Following Connor’s lead, Gerard drove the carriage away from the water’s edge, toward the thick groves of trees surrounding the loch. Within the shadowed woods, the surroundings took on a far more forbidding air. This secluded place might well have been a setting for one of her novels. A black bird trailed their path. As the crow settled upon a nearby limb, it cackled mockingly, and a chill prickled the fine hairs at her nape. She fought to ignore the primal warning.
Goodness, her imagination was getting the better of her again. Well, she’d certainly proven how well suited she was to writing of specters and all manner of things that frightened hearty souls.
The blackbird swooped from its perch, seeming to pursue them. Its caw rippled against her ears. The shrill cry echoed against the gloom-shrouded trees.
A messenger shall guide the keepers of the stone. She could picture the words in her mind, as clearly as if she were reading the book in which they’d appeared. She’d researched a multitude of Highland legends in preparation for a story she’d plotted. At the moment, she couldn’t recall the precise source, but somehow, that detail had come back to her.
Connor swung himself from the saddle and surveyed the surroundings. Gun drawn, shoulders squared, eyes alert as a hawk’s for any sign of trouble, he looked every bit the warrior. He stalked toward a rock formation jutting up along the border of the grove, a convenient location for an enemy to lie in wait. Finally, he cut Gerard a look and a nod, signaling him to come forward.
Reaching up, Connor coiled his hands around Johanna’s waist. The heat of his touch penetrated layers of clothing, an instinctive reaction to his nearness. He lifted her easily and set her on the ground, holding her a few moments longer than necessary.
“Stay close,” he said.
Gerard followed close behind, the long gun at the ready. Leaves crunched beneath their feet as they made their way through the woodland.
The ancient trees seemed to possess an awareness of the intrusion. The gentle breeze transformed. Fierce. Cold. Angry. Wind whipped through the knotted limbs, howling in protest. Branches swayed. Leaves trembled. Did even the forest warn them away from this place?
The blackbird darted by. Its cries now took on a frantic tone.
Was it a message? In her bones, Johanna felt the answer to her silent question.
“We must leave,” Johanna said. “Now.”
Connor threw her a glare. “According to the map—”
“Watch out!” Gerard barked, shoving his brother and Johanna to the side. A heartbeat later, a massive limb plunged to the ground in a spot that bore marks from Connor’s boots.
“Do ye think it’s trying to tell us something?” Gerard’s cheeky tone did not counter the alarm in his eyes.
“At this point, I cannae say that I give a damn. I’m getting the stone.” Connor caught Johanna’s hand in his. “Stay with Gerard. One of us getting bashed in the skull will be enough.”
“Perhaps this is unwise.” Johanna managed to keep the words steady despite her racing pulse.
“Concerned for me, are ye?” Connor quirked a brow. “Ye can think of a way to reward my bravery after this is over.”
“Highly unlikely,” she said, forcing a prim tone. The man was audacious. There was no disputing that. After all the discord between them, to even suggest such a thing—and with his brother there, drinking in every word.
“We’ll see about that.”
Ignoring the challenge in his tone, Johanna focused herself on the task at hand. Her mind raced, searching for some bit of research that might be of use. An image appeared at the forefront. A ring of sorts, marked with what seemed an ogre’s eye, encircled by a centuries-old scar. She’d read the description in a dusty tome. Now, it came vividly to life in her thoughts.
“I think…I know how to find it,” she said, banishing her hesitation. “My research indicated that the stone’s resting place bears a distinctive mark, burned into the trunk by a lightning bolt.”
“These trees have been here for many a year and withstood any number of storms,” Gerard spoke up. No trace of derision marked his tone. Rather, a somber recognition of the task that lay ahead. “Tell us, lass—what might this mark look like?” Gerard asked.
“An eye,” she said. “Surrounded by a scar.”
As Connor gave a grunt of acknowledgment, the bird fluttered to another tree, a massive, gnarled oak. Suddenly, what might’ve been a smile touched his features. Johanna followed the path of his gaze to the limb where the crow sat, now eerily silent.
“It seems we’ve found the eye,” he said.
“Good heavens,” Johanna gasped. A few branches below the blackbird, what seemed an ancient eye peered back at her.
“Bluidy hell.” Gerard moved toward the weathered tree. He reached out to touch the mark that had been etched into the tree long before any of them had taken their first breaths. The crow stared down at him for a long moment before abandoning its temporary resting spot, squawking as it flew into the thick grove. Turning to Johanna, Gerard nodded. “I think she’s found it.”
Moving to the ancient oak, Connor inspected its base. He tapped at the roots with a shovel he’d taken from the carriage. His attention flicked to a twisted length of root. Peculiar, how the fibers had bulged and contorted, as if something had interfered with its development.
“Something’s there. Whatever it is, it obstructed the growth.” Gerard said. “But what?”
“That remains to be seen.” Connor dug the shovel into the earth surrounding the tree. Again, and again. He paused to wipe his brow with the back of his hand. “This is a bluidy waste of time.”
Another plunge of the shovel, and a metallic clank rang out.
“It’s there,” Gerard said, stilling his brother’s actions. Crouching low, he used his hands to retrieve the object. Grunting, he lifted a slab the size of his head from the ground.
Gerard stared down at the dirt-encrusted rock. “Worthless.”
“Wait.” Connor maneuvered the shovel into the small crater left behind by the stone’s removal. “There’s something else.”
Carefully shifting earth from the hole, he reached into the opening. “There’s something here. Come, help me lift this out.”
Kneeling at the side of the crevice, the brothers retrieved their discovery. A metal chest—iron, most likely, judging from the effort it took the men to haul it up. Half-dragging their find away from the tree and its wildly swaying branches, they lowered it to the ground with a thud.
“Good God, what’s in that thing? Cannonballs?” Gerard muttered, rubbing his back as if it ached.
Connor scowled. “It’s damned obvious whoever buried this didn’t want it recovered.”
Johanna moved closer to the box. Perhaps half the size of her traveling case, and built to safeguard an object. Good heavens, the stone must be encased in that formidable trunk. Had the MacMasters ancestors foreseen the ruthless danger that would surround the pursuit of the Demon’s Heart?
Gooseflesh slithered over her body, an instinctive warning, and a part of her wanted to flee, leaving the legend and the ruby that inspired it far behind. She pulled in a long, calming breath. Then another. She’d never been such a skittish mouse. All this talk of curses and such had taken its toll. Rubbish, plain and simple. The stone was a valuable gem stored to protect it from thieves. Nothing more.
“Whoever hid this bluidy thing expected it to stay that way.” Gerard pointed to the elaborate system of latches securing the chest, each attached to a clockwork gear. “Damn shame they didn’t trust chains and a bolt.”
“They anticipated the box might be found.” Connor’s eyes lit with intrigue. “Brilliant.”
“It’s a combination lock,” Johanna spoke up. “I’d always thought them to be a modern innovation.”
Connor nodded. “Few existed before this century. Damned shame this is one of them.”
“Ye think I’m going to let some gears and metal slow us down?” Gerard leveled his weapon at the ch
est. “Stand back.”
Again, Connor scowled. “Did Maw drop ye on yer head when ye were a bairn? We dinnae need to draw attention with that cannon ye’re toting.” He slid his sgian dubh from his boot. “There’s got to be a better way.”
He pried at the first gear, as if he might happen upon the proper arrangement. His mouth dipped, fierce and angry. “Blast the luck.”
Johanna studied the chest. Six latches. Six gears, each bearing a notch in one tooth, likely intended to mark a specific location on the dial. An intricate design, and all but hopeless to deduce given the sheer volume of possible combinations. Testing the device might well take days, if not weeks. Unless…they’d already been provided with the code.
Her brother-in-law’s last missive had contained a series of numbers, seven digits she’d committed to memory. Was the sequence a clue? She stared down at the latches. Was it possible that the numbers corresponded to the gears in some way? Perhaps he’d added an extra digit to throw off anyone who’d intercept the code.
“Wait!” The word burst from Johanna’s tongue. “I think…I think I know how to open it.”
Connor met her eyes. “Ye’re referring to the code in the letter?”
“Yes. I think we’ve been provided with the means to unlock this.”
Gerard looked from one to the other. “Would ye care to enlighten me?”
“I received a letter from Mr. Abbott…Mr. Benedict, as you call him. He included a series of numbers, but gave no firm instruction for their use.”
“Aye.” Gerard rubbed his jaw. “Ye think it’s a combination?”
“Yes. At least, I hope it might be. Perhaps the numbers in the date correspond to a clock dial. If we manipulate the gears, it may work. There’s only one complication.”
“Complication?” Gerard questioned.
“I memorized seven digits. But there are six locks.”
Connor nodded his understanding. “Ye think he included a false digit, to throw us off the scent?”
“That may be the case. Trial and error might well give us the correct sequence. I’ll begin by omitting the last digit.”
She reached to touch the first gear, but Connor caught her hand. “I’ll do it. This could be a trap, a mechanism to deter thieves. Tell me the numbers.”
“Eight.” Johanna pulled in a breath as he turned the first gear. The dial slid into position. Yes! It had worked.
Her heart raced with anticipation as she recited the second number and he manipulated the metal. No reaction. Not even a whisper of a sound. As she continued to recite each number in the series, he lined up the notches as though they were hands on a clock. Nothing.
Johanna touched the first gear. “And now that we are more confident that some fiendish trap has not been put into place, might I have a go at it? My fingers are smaller and better suited to precise tasks.”
“I see no harm in that,” Connor agreed. Shifting to the side, he allowed her full access.
“Let’s see now. Perhaps I need to leave out a different number.” Manipulating the dials, she tested her theory several more times, omitting a different number with each trial.
Still, the latches did not budge. Drat the luck.
“We’re wasting our time. I’ll blast the bluidy thing open,” Gerard said.
“And possibly the stone with it.” Connor eyed his brother beneath hooded lids. “Johanna’s theory has merit. Whoever devised this was clever. Damnably so.”
“Perhaps there’s another way of looking at this sequence…perhaps…” Crouching before the box, she deliberated the puzzle. Blast it, what was she missing? “There must be something else, something we’ve overlooked. Cranston wants the book. Why?”
“If the combination’s hidden in that bluidy tome, we’ve no chance of uncovering it,” Gerard said with a scowl. “Not in time to get to the bairn.”
“Could it be hidden in plain sight? So blatant, it’s overlooked.” Johanna pictured the forged inscription, a clever attempt to reproduce the author’s sentiments and hand. Indeed, before Serena had deduced the volume was a fraud, Johanna had believed the words were the product of Mrs. Shelley’s own pen. An unscrupulous dealer might well employ such a notation to increase interest in the eyes of a duped collector.
But in Johanna’s eyes, something about the notation had seemed peculiar from the start. The year etched in ink did not correspond with the initial publication of the novel’s first edition. She’d dismissed her doubts in the beginning. Now, that idiosyncrasy might prove significant.
Had the words served a more nefarious purpose? Were they as much a code as the symbols Serena had uncovered in the text?
“In the book, there is a handwritten note,” she went on.
“A forgery,” Connor said, his face grim. “Serena deduced that.”
“Yes, but why? Why prepare a fraudulent sentiment? Surely there’s a meaning behind it.”
“It’s possible,” Gerard said. “Ye believe it’s a code?”
She pictured the words and numbers in her mind’s eye. For Allegra. 8 December 1819. Excitement surged through her.
“The date…the numbers correspond to those in my brother-in-law’s message. The numbers follow the sequence.” She twisted the first gear to the eighth position on a clock dial. The sound of metal against metal met her ears, and it settled into place, just as it had earlier. Leaning closer, she turned the second dial. “December will be replaced by one and two, just as in the sequence I memorized. But December is the twelfth month. This time, we shall combine the two digits.”
Leaning closer, she placed the notch at the top of the dial. “Twelve.” And then, she heard it, the quiet snick, the faintest of sounds, but as joyous as a chorus. The gear settled into place.
She slanted Connor a glance. He met her gaze. The respect in his eyes warmed her, even as she forced herself back to the task at hand. Her breath hovered in her throat as she set the next dial into place at one. Another quiet click. Then the gear, set to eight, settled into place. She’d deciphered the code.
Gerard leaned over her shoulder. “Bluidy hell, she’s done it.”
In short order, she set the two remaining gears into the correct position. The latches released.
Rising, she smoothed her crinkled skirt with her palms and drank in the way Connor looked at her. Daft American author, indeed.
“Which one of you wishes to do the honors?” she asked, motioning to the trunk. “Your treasure awaits.”
Connor cut her a look that heated her to the core, as if he’d realized the precise nature of the treasure he craved. A treasure that had nothing to do with gems and curses.
“God’s teeth, just open the bluidy box,” Gerard said with a glare.
“Ye may have that honor, brother.”
Gerard’s brows formed an inverted vee. “Ye believe the chest is rigged in some way…it’s a trap?”
“Nay,” Connor said, even as he took Johanna by the hand and drew her back. “But since ye’ve left yer bollocks in some doxy’s coffers, I’ll do it.”
Disregarding his protective gesture, she stepped forward. She’d come this far. She wasn’t about to turn away from the first sight of the jewel that had inspired Cranston’s ruthless quest.
A thick, strong arm blocked her. Gerard stared down at her. “He means what he says. Ye cannae take the chance. If ye’re injured, who will save the wee lass?”
The kindness in his eyes startled her. This was a man accustomed to brutality. Yet he showed concern for a child he’d never seen.
“Very well,” she said, peering over Gerard’s brawny limb as Connor revealed the contents of the chest.
“By Satan’s mistress, they were a clever lot.” Connor removed what appeared to be a musket ball, inspecting it before placing it to the side. “They filled the chest with iron. No wonder we damn near broke our backs heaving it out of that hole.”
“But no sign of the stone?” Impatience marked Gerard’s question.
“Aye, it’s here. Th
ey wouldnae have gone to such trouble over ordinary riches.”
Gerard joined him, pulling weights out of the way. He produced a small, surprisingly crude wooden box that had been nailed shut. With his dagger, Connor pried up the lid.
“Behold—Deamhan’s Cridhe,” he said with mocking flare.
The stone… God above, Johanna had never experienced such a visceral reaction to an object. She’d expected a large, elegant gem. But this…this jewel defied her expectations a hundred fold. Its deep, crimson radiance intrigued her, drew her in. The size of her thumbnail, the stone had been intricately cut, reflecting light with a dazzling brilliance. Burgundy and red and the color of flame flickered against the facets. Fit for a queen, indeed.
Yet, at its core, the ruby gleamed dark as heart’s blood. Something about the jewel she couldn’t quite explain repelled her, an energy that triggered a warning deep within. She wanted to look away from the gem and never again lay eyes upon the cursed stone.
Heavens, she was doing it again. She’d allowed the legend to set her overly active imagination into full gallop. Banishing the superstitious notions to the corner of her mind reserved for rubbish, she edged closer.
“How very peculiar. So lovely, and yet—”
“Serena’s ramblings have got to ye,” Connor said, though his own features revealed a grim awareness she hadn’t anticipated.
“Perhaps,” she responded blandly.
Gerard’s gaze flicked between them. “Now that we’ve got the blasted thing, can we move along with our plan?”
Connor stashed the ruby inside the box. “I’ll convey the stone to our contacts. Once it’s secure, I’ll head to the castle. With the two of ye traveling in that carriage, slow as sap in winter, I’ll likely be biding my time before the two of ye arrive.”
Gerard readied the carriage horses. “Watch yer back, brother. There’s no telling what’s crawling about in the brush.”
The Highlander Who Loved Me Page 27
