Struggling to break free, she fought his hold. Useless. She might as well have tried to break free of an iron manacle. His brow furrowed, as if he grew weary of this one-sided battle. Still, he didn’t ease the shackle around her wrists.
If the devil thought she’d meekly go along with whatever he’d planned, he was gravely mistaken. What would the heroine of her most popular serial do? Jane Goodwright had escaped predicaments far more perilous than this. What defense would Jane use against him?
The solution flashed in her mind. A readily available weapon, ridiculously simple to employ and unfailingly effective. Or so she’d been told. If the tales she’d heard held even an ounce of truth, what she was about to do was even more painful for the male of the species than a bullet. Perhaps she should have shot him after all.
A flicker of hesitation roiled her stomach. She’d only have one chance to get this right.
But she had to get away from him.
“Ye’re comin’ with me.” His words were terse. Whatever patience he’d shown was fading.
“I will not go with you.”
He believed her to be without a weapon. But she had her elbows. Her knees. Her heels. And she knew how to employ them in her defense. Ever protective, her older brother had taken it upon himself to teach Johanna the places on a man’s body that were most vulnerable.
This would not be pleasant. Far less so for MacMasters than for her, but still, she’d never made such brutal contact with a man. And this particular man was the sort of bold, dashing male who would have inspired a novel or two in another time, another place—a time before Mr. Abbott had gone and gotten himself killed and had put his daughter at a ruthless villain’s mercy.
None of that mattered. Not really.
She slammed her knee up.
Hard.
He seemed to anticipate her assault. Shifting to his right. Avoiding the brunt of the impact. But still, she made contact. The bony part of her knee crushed into that most vulnerable area between his legs.
A cross between a grunt and a groan swept past his lips. His hold slackened.
She pulled away, stepping back. With a quick stride forward, she threw in a sound kick to his shin for good measure.
And then, she ran.
Chapter Four
Clutching the valise to her chest, Johanna bolted from the alley. She threw a glance over her shoulder. No sign of the Scot. A breath she hadn’t realized she’d held whooshed from her lungs, but it was too soon to feel relief. He would come after her. She had to put distance between them before he mustered pursuit.
The street beyond Kincaid’s Pub was nearly as desolate as the darkened lane she’d fled. Each footfall rang out, the rap of her heels against the cobbles pounding in her ears. Another glance behind. Still no sign of him. She ran faster. Harder. She had to find some semblance of sanctuary.
Finally, she came to a tavern, a small, dingy brick structure. The Cock’s Roost. The sign outside the pub teetered on a rusty post, dangling from a single hook. A rooster depicted in faded paint on the wooden square seemed to eye her from its crooked vantage point, its weather-dulled feathers now the color of watery tomato soup.
Johanna pressed her palms to the wall and dragged in air. Her heartbeat slowed its desperate pace until she no longer heard each ragged exhalation. She pulled herself onto her tiptoes and peeked in a window.
From the outside, the tavern seemed a dark and unwelcoming place. Gas lamps provided meager light, scarcely enough to allow one to cross the floor without tripping over the haphazard landscape of tables and chairs. But the gloom would suit her purposes. She needed a refuge. Just for a while. Until she could be sure the Scot had gone on his way and she could get back to the ugly business that had drawn her to the Highlands. Then, she’d track down the man who held Laurel’s fate in his ruthless hands.
But how? She had no name to seek out. No knowledge of the scoundrel’s appearance. For that matter, she couldn’t even be certain she was looking for a man.
Her mad dash from the devil with the brogue had left her hair wind-tangled and her face heated. A glance downward confirmed her skirt was splattered with dirt. The toes of her leather shoes were crusted with the stuff. No matter. Her disheveled appearance might actually work to her advantage. After all, what woman of quality would find herself in such an establishment at this hour of the night?
Summoning her courage, she pushed open the tavern door and sauntered to the bar. The barkeep stared down at her, then shrugged as if a wild woman strolling into the pub was no more peculiar an occurrence than the trio of burly men by the hearth singing a rousing chorus of Aikendrum.
He looked past Johanna, surveying the crowd, then turned his attention back to her. “Whoever ye’re lookin’ for, he’s not here.”
Seizing on the barkeep’s assumption, Johanna brewed a plausible reason for her presence. “My mon is here, the lying sot.”
He shook his head. “I’ve no strangers in the place tonight. Head to MacBeck’s Place, down the road.”