“Aye, ye’re too stubborn to let those bastards get ye.” Connor swept his gaze over his brother. “Any other wounds?”
“Nay.” Gerard pressed himself up to a sitting position. “They took her.” A look of misery contorted his features. “Dammit, it was my duty to protect the lass. I failed ye both.”
“Ye’ve failed no one. Who did this?”
“Cranston’s men. The big, ugly one. And the English troll.” Gerard stared into the distance, as if reliving the moment when he’d been attacked. “They must’ve taken the carriage. We have to go after her.”
“Ye’re not goin’ anywhere, other than a safer spot than right here in the open. Phantom nearly galloped right over ye.”
“Ye cannae do this alone,” Gerard protested. Putting his palms to the ground, he pushed himself to his feet. His long legs swayed like saplings in a stiff wind. “Ye’ll need backup.”
Connor watched Gerard struggle to stand. “Ye’re in no shape to do battle.”
“The bastards left their mounts. Just get me to one of them. I can ride.”
Connor slowly shook his head. God knew he could use Gerard’s skill as a marksman when he confronted Cranston, but the notion was preposterous. His brother’s bleeding had ebbed, but the wound had taken a toll.
“Stay here. Keep an eye out for more men heading Cranston’s way. I’ll be back.”
Gerard set his jaw. A small groan made its way between his half-gritted teeth. “I still have my pistols. Those fools didn’t think to check me for weapons.”
“And ye might need them,” Connor said. “But not now. We can’t take that chance with ye wounded as ye are.”
“Ye underestimate me.”
Stubborn as they come, that brother of his. Connor felt a surge of pride at his brother’s courage. Battered. Bloodied. Weak. Yet still ready to battle the men who threatened Johanna and the wee lass she adored. Staying behind was no doubt a bitter choice, but there was no alternative. Gerard would be easy prey in his current state. Connor could not take that chance.
His brother moved toward a dark gelding tethered to a tree. His knees seemed weaker with each step. “Just get me on the bluidy horse.”
“Not a chance. For once in yer life, listen to reason. Wait here. I may need backup if we’re pursued.”
“I am not a blasted coward.” Gerard stumbled toward a tree and allowed himself to slowly slide along the trunk until his legs stretched out over the ground.
“No one would ever accuse ye of that.” Connor pulled himself into the saddle. “Keep yer weapon at the ready. The castle is less than an hour from here on horseback. I’ll be back with Johanna and the bairn. If they’re still breathing, Cranston’s men will pursue us. Just make sure ye shoot those bastards and not me.”
…
Connor spurred his mount to a gallop. A loyal partner in so many missions, Phantom devoured the ground with each powerful stride. Darkness closed in, making the road ahead more treacherous. Keeping a firm hold on the reins, Connor guided the beast over the rough path.
Damn Cranston. How had his thugs known to attack the carriage? Had someone discovered details of their plan? Or had the brutal bastards simply happened upon the coach? The memory of Gerard’s blood puddled on the ground cut through him like a lance. Connor could only give thanks that in the ebbing light, the buffoons had not seen through Gerard’s disguise. If they’d deduced his identity, Connor would likely have come upon a dead man in that clearing.
Regret dug into Connor’s gut. He should’ve been there. It should’ve been him protecting Johanna.
Where was she now? The question ate at him. At least he could count on the brutes keeping Johanna alive until Cranston was done with her. That would buy him time. If the ruffians had abused her—damnit, he shook off the thought. Anger would only make him careless. He had to keep his wits about him. Soon, he’d see Cranston’s cold savagery brought to an end.
Shadows surrounded the forest like ancient specters, trailing his path, watching his every move. A chill trickled along his spine. Devil take it, he knew better than to be drawn into superstition. But with the sounds of the night bearing down on him, the acts of his ancestors took on a logic of their own. Was it any wonder people of old whispered of spirits and spells and evil encased in a blood-red ruby?
The blasted Deamhan’s Cridhe. He’d put more stock in the prospect of Phantom sprouting wings and flying past the moon than in the tales of the gem’s powers. But there was no denying the history of bloodshed and tragedy that followed that polished bit of crimson rock. The product of man’s greed for power and wealth, not the intrinsic properties of a blasted stone.
The ruby was secured, secreted away by Brenna and Finn to a vault buried in a cave few knew existed. Truth be told, Connor was glad to be rid of it. He was a logical man, a man who dismissed the legend as so much manure. But somehow, he couldn’t deny that holding the stone had triggered a sense of unease, a primitive wariness that penetrated to the bone. Now, the cursed thing would be locked away. Preserved and protected, yet forbidden to bastards who’d use it to buoy their power, if only in their own minds.
He carried another stone on his person, a jewel secured in an unadorned wooden box. Brenna had stunned him when she produced the case and opened the lid. Cushioned in a bed of plain, homespun linen, the ruby was precisely the size, cut and hue of the gem he’d recovered beneath the ancient oak. A replica, she’d explained, her pixie face bright with excitement at finally being able to reveal the secret she’d been entrusted with since girlhood.
“In truth, three stones exist under our guard,” she’d explained. “The Demon’s Heart. And two rubies, precisely cut and polished. Our ancestors thought to create replicas. Decoys, if you will.”
Brilliant and canny. Their ancestors had understood the allure of the stone. They’d sought to confuse and deceive those who would control the jewel. Had they foreseen that centuries later, blackguards like Cranston would covet the gem’s legendary properties?
The stone Brenna had given him was one of the replicas. And there was another, just as close a match as the one in his pocket. He’d pictured it in his mind as Brenna explained the existence of the replicas.
“The brooch,” he’d said, under his breath.
Brenna had offered a small nod of confirmation. “Johanna doesn’t know what she has. But anyone who’s studied the stone will recognize it. That brooch will buy the lass time. Even if she never puts the hidden blade to use.”
Time. Aye, Johanna would need that. But soon, he’d be there. At her side. He would see Johanna and the young lass she so dearly loved safe. And he’d see Cranston breathe his last. That was his vow.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Fear was normal, a human instinct aimed at self-preservation. But fear had no place in Johanna’s dealings with Geoffrey Cranston. Or so she admonished herself, her inner voice taking on the stern notes of a teacher who’d tolerate no nonsense. Curling her fingers against her palms, she dug her nails into the flesh, just enough to divert her thoughts from the twinges of terror flickering through her brain.
The tall, grizzled man ushered Johanna through several long, ornately appointed corridors. Despite the castle’s rugged exterior, the interior might have pleased Marie Antoinette’s sensibilities. With a nod to Ross, he entered a chamber through an immense gilded door. His voice drifted into the corridor as he informed the occupant of Johanna’s arrival.
“Excellent timing, I must say.” A stranger’s crisp baritone drifted to her ears. No trace of Highland accent marked the words. Rather, the precise inflections one might hear in the House of Lords. Johanna braced herself to face the scoundrel who’d turned her life on end.
“Show Miss Templeton in, will you, Donaldson?” The gentleman inside the chamber went on, smooth as any gracious host.
The tall man showed his craggy face. “Bring ’er in.”
Ross reached to take her by the elbow. Johanna shrugged him away. “I assure you I have not come th
is far to run now.”
He gave a shrug. “You won’t be so uppity once the countess gets through with you.”
The countess. My, who was this woman the men openly feared? Squaring her shoulders, Johanna stepped over the threshold and into a chamber fit for a king—a king with exceedingly extravagant tastes, no less.
She presumed the room was a library, but such a library she’d never seen. The expanse was huge, perhaps the size of the ballroom at a fine hotel, its walls paneled in gleaming wood. Shelves stretched to the high, painted ceilings—many filled with leather-bound volumes, while others bore sparkling crystal boxes and domes, displaying a wealth of precious objects. Jewels and carved ivory and something that looked rather like a miniature mummy flashed in Johanna’s side vision. Ancient pottery and sculptures and remnants of lives long past, brought to this fortress to feed Cranston’s voracious hunger for antiquities he might neatly display in a glass case.
As she made her way past the collection, she kept her gaze firmly focused on the man and woman seated in throne-like leather chairs at the rear of the chamber. Cranston and the countess, most likely. Taking in the woman’s flawless countenance, Johanna could well understand the thugs’ description. Witch, indeed. A cool blond sorceress whose venom-polluted eyes were blue as cornflowers.
Lightly drumming her long fingers against the arm of the chair, the countess raked her gaze over Johanna in a cold perusal. Her rose-tinted mouth thinned, cruel as a tyrant queen looking upon a traitor bound for the executioner’s blade.
Johanna looked away. The man at the countess’s side came to his feet, his hands clasped behind his back. If this was indeed Geoffrey Cranston, he bore little resemblance to the withered villain Johanna had conjured in her vigorous imagination. To the contrary, this man was handsome, his features classically cut, his sleek hair peppered with strands of silver that enhanced its burnished wheat hue. But his eyes—well, there the resemblance to the villain she’d crafted held true. An artist would paint Cranston’s eyes as almond-shaped and gray. Rather beautiful, really, with those striking irises that watched her with such focus. But Johanna saw beyond what a portrait might capture—the predator’s focus as Cranston took her in, the cold hunger reflected in his gaze. Not for her.
For the power of the Demon’s Heart.
Johanna hiked her chin. She would not be cowed. The slightest trace of weakness would work against her. No, she’d face him, confident and strong, and unbent by fear. She would give the malevolent bastard what he demanded. And she would bring Laurel home.
“Welcome to my home, Miss Templeton.” A hint of a smile curved his mouth. “The countess and I regret the circumstances could not be more pleasant. Perhaps, after our business is done, you will consider experiencing our hospitality.”
“Perhaps.” She prayed he could not detect the waver in her voice. “I trust my niece is well.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “You will see she’s been well treated.”
“Despite the chit’s lack of regard for her superiors,” the countess added, her lips so taut it seemed a wonder she could speak at all.
“The girl is indeed spirited. I presume she shares that trait with you.” Cranston came closer, near enough that she could touch him. Near enough that she longed to slap the pleasant facade from his face.
Johanna steeled herself against the impulse. She’d play along with his charade. Let him pretend this was a civil discourse, and that he was not a monster who’d murdered a man and abducted a child, all in pursuit of a polished rock.
“Her mother was the spirited one.” Johanna forced her lips into a smile. “I make no such claim.”
“Modesty does not become you.” His eyes narrowed, seeming to assess her. “I know about your journey. I can only pray that Scottish ruffian did not accost you.”
Scottish ruffian. The words echoed like a bell’s peal in her mind. This cold-blooded cur, daring to describe Connor in such coarse terms. Again, she itched to strike the bastard. Again, she tamed the urge. She’d come for one purpose. Until Laurel was safely away from this place, Johanna would have no choice but to dance to this villain’s discordant tune.
“I am quite well, all things considered.” She honeyed her voice. “I was hoping to see my niece. I trust she is near.”
“It goes without saying that you will soon be reunited with the girl. But first…you have something for me.”
Taking in a breath, she steadied herself. “Your associate took possession of my valise when he intercepted my carriage. I presume he still has the bag.”
Ross rushed to present the satchel to his employer. “It’s there…the book you’ve been looking for.”
“You don’t say.” Cranston’s silvery gaze fell on his henchman’s injured hand, flashing an unspoken threat. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
With deliberate movements, Cranston opened the traveling case. He removed the book. Interest flickered in his eyes. “I assume this book is precious to you, Miss Templeton. I regret you must make such a sacrifice. But sadly, Mr. Abbott’s duplicity left us no choice. To think the scoundrel actually thought he could betray me and escape the consequences. Of course, once my men caught up with him, he was eager to confess every lie, including the name he so foolishly believed would throw us off his trail.”
Cranston’s calm, icy tones unleashed a shiver along Johanna’s backbone. She steadied her breath, choosing her words with precision.
“I treasure the book and its significance as a literary work. But my niece is far more precious to me than any object could ever be.”
“Well said.” Cranston ran his fingertips over the volume’s leather binding. “Such quality and craftsmanship. Rare, indeed. You’re not likely to find such attention to detail in this era.”
“Indeed,” she said, the tones even, despite the pounding of her heart.
“Donaldson, please bring Miss Templeton’s niece,” he said, his tone flat as if he’d requested tea and biscuits.
With a crisp nod, the tall man left the room. Cranston turned his interest back to the volume in his hand. “Remarkable condition for a first edition. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Ross?”
The henchman shot the tome a nervous glance. “It’s a fine book, Mr. Cranston.”
Cranston casually thumbed through the pages. “Almost too fine. I’d expected signs of wear. Perhaps some indication the novel had actually been read.”
“Mr. Abbott was only interested in first-quality manuscripts,” Johanna spoke up. “My brother-in-law prided himself on the pristine state of his collection.”
Closing the book, Cranston handed the book to the countess. “It appears Mr. Abbott made a fool of all of us.”
Stiletto-sharp fear pierced Johanna’s heart. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What I am talking about…is the difference between your niece walking out of here with you, or—” Cranston’s attention shot to the chamber door. “Ah, here she is. A lovely child.”
At his words, Johanna’s gaze fell upon a face so dear, her knees threatened to buckle with relief. Rebellious dark curls framed a small, freckled face scrunched into a frown. Laurel’s bright eyes went wide, and her mouth opened into a perfect O. A small cry escaped her as she bucked against the hold of the man who held one hand clamped over her forearm.
“Auntie!” Laurel struggled to free herself.
“A wee banshee, she is,” the old man named Donaldson muttered, marching into the chamber with the child in tow.
“Release the girl.” The countess’s smooth tones contrasted with the ice in her eyes.
“As ye wish.” Donaldson’s eyes flashed with disdain. The child tore from the old man’s grasp and darted to Johanna.
“Oh my sweet darling.” Johanna enfolded Laurel in her embrace. “I’m ever so glad to see you.”
“I thought…I thought you’d left me.” Laurel’s tears dampened Johanna’s dress.
“Never.” Johanna said with a fierce deter
mination. “I would never leave you. Soon, we’ll be home.”
Ross clamped rough hands on Laurel’s arms and attempted to tug her away. Johanna met his eyes. “Take your hands off her.”
“Leave the girl be.” The countess uttered the words like a monarch’s command. “There’s no cause to manhandle the child.”
Apprehension loosened its crushing grip on Johanna’s heart. Could it be she had an ally in the cold-eyed beauty? Johanna dismissed the thought. Laurel was a pawn to the woman. Nothing more.
She drew Laurel close. “Everything will be all right, sweetling. I promise.”
Laurel sniffled. “I want to go home.”
“Soon,” Johanna whispered. “Very soon.”
The countess heaved an exaggerated sigh and summoned Johanna to come closer. “I won’t bite.” Her voice was soft. Sugary. “I have a few questions.”
Laurel tugged Johanna’s hand. “Don’t.”
“I won’t leave you,” Johanna reassured her. “But I must not be impolite to our hosts.”
Laurel gave another sniff. With the child clutching her fingers tight, Johanna approached the countess. She held her head high, her spine straight, even as something deep within her recoiled. Intuition, perhaps, or simply primitive instinct—Johanna couldn’t dismiss the bone-deep certainty that somehow, this elegant woman who spoke in honeyed tones was more lethal than any of the ruffians in Cranston’s employ. More lethal than Cranston himself.
“That’s better.” The countess’s razor-sharp gaze drilled into Johanna even as her lips curved at the corners. She threw Ross and Munro a glare. “These hooligans have no need to hear every word we speak, now do they, Miss Templeton?”
“I suppose there’s no purpose to it.” Steeling her insides as if bracing for a blow, Johanna held eye contact, no small feat given the way her pulse roared in her ears.
“If I had my druthers, these fools would be replaced.” The countess peered over her steepled fingers, her voice quiet and calm, as if she shared a secret with an acquaintance. “Their loyalty is admirable, but between the two of them, I doubt you’d muster the mental acuity of the typical farm beast.”
The Highlander Who Loved Me Page 29
