Brenna had offered a small nod of confirmation. “Johanna doesn’t know what she has. But anyone who’s studied the stone will recognize it. That brooch will buy the lass time. Even if she never puts the hidden blade to use.”
Time. Aye, Johanna would need that. But soon, he’d be there. At her side. He would see Johanna and the young lass she so dearly loved safe. And he’d see Cranston breathe his last. That was his vow.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Fear was normal, a human instinct aimed at self-preservation. But fear had no place in Johanna’s dealings with Geoffrey Cranston. Or so she admonished herself, her inner voice taking on the stern notes of a teacher who’d tolerate no nonsense. Curling her fingers against her palms, she dug her nails into the flesh, just enough to divert her thoughts from the twinges of terror flickering through her brain.
The tall, grizzled man ushered Johanna through several long, ornately appointed corridors. Despite the castle’s rugged exterior, the interior might have pleased Marie Antoinette’s sensibilities. With a nod to Ross, he entered a chamber through an immense gilded door. His voice drifted into the corridor as he informed the occupant of Johanna’s arrival.
“Excellent timing, I must say.” A stranger’s crisp baritone drifted to her ears. No trace of Highland accent marked the words. Rather, the precise inflections one might hear in the House of Lords. Johanna braced herself to face the scoundrel who’d turned her life on end.
“Show Miss Templeton in, will you, Donaldson?” The gentleman inside the chamber went on, smooth as any gracious host.
The tall man showed his craggy face. “Bring ’er in.”
Ross reached to take her by the elbow. Johanna shrugged him away. “I assure you I have not come this far to run now.”
He gave a shrug. “You won’t be so uppity once the countess gets through with you.”
The countess. My, who was this woman the men openly feared? Squaring her shoulders, Johanna stepped over the threshold and into a chamber fit for a king—a king with exceedingly extravagant tastes, no less.
She presumed the room was a library, but such a library she’d never seen. The expanse was huge, perhaps the size of the ballroom at a fine hotel, its walls paneled in gleaming wood. Shelves stretched to the high, painted ceilings—many filled with leather-bound volumes, while others bore sparkling crystal boxes and domes, displaying a wealth of precious objects. Jewels and carved ivory and something that looked rather like a miniature mummy flashed in Johanna’s side vision. Ancient pottery and sculptures and remnants of lives long past, brought to this fortress to feed Cranston’s voracious hunger for antiquities he might neatly display in a glass case.
As she made her way past the collection, she kept her gaze firmly focused on the man and woman seated in throne-like leather chairs at the rear of the chamber. Cranston and the countess, most likely. Taking in the woman’s flawless countenance, Johanna could well understand the thugs’ description. Witch, indeed. A cool blond sorceress whose venom-polluted eyes were blue as cornflowers.
Lightly drumming her long fingers against the arm of the chair, the countess raked her gaze over Johanna in a cold perusal. Her rose-tinted mouth thinned, cruel as a tyrant queen looking upon a traitor bound for the executioner’s blade.
Johanna looked away. The man at the countess’s side came to his feet, his hands clasped behind his back. If this was indeed Geoffrey Cranston, he bore little resemblance to the withered villain Johanna had conjured in her vigorous imagination. To the contrary, this man was handsome, his features classically cut, his sleek hair peppered with strands of silver that enhanced its burnished wheat hue. But his eyes—well, there the resemblance to the villain she’d crafted held true. An artist would paint Cranston’s eyes as almond-shaped and gray. Rather beautiful, really, with those striking irises that watched her with such focus. But Johanna saw beyond what a portrait might capture—the predator’s focus as Cranston took her in, the cold hunger reflected in his gaze. Not for her.
For the power of the Demon’s Heart.
Johanna hiked her chin. She would not be cowed. The slightest trace of weakness would work against her. No, she’d face him, confident and strong, and unbent by fear. She would give the malevolent bastard what he demanded. And she would bring Laurel home.
“Welcome to my home, Miss Templeton.” A hint of a smile curved his mouth. “The countess and I regret the circumstances could not be more pleasant. Perhaps, after our business is done, you will consider experiencing our hospitality.”
“Perhaps.” She prayed he could not detect the waver in her voice. “I trust my niece is well.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “You will see she’s been well treated.”
“Despite the chit’s lack of regard for her superiors,” the countess added, her lips so taut it seemed a wonder she could speak at all.