when another knock shattered her pleasant solitude. Mrs. Bailey again, most likely. What had brought the housekeeper to her door this time? The slight rumble of Johanna’s stomach voiced its own hopes that she’d come to summon her to breakfast.
Hurrying to the door, she tugged it open. Her stomach ceased its grumbling, replacing her hunger pangs with a little nervous flip.
Not Mrs. Bailey.
Connor MacMasters stood with one elbow braced against the frame, staring down at her with an infuriatingly unreadable expression. His eyes roamed slowly over her, taking in the fashion she wore from her chin to her leather-clad toes. His mouth quirked, as if he’d considered offering comment but thought better of it.
“Ye’re dressed,” he said finally. “Good. Ye need to come with me now. My sister would like to speak with ye.”
“Before the morning meal?” Johanna’s craving for nourishment got the better of her.
He nodded. “Serena’s not a patient lass. She’s eager to examine the book. And she’d like ye there for the analysis.”
“Why does she require my presence?” Johanna tried to ignore her stomach’s protest.
“I’ve no idea, lass. But she made the request. Command is more like it. I’ve served under generals who were less demanding than my sister.”
“Very well.” Johanna angled her body to avoid contact with his. She’d been reckless the night before. She couldn’t take a chance of being drawn to this man whose purposes were so very different than hers.
In the dim morning light, his eyes were the color of a forest, muted greens with the slightest tinge of gold. The hitch of his mouth intensified. Clearly, he’d read her movements with an expert’s skill.
“Ye’ve no worries this morning, Johanna. I’ve no intention of ravishing ye. At least not ’til I’ve got some food in my belly.”
Despite his words, the look in his eyes unfurled a ribbon of heat from her core to her fingers and toes. Devil take it, the Scot eyed her like a tasty morsel.
And her heart relished the sweetness of temptation.
How many days and nights had she existed without knowing the tantalizing desire in his forest green gaze? For so long, she’d yearned to feel such sensuous, unfiltered interest, the feel of him drinking her in without shame or some false propriety. And now, she’d come face-to-face with a man who could sweep her away to her most delicious fantasy.
Ah, there was nothing to be done about it. She could savor this moment, but there could be nothing more than a passing glimpse of what might be. She’d come to this place to find a path to Laurel, not to indulge a thoroughly decadent hunger.
Johanna swallowed against a pang of longing that had nothing to do with food. Squaring her shoulders, she schooled her features to a perfectly proper mask.
“My, I must say that is a relief. There I thought you’d be inclined to have your way with me all the while your uncle is roaming the halls with his bagpipes.”
“If ye’d like, Uncle Archie could play a melody to set the mood.” He grinned, a sly, knowing tilt of that delicious mouth. “I’d suggest a rousing battle march.”
She refused to indulge his bold remark
with a smile. Instead, she forced a bland tone. “Indeed.”
He cocked his head as his grin widened. Arrogant to the bone, that one. Of course, he’d seen through her act. There was nothing to be done about it. But she had to keep her focus squarely on what mattered—saving Laurel.
“Come along, then.” He took an errant curl between his fingers and gently tucked it behind her ear. “Let’s see what we can learn about this book that Cranston prizes.”
Chapter Twenty
Johanna had always believed the expression heart in one’s throat to be precisely that, an expression. But as she observed Serena MacMasters apply some awful-smelling chemical to an inner page of Mrs. Shelley’s masterpiece, she felt as if her heart might somehow manage to leave its home within her chest.
The walls of the bookshelf-lined room Serena used as a study closed in on Johanna. Her breath tightened. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she resisted the urge to snatch the book out of Serena’s hands. But still, a small, anguished cry made it past her lips.
“No,” she said. “You’ll ruin it.”
Serena tilted her head, regarding Johanna rather like one would expect one to react if a pet had actually begun to chat. Her emerald eyes narrowed, and her long mane of brown hair swished over her shoulder. Giving a little humph, she returned her attention to the volume.
“You will destroy the book.” Johanna mustered a stronger tone. “You’ll—”
“I will do no such thing.” Even as Serena clipped the words between her teeth, she held up the book to the light, examining it.
“You have damaged it.” The words came out strong and angry as Johanna abandoned her attempt to hide her distress.
Once again, Serena cocked her head. This time, she gave it a little shake. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. You see, you can’t destroy something that had no real value to begin with.”
“You can’t be serious. That book is quite rare.” The words tasted like vinegar on Johanna’s tongue.
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