Page 34 of The Highlander Who Loved Me
“Aye, if ye wanted to leave this house, I’d think the door might’ve been easier.” Bobbing her head in agreement with her own words, the housekeeper pulled down the quilt and plumped a thick pillow. “I’ve no place carrying tales. Ye’ll need to find out for yerself.”
“Won’t you tell me just a bit? I must confess to a great curiosity where Mr. MacMasters is concerned.”
“I’ve been with this family since Dr. MacMasters was in nappies. ’Tis not my place to gossip.” Mrs. Duncan’s mouth slid into a coy smile. “They’re not the usual sort. Even schooling in England didn’t dampen that wildness in their souls. They’ve got the clan in their blood. No fancy manners will change that. But I suspect ye’ll find that out in time.”
Without a backward glance, Mrs. Duncan turned and strolled from the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Good heavens, what pursuits were these men involved in that kept even the housekeeper intrigued?
Mrs. Duncan was right. Johanna would find out soon enough what the brothers were about. She’d no intention of following blithely along with whatever schemes the men were brewing. No, she’d glean whatever good she could from her time with the Scottish rogue and use it to her advantage.
MacMasters had trailed her since her arrival in Inverness. Could he be in league with the blackguards who’d followed her every move since Mr. Abbott had embarked on what he’d deceptively termed a holiday?
Her fingers went to her blouse, unfastening the buttons. She shrugged out of the sleeves, draped the soiled garment over the bedpost, and followed suit with her skirt. Despite Harrison MacMaster’s assurances that he’d procure fresh clothing, she might well need to rely on what she’d worn on her back.
With a sigh, she removed her corset. Sinking into a plumply upholstered chair, she indulged in a long, soothing stretch, then examined the garment. The tiny, pale stitches she’d made within the lining were undisturbed. Another sigh escaped her. She’d no doubt MacMasters had examined her clothing. But they had not detected the hiding place she’d constructed within the undergarment. Judging from their questions and statements, she’d assured herself that her secret had remained safe. But her relief seemed nearly a tangible thing.
No, MacMasters had not uncovered the scrap of paper she’d concealed there, a remnant of the last correspondence she’d received from Richard Abbott. If the Scot had uncovered her secret, his inquiry would’ve taken a very different tone.
She’d burned the letter, not long after the ominous final missive had arrived in the post. There was no telling who had knowledge of its bleak contents, but she could take no chances. She’d watched the paper curl and burn in the fireplace, obliterating the strange sequence of digits he’d noted in that precise hand of his. Whether the numbers were connected to a clandestine bank account or had some other meaning, she couldn’t be certain. But she’d memorized the sequence and destroyed the page, salvaging only three brief but priceless lines Mr. Abbott had penned while his danger-fraught existence had apparently unraveled.
Following her brother-in-law’s instructions, she’d tossed his earlier correspondence in the fire. As the flames consumed the letters, she’d struggled to keep a taut rein on her emotions. Mr. Abbott had implored her to take the train to Inverness and see Laurel safely home. He’d made arrangements for her care while he dealt with the repercussions of a business deal that had taken an ugly turn, or so he’d said. Gathering her things hastily, Johanna had prepared to leave on the next morning’s train.
That was before the messenger arrived. The scrawny lad had shown up on her doorstep, telegram in hand. The wording on the communiquéwas purposefully bland. But its meaning was clear. Laurel was in danger, and it was up to Johanna to ensure the child’s safe return.
Of course, she’d had reason to suspect something was amiss even before she’d received the message that confirmed her worst fears. She’d had warning of the danger that prowled after her.
In the days after her brother-in-law had departed the city with Laurel in tow, Johanna had often experienced the disconcerting sense that she was being stalked like a fox in a hunter’s sights. In the midst of an afternoon stroll, she’d observed an elegant black coach parked not far from her residence. Its occupant, a blond beauty who’d draped a striking tartan plaid around her throat, had peered between the open curtains. Meeting Johanna’s gaze, she had not turned away. Moments later, the driver had spurred the horses on, and the carriage had disappeared from sight. A quarter hour later, Johanna had spotted the conveyance at a cross street scarcely a mile from home. A flash of plaid through the slender gap between the curtains had confirmed her suspicion that the carriage was the same one she’d noticed on the Strand.
At the time, she’d dismissed the prickle at the back of her neck and the sense of dread that had crept through her. Nothing more than her overly fertile imagination at work, she’d scolded herself.
How very wrong she’d been.
And there was the peculiar call she’d received from the widow MacInnis. She’d arrived at Johanna’s Charing Cross flat in a state of barely leashed panic, insisting she was being followed, that the same scoundrels who’d engineered her husband’s demise were in pursuit. Her husband’s death was tied to Mr. Abbott’s pursuit of antiquities, or so Eleanor MacInnis had claimed, but her cryptic, distraught ramblings had been too vague to be given any credence.
Until the next morning, when Johanna had received word of the widow’s fatal plunge from a fifth floor balcony. An accident, or so the constables had said. Others had whispered the grief-stricken woman had taken her own life. Johanna harbored her own horrible, unspoken suspicions.
Had sinister forces brought about the widow’s death? Had the same dark souls seen to Mr. MacInnis’s tragic end?
Placing the corset aside, she rose and stepped to the window, drew back the curtain, and peered into the starlit sky for a long moment. She turned, and the fabric fell back in place. Crossing the room soundlessly over a thick carpet, she sank onto the bed. Her thoughts besieged her. If only she’d done something to prevent Mr. Abbott from taking his daughter out of London. If only she’d known what he was up to. If only…
Blast it all, she would drive herself mad with doubt.
And what of MacMasters’s role in this ruthless endeavor? Surely his appearance at the tavern where she’d planned to make the exchange had been entirely too convenient. Was he secretly allied with Cranston, intent on eliminating the scoundrel’s henchmen in hopes of claiming a substantial bounty?
Or was MacMasters one of Cranston’s rivals? The Scotsman believed she possessed something far more valuable than the book. He’d made no secret of that. To what lengths would he go to claim the treasure?
Connor MacMasters was a dangerous man. There was no denying that. The skills he’d employed against his adversaries had not been learned in a classroom. He’d met every threat without so much as a flinch. This was a man accustomed to violence, to bloodshed. He’d acted as her protector. But she harbored no illusion that the Scot’s actions had been motivated by chivalry.
No, MacMasters needed her. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, the man needed her alive and at his side. What would he do when her presence no longer served a purpose?
Her chest tightened. Her breath hovered in her throat. Somehow, she had to use this forced alliance with the devil to further her quest.
She would bring Laurel home—no matter the cost.
Surely, MacMasters knew more about the prize he believed she possessed than he let on. The book was indeed valuable. But even she could scarcely believe that so many would pursue the tome and that ruthless bastards would be willing to kill for it.
There had to be something else. Something more than paper and ink, no matter how pristine those pages might be.
