The Highlander Who Loved Me Page 4

  “Any business ye had with the likes of them would only end one way.”

  “You’ve no way of knowing the nature of my business with these men, nor what the outcome would be. Even pirates have a code of honor.”

  “Those men are not bluidy pirates.” MacMasters flung open the door of the carriage. “Get in and I’ll take us away from this hellhole.”

  “No.” She steeled her voice and her spine. “I’m not leaving this place with you.”

  “I’m not giving ye a choice.”

  “Very well.” With a sigh for effect, she turned as if to enter the coach. “I suppose I’m only wasting precious time avoiding the inevitable.”

  MacMasters went to the carriage horse, releasing it from its tether. Finally. The chance she’d needed.

  Quietly hoisting herself to the driver’s bench, she snatched up the long gun and stepped down to the pavement. One blow with the heavy weapon had been enough to send Munro into an involuntary slumber. Surely this man’s skull could be no thicker.

  MacMasters didn’t turn to look at her as he untangled the horse’s reins. “Ye need to get in the coach. We’ve no time to—”

  He tilted his head just as the stock plunged toward him.

  “Bollocks.” The word was little more than a grunt.

  He jerked away.

  Crunch. The gun slammed into his shoulder.

  With a harsh exhalation, he whipped around. With one sure motion, he wrenched the weapon from her possession. One large, powerful hand clamped over her wrists. With his strength, he might have brought her pain. Or worse. But he restrained her with an astonishing lack of violence.

  A blend of shock and something that looked suspiciously like respect flickered in his eyes. “Jesus, lass, are ye trying to kill me?”

  Johanna shook her head. If she’d wanted to kill him, she would have pulled the trigger. Her conscience had made her weak.

  She would not make that mistake again.

  He held her in an unyielding grasp. “That was a damn fool thing to do.”

  Struggling to break free, she fought his hold. Useless. She might as well have tried to break free of an iron manacle. His brow furrowed, as if he grew weary of this one-sided battle. Still, he didn’t ease the shackle around her wrists.

  If the devil thought she’d meekly go along with whatever he’d planned, he was gravely mistaken. What would the heroine of her most popular serial do? Jane Goodwright had escaped predicaments far more perilous than this. What defense would Jane use against him?

  The solution flashed in her mind. A readily available weapon, ridiculously simple to employ and unfailingly effective. Or so she’d been told. If the tales she’d heard held even an ounce of truth, what she was about to do was even more painful for the male of the species than a bullet. Perhaps she should have shot him after all.

  A flicker of hesitation roiled her stomach. She’d only have one chance to get this right.

  But she had to get away from him.

  “Ye’re comin’ with me.” His words were terse. Whatever patience he’d shown was fading.

  “I will not go with you.”

  He believed her to be without a weapon. But she had her elbows. Her knees. Her heels. And she knew how to employ them in her defense. Ever protective, her older brother had taken it upon himself to teach Johanna the places on a man’s body that were most vulnerable.

  This would not be pleasant. Far less so for MacMasters than for her, but still, she’d never made such brutal contact with a man. And this particular man was the sort of bold, dashing male who would have inspired a novel or two in another time, another place—a time before Mr. Abbott had gone and gotten himself killed and had put his daughter at a ruthless villain’s mercy.

  None of that mattered. Not really.

  She slammed her knee up.

  Hard.

  He seemed to anticipate her assault. Shifting to his right. Avoiding the brunt of the impact. But still, she made contact. The bony part of her knee crushed into that most vulnerable area between his legs.

  A cross between a grunt and a groan swept past his lips. His hold slackened.

  She pulled away, stepping back. With a quick stride forward, she threw in a sound kick to his shin for good measure.

  And then, she ran.

  Chapter Four

  Clutching the valise to her chest, Johanna bolted from the alley. She threw a glance over her shoulder. No sign of the Scot. A breath she hadn’t realized she’d held whooshed from her lungs, but it was too soon to feel relief. He would come after her. She had to put distance between them before he mustered pursuit.

  The street beyond Kincaid’s Pub was nearly as desolate as the darkened lane she’d fled. Each footfall rang out, the rap of her heels against the cobbles pounding in her ears. Another glance behind. Still no sign of him. She ran faster. Harder. She had to find some semblance of sanctuary.

  Finally, she came to a tavern, a small, dingy brick structure. The Cock’s Roost. The sign outside the pub teetered on a rusty post, dangling from a single hook. A rooster depicted in faded paint on the wooden square seemed to eye her from its crooked vantage point, its weather-dulled feathers now the color of watery tomato soup.

  Johanna pressed her palms to the wall and dragged in air. Her heartbeat slowed its desperate pace until she no longer heard each ragged exhalation. She pulled herself onto her tiptoes and peeked in a window.

  From the outside, the tavern seemed a dark and unwelcoming place. Gas lamps provided meager light, scarcely enough to allow one to cross the floor without tripping over the haphazard landscape of tables and chairs. But the gloom would suit her purposes. She needed a refuge. Just for a while. Until she could be sure the Scot had gone on his way and she could get back to the ugly business that had drawn her to the Highlands. Then, she’d track down the man who held Laurel’s fate in his ruthless hands.

  But how? She had no name to seek out. No knowledge of the scoundrel’s appearance. For that matter, she couldn’t even be certain she was looking for a man.

  Her mad dash from the devil with the brogue had left her hair wind-tangled and her face heated. A glance downward confirmed her skirt was splattered with dirt. The toes of her leather shoes were crusted with the stuff. No matter. Her disheveled appearance might actually work to her advantage. After all, what woman of quality would find herself in such an establishment at this hour of the night?

  Summoning her courage, she pushed open the tavern door and sauntered to the bar. The barkeep stared down at her, then shrugged as if a wild woman strolling into the pub was no more peculiar an occurrence than the trio of burly men by the hearth singing a rousing chorus of Aikendrum.

  He looked past Johanna, surveying the crowd, then turned his attention back to her. “Whoever ye’re lookin’ for, he’s not here.”

  Seizing on the barkeep’s assumption, Johanna brewed a plausible reason for her presence. “My mon is here, the lying sot.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve no strangers in the place tonight. Head to MacBeck’s Place, down the road.”

  “He’s with his doxy, I tell ye. I feel it in my bones.”

  The barkeep’s brows drew together like a shaggy caterpillar creeping over the bridge of his nose. “Ye’re not from these parts, are ye, lass?”

  “I’ve come from Edinburgh. Why does that concern ye?”

  The creases on his forehead might have been used as a washboard. “Ye don’t sound like a lass from Edinburgh. Ye don’t sound like a lass from Scotland at all.”

  Dash it all, she had no trouble writing accents for her heroines. Pity she’d proven utterly inept at trading her American inflections for a Highland lilt. Well, she wasn’t about to let this man and his keen ear rattle her.

  She leaned closer. “My mon—he’s here. And when I find him—”

  The barkeep eyed Johanna’s bosom before lifting his gaze. “Ye’re a bonny lass. A bit scrawny where it counts, but ye’ve a face that draws a mon’s eye. I cannae have ye runnin�
�� about, stirring a ruckus.”

  “Verrae well then. I’ll wait here. Sooner or later, he’s bound t’show his no-good hide.”

  He poured amber liquid into a stein and slid it across the bar. “This will take the edge off ye.”

  She stared down at the ale. Ordinarily, she detested the stuff. But the likelihood was indeed slim that this establishment offered the sherry she preferred. Lifting the hefty mug to her lips, she took a sip. Warmth trickled through her, hearty and soothing. The bitter taste lingered on her tongue, and yet, something about the drink appealed to her. Perhaps it would indeed steady her nerves. Keeping one hand tight around the handle of her valise, she allowed herself a hearty draught, then another.

  She felt the devil’s heat before she heard his rough-hewn brogue. A shiver raced along her spine, even as his warm breath brushed her nape.

  “I didn’t figure ye to drink such a hearty brew.”

  His words were innocuous enough, yet MacMasters’s deep rasp rippled through Johanna like a lightning strike. She set the tankard on the counter with a thud. Ale lapped over the sides, splashing her fingers.

  “I hear tell ye’ve been looking for me,” he went on.

  Drat the luck. Had he overheard her act with the barkeep?

  When she didn’t answer, MacMasters caught her arm and pulled her close.

  “Play along, lass.” His words were the merest whisper. “Well, ye’ve found me now.”

  He placed a coin on the bar and slid it toward the barkeep—payment for her drink, most likely, then trailed his hand over her forearm. His fingers blazed heat through her wool jacket and cotton blouse, searing her with awareness.

  A smile crooked his full mouth. “Time to be on our way.”

  Johanna’s feet rooted to the ground. Her mind raced, calculating the risks of refusing to obey this dangerous stranger. At least in the tavern, they were surrounded. A half dozen men or more might come to her aid. At the very least, they had eyes and ears and would serve as witnesses to whatever scheme he had in mind.

  She slowly shook her head. “No.”

  He eyed her beneath dark, well-shaped brows. His green irises reminded her of a wooded glen on a summer day, rich shades of emerald flecked with gold. Something in his gaze drew her in and held her even as it set her senses on full alert.

  “Come with me now.” His voice had deepened, taken on a flinty edge.

  She gripped her satchel, gauging its potential as a weapon. Even with the book’s weight, it seemed a flimsy defense, entirely inadequate against a man who’d taken a knee to the groin and still managed to pursue her.

  A grizzled man at the bar tore his attention from his drink, seeming to enjoy the show playing out before him. The barkeep shot her a curious frown that made his brows droop.

  “Go with him, lass. Ye can give yer mon a piece of yer mind when ye’re standing by yer own hearth.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she eased free of MacMasters’s hold. She gave thanks that her long skirts concealed the slight wobble in her knees. The truth would prove her most powerful weapon. “I share no hearth with this mon. I’ve never seen him before tonight.”

  The bushy brows shot up. The barkeep calmly reached beneath the bar. Brandishing a revolver, he regarded MacMasters. Bland, despite the weapon in his hand. “Does the lass speak the truth?”

  “You’ve no need to threaten us.” Johanna could no longer carry on with the pretense of a soft Scottish burr. Her performance had been pitiful enough when she didn’t have a gun pointed at the tall, dark man at her side. Now, her act was entirely hopeless.

  “I’ve no intention of shootin’ ye.” The barkeep shifted the devil a glance. “But him—he’s another story.”

  MacMasters met the barkeep’s threat with a grin Lucifer would envy. “She’s a bit overwrought, my friend. Ye see, her temper’s fiery as her hair.” He leaned over the counter, as if confiding a great secret. “But I’ve got a cure for that, if ye take my meanin’.”

  “Aye, that I do.” Amusement flickered in the barkeep’s eyes. He lowered his weapon, but did not stow it behind the counter. “Now, get yer arses out of here.”

  Strong, warm fingers closed over hers. This time, she didn’t resist as MacMasters pulled her toward the door. She’d made a choice she was already regretting.

  He cut behind a table of boisterous sots, detouring to a darkened corner of the pub. “I’m not goin’ to hurt ye, lass. Ye have to trust me.”

  “I have no reason to do any such thing. Whoever you are, leave me be.”

  “Ye really don’t want me to do that.” Any trace of humor had been stripped from his features. “Ye’ve put yerself in a bad position. I’ve got to get ye out of here.”

  The concern in his tone chipped at her defenses. But she couldn’t allow it to show. She stared at the fingers enveloping hers. “Unhand me.”

  He did not budge. “’Tis not a proper place for ye by the light of day, much less at this time of night. Come with me now. I’ll get ye to an inn where ye’ll be well for the night.”

  “My safety is not your concern.”

  “Those men—they’re not the sort a woman like ye should be dealing with.”

  Oh, that was bloody rich. This reckless, brazen, possibly quite dangerous man thought to lecture her on her choice of associates.

  “At least you did not call me a lass this time.” Johanna hiked her chin and met his eyes. If only his emerald gaze didn’t draw her in. “For your information, I had urgent business with Mr. Ross. I can only pray your interference will not prove disastrous.”

  “Ye dinnae do business with men like Ross and Munro. They’re thieves and ruffians of the worst kind.”

  “Unlike you?”

  He eyed the case she clutched with a death grip. “If I wanted what was in that bag, do ye think that bony knee of yers would keep me from it?”

  “Then what do you want? Why are you following me?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he stared over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. “We’re not alone.”

  Johanna stilled. She sensed the towering stranger lurking near the door before she spotted his intimidating form. Or perhaps it was the reek of unwashed sweat that drew her attention. Even the deep-in-their-cups sots seemed to clear a path for the oaf. Dark hair straggled from beneath a cap worn low over his prominent brow. Black garbed his massive frame.

  “Munro?” she whispered.

  “His brother.” MacMasters pulled her close, his voice low and edged with steel. “If ye want to stay alive, do what I tell ye.”

  Chapter Five

  Connor recognized the more lethal of the Munro brothers by his pronounced beak. The hawk-nosed thug wasn’t known to work for Cranston. Had someone else dispatched the man to find Johanna Templeton? Hell and damnation, this was a complication Connor hadn’t foreseen.

  Hector Munro tapped a fist against his paw of a hand. He was indeed smarter than his brother. But that wasn’t saying much. Munro was a brawler, a hulk who struck first without a thought to his circumstances. If need be, Connor could turn that to his advantage.

  The long gun strapped to the lining of his greatcoat and two holstered pistols sat at the ready, but he couldn’t risk gunfire. Not yet. Not while the woman and a tavern full of blokes might be caught in the crossfire.

  If Munro had come after Johanna, all hell would break loose once he spotted her. Was the bastard alone? Or were others waiting beyond the doors of the tavern, ready to seize the woman and her blasted satchel?

  Keeping his focus on Munro, Connor calculated his options. He’d get Johanna out of the pub. He’d get her to safety. But first, he had to determine what he was up against.

  Munro scanned the tavern, the intention in his eyes making it clear he had not ventured into the pub for a pint or a doxy’s favors, but looked to get his hands on something far more valuable.

  Connor shot a glance at the tavern door. No sign of others. Yet. He caught Johanna’s hand in his. “Stay here and keep out of sight. If the
re’s trouble, run to the barkeep. That gun of his will be some help in protecting ye.”

  “What about you?” Concern edged her tone, muted but undeniable.

  Be damned! He hadn’t expected her to give a rat’s arse about the likes of him. The reality twisted his insides.

  “That’s not yer worry now, is it, lass?”

  Johanna studied him. “I don’t need you to risk your neck for me. I don’t even know who you are.”

  Looking at him like that, she could not hide the sadness in those deep blue eyes. Lovely and gentle, those eyes. Yet, he sensed a will of iron behind the softness of her gaze.

  He gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll have to rectify that, lass. Later. For now, keep to the shadows. Dinnae let him near ye.”

  Munro craned his neck. His marble-like eyes narrowed. He cocked his head, intent. A corner of his wide mouth hiked higher. Bollocks. He’d spotted Johanna.

  Connor reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a leather strap weighted on both ends with lead. The cudgel would attract little attention. He’d have the element of surprise on his side.

  He slanted Johanna a glance. Her chin had firmed, and her spine had gone ramrod stiff. Fixing his attention on Munro as the oaf lumbered toward them, Connor nudged Johanna behind his back.

  “Ye know who I am.” Munro’s features betrayed no emotion, his eyes dull as a fish on the wharf. “Ye think to keep me from the woman?”

  Connor kept his guard up and his eyes on Munro. The man could wield a fatal blow if given the chance. “Where’s yer partner? That scrawny bloke, O’Keefe.”

  Munro shrugged. “Poor bastard took a bullet to the belly. Took him three days t’die.”

  A ripple of tension eased from Connor. The cur was working alone. “Cranston sent ye?”

  Munro shook his head. “I’ve no use for that tight-fisted bastard.”

  “Who hired ye?”

  “Ye think I’m dim-brained?” Munro growled the words. “The gent wishes t’remain discreet, if ye take my meanin’.”