Page 7 of The Highlander Who Loved Me
“Give me the case.” Each syllable was clipped and brutal.
“No.” Her fingers dug into the handle of her satchel.
“Mo cridhe.” My heart. Slurring the endearment, the drunk consumed the ground between them, one slow, clumsy step at a time. “Ye dinnae have t’leave.”
“Quiet him.” Ross flashed a gleaming revolver for emphasis.
God above, the inebriated devil was going to get them both killed. Johanna sucked air into her lungs and slowly exhaled. Frustration and fear fueled her heart’s rapid beat.
“My darlin’, where—” The Scot teetered on his feet. If only he would collapse into a heap and be done with it.
“Hush.” She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “I am not the woman you’re looking for.”
“Aye, but ye are, lass.” He drew out the words, stilted and unnatural. But his gaze was clear. Without a trace of intoxicated haze. Yet, he staggered on legs as unsteady as reeds in a storm.
Ross nudged her corseted ribs with his pistol. She swallowed hard against a fresh jolt of fear.
“Go inside and have another drink,” she said to the drunk, more forceful now. “I am not the one you seek.”
“I willnae let ye leave me.” Beneath the swath of dark hair shading his features, his gaze flickered to Ross. “Not with that bluidy bastard.”
Ross crooked his arm, aiming the gun at the sot’s broad chest. “Step away or I’ll kill you.”
“Ye willnae take the lass. Ye cannae have her.” The brawny Highlander eyed the men. Alert. Aware. Seeming to track their movements. Yet, he’d braced his legs wide, as if to steady himself.
Johanna pulled in a breath. She had to coax him back into the tavern. “Go…back in—”
Lightning sizzled in the mist-shrouded sky. Ross jerked his attention toward the jagged bolt. He cocked his head. “Bloody hell.” Recognition flared in his eyes. “MacMasters. You’ll die tonight, you bastard.”
Quick as a viper, the Scot struck.
The flesh and bone of his fist plowed into Ross’s throat with a sickening thud. The Englishman sank to his knees, wildly clutching the point of impact. A grotesque gurgling sound escaped his lips.
Thwack.The drunk’s boot plowed into Ross’s gun hand. The pistol clattered to the ground.
Another kick. The gun skidded over the cobbles, out of reach. As Ross sprawled over the pavement, still as a toppled statue, his partner let out a sound that seemed more growl than words.
Another crackle of electricity rent the sky. Light gleamed against the dagger in Munro’s right hand.
With his left, he caught Johanna’s wrist. She bucked against his hold. No use. She wrenched her arm, fighting his control. A slash of his blade, and pain seared her, quick and razor sharp. Beneath her heavy cloak, a sickening warmth trickled down her sleeve.
She bit back a scream.
“Give me the bag.” He dragged her to him, his arm a brutal manacle. Suddenly, she could scarcely draw breath.
Icy terror washed over her. With his partner dead to the world, Munro had nothing to hold him back.
Could she reach her knife? The slightest movement would jar him. He’d kill her if he realized she was not helpless. She could not chance it. Yet.
“Take yer hands off the woman.” The devil in black’s command was clear. Confident. Without a trace of sotted slurring.
“This is not yer fight.” Munro’s low rumble brushed her ear. “I’ll take the case and be on my way. Or else, I’ll cut her scrawny throat.”
The rough desperation in his voice intensified the threat. Johanna’s pulse thundered in her ears. She eased her fingertips along the opening in her skirt. Her fingers curled around the knife.
Munro’s muscles went taut. She stilled. Her breath hovered in her throat. Had he caught on?
“Ye’re not getting what’s in that bag o’hers.” Was that fear in Munro’s voice?
