Page 22 of The Highlander Who Loved Me
If only she’d remembered her cloak. In seizing her moment of opportunity, she hadn’t thought to locate the heavy cape. Cool air nipped at her cheeks and sliced through her garments. Even the stout wool of her skirt did little to ease the chill of the Highland night.
Wrapping her arms over her chest, she hurried along the street. No doubt she’d be followed, and soon enough. She’d have to find a place to hide until the immediate threat passed. Gas lamps provided ample illumination, both a blessing and a curse. While she certainly needed them to find her way through this unfamiliar city, the light would also provide the Scotsmen with a resource to spot her in the night.
The physician—Harrison MacMasters, if her fuzzy brain recalled correctly—resided on a street lined with impeccably kept brick town houses, some bearing signs indicating their use in a profession, while others were utilized as residences. Forcing her feet to move at something swifter than a snail’s pace, Johanna turned the corner and came upon a house cloaked in shadows. Dark. Desolate as something conjured in a child’s nightmare. Or the troubled dreams of a twenty-five-year-old woman who’d crossed an ocean to care for her dying sister and darling niece.
The child’s chestnut curls and keen brown eyes flashed into her thoughts. Laurel was precocious. Excited by life. Eager to learn. Utterly irrepressible, even when she had been faced with the reality of her mother’s death and her father’s all-too-frequent absences. The girl had taken to Johanna with a fierce devotion, as though she’d recognized a kindred spirit.
Misery whipped through Johanna at the thought, but there was no time to wallow in the pain of missing her niece’s impish smile, with its radiance that would cheer the surliest of curmudgeons.
No, there was not one moment to waste. She had to get to her niece. How frightened the child must be. Did she know her father’s fate? Or had the scoundrels who held her as a pawn spared the girl that horrible truth? Johanna could only pray that was the case.
With a tiptoe-soft stride, she crept across the trimmed lawn and concealed herself in the shadows. Please, dear God, don’t let the residents have a dog. Nothing with fangs. And nothing that barked. Even a perturbed cat’s meow might alert anyone who pursued her. Heaven knew the cat she’d left with dear friends in London could rouse a mummy from its slumber.
Something scampered by her feet. Pressing her knuckles to her mouth, she swallowed a cry. She glanced down, seeing no sign of the creature, whatever it was. An owl’s screech unleashed goose bumps over her arms. If only she could stop worrying about what might be slinking through the darkness, in biting range of her leather-clad toes and ankles.
Snap!A twig cracked. Behind her, in the darkness beyond the gaslight’s reach. Low. So close to the ground, surely a night creature was the culprit.
Another screech. The owl’s enormous eyes locked with hers. This time, the sound was welcome, a reminder that every creak and groan was not tied to a villain of some sort.
Out of the night, a hand clamped over her mouth. Callused fingers muffled her scream.
She smelled it then, that cloud of spirits that could not entirely disguise the Scotsman’s natural, healthy male scent. His masculine essence surrounded her as his arm coiled around her, pulling her to his long, solid length. He’d slipped into the liquor-soaked greatcoat again. A small blessing, that. The sensations might well have proven all too heady had nothing more than linen cloth offered a barrier between them. As it was, heat radiated through the layers of fabric, infusing her with awareness.
Connor MacMasters held her tight. How very unfair of him to smell so tempting. A man doused in whisky should repulse her. Not spark a desire to soak up his warmth.
“Stop struggling,” he rasped against her ear. “We’ve got company.” MacMasters nudged her chin so she faced the street. A black brougham crept along the road, slowing as it neared the corner. A gilded crest adorned the elegant conveyance.
“Recognize the driver?” MacMasters went on, easing away the hand that had silenced her. “He’s not the charming sort that I am.I’ll wager the man inside the coach is even less hospitable. I’ve got to get you back to my brother’s residence. No one would dare invade that place. It’s a bluidy fortress.”
The physician’s residence a fortress? Harrison MacMasters seemed proper. Civilized. Good heavens, what sort of men had she stumbled upon? What dangerous dealings necessitated a stronghold?
The coach stopped and the driver lumbered off his perch.Munro. Johanna’s heart crept to her throat. Had the hoodlums tracked her to this place? Or were they searching blindly, hoping to stumble upon her? Surely, at this point they did not intend to bargain for her niece’s life. No, they’d simplify their task. How easy would it be to seize her and help themselves to the satchel? She’d be vulnerable to any cruelty they might inflict, to any debauchery they might crave.
She’d be prey. Nothing more.
The door to the coach swung open. The well-dressed man MacMasters had left sprawled on the pavement behind Kincaid’s Pubemerged. Rubbing the heel of his hand against his head as if to soothe an ache, Ross turned to Munro, uttered a few words she could not make out, and surveyed the street.
“I should’ve killed the bastards,” MacMasters muttered.
Shivers trickled along Johanna’s spine, icy splinters against her skin. Blast it, this was no time to allow fear to get the better of her. She squared her shoulders and rose on her toes until her lips were level with the Scotsman’s ear. “I suppose you have a plan.”
“Nae, lass.” He caught her hand in his. “I’ll be making it up as I go.”
Chapter Nine
MacMasters pulled Johanna deeper into the shadows. For such a large and muscular man, he moved with a fluid grace. Sleek. Stealthy as a panther. And every bit as dangerous. His large hand covered hers. The heat of him filled her. How absurd that she should feel a keen awareness of this man. Here she was, creeping through the night like a fugitive, and yet, something deep and primal assured her she’d be safe with him.
Pity the few shreds of logic she still possessed heartily disagreed.
Silencing the nagging harpy in the back of her thoughts, she followed MacMasters through the shadows. Judging from the tension in his frame, skulking around in the darkness chafed her protector’s bold nature. If he’d been on his own, he would’ve confronted the blackguards and eliminated the threat. To himself. And to her. She had no doubt of that.
Good heavens, she was doingitagain—romanticizing this man into a hero. Intoherhero. Truth be told, she had no inkling of his motives. His actions were not those of a chivalrous defender. More likely than not, he safeguarded his own interests by keeping her alive.
Still, her instincts insisted the Scotsman would not betray her. He could’ve helped himself to the satchel and left her to her own devices. Instead, he was shielding her from the human predators who pursued her. Why?
A flicker of movement jerked her attention from the Scot. A blurred shadow roamed beyond the alley. Was this one of Ross’scronies?
The shadow stilled. Silent. A stray beam of moonlight glinted off metal. A gun. Or a blade. Whoever lurked in wait had come armed. Fear welled in Johanna’s throat, but she muted it.
