Page 52 of The Highlander Who Loved Me
He placed it on the edge of the bed and lifted its lid. A pair of tintypes met his gaze. He lifted one photograph from the case. His brother’s unsmiling eyes seemed to lock with his. Andrew had been a cautious man, daring in his own way, but he’d prided himself on his rational approach to any situation. He’d chased after the Demon’s Heart for so damn long, analyzing clues left behind in journals and family documents. That last spring of his life, Andrew had believed he was nearing a discovery.
Until he’d met the woman who’d led him to his death.
Connor carefully removed the second tintype from the velvet-lined box that had belonged to his great-grandmother. The fabric had faded and pilled. What was once a brilliant crimson had now dulled to the color of dried blood.
He studied the image in the portrait. A beautiful woman. There was no denying that. Ella Kirkbride had parlayed her creamy complexion, flaxen hair, and serene smile into an advantageous marriage. Widowhood had soon followed her vows, leaving the Countess of Glenshaw to her decidedly lethal pursuits.
She was a natural killer, heartless as she was beautiful, devious as she was cultured.
There’d been no evidence to convict her. Indeed, some in the organization believed Connor had become obsessed with finding his brother’s killer beyond rational deduction.
The countess had fooled them all.
But Connor knew the truth. Andrew had cast his caution to the gutter over the smoky-eyed English beauty. And he’d paid the ultimate price.
Could the countess be involved in this hunt for the stone? Had she sent Hector Munro after Johanna?
Connor’s gut twisted as though unseen hooks had dug into his belly. If Ella Kirkbride was involved, she’d be discreet. Clever and conniving and ruthless, like a monarch quietly commanding her army of mercenaries.
He shoved the portraits back into the box and placed the small chest in the wardrobe. The door closed with a muffledsnick.His fingers balled into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. He’d failed to protect his brother. He had suspected the countess was a viper in disguise. And he’d gone after them, bearing vital intelligence that might’ve saved his brother’s life.
But he’d been too late. His bawdy, brash brother had wound up face down in a pool of his own blood, drawing his last breath on a stinking street on the London waterfront. Hellfire, the vicious beauty had dared to taunt him, cleaning Andrew’s blood from her stiletto with a lacy square of linen.
He should’ve killed her then. In his anguish, he’d let down his guard. He hadn’t spotted her brutish bodyguard. Christ, he hadn’t even comprehended what had happened when the bastard’s cudgel caught him in the back of the head. Until he came to, scant feet from where his brother’s body had lain before he’d been tossed into the Thames like so much refuse.
There was nothing you could’ve done.Harrison, always the rational one, had offered what he believed to be words of consolation. But that didn’t change a damn thing. He’d failed his brother.
He would not fail Johanna and the child she held dear.
Damnation, this was not going to be easy. Johanna was hell-bent on going after her niece. Her determination would make his task that much more difficult. He had to protect her. But she wouldn’t see it that way. She didn’t trust him.
Not that he blamed her. Christ, if he were in her boots, he wouldn’t trust a soul around him.
Somehow, he’d have to convince Johanna to stay here. She’d be safe with his family. The castle was a stronghold. Everyone in his family counted a thorough knowledge of weaponry among their skills. Even his grandmother knew her way around a long gun. There’d be no shortage of defenders in the event of an attack.
He slumped against the bed, sprawling on his back as he stared at the ceiling. Johanna would rebel against any suggestion that she stay behind while he went after her niece.
Hellfire, there was no choice. He couldn’t drag her along on this mission. Protecting a woman who possessed no experience dealing with deception and violence would put both their lives on the line.
He pounded a fist against the mattress, then snatched the quilt over himself and closed his eyes. If he deceived her by leaving her behind when he went after the stone, she’d despise him for the rest of her days.
Most likely, there’d be no choice. Better to suffer her hatred than see the bright spark in her eyes snuffed out forever.
He’d do whatever he had to do to find the damned ruby and protect Johanna and the child.
Chapter Nineteen
The wail of bagpipes wrenched Johanna from a fitful sleep. She’d tossed and turned all night, her dreams of mayhem and distress jarring her awake again and again. Now, as the first high-pitched notes drifted to her ears, she opened her eyes. Was this yet another nightmare? Beyond the drawn curtains, not so much as a sliver of light streamed into the chamber. The sun had not yet shown itself. Surely, no one had risen for the day.
Flopping onto her side, she thumped her pillow. The quest might be futile, but she’d still struggle for some much needed rest. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to convince herself she was in the midst of some bizarre dream. The piper’s notes were lower now. Mournful. Quiet, yet penetrating her consciousness. How very odd that she’d hear bagpipes in her restless slumber. And more so, why couldn’t she force the blasted sounds to end?
She shook her head to clear cobwebs of sleep from her brain. Pushing up on her elbows, she cocked her head toward the door. The unmistakable cry of the pipes penetrated the walls, each note filled with sadness borne of loss.
Good heavens, she wasn’t dreaming.
Moments later, silence fell. Glorious, pristine, not-even-crickets-chirping silence. Johanna plopped back onto the pillow and let her lids flutter shut. Her relief was short-lived. With what seemed a renewed vigor, the piper’s hearty notes intruded through the sturdy wall. The gloomy tones were gone, replaced with a boisterous bellow, one part battle cry, one part celebration.
She pounded the pillow harder and pulled it over her ears. Was this some diabolical plot to weaken her resolve by depriving her of rest? Who could possibly believe a serenade would be welcomed at this ungodly hour?
