The countess toyed with the dagger, staring down at her starkly beautiful reflection on the polished blade. “You will tell me everything we need to know. A loved one’s pain…” She tapped a fingernail against the dagger’s point. “Can be most persuasive—to hell with supposed curses.”
Laurel wrapped her arms tighter around Johanna. The child’s terror triggered an ache in Johanna’s heart, cruel as if the dagger had plunged into her chest.
Cranston settled his gaze on Johanna’s mouth. Hungry. Ruthless. Indecent. He traced a fingertip along the curve of her cheek. “I have an aversion to loose ends. But, perhaps, you will convince me you have some use. As you’ve pointed out, I have everything I need. The book. And the ruby. I’ll enjoy taking it from you. Do you like to be overpowered? Is that it, my lovely?”
A vile chill crept down her spine. “I assure you that is not the case.” She bit each syllable between her teeth, infusing the words with contempt.
He shrugged. “At least one of us will enjoy it. So, tell me, what more do you have to offer?”
Johanna choked back her disgust. Her thumb grazed the brooch, locating the tiny lever that deployed the hidden knife. Eyeing the scoundrel’s cravat, she decided upon the precise spot where she’d drive the blade.
With a snap of his fingers, he summoned Ross to his side. “Take the brat to her room. We’ll deal with her later.”
“Yes, sir,” Ross said. Distaste marked his features as he reached for Laurel. Defiant, she planted her feet on the floor, but her small body was no match for the man’s strength. Her heels screeched over the polished wood as he dragged her away.
“Auntie Jo!” Desperation and terror blended in Laurel’s young voice.
Johanna fought the panic rising in her throat. “Go with him, darling. He won’t hurt you.”
In truth, it would be far easier to carry out her plan with Laurel tucked away, out of sight and earshot of the violence. But the fear in Laurel’s voice was nearly more than Johanna could bear.
“Bugger it.” Ross’s curse echoed from the high ceiling. He stopped in his tracks. A familiar deep burr rumbled through the chamber.
“Ye’re a bigger arse than I’d judged ye.” Connor pinned the man with his gaze. “Ye willnae shoot me. Not if ye want the Deamhan’s Cridhe.”
Dropping his hold on Laurel, Ross yanked his sidearm from its holster. The child darted to a far corner, out of reach.
Heavy boots thudded against the floor. Connor marched through the massive portal. A sense of déjà vu struck Johanna. He looked very much as he had the first night she’d lain eyes on him. A dashing devil in black, from his leather boots and striking wool greatcoat that emphasized his powerful shoulders. But now, he held a gleaming pistol in each hand.
Her knees wobbled, weak from joy. And fear for the man who’d barged in as if a cadre of blackguards was not pointing weapons at his head.
“MacMasters.” Cranston ground the name between his teeth like an epithet. He caught Johanna by the arm and pulled her to him as a shield.
The countess slid her knife between the folds of her skirts. Her mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile. “What brings you here today? The last time I saw you, I was cleaning your brother’s blood off my blade.”
“I’ve come for the woman and the bairn. We’ve a score to settle.”
“How intriguing.” The countess appeared to drink Connor in. “Do tell.”
Connor eyed the countess. Blandly, as if she bored him. “Ye’re both bluidy dolts. The cunning American lass had ye goin’ with her merry tales. Blasted incantations and a pretty stone. A conniving one, she is. She’s played ye for fools. Just as she did me. That polished bit of rock isn’t the Deamhan’s Cridhe. It cannae be. Ye see, I have the stone.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
While confined in the carriage with Cranston’s henchman, Johanna had conjured images of Connor charging to the rescue like some chivalrous hero of old. Strong and courageous and protective. Or so the scene had played out in her imagination. She never would’ve dreamed he would commiserate with Cranston and the she-devil who’d threatened Laurel. Surely he was playing a role, a misdirection of sorts. Still, his description nipped at her. Daft American lass. Indeed. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d heard those words from his lips.
Her heart raced, even as her knees ceased their wobbling. Despite the way his words chafed, Connor’s brash confidence filled her with pride. But pride was not a weapon against scoundrels. Whatever Connor’s strategy, she had to keep her head about her.
Cranston’s fingers dug into her arm. Tension radiated through his body, the inborn wariness of a predator facing off against a powerful threat.
“Ye believed her?” Connor pressed on, not yet closing the distance that separated them. To his left, Munro aimed a long-gun at his chest. “She weaves quite a tale. Damnable shame ye cannae believe a word from her mouth.”
“If she lied, I’ll find out soon enough.” Cranston’s speech was even and precise, but the tautness of his grip belied his outward calm.