“No.” The lie seemed to echo in the night. Concealing her knife in her pocket, she eyed the tavern door. Once inside, she’d have a chance to evade him. Perhaps she’d find a driver for hire, someone who’d ask few questions and transport her to the castle in the Highlands where Laurel’s captor skulked.
She took a step in retreat, then another. Whatever the devil with the brogue was up to, this was not the scene where the hero rides to the rescue. No matter how dashing a figure the man cut in his ebony greatcoat. No matter how his eyes flashed with courage. No matter that he’d dispatched Ross and Munro without so much as pulling a trigger. MacMasters had an agenda all his own.
Dangerous. Deceptive. And possibly, every bit as lethal as Ross and his hulking associate.
Had he come after the book, as well?
Whatever his motives, she couldn’t allow MacMasters to get his hands on the volume Mr. Abbott had entrusted to her. As long as she had that book, she had a bargaining chip. Whoever held her niece wanted the rare first edition, and they were willing to kill for it. Without their prize, she’d be powerless to save Laurel. The child would be nothing more than a burden to be disposed of, a witness to be silenced.
Lines formed between MacMasters’s dark brows. “I won’t hurt ye, lass.”
Had the rogue expected a hero’s welcome? “Am I to trust the word of a man who’s murdered two souls before my eyes?”
“Not murdered.” He cast each man a derisive glance. “Though the bluidy bastards would deserve such justice, they’ll be well enough in time.”
“Who are you?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“I believe it does. I’d like to know who came to my rescue.” Oh, what she wouldn’t have done for some theatrical training. Her voice sounded strained and tinny. Of course, with her heart pounding so hard it threatened to burst from her chest, her ability to form any words seemed nothing short of miraculous.
MacMasters studied her beneath hooded lids. He kept his distance. Or so it seemed. Did he see through her act? Despite the potent aroma of whisky that followed him, the man was neither alcohol addled nor a fool. And her performance was indeed rather pitiful.
He stepped past Munro, who lay sprawled face down on the rough pavement. He motioned her to the coach. “Thoughtful of those jackals to provide a fine carriage.”
“Quite so.”
He settled the long gun on the driver’s bench, then closed the distance between them. “Ye’ve no need to fear me, lass. I mean ye no harm.”
Her knees threatened to go to jelly, but she met his gaze head-on. “I’m not going anywhere with the likes of you.”
“I’d wager I could change yer mind.” His eyes bored into her. Perceptive. Intelligent. And not in the least bit reassuring.
He caught one wrist between his long fingers, unyielding, yet gentle. Electricity surged through her at the contact. Nearly a head taller than she, this man was strong and vital. He exuded raw physical power. What would it be like to be held by this man, to drink in the intoxicating mix of masculine strength and the delicious temptation of his touch?
His arms snaked around her. Drawing her near, he studied her. What was he searching for? He’d told her he meant her no harm, but he didn’t trust her. That much was evident. His eyes had narrowed and his gaze penetrated hers, seeming to seek some truth she couldn’t define. What did he hope to find in her eyes?
He dipped his head ever so slightly, bringing his mouth tantalizingly close to her own. His firm lips quirked at the corners and his warmth surrounded her, even as one large hand swept lower. Over her waist. Skimming the curve of her hip. Stirring her most primitive instincts.
She pulled in a breath and steeled herself against the all-too-tempting sensations. After all, she was not a debutante fresh from the schoolroom. She was a woman, experienced in the ways of men.
Pity none of those gentlemen had prepared her for him.
He’d staggered into the tavern, a drunk in his cups. Now, his movements were confident, his touch sure. No trace of clumsiness. No awkward fumbling. No mangling of syllables and words.
But the distinctive odor of liquor wafting from the man…good heavens, that was it! He’d used that distinctive smell as a form of camouflage. The reek emanated not from the man, but from his garments. Had he applied alcohol to his clothing to appear to be an inebriated lout? Had his uneven gait and swaying stance been nothing more than a disguise?
But why?
Why would he go to such lengths to get to her?