“And ye might need them,” Connor said. “But not now. We can’t take that chance with ye wounded as ye are.”
“Ye underestimate me.”
Stubborn as they come, that brother of his. Connor felt a surge of pride at his brother’s courage. Battered. Bloodied. Weak. Yet still ready to battle the men who threatened Johanna and the wee lass she adored. Staying behind was no doubt a bitter choice, but there was no alternative. Gerard would be easy prey in his current state. Connor could not take that chance.
His brother moved toward a dark gelding tethered to a tree. His knees seemed weaker with each step. “Just get me on the bluidy horse.”
“Not a chance. For once in yer life, listen to reason. Wait here. I may need backup if we’re pursued.”
“I am not a blasted coward.” Gerard stumbled toward a tree and allowed himself to slowly slide along the trunk until his legs stretched out over the ground.
“No one would ever accuse ye of that.” Connor pulled himself into the saddle. “Keep yer weapon at the ready. The castle is less than an hour from here on horseback. I’ll be back with Johanna and the bairn. If they’re still breathing, Cranston’s men will pursue us. Just make sure ye shoot those bastards and not me.”
…
Connor spurred his mount to a gallop. A loyal partner in so many missions, Phantom devoured the ground with each powerful stride. Darkness closed in, making the road ahead more treacherous. Keeping a firm hold on the reins, Connor guided the beast over the rough path.
Damn Cranston. How had his thugs known to attack the carriage? Had someone discovered details of their plan? Or had the brutal bastards simply happened upon the coach? The memory of Gerard’s blood puddled on the ground cut through him like a lance. Connor could only give thanks that in the ebbing light, the buffoons had not seen through Gerard’s disguise. If they’d deduced his identity, Connor would likely have come upon a dead man in that clearing.
Regret dug into Connor’s gut. He should’ve been there. It should’ve been him protecting Johanna.
Where was she now? The question ate at him. At least he could count on the brutes keeping Johanna alive until Cranston was done with her. That would buy him time. If the ruffians had abused her—damnit, he shook off the thought. Anger would only make him careless. He had to keep his wits about him. Soon, he’d see Cranston’s cold savagery brought to an end.
Shadows surrounded the forest like ancient specters, trailing his path, watching his every move. A chill trickled along his spine. Devil take it, he knew better than to be drawn into superstition. But with the sounds of the night bearing down on him, the acts of his ancestors took on a logic of their own. Was it any wonder people of old whispered of spirits and spells and evil encased in a blood-red ruby?
The blasted Deamhan’s Cridhe. He’d put more stock in the prospect of Phantom sprouting wings and flying past the moon than in the tales of the gem’s powers. But there was no denying the history of bloodshed and tragedy that followed that polished bit of crimson rock. The product of man’s greed for power and wealth, not the intrinsic properties of a blasted stone.
The ruby was secured, secreted away by Brenna and Finn to a vault buried in a cave few knew existed. Truth be told, Connor was glad to be rid of it. He was a logical man, a man who dismissed the legend as so much manure. But somehow, he couldn’t deny that holding the stone had triggered a sense of unease, a primitive wariness that penetrated to the bone. Now, the cursed thing would be locked away. Preserved and protected, yet forbidden to bastards who’d use it to buoy their power, if only in their own minds.
He carried another stone on his person, a jewel secured in an unadorned wooden box. Brenna had stunned him when she produced the case and opened the lid. Cushioned in a bed of plain, homespun linen, the ruby was precisely the size, cut and hue of the gem he’d recovered beneath the ancient oak. A replica, she’d explained, her pixie face bright with excitement at finally being able to reveal the secret she’d been entrusted with since girlhood.
“In truth, three stones exist under our guard,” she’d explained. “The Demon’s Heart. And two rubies, precisely cut and polished. Our ancestors thought to create replicas. Decoys, if you will.”
Brilliant and canny. Their ancestors had understood the allure of the stone. They’d sought to confuse and deceive those who would control the jewel. Had they foreseen that centuries later, blackguards like Cranston would covet the gem’s legendary properties?
The stone Brenna had given him was one of the replicas. And there was another, just as close a match as the one in his pocket. He’d pictured it in his mind as Brenna explained the existence of the replicas.
“The brooch,” he’d said, under his breath.