Page 37 of The Highlander Who Loved Me
He didn’t blame her for doubting him. Hell, aside from those who bore the name MacMasters, Connor didn’t trust a damn soul.
His fingers firmed around hers. Pretty words would not reassure her. Honesty would have to do.
“The truth is simple. But hard to stomach. At this point, ye can only be sure of one thing. Ye’re in danger, as is the bairn. There’s no way to know if I’m a villain. Not yet. But I give my word I will protect ye. I will bring the child back to yer arms. That’ll be all the proof ye need.”
…
The truth was not only simple. It was ugly. And jagged edged. The reality clawed at Johanna’s insides. No one could guarantee her niece’s safety. Not until the bastard who held the child prisoner got what he wanted.
Heaven knew she longed to believe MacMasters’s vow. She desperately needed to trust him, to have faith he would bring Laurel back to her. But she’d heard her share of promises that meant nothing. Meaningless words, discarded as carelessly as one might forget a drunken boast. Words that had left scars on her heart as deep as any blade could wield.
He released her, putting an arm’s length between their bodies. Had he also sensed the heat between them, the innate response of her female body to his?
He stood before her, every inch the Highlander. For a heartbeat, she drank him in.
Every powerful inch.
A precisely tailored black jacket clung to his broad shoulders, while his sage cravat lent an air of formality. From the waist up, he might have been any well-dressed gentleman, smartly attired in keeping with London fashion. But from the waist down…oh my. A hint of rebellion lurked beneath the strikingly masculine garb. Rather than staid, properly-pressed trousers, he’d donned a kilt of vibrant red, green, and black tartan plaid. The colors of his clan, most likely. A white sporran hung from a leather belt around his hips, while his legs, strong and solid as tree trunks, were sheathed to the knee in black hose. The fine knit clung to hard-muscled calves and sinewy shins. He’d tucked a small dagger within his right stocking, the carved bone handle of thesgiandubhwithin easy reach. Connor MacMasters seemed a warrior come to life, the danger in his eyes leashed by the slenderest of threads.
Astonishing, how the tartan draping his lean hips brought out such undeniable manliness. As a girl in America, she’d giggled at drawings of men wearing garments that left their legs—and heaven only knew what else—exposed. The very idea of the male of the species wearing so very little had seemed scandalous. Had tailors devised drawers that could be worn beneath that length of plaid?
Heat rushed to her face. Flushed bright as a strawberry, she bet. The rowdy twinkle in his eye only confirmed her suspicions. Devil take it.
“I appreciate your willingness to assist me, Mr. MacMasters.” Johanna forced her gaze to the thick Aubusson carpet beneath her feet. Pulling in a breath to compose herself, she lifted her gaze, careful not to drop her attention below his perfectly tied cravat. “But I cannot help but wonder why you are putting yourself at risk.”
One dark brow arched. “Ye dinnae believe I’m moved by yer niece’s plight?”
“No, it’s not that. After all, who but the foulest of humanity wouldnotbe concerned about a child in danger? But there is a substantial difference between concern and the willingness to put one’s life on the line.”
His jaw twitched, as if he’d felt a twinge of indignation. “I’ve stuck my neck out for far less worthy quests.”
“Even so, a question continues to nag at me.”
“And what might that be?”
“I am not a fool. I know there must be some reward you expect from this endeavor. What precisely do you hope to gain?”
His eyes locked with hers. His response came without emotion, as though the pronouncement was the most rudimentary of conversation. “Revenge.”
Chapter Thirteen
A heavy rap upon the front door of the townhouse seemed to punctuate MacMasters’s matter-of-fact pronouncement, even as the single word echoed in Johanna’s thoughts.Revenge. So, this was not a mere treasure hunt for the Highlander. His involvement in her quest to get to Cranston was personal. Intensely so. She should pursue the issue, learn the root of his motives. But he’d turned away, watching as Mrs. Duncan ushered in the caller. There’d be time later, while they were on the road, to glean more of the Scot’s secrets.
“’Tis high time ye brought yer arse here, Fergus.” MacMasters folded his arms over his chest and stared daggers at the scarecrow of a man who entered the parlor.
For his part, the old gent marched into the room as if he were master of the house. Leaning his grizzled body against the archway, he shot MacMasters a scowl. “Ye’re damned lucky I pried myself outta bed this mornin’. Leavin’ behind a warm, sweet lass t’deal with the likes of you wasnae easy. But I gather ye’re needin’ my services.”
Services, indeed. Johanna hazarded a guess the driver’s stock in trade boasted substantially more violent expertise than taking the reins of a carriage. Judging from the crevices that etched his face, he’d survived several decades of his exploits. A tweed coat and black trousers hung loose on the man’s lanky frame. Beneath the coat, tell-tale bulges betrayed a shoulder holster and pistols. At his hip, a large knife in a sheath hung from a thick leather strap. He’d come prepared for more than maneuvering a coach through the Highlands. He’d come prepared for battle.
Humor flashed in MacMasters’s eyes. “Sweet lass, eh? Did this one have a tooth in her head?”
“I couldnae tell ye. In the dark, I cannae say that I gave a damn.” Fergus turned his attention to Johanna. Tipping his flat-brimmed cap, he offered a craggy smile. His gaze lingered. “I trust those widow’s weeds are a disguise.”
“Ye’re looking at the bereaved widow of Alastair MacMasters.”
Confusion shadowed the old man’s rough-carved features. “Who the hell might that be? I’ve known every MacMasters in these parts goin’ back more than fifty years.”
Connor winked. “The poor dead sot’s the long-lost offspring of my conniving mind.”
