The Highlander Who Loved Me

by Tara Kingston

  “Not a hex,” Serena said. “A curse borne of blood, borne of evil. Our ancestors knew its power.”

  A little pish popped between Johanna’s lips. “Am I to believe powerful clan warriors feared the ruby? Rugged men who braved hardships and danger, ran scared from a polished bit of rock?”

  “They did not fear the stone.” Tension threaded through Serena’s lightly rolling notes. “They possessed a healthy respect for the artifact.” Her eyes hardened as she stared over her spectacles, pinning Johanna with her gaze. “As should you, Miss Templeton.”

  Misery dug its sharp claws into Johanna’s belly. All this talk of curses and the occult was nonsense. But as long as Cranston believed the stone would make him more powerful, whether the advantage were derived from riches or some unnatural force, he would expect the ransom to be paid.

  “So, what are we to do?” Johanna laced her fingers together into a tense knot. “Assuming that the man who kidnapped my niece knew the book contained the map, he will expect me to bring it to him.”

  “Once Cranston has the map, he’ll have no incentive to negotiate. At that point, your niece will simply be a problem to be eliminated.” Serena’s pronouncement was as bland as cold porridge.

  Johanna twisted her fingers tighter. “He will kill her if I defy him.”

  “I willnae let that happen.” Connor touched her arm, the simple contact warm and reassuring.

  Serena tapped a finger against the book, beating a rhythm as tense as the set of her arched brows. “Miss Templeton, centuries ago, the MacMasters clan was tasked with ensuring the ruby did not fall into the wrong hands. Perhaps our ancestors were superstitious. Perhaps the clan elders attributed events that brought misfortune to the stone because they had no other way to rationalize their pain. But the fact remains that Cranston is a believer. And that makes him very dangerous indeed.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting we hold back?” Johanna made no attempt to censor the accusation in her tone. “A child’s life hangs in the balance…a child I love.”

  “That is precisely what I am saying. Do not take my words as a suggestion. I am warning you—providing Cranston with access to the Demon’s Heart may bring disaster upon all of us. Untold innocents who have no part in this will suffer.”

  The implication of Serena’s words struck like a punch to the belly. Johanna pulled in a breath, then another. She must remain calm for Laurel’s sake.

  “My niece is an innocent. She is a nine-year-old child.” Johanna could not tamp down her emotion. If Serena MacMasters believed ominous statements would hold her back, she’d underestimated Johanna’s determination.

  Serena turned to Connor, her gaze silently compelling. He stood grim-faced and still. Stalking to a window, he threw open the curtains.

  “Ye keep this room like a bloody tomb.” His voice was a surly growl. Behind him, a glorious vista of mountain woodlands decked out in the hues of autumn, vibrant shades of orange and red and yellow, posed a stark contrast to the gloom of Serena’s study.

  He stared through the glass, his body ramrod stiff. Turning, he pinned Johanna with his gaze. “My sister is right. We must keep the stone—and the map that leads to it.”

  If he’d struck her, Johanna might have been less stunned. Coming from him, the words stripped her of hope, leaving her fear bared and raw.

  “To Hades with the both of you.” Johanna planted her fists on her hips and willed her voice to remain steady and strong. “I must find my niece, and I will bring her home.”

  Serena’s eyes warmed, as if she felt Johanna’s misery. But her firm chin made it clear she would not be swayed. “As difficult as it is for you, you must understand—Cranston seeks to harness the stone’s power for his own vile purposes. He’ll stop at nothing to obtain it. Getting the map will be only the beginning. The blackguard will slaughter anyone who stands in his path.”

  Johanna blinked back tears she refused to shed. “You cannot expect me to abandon a child…to that scoundrel.”

  Serena gave her head a long, slow shake. “Of course not. We will find a way to bring the bairn back to ye. But first, we must find a way to cut the bastard off at the knees.”

  Connor came to Johanna, settling his big hands on her upper arms. His nearness brought a sense of reassurance she didn’t entirely understand.

  “Ye must be strong, Johanna.” His husky burr was quiet yet firm. “Ye’ll need courage in yer heart, more than ye’ve ever had to summon in yer life. We will bring the bairn home. Mark my word, lass. I will nae let ye down.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Connor MacMasters was not a man to make promises he did not intend to keep. Bluidy hell, he wouldn’t consider the possibility he might fail in his quest to rescue the child. But the map and the stone could not fall into Cranston’s blood-stained hands.

  The stricken look on Johanna’s face had nearly gutted Connor’s resolve. If something happened to the bairn, she would never be the same. The depth of her love for her niece was clear on her countenance. Her complexion had paled to the stark white of limestone, her dark blue eyes wide with distress at the prospect of denying Cranston the ransom he demanded. She still didn’t understand that any attempt to bargain with Cranston would be as futile as dealing with the devil himself. Bugger it, Old Nick himself might well be more worthy of trust than the English bastard.

  Inhaling a gulp of clean, mountain air, Connor cut a direct path from the main house to the stables. He took up a brush, grooming his trusted gelding with vigorous strokes. A soft whiffle of pleasure met his efforts. As always, Phantom relaxed beneath the bristles, seeming to appreciate the care. Each sweep of the brush against the horse’s flanks eased the kinks in Connor’s shoulder muscles, even as they soothed the magnificent beast that had never failed him. Indeed, the animal seemed a truer friend than most men.

  He ran the brush over the beast in an even, steady rhythm. His mind raced as he tended to the horse. It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. If only he’d known about the child before they left Inverness, he would have taken a different tack. Agents would have been dispatched to intercept the girl before Johanna ever met with Ross and Munro. But Richard Abbott had managed to outsmart the operatives, concealing his daughter’s existence with surprising skill. Damn shame the conniving sot hadn’t kept that secret from Cranston.

  Now, the child was a pawn. Even if Cranston got what he wanted, there was little chance he’d release the girl unharmed. Connor needed to buy time. He needed to convince Cranston that Johanna possessed the means to the stone.

  A clever reproduction of the map might throw the blackguard off the scent. The Highland Agency boasted the most skilled forgers in Scotland. Arranging a duplication of the map with a few key details set askew would not pose a challenge. But Cranston would not settle for the map without the codes concealed in the volume’s pages. A wealth of secrets could be concealed within the book.

  Decoding the cipher was a task for Serena. Younger than Connor by a half-dozen years, his sister had demonstrated a keen ability to detect patterns and construct elaborate codes before she was out of the schoolroom. As an adult, her ability to detect messages depicted by cryptic symbols was unparalleled. But the process was painstaking, and time was of the essence. With any luck, Serena would have the answers Connor needed by the next sundown.

  But he couldn’t wait that long to go after the child. Soon, Johanna would take off in pursuit of the girl on her own. She was brave, that lass. Damnable shame she still didn’t grasp the truth of what she was dealing with where Cranston was concerned. The filthy jackal relished cruelty that far surpassed the violence of the battlefield. Misery for misery’s sake. That was Cranston’s stock in trade. Fear and intimidation and pain, brutal and merciless.

  It was Connor’s duty to ensure Johanna never encountered the bastard. A woman like her would intrigue Cranston. He’d add her to his vile collection. Even if she meekly cooperated—and by hellfire, that was unlikely—he’d tire of her soon enough
. And then, her suffering would truly begin.

  Connor had to protect her. He’d go after the bairn himself, and when he did, he’d need to keep his wits about him. A bold attack would be disastrous. The mission required stealth and cunning, and God only knew the struggle he waged to keep his head when Johanna was near. What was it about her that left him utterly cow-brained every damn time she cast a glance his way?

  No doubt she’d insist on rushing to her niece’s side to offer comfort and solace. Waiting would be hell for Johanna. But there was no choice. He had to keep her out of Cranston’s reach and ensure she did not make herself vulnerable to the other collector who sought the Demon’s Heart. Someone had dispatched Hector Munro after Johanna. The fact that Connor did not know who was behind the bloodthirsty buffoon’s attack made the situation all the more dangerous. At least with Cranston, he knew what he was up against.

  Damn it all, how could he convince her to stay here, protected and safe, while the bairn remained in harm’s way?

  There was only one way to keep Johanna out of danger. He would leave under cover of night. Without her, he’d find the stone and place it under heavy guard in the secret quarters near Loch Ness. Then, he’d retrieve the child. With any luck, he’d steal into Cranston’s stronghouse and whisk the girl away before the bastard was the wiser.

  Johanna would be furious. He knew that, just as he knew she’d hate him. At least for a while, until he brought the bairn back to her. That anger would be a small price to pay for keeping Johanna from the ruthless curs who sought the ruby and its power.

  …

  The longcase clock in the study chimed, marking another quarter hour. Johanna frowned at the face. Every slash of the pendulum seemed another second wasted, another moment in time she’d allowed to slip away when she should have been in a carriage bound for Inverness, seeking out some way to contact Laurel’s captor.

  Turning away from the clock, she paced before the massive stone fireplace. Nearly noon, and she’d seen no sign of Connor since he’d escorted her from Serena’s study to breakfast. Despite her hunger upon waking, she’d scarcely managed to down a few bites of toast and scrambled egg. Hearing Serena pronounce the ransom worthless had robbed Johanna of appetite and had left her nerves twisted and jangling.

  During the morning meal, Connor had not seen fit to voice his strategy for rescuing her niece. He’d assured her that he’d save Laurel. But bold words were not enough. Johanna needed action. They should be planning their actions, not biding time while Serena continued her examination of the volume. True, Serena had detected patterns to the cipher on the map, and the book itself likely contained vital clues to the gem’s location, codes she might be able to decipher. If only time was not of the essence. Laurel’s abductor would not wait patiently for Serena to conclude her study of the book.

  The clock’s steady tick-tock echoed the pulse thudding in Johanna’s ears. Patience had never been her strong suit, and this waiting game was proving unbearable. Did Connor really think she’d sit idly by, listening to ridiculous tales that made unicorns and leprechauns seem the stuff of rational minds, while Laurel remained in danger?

  Maggie lounged on a settee near the hearth, making a half-hearted show of reading the novel in her hands. Johanna did not recognize the author’s name, but the lettering on its spine—Lady Jane’s Secret Passion—prompted a second look. Evidently, the story was not as gripping as its lurid title suggested. Maggie could not keep her eyes on the page. She peeked over the binding, curiosity brimming in her wide green eyes as she watched Johanna. Seeming to realize she’d been spotted, she plastered her gaze to the book.

  Johanna smiled to herself. “Are you enjoying the story?”

  Maggie set the book in her lap. “It’s a rather gripping tale. But not as intriguing as yer novels. Ye are the J.M. Templeton, are ye not?”

  A small swell of satisfaction settled in Johanna’s chest. “Why yes, I am. You’ve read my work?”

  Maggie’s dark curls bobbed as she nodded. “The Ghost of Thorne Castle is my favorite. Lord Thorne was quite memorable, especially with that dark hair of his and those brown eyes. If I were the governess, I’d swoon at every opportunity to fall into his arms.”

  “Ah, he is one of my more intriguing…and tortured…heroes.”

  “When he saved the governess from the madwoman…well…I was swept away by the story. How do ye devise yer plot?”

  Sweeping her skirts aside, Johanna seated herself in a chair upholstered with delicate flowers. How very pleasant to encounter a reader who not only enjoyed her work, but took interest in her craft.

  “I’ve always had quite the vivid imagination,” she replied. “My parents weren’t sure if my creativity was a blessing or a bane.”

  “And those heroes of yers…what inspires ye?”

  Johanna tapped a fingernail against the arm of the chair. My, how shocked Maggie would be if Johanna confessed that her arrogant, infuriating brother had inspired fantasies that would shape her next fictional hero.

  “I suppose the knights of old have stirred my heart. Chivalry and courage and all that rot.” Especially if that knight was brash and bold and utterly magnificent in a kilt.

  Maggie glanced around, as if ensuring that listening ears would not overhear her. “Someday, I intend to pen a novel of my own. Of course, my maw and da would be scandalized.”

  Just as Johanna’s fiancé had been. Not that Timothy hadn’t known about the stories she’d penned when her university studies permitted spare hours. He’d simply never dreamed she’d seek out a publisher for her gothic tales. Or that she’d succeed in her quest.

  Perhaps, if she’d given up on that dream, he might have placed a ring on her finger and spoken vows at her side. I must think of my future, he’d explained in that utterly civilized, yet quietly cruel way of his. After all, if he were to seek office one day, he needed a woman who could hold her chin high in society.

  And Johanna was not that woman.

  Odd, how that flash of memory still stung today. Though the echo of his words in her ears brought no sadness now. Only a pinch of humiliation and a dash of anger. And a rush of relief that she’d enjoyed what she now knew was a narrow escape from a man who would’ve made her life a civilized purgatory.

  Johanna pulled in a breath and tore her attention back to the present. “You can always use a pseudonym, Maggie. Writers often adopt pen names for their literary personas. What do you plan to write?”

  “A mystery, with a ghost or two to make it interesting. And of course, there must a hero. Dashing, yet utterly in need of redemption.”

  “Of course. What good is a hero if he does not need to be redeemed?” Johanna left her seat and moved to the tea service on an intricately carved side chest. She poured herself a cup of steaming oolong, took a sip, and gently shifted the conversation. “It seems you and I share a similar interest in mysterious matters and such. Tell me, Maggie, what do you know about a cursed gem—the Demon’s Heart?”

  The girl looked up. “What have ye been told about the stone?” Her voice sounded as if she made an effort to seem disinterested, but beneath the surface, excitement infused her tone.

  “Enough to arouse my curiosity.”

  A wry smile tilted Maggie’s mouth. “’Tis the name my elders gave the stone many generations ago. It’s naught but a ruby, a rather ordinary one at that. A bit larger than most, but that’s not why men covet it.”

  “Legend holds the jewel is cursed. Why would anyone wish to claim it?”

  “There’s evil in that stone, or so I’m told. It all started with a sorceress, in the sixteenth century, I believe. She used the gem’s powers to bring tragedy upon any who wronged her. Entire families died. Fires. Fevers. Violent rages. Anyone who crossed the shrew met a horrible fate. Finally, she met her own end, drowned in a rain-swollen loch. But it was too late. She’d already passed the ruby to her daughter.”

  “What happened?”

  “From there, the tale becomes clouded. So
me say the daughter lost her heart and the stone to an Englishman. Others claim the evil lass used the jewel’s powers to bring the king’s wrath down upon a rival for the Englishman’s affections. Some time later, the scheming wench lost her own head upon King Henry’s orders. The stone disappeared after her death, only to be recovered shortly before Queen Mary’s coronation. Legend has it the Demon’s Heart was mounted on her crown. After Mary met the executioner’s ax, the ruby was removed and replaced with an ordinary gem, or so the story goes.”

  “Surely you give no credence to such nonsense.”

  Maggie shrugged. “Who’s to know what’s real and what isnae?”

  “The wrath of a woman scorned is hardly a rarity, whether in the nineteenth century or in days long past. Disease and tragedy are not mysterious, but those at a loss to explain the hardships that befell them likely conjured wild tales of curses and magic.”

  “Johanna, I’ve heard tales…tales of misery and horror that cannae be explained by rational means. I dinnae know if the curse was so much foolish babble, or if the gem truly held an evil beyond our comprehension. But I cannae dismiss the possibility that the stone holds a power that isnae of this world. Ye may not believe in the curse, but our forefathers believed they had good cause to hide the stone. I would respect their judgment.”

  “Why did they call it the Demon’s Heart?”

  Maggie’s mouth settled into a mirthless line. “Over centuries, the ruby has left a trail of misery in its wake. The MacMasters ancestors took precautions to guard us against the stone and its evil. I can only pray my brash, non-believing brother does not retrieve the blasted thing from its hiding place.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A shiver trickled over Johanna like icy rain slipping down her spine. With a sigh, she brushed away the instinctive warning. Maggie’s words were nothing more than family lore, fanciful tales repeated over centuries to explain the actions of men driven not by rational analysis, but fear.