Page 2 of The Highlander Who Loved Me
Giving in to her mind’s wanderings, she opened a drawer and retrieved her latest correspondence from Mr. Abbott. She reread the letter, then swept her gaze over it again. When she’d received the note, nothing had appeared amiss. His words had been terse, in contrast to her brother-in-law’s generally effusive personality, and his usually precise script had gone a bit unruly, but she’d thought little of it. Now, a shiver traced an icy path over her nape. Had the missive borne a hidden warning?
She folded the letter and placed it inside the desk. With a turn of the lock, she latched the drawer, then stashed the key between two books on the shelf. She paused. She’d no cause to worry that Mrs. Mitchell would betray her trust. Why had she felt the need to secure the letter?
The expression on Mrs. MacInnis’s drawn features played in her thoughts. Johanna had seen desperation there. But another emotion had darkened the widow’s gray irises as she’d turned away from the window.
Fear.
…
Inverness, Scotland, Two Weeks Later
The devil strode into Kincaid’s Pub in a flash of swirling black wool and polished leather. Lightning crackled and thunder boomed as if to herald the dark lord’s arrival. His massive greatcoat, open down the front and clinging to powerful shoulders, exposed a long, lean-muscled body. Gaslight cast rays of silver over hair the color of a raven’s wing while the roaring fire in the tavern’s massive hearth gleamed gold and amber against his ebony boots.
Johanna’s heartbeat stuttered. Was this the man who’d summoned her to the Highlands? Seated in the shadows, she studied his every move.
His forest green eyes fixed on her. Intense. Penetrating. Seeming to strip her of her defenses.
Rubbish.
Good heavens, what had come over her? Had she truly gone daft? This stranger was not one of her literary concoctions come to life. In truth, he was handsome. Very much so. In another time, another place, she might have allowed her gaze to linger on the chiseled contours of his face while she speculated on the taste of his kiss. But there, the fantasy ended. He was neither Lucifer incarnate nor a daring desperado transplanted from the pages of one of her novels.
He was merely a man.
And from the looks of his off-kilter strides, a drunken one, at that.
He met her appraisal with unreadable eyes. Hungry, perhaps. Or more to the point, thirsty for yet another ale. She looked past him, searching the dimly lit pub for the blackguard who’d commanded her to come here. Obviously, the sotted devilwas far too concerned with steadying his swaying legs to be the villain who’d come to negotiate a trade—Johanna’s most treasured physical possession for one far more precious.
This was not a fantasy, nor fodder for a story. This was a nightmare she’d never dreamt could become reality. She was a stranger in a foreign land, the man she’d fixed on was a drunk, and what happened in the next few minutes might well prove a matter of life and death.
Around her, men hoisted tankards of ale and downed tumblers of whisky. A man who might’ve been a pirate in a prior existence, eye patch and all, ogled her with his one good—if bleary—eye. He grinned, displaying a mouth full of darkened stumps as he lifted his glass to her as if in tribute.
Johanna dug her fingers into her leather valise. Where was the scoundrel who’d demanded she leave London and travel to this heaven-forsaken place? The ruthless cur who’d abducted her young niece had been precise and brutally direct in his instructions. He’d already demonstrated the depths to which he’d sink to obtain what he wanted. She held little doubt the man had killed her brother-in-law. She could only pray he’d honor his word and release the child once he had his damnable prize.
Johanna’s attention flickered to the man in black who’d now staggered to the bar. He’d propped himself against the edge, leaning lazily on an elbow. One hand held a tumbler of amber liquid. Curiously, he seemed in no hurry to down the bitter swill.
She felt his gaze on her again.Nonsense. The sot had no cause to observe her, and she certainly would not draw a man’s eye while several lip-rouged doxies sashayed about, looking to ply their wares. Still, she sensed his interest in her. Discreet glances cast beneath hooded lids. Was that recognition flaring in his eyes?
Blast her overly vivid writer’s imagination. Johanna jerked her attention away and set her sights on the well-dressed man who strode past. Classically handsome, save for the slight crook in an otherwise perfectly carved nose, he wore a meticulously tailored suit that stood out of place in this workmen’s establishment. His indigo waistcoat gave his eyes a stormy cast, while immaculately trimmed dark hair added to his air of sophistication. With his refined clothing and demeanor, he might well have been a barrister or member of Parliament.
He met her gaze and cocked his chin, as if acknowledging her. His expression bland as a gentleman choosing the color of a cravat, he offered a subtle flick of his wrist. Between his fingers, a linen pocket square bearing her brother-in-law’s family crest confirmed his identity.
Her heart seemed to skip a beat, even as her stomach twisted into a knot. So, this was the bastard who’d come to arrange a trade—the contents of her satchel for a child’s life.
With a slight movement of his hand, he beckoned her again. Invisible talons clawed her insides. She’d spent so many hours writing of heartless cads, but now she faced one in the flesh. Shocking how very much this one looked the part of a gentleman. If she’d been writing a novel, he might well have been the hero. Only the hardened glint in his eyes gave any clue to his true nature.
She came to her feet. If only her limbs would cooperate. They’d picked a fine time to grow heavy, as if lead weights had been tethered to her ankles. One step at a time, she forced her legs to move.
The gentleman kept his attention fixed on her. The satchel weighed heavy in her hand. Cotton seemed to fill her throat. As she grew close enough to discern the man’s features, she made out the impatient stretch of his full mouth and the creases edging his eyes.
“Mr. Ross, I presume.” She infused as much steel into her voice as she could muster. An instinctive alarm sounded deep within, but she could not afford to display the merest trace of fear. The ice in this man’s expression revealed no shred of compassion. To the contrary, a stiletto-sharp brutality hardened his features into an impenetrable mask.
He gave a curt nod as confirmation and led her to a small table in a shadowed corner of the pub.
“Please join me, Miss Templeton.” His voice bore no trace of a brogue. Rather, it carried the inflections Johanna had come to know during her time in London.
Without venturing a reply, she settled herself into a chair. Whoever this man truly was, he eyed her with a predator’s gleam, as if eager for any sign of weakness. Her hand tensed around the handle of her valise.
“You’ve come alone.” His words were a statement, not a question.
