The Highlander Who Loved Me

by Tara Kingston

  Damn it to Hades, he was an operative who’d dedicated years of his life to recovering Scotland’s ancient treasures. The child’s well-being should be a secondary concern. But it wasn’t. He felt a driving urgency to rescue the girl, to see her safe within Johanna’s arms. To see the worry erased from Johanna’s lovely face.

  He’d left Johanna in the study after instructing her to prepare to depart immediately after the noon meal. They’d get food in their bellies, and then, they’d leave for the familiar location indicated on that map. If his interpretation of the faded symbols was correct, his forefathers had hidden the Demon’s Heart somewhere around Loch Ness.

  Within the stables, he prepared the horses for their journey. His brother pushed open the door. The panel swung hard on its hinges, crashing into the wall behind it.

  “What’s got yer blood boilin’?” Gerard was surly as ever.

  “Not a damn thing.” Placing the saddle blanket over Phantom’s broad back, Connor shot his brother a glance.

  “I’d sooner believe Uncle Archie’s tales of shagging the queen than that heap of manure.”

  “Believe what ye want. This is nothing to ye.”

  Gerard rubbed his jaw. “I deserve to know why my brother looked ready to take my bluidy head off because I looked at a pretty lass.”

  “Ye eyed her like a starving wolf sizing up a rabbit.”

  “What’s she to ye?”

  “Nothing. A mission, ’tis all.” Strange, how false the words sounded on his tongue.

  “Ye’ve never been much of a liar. In any case, we need to get this settled between us.” Gerard stepped closer and swept a gentling hand over the horse’s withers.

  “I’ll be gone soon enough. There’s no need to pretend a kinship that has never been without its strain.”

  “Bluidy hell, ye can be a stubborn arse. Harrison has information ye need to know. He sent me to convey it to ye.”

  Connor stilled. “What has Harrison learned that’s so blasted urgent that he needed to tear ye from some young widow’s bed?”

  “Aye, ye know me too well, brother.” Gerard’s wry grin did nothing to improve Connor’s foul mood.

  “Out with it,” Connor bit the words between his teeth. “Why are ye here?”

  “Harrison sent a communiqué to our source in London. According to the records she obtained, a resident of Mayfair by the name of Cynthia Templeton Abbott died several months ago. The American wife of an English businessman, Mrs. Abbott was the mother of a daughter, aged nine, and sister of Johanna Templeton. Cynthia Abbott was survived by her husband, Richard Abbott, an art dealer with wealthy friends who funded his way of life.”

  “So, Miss Templeton’s account of her relationship with Abbott has been verified. I assume Abbott has been confirmed to be the actual birth name.”

  Gerard nodded. “According to our source, Richard Benedict Abbott had been born to a much simpler existence on a Yorkshire Farm in 1856. He left England for America at the age of eighteen, returning several years later with a wife.”

  “Johanna has been telling the truth. Even the name she used is genuine.”

  “It would appear Miss Templeton’s motives are sincere. The lass has been thrust into a situation not of her own choosing.”

  “Very well.” Connor allowed this newly garnered intelligence to settle into his weary brain. “Now that ye’ve delivered the message, yer presence is not needed or wanted.”

  “Not so fast.” Gerard’s gaze went flinty. “I’ve been sent here on a mission. I’ve no intention of turning from my duty. Ye’re going to need my assistance.”

  “Bluidy hell I will.”

  “Ah, when are ye going to get past the fact that I stole that doxy from yer arms? She’d lifted her skirts for half of Edinburgh. It wasna as if ye cared for her beyond where ye were going to sleep that night.” Gerard flashed a scowl. “Bollocks, mon, we were randy young fools then.”

  Connor waved away his brother’s words. “I dinnae give a piper’s damn about that light-skirted miss. But that doesna change a thing—ye’re not needed on this mission.”

  “As usual, ye’re wrong, brother. Ye’re going to need a driver,” Gerard went on. “Cranston will be expecting Miss Templeton to arrive in a coach, not on horseback.”

  “I’ve already considered that. Johanna has assured me she is a competent rider. She’ll do well enough on Arabella for the first leg of the journey. After that, I’ll secure a carriage.”

  “No need. I’m yer man for the job.”

  Lifting his gaze to meet his brother’s, Connor gripped the saddle’s pommel. “What the hell are ye talking about?”

  “I’m yer backup on this mission. The Director gave the order. I’ll be driving Miss Templeton to the rendezvous with Cranston.” No trace of cockiness there. Just a matter-of-fact statement.

  By the grave of Robert Burns, why had the head of the Antiquities Guild gotten involved? Had the Director lost faith in Connor’s ability to get the job done?

  “Ye’re not needed,” Connor said, equally matter-of-fact.

  “Ye’re wrong, brother. Ye can’t do this alone.”

  Connor saw no arrogance in his brother’s eyes. Rather, a deep-seated concern. Somehow, that rubbed against his grain even more.

  “The Crown, as usual, wants no direct knowledge of our operation.” Gerard’s voice was solemn. “There’s no room for failure. Cranston must be deprived of his bluidy prize. The Director has confidence in yer ability to complete the mission. But ye cannae rush in against Cranston alone. Not if ye expect to come out of it alive.”

  Bluidy perfect. Connor restrained the urge to hit something. Anything. Instead, he used slow and sure movements to saddle the horse. What in damnation was the Director thinking, selecting a stag in perpetual rut to accompany Johanna?

  He summoned a practical objection. “Surely Cranston knows yer face.”

  “I’ll be in disguise. Wrinkles, whiskers, and a balding pate will go a long way to camouflage my appearance.” Gerard headed to the door, shooting a glance over his shoulder. “It’s settled, brother. I’ll be there when ye need me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Highland sunset was indeed a glorious sight to behold. The beauty of the waning sun streaming over the rugged landscape seemed a tonic for Johanna’s rampaging nerves. Within her heart, hope mingled with fear. By the next eve, they should have the stone in their possession. And then, she’d go after Laurel.

  The poor dear. How frightened she must be. Johanna could only pray that the girl’s captors had not been so cruel as to abuse a defenseless child.

  Connor brought his mount to a halt before a quaint, homey inn, The Loch’s Haven, and she followed suit, gently pulling back on the reins of her horse. The mare was indeed a fine beast, even-tempered and a joy to ride.

  “We’ll bed down here tonight and search for the stone after daybreak,” he said, swinging out of the saddle. He came to Johanna, encircled her waist with his hands, and lifted her from the mount. Amazing, how he held her with such restrained power, even as he bore her weight as though she were a child.

  Keeping one hand on the small of her back, he escorted her inside. A fresh-faced young woman greeted him with a warmth borne of familiarity and a smile that reached her amber eyes. “Why, Connor MacMasters, I’d no idea yer bones were still in these parts. ’Tis good to see ye, my friend.”

  “Brenna McKittrick, ye’re as lovely as the last time I laid eyes on ye.” Turning to Johanna, he made his introductions, adding, “We’ll be needing a room for the night.”

  “One?” The single syllable popped from Johanna’s mouth like an exclamation.

  “Aye.” His sidelong glance betrayed a glimmer of amusement.

  Johanna expected the innkeeper to express her objection, but Brenna threw him a wink. “Do try to control yerself, my dear.”

  Connor met Johanna’s frosty gaze. “I won’t leave ye unguarded tonight,” he said, making no effort to conceal his words from the innk
eeper.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Johanna noticed Brenna’s knowing nod. So, the innkeeper was acquainted with the nature of Connor’s business. Was she also involved in this hunt for the stone?

  “I’ve got a fine room for ye.” Brenna walked behind a massive desk and made a show of selecting a key from the pegs on the wall. “Finn will be eager to talk to ye.”

  Connor pocketed the key. “Where is that sot ye married?”

  “He’s in the barn. I expect he’ll be finished soon enough. I’ve got a fine meat stew on the fire now, and dinner will be served soon as he’s cleaned himself up. I hope that suits ye.”

  Connor nodded. “That should warm our bellies. Let him know I’m here, will ye?”

  “Aye,” Brenna said. “He’ll be glad to see ye’re still in one piece.”

  Holding her tongue, Johanna followed Connor to the stairs. As she neared the top, another traveler thudded across the entry. Connor stilled. His attention snapped to the door. She craned her neck to glimpse the object of his interest.

  A large man shuffled across the floor, hauling a ratty carpetbag that had seen far better days. Broad of frame beneath a worn tweed coat, he trudged toward the innkeeper. Gray hair beneath his flat-brimmed black cap hung in wind-whipped disarray, while the slight hunch to his shoulders added a look of weariness. Thick spectacles blurred the color and shape of his eyes. Quite a convincing disguise, all in all. Pity Gerard hadn’t thought to don a different pair of boots. Johanna recognized the scuffed brown leather from their first meeting. At some point, she’d need to speak to him about that. In matters of intrigue, that tiny detail might be crucial. She’d foiled a villain in one of her tales with precisely such a gaffe.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Connor said, his voice guarded. “A traveling peddler from the looks of him.”

  Johanna offered a nod. No need to let him know she was on to his brother’s masquerade. Not yet. Not until she ferreted out his reasons for concealing Gerard’s presence.

  “Are we safe here?” she questioned, studying his features.

  “Lass, there’s no safety outside of Dunnhaven. Not now.” He caught her hand in his. “Not ’til I put Cranston in his grave.”

  …

  Connor surveyed their quarters with a swift, practiced appraisal. The corner room was small and spartan but clean. A chest bearing a pitcher and basin. A bed, covered with a patchwork quilt in shades of red and black. A fireplace, banked with a small fire and an ample supply of aged wood, warmed the room.

  His attention lingered on the intricate pattern on the quilt as his instincts betrayed him. An image of Johanna lying over the patchwork, her luscious curves bared to his eyes, flashed in his thoughts. Not giving a damn about Connor’s determination to restrain his impulses, his cock responded. Hard as a copper’s nightstick, that rebellious rod of his.

  Damnation. He had to get a grip on himself. What the hell had come over him? Dragging in a low breath, he turned to the real Johanna—prim dress, wind-blown hair, flushed cheeks, and those lips he wanted to kiss more than he wanted food in his belly.

  She was a woman he wasn’t meant to have. Johanna was a lady. She deserved a man who’d love her, a man who’d provide home and hearth, a man who’d hold her in his arms every night. He could offer her stolen hours of pleasure, nothing more. No promises. No vows. No tomorrow.

  He never should’ve kissed her. Never should’ve touched her. His hunger for her wouldn’t be sated in one night. Even if he could appease the greedy demands of his body, he’d never be able to quell the ache deep within his soul. His was a need far more enduring than the most potent carnal desire.

  He’d never met a woman who kindled a fire in him like Johanna did, a flame that bedding her would only stoke. He’d never needed anyone like he needed her. And once he had her, he’d never be able to forget the hunger in his heart—for her kiss and her touch and her smile.

  Bah! He shoved the thought aside. She was a comely lass. There was no denying that. When she looked at him, a lively spark brightened her face. Even when he’d vexed her, the spirit and intelligence in her dark sapphire eyes was damn near irresistible. Like a stormy sea, drawing him in. If he didn’t watch himself, he’d wind up over his head, drowning in need for her.

  Connor bolted the door behind them and set about his first task. He’d need to secure the book. At least, as much as was possible in this place. At this stage of his mission, he trusted no one but Gerard. Even Johanna posed a risk, desperate as she was to get to the bairn.

  After studying the map carefully, etching every detail in his memory, he’d left the document with Serena and secured the book in a small, metal strong-box. The volume had to be concealed from unscrupulous eyes. Even his allies could not know the tome’s location. Entrusting Johanna with that knowledge was a risk, but he had to take that chance. If something happened to him, she would need to barter the book with Cranston, damn the scoundrel’s black soul.

  He kicked the braided hearthrug to the side, crouched down, and tested the floorboards. Nailed tight, but he’d remedy that soon enough. Fishing a sgian-dubh from his boot, he slid the tip of the blade beneath a long-worn oak plank and pried up the wood with several well-placed tugs to create a make-shift vault. Placing the strong-box within the opening, he replaced the board and spread the rug over it.

  “You’ll need this.” He pressed the lock-box key into Johanna’s palm and closed her fingers around it. “If anything happens to me, take the book and get as far from here as you can.”

  Was it his imagination, or had emotion flickered in her eyes? She rubbed her arms briskly, as if to deflect the chill in the room.

  “My, you’ve gotten grim, haven’t you?”

  “I’ll get the fire going,” he said, giving himself a reason to turn away from her.

  She went to the chest near the window and poured water in the basin. Taking up one of the soft cloths that had been placed by the pitcher, she dabbed at her face and neck. Connor forced his attention to the task at hand, kindling the fire even as the thought of his mouth adoring the sweet-smelling column of her throat sent a fresh rush of blood to his groin.

  By the time the flames were crackling, she’d moved to the window. Peeling back the curtains, she peered into the darkness.

  “Step away, Johanna. There’s no telling who’s lurking out there.”

  She threw a glance over her shoulder. “You think we’ve been followed?”

  “Ye need to be cautious.”

  Her backbone went stiff. “I’ve half a notion you’re trying to frighten me.”

  “Nae, lass. But ye need to understand the truth of what we’re facing.” He rose and went to the door. “I’ve some business with the innkeeper.”

  She folded her arms and fixed him with a look that would strike a chill in the hardiest of souls. “I can only imagine the nature of that business.”

  Was that jealousy flashing in her gaze? The hint of fire pleased him for reasons he didn’t want to consider. “Not the lass. Her man. There’s a debt that needs to be settled.”

  “This seems a peculiar time to be concerned with one’s finances.”

  “This debt has nothing to do with money.” Freeing the latch, he opened the door. “Keep this locked. No one but me is to enter.”

  He headed down the stairs and spotted Finn McKittrick in the kitchen, helping himself to a carrot his wife had peeled for the night’s stew. Never one for pleasantries, the operative eyed Connor with an impatience he didn’t try to hide. “Brenna tells me ye’ve brought a woman.”

  “She’s under my protection.”

  “What do we need to know?”

  “Just that. I’m responsible for her safety.”

  Finn’s eyes narrowed. “Ye bring danger under my roof, and ye don’t care t’tell me why? If I didn’t owe ye—”

  “But ye do. So ye’re going to do yer best to help me keep this lass safe.”

  McKittrick gave his head a rough shake. “I need to know why ye’re
here, MacMasters. Who’s after her?”

  Connor debated his response. He trusted Finn McKittrick and his wife. To a point.

  “Geoffrey Cranston,” he said finally. If the bastard’s men came after Johanna, Finn and Brenna would need to be prepared.

  “Bollocks. Ye know how t’bring yerself trouble, don’t ye?”

  “It cannae be helped. I need to know that I can count on ye. If not, we’ll be on our way.”

  McKittrick snatched up another carrot. “No need t’be an arse. Ye know our doors will always be open t’ye. We wouldn’t turn a MacMasters away.”

  Brenna strolled back into the kitchen, a freshly plucked chicken in hand. She shot her husband a cool glance. “Of course they’ll stay. We know how to deal with the likes of thievin’, cheatin’ bastards like Cranston. Now, what can we do to help the lass? She looks like she hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days.”

  “She’s had a rough go of it,” Connor agreed. “But she’s got steel in that spine of hers.”

  “Dealing with the likes of ye, she’ll need it.” Finn’s tone contained no trace of humor. “What do ye need from us?”

  “More wood for the fireplace, some food in our bellies, and a bit of sleep, and we’ll be on our way in the morn.” Connor leaned against a sturdy table, stretching out his legs. “Have ye heard any talk of other collectors in these parts?”

  Brenna cocked her head. “Rumor has it an Englishwoman with some highbrow title has people scouring these parts for pieces connected to the Scottish queen. Mary’s jewels are of particular interest, or so I hear.”

  The countess. So, Ella Kirkbride was searching the Highlands. “Is she in Scotland now?”

  “I’ve no knowledge of that, luv,” Brenna said quickly. Too quickly.

  “A man was here about a fortnight ago. A Londoner, I’d say. Dressed fine as they come.” Finn scratched his chin. “Nervous sort of gent. He didn’t stay. He and his bairn ate supper, then went on their way.”

  A bairn? The revelation slammed into Connor. “He was traveling with a child?”