“He’s with his doxy, I tell ye. I feel it in my bones.”
The barkeep’s brows drew together like a shaggy caterpillar creeping over the bridge of his nose. “Ye’re not from these parts, are ye, lass?”
“I’ve come from Edinburgh. Why does that concern ye?”
The creases on his forehead might have been used as a washboard. “Ye don’t sound like a lass from Edinburgh. Ye don’t sound like a lass from Scotland at all.”
Dash it all, she had no trouble writing accents for her heroines. Pity she’d proven utterly inept at trading her American inflections for a Highland lilt. Well, she wasn’t about to let this man and his keen ear rattle her.
She leaned closer. “My mon—he’s here. And when I find him—”
The barkeep eyed Johanna’s bosom before lifting his gaze. “Ye’re a bonny lass. A bit scrawny where it counts, but ye’ve a face that draws a mon’s eye. I cannae have ye runnin’ about, stirring a ruckus.”
“Verrae well then. I’ll wait here. Sooner or later, he’s bound t’show his no-good hide.”
He poured amber liquid into a stein and slid it across the bar. “This will take the edge off ye.”
She stared down at the ale. Ordinarily, she detested the stuff. But the likelihood was indeed slim that this establishment offered the sherry she preferred. Lifting the hefty mug to her lips, she took a sip. Warmth trickled through her, hearty and soothing. The bitter taste lingered on her tongue, and yet, something about the drink appealed to her. Perhaps it would indeed steady her nerves. Keeping one hand tight around the handle of her valise, she allowed herself a hearty draught, then another.
She felt the devil’s heat before she heard his rough-hewn brogue. A shiver raced along her spine, even as his warm breath brushed her nape.
“I didn’t figure ye to drink such a hearty brew.”
His words were innocuous enough, yet MacMasters’s deep rasp rippled through Johanna like a lightning strike. She set the tankard on the counter with a thud. Ale lapped over the sides, splashing her fingers.
“I hear tell ye’ve been looking for me,” he went on.
Drat the luck. Had he overheard her act with the barkeep?
When she didn’t answer, MacMasters caught her arm and pulled her close.
“Play along, lass.” His words were the merest whisper. “Well, ye’ve found me now.”
He placed a coin on the bar and slid it toward the barkeep—payment for her drink, most likely, then trailed his hand over her forearm. His fingers blazed heat through her wool jacket and cotton blouse, searing her with awareness.
A smile crooked his full mouth. “Time to be on our way.”
Johanna’s feet rooted to the ground. Her mind raced, calculating the risks of refusing to obey this dangerous stranger. At least in the tavern, they were surrounded. A half dozen men or more might come to her aid. At the very least, they had eyes and ears and would serve as witnesses to whatever scheme he had in mind.
She slowly shook her head. “No.”
He eyed her beneath dark, well-shaped brows. His green irises reminded her of a wooded glen on a summer day, rich shades of emerald flecked with gold. Something in his gaze drew her in and held her even as it set her senses on full alert.
“Come with me now.” His voice had deepened, taken on a flinty edge.
She gripped her satchel, gauging its potential as a weapon. Even with the book’s weight, it seemed a flimsy defense, entirely inadequate against a man who’d taken a knee to the groin and still managed to pursue her.
A grizzled man at the bar tore his attention from his drink, seeming to enjoy the show playing out before him. The barkeep shot her a curious frown that made his brows droop.
“Go with him, lass. Ye can give yer mon a piece of yer mind when ye’re standing by yer own hearth.”
Squaring her shoulders, she eased free of MacMasters’s hold. She gave thanks that her long skirts concealed the slight wobble in her knees. The truth would prove her most powerful weapon. “I share no hearth with this mon. I’ve never seen him before tonight.”
The bushy brows shot up. The barkeep calmly reached beneath the bar. Brandishing a revolver, he regarded MacMasters. Bland, despite the weapon in his hand. “Does the lass speak the truth?”
“You’ve no need to threaten us.” Johanna could no longer carry on with the pretense of a soft Scottish burr. Her performance had been pitiful enough when she didn’t have a gun pointed at the tall, dark man at her side. Now, her act was entirely hopeless.
“I’ve no intention of shootin’ ye.” The barkeep shifted the devil a glance. “But him—he’s another story.”
MacMasters met the barkeep’s threat with a grin Lucifer would envy. “She’s a bit overwrought, my friend. Ye see, her temper’s fiery as her hair.” He leaned over the counter, as if confiding a great secret. “But I’ve got a cure for that, if ye take my meanin’.”