The Highlander Who Loved Me Read online

  “Protect me? Is that what you call your interference?” She summoned an indignant huff. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Not yet, though ye may be the one to finally push me over the brink. A lady dressed in finery, thinking to do business with the worst sort of ruffians. If not for my interference, ye’d have gone off with a pair of swine who’d take what they needed and toss what was left of ye in a shallow grave. Or worse.”

  “That’s enough.” Harrison’s heated glare contradicted his calm tones. “Miss Templeton is a lady. Or have you forgotten that?”

  Johanna pushed herself to her feet. Wobbly knees or not, she would not allow the Scot to intimidate her. “If you think to frighten me, Mr. MacMasters, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  “Ye’ve good cause for fear. There will be more men coming after ye. After that bluidy book.”

  “I will not be cowed.”

  “Cowed? That’s the least of yer worries. Unless ye tell us why ye’re here, I don’t know if we’ll be able to keep the bastards from ye.” He stared down at her. “Ye need to trust us. At this point, we’re all ye’ve got. Who gave ye the book?”

  The urgency in his tone jarred her. What harm would there be in revealing this bit of the truth? “My brother-in-law—Richard Abbott.”

  MacMasters kept his silence for a long moment. “Abbott? I’ve heard nothing of a man who goes by that name. Dinnae think to deceive me, lass.”

  The dark intensity in his eyes stole her breath, but she pulled in a slow draught of air and steadied her nerves. “I am telling you the truth. The book was a gift to me, a token of appreciation, if you will. My sister’s husband—”

  A scowl marked the Highlander’s chiseled features. “I’ve reason to believe this book came from a smuggler, a wily cheat. Did ye know the man by any other name?”

  “Another name?” Johanna mulled the question. “Actually, he used a stage name for years.”

  MacMasters’s scowl deepened. “A stage name?”

  “As a young man, Richard Abbott fancied himself a thespian. He was performing in Philadelphia when he met my sister and charmed her into a rather impetuous marriage. After a while, he abandoned this pursuit and returned to England with Cynthia. Shortly thereafter, Laurel was born.”

  “And what was the name the man used?” MacMasters pressed.

  “My, it has been such a very long time… I was merely a girl when he was treading the boards, but I recall being rather impressed by the look of it on the playbill.” Johanna met the Scot’s direct gaze. “He used the name Benedict—Richard Benedict.”

  Moving to the Scot’s side, his brother furrowed his brow. She saw recognition in the physician’s eyes. And a concern borne of knowledge. What did these men know that she didn’t?

  “Richard Benedict.” Harrison MacMasters repeated the name. A trace of rugged burr seasoned his cultivated speech. He pinned Johanna with a look that pierced her courage. “Bluidy hell, what have ye got yerself into, lass?”

  Chapter Seven

  Connor had long regarded his younger brother as the most civilized of the MacMasters clan. A trained physician who boasted friendships with the royal family, Harrison could be counted upon to present a rational, measured approach to the most treacherous of situations. So it came as that much more of a shock—amusing, but surprising nonetheless—to see his calm, level-headed brother forget his careful English pronunciation and let his brogue leak out. Above that, Harrison’s complexion had turned ruddy, his eyes gleaming with a not-so-well-mannered fury.

  “I need a word with ye. Now.” Harrison addressed Connor like a military commander preparing to reprimand an underling. Quiet. Terse. The undercurrent of anger barely controlled.

  “Continue to rest, Miss Templeton.” Connor knew the words sounded like an order—a directive he doubted she’d heed.

  “In the library.” Harrison ground out each word like glass between his teeth.

  Connor covered the distance between the sitting room where the woman had been brought to rest and his brother’s massive library. Only Harrison would have a room nearly half the size of his house filled floor to ceiling with books.

  Harrison shut the heavy oak door behind them with a distinctive thud. He marched to his desk and poured himself a dram of whisky without bothering to offer Connor so much as a drop. Connor fought a grin as his brother downed it in one gulp and slowly turned to face him. Harrison’s expression brought to mind the time so many years earlier when, still a gullible youth, he’d discovered the fine Scotch he’d downed at Connor’s urging was not an ancient Highland elixir of life, after all.

  “Have all the blows ye’ve taken to yer thick skull rattled that thing ye call a brain? What the bluidy hell are ye thinking, bringing her here?” Harrison made no pretense of formal diction when his temper flared.

  “What would you have had me do with an injured woman? Abandon her to those jackals?”

  “If those bastards track her here, our operations will be compromised.” Harrison shot him a glance filled with jagged shards of broken bottles. “And don’t pretend ye’ve got a chivalrous bone in yer body. Ye know as well as I do what yer interest is in the woman. One part duty. Three parts lust.”

  “Brother, ye wound me.”

  Truth be told, Harrison’s speculation wasn’t far off the mark. Outside the pub, Johanna Templeton had molded her body to his as she accepted his support. Warm and pliant, her soft slender curves had drawn him in, even as the subtle fragrance of lavender filled his senses. Sweet and clean and feminine.

  A temptation he damned well didn’t need.

  It wasn’t as if he’d had a choice. He’d had to see her to safety. Keeping the woman out of harm’s way was vital to his mission. She was a key to his quest. What she knew could damned well lead him to the artifact. Risking his life and bringing her here had nothing to do with the enticing female beneath the prim wool traveling suit.

  He helped himself to a measure of Scotch. The warm liquid trickled down his throat. God knew he needed it. Damnation, he couldn’t even convince himself that his motivations were driven by duty. He could lie to himself all night, but the truth was plain and hard. He could no sooner have left Johanna in danger than he could’ve tossed a Dinne Stone across Loch Ness.

  Harrison eyed him like a scientist examining a specimen. “Ye know the sort of business Richard Benedict was involved in—the mon was a fool to believe there was honor among thieves.”

  “Aye, but there’s where ye’re wrong. Benedict—or Abbott or whatever the hell his bluidy name was—didnae play the fool. He was a canny smuggler who knew how to cheat a cheater. He got himself into something that was more than even he could talk his way out of. But why would he involve the woman? An American spinster, of all people?”

  Spinster. Or so Connor had been told. His contacts at the agency had described Johanna Templeton as unremarkable, dull as a brown chaffinch. Had they all been in need of spectacles? True, her starched white blouse and the thick woolen armor of her traveling suit might have suited a lass on her way to a convent, and the prim blue hat perched atop her tightly pinned ginger-brown hair served no useful purpose. The headpiece made her stand out like a tasty hen in a den of foxes. The scrap of indigo with its frivolous little feather was the only hint of femininity she’d dared to put on display.

  But that didn’t change the truth. Johanna was a beauty. Unpainted. Unadorned. And more tempting than a siren’s song. Her clothes were proper as a vicar’s wife, but those threads could not hide her lush curves. His groin hitched at the thought of her shapely hips—hips built to cradle a man. And that lovely round bosom—perfect to fill his large hands, he’d wager. But it was her eyes that drew him in. Large and dark as sapphires, glimmering with intelligence and spirit.

  The way she looked at him touched a part deep within he’d thought long dead. For so many years, he hadn’t given a damn whether anyone had faith in him. But something in her gaze kindled a flame he’d believed extinguished. She needed him,
whether or not she wanted to admit it.

  Still, she’d regarded him with challenge in those flashing eyes of hers. She wasn’t one to be easily cowed. Her expression blended determination and spirit, a quiet courage that defied even the slight quivering of her hands. She was dealing with criminals of the worst sort, and she knew it. Yet, she was driven to press on. The damned annoying whisper of what was left of his conscience insisted she was not in this for personal gain. Something else drove her.

  But what?

  Harrison stared down at his empty glass. “Does she have ties to Scotland?”

  “Not that we know of. She was born and bred in Philadelphia.”

  “Might she have had a relationship with Benedict beyond the family connection she speaks of? A romantic liaison?”

  “With that swindler?” Connor didn’t understand why, but the thought was like a thistle in his shoe. Still, it seemed the most likely explanation for her involvement. “’Tis a possibility. God only knows if she’s even telling the truth about his relationship with her sister…if there ever was a sister.”

  Harrison appeared to chew on the words. He helped himself to another pour of liquor. “You believe she may be lying?”

  “There’s no reason to believe a word out of that pretty mouth. If she’s not involved in Benedict’s schemes, then why would she risk her neck? She cannae pretend to have trusted men like Ross and Munro. She’s got a better head on her than that.”

  “That woman was prepared to enter a carriage with two of the vilest blackguards to ever pollute the Scottish landscape. Her judgment is questionable, I’d say.”

  “But there’s something pulling her to Cranston. Some draw we dinnae know. There’s more than greed at work here.” Connor pictured Johanna’s face, mentally tracing the sweet mouth she held pulled tight as a bowstring. Her sea-blue eyes had gleamed with a hint of fear she couldn’t entirely hide. “She’s fighting desperation. She’s trying not to show it, but it’s there. Just beneath the surface.”

  “She’s definitely on edge. I’ve seldom seen anyone resist the sedative as she has.” Harrison swirled the liquid in his cut crystal glass before raising the tumbler to his mouth. “There’s an urgency about her, as if her business with those ruffians truly was a matter of life and death.”

  “If she’s telling the truth, they want what’s in that case of hers. A blasted book! It’s madness.”

  Harrison set the glass on his desk and drummed his fingers against the polished mahogany. The steady, even rhythm fit the studious, well-ordered man he’d become during his years away from the Highlands. “Did you search the bag? A hidden compartment, perhaps?”

  “Of course. I detected no concealed spaces, nothing out of the ordinary. If she’s hidden something in that satchel, she’s been clever about it.”

  “You think she’ll tell you what she’s after?”

  Connor shook his head. “Damned little chance of it. She doesn’t trust me.”

  A raw laugh escaped Harrison’s lips. “As if she should.”

  “She’ll live longer putting her faith in me than trusting those bastards. Ross would’ve slit her throat just to watch the life drain out of her eyes.”

  “You think she has something the Order wishes to recover?”

  “There is an interest. The chancellor knew the moment she left London. I was instructed to intercept her using any means necessary.”

  “She’s considered dangerous?”

  “Not that we have reason to believe. But she is in great peril.”

  “Obviously, given the night you’ve had.” Was that a smirk on his brother’s mouth?

  Connor nodded his agreement. “There’s more. Not long before she left London, our agents spotted one of Cranston’s operatives in Mayfair, a woman known only as Mrs. Smythe.”

  “A rather unimaginative alias.”

  Connor fought a smile. Leave it to his acerbic brother to take issue with the creativity of a she-devil’s assumed name. “Mrs. Smythe is a killer—by all accounts, a highly inventive assassin. She recently crossed paths with a mutual acquaintance of Miss Templeton and Richard Benedict, a widow by the name of Eleanor MacInnis. Suffice it to say, the unfortunate Mrs. MacInnis did not survive the encounter.”

  Harrison cocked a brow. “An accident, I presume.”

  “Of course. Mrs. Smythe is quite masterful when it comes to setting the stage for lethal mishaps. The widow MacInnis plunged from the fifth floor of an unoccupied flat along the Strand. There was an inquiry—cursory at best, or so I’m told. The official pronouncement was an accidental fall, though many believe the death a suicide. Unfortunately, the flat wasn’t the widow’s only destination that afternoon. Mrs. MacInnis paid Johanna Templeton a visit an hour before her death.”

  Harrison’s fingers continued to tap in that infuriatingly predictable beat. “Does anyone know the purpose of the call?”

  “Only Miss Templeton. And perhaps her housekeeper. Our people in London have the woman under watch. For her own protection, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Whatever Miss Templeton has in that satchel, Cranston wants to get his filthy hands on it. His interest in antiquities is well-established. The question is—what does the bastard think she’s brought with her from London?”

  The lines around Harrison’s eyes deepened, adding a somber maturity to his face. “Something Benedict gave her for safekeeping, no doubt.”

  “It’s possible. We can’t be certain she even knows what she has.”

  “That book is indeed valuable. It’s a first edition, bearing the author’s inscription. God knows how much a collector would bid for it.”

  “That’s not what Cranston is after.” Connor rubbed his jaw, as if that would ease away the dull ache. “The man deals in gold. Jewels. Items connected to the Crown. Not paper printed with the words of a commoner who wrote of mad scientists and monsters, no matter how rare or costly that edition might be.”

  “Perhaps the volume contains a means to the treasure he seeks. Some code, perhaps, concealed within the text.”

  “It goes without saying each page will be analyzed to detect a cipher. But the book might be nothing more than a decoy, a distraction from the true prize. I searched that satchel and found no secret compartments, no sign of anything other than that blasted tome. And you found nothing on her person. Surely you would’ve noticed jewels tucked in her corset or strapped to one of those long legs.”

  Harrison gave his head a rough shake. “There’s nothing on her person. At least, nothing I detected.”

  Devil take it, he should’ve searched the woman himself. Harrison was a gentleman. He’d hesitate to compromise her modesty for any purpose beyond what his medical examination required.

  But Connor would impose no such restrictions on himself. He’d do whatever it took to discover what she ferried in that satchel. He had to find out what Cranston believed she’d brought from London. The man was ruthless, but he was also cunning. He wouldn’t kill a valuable source of stolen antiquities like Richard Benedict over a stack of leather-bound pages, no matter who’d inscribed them or how much the book would fetch at auction. No, Cranston’s motives extended far beyond simple greed.

  One thing was certain. Whatever madness Johanna Templeton had got herself into with Cranston, the predicament wasn’t of her making. Something had drawn her to the jackal’s lair.

  Something utterly dear to her.

  Something no amount of money could replace.

  A sharp tapping shattered Connor’s train of thought. His brother walked to the door and quietly opened it.

  “Is there a problem, Mrs. Duncan? It’s well past midnight. I’d thought you’d be asleep in your quarters.” Harrison laced his hands behind his back as he addressed his housekeeper, a sure sign of his carefully controlled irritation.

  “Aye, that I was, sir. Pity a woman has t’be roused from her slumber by all sorts of goin’s-on at all hours of the night.” A white cap covered most of Mrs. Duncan’s
gray curls and she’d tied a dressing gown tight around her, but her features bore no sign of sleepiness. Rather, a keen curiosity blazed in the matron’s eyes. Standing on her toes, she peeked past Harrison. “Ah, yer brother’s here. Well, that explains it.”

  “I assure you, there is no reason for concern. You may rest—”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Dr. MacMasters, but I willnae be resting. Not while trouble’s brewin’ in this house.”

  Harrison stared down at the woman whose sharply pointed nose came to the level of his loosely tied cravat. “Mrs. Duncan, your assistance is not needed.”

  “I believe there may be unsavory dealings afoot. Strange happenings, even fer this house.”

  Harrison unlaced his fingers and rubbed one temple as if his head was beginning to throb. “What is worrying you? Out with it.”

  Mrs. Duncan stole another glance toward Connor. She flashed a knowing smile. The widow had been in the employ of the MacMasters family for decades, though her role as housekeeper at Harrison’s Inverness residence had only been established two years earlier. His position as a respected physician afforded perfect camouflage for the true purpose of the MacMasters’ presence in the city.

  “Somethin’ tells me yer brother’s got somethin’ t’do with this.” Her grin broadened. “Always the rowdy one, even as a lad.”

  Harrison lifted a hand to his other temple and pressed small circles over that one as well. “We don’t have all night to discuss this. Either explain what has you up and about at this ungodly hour or return to your chamber.”

  The housekeeper let out a little huff. “Ye may not think this is anythin’ to be concerned about, but there’s a strange lass on the premises.”

  Harrison offered a nod. “We are well aware of that. The young woman suffered an injury and my brother sought treatment.”

  Mrs. Duncan shrugged. The corners of her mouth turned up even more. Cheeky, that one. “Well, the lass seems to be feelin’ better now. Last time I looked, she was stuffin’ her skirts through the window and making an exit that’s a bit odd even for the visitors to this house.”