Connor reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a leather strap weighted on both ends with lead. The cudgel would attract little attention. He’d have the element of surprise on his side.
He slanted Johanna a glance. Her chin had firmed, and her spine had gone ramrod stiff. Fixing his attention on Munro as the oaf lumbered toward them, Connor nudged Johanna behind his back.
“Ye know who I am.” Munro’s features betrayed no emotion, his eyes dull as a fish on the wharf. “Ye think to keep me from the woman?”
Connor kept his guard up and his eyes on Munro. The man could wield a fatal blow if given the chance. “Where’s yer partner? That scrawny bloke, O’Keefe.”
Munro shrugged. “Poor bastard took a bullet to the belly. Took him three days t’die.”
A ripple of tension eased from Connor. The cur was working alone. “Cranston sent ye?”
Munro shook his head. “I’ve no use for that tight-fisted bastard.”
“Who hired ye?”
“Ye think I’m dim-brained?” Munro growled the words. “The gent wishes t’remain discreet, if ye take my meanin’.”
“What does he want with her?”
“Cannae say as I know or give a damn. The gent has coin t’pay. That’s all that matters.” Munro flashed a hunting knife. “Walk away. I’ve business with the woman.”
“I knew ye to be a fool. But ye’ve gone and shoved yer head up yer arse if ye believe I’d leave the lass to the likes of ye.”
“Ye’re cocky now. But ye won’t be.” Munro tapped the blade against a gnarled table. “Ye think I willnae use this? Ye’re wrong. I’ll gut ye.”
Connor clutched the bludgeon at his side. Low. Out of sight. “Not bluidy likely.”
Eyeing Munro’s grip on the hilt, he calculated his aim. The thug was comfortable with the knife. Confident. Overly so.
He swung. The cudgel slammed into Munro’s wrist.
Lead cracked against bone. The knife slid from the big bastard’s hand, landing on the table as the boisterous crowd surrounding them drowned out the man’s low, agonized cry.
Another swing of the cudgel. Quick. Sure. The weighted strap jabbed a spot on Munro’s jaw, just below the ear.
The thug’s eyes went wide. With a groan, his head dipped, and he fell. Collapsed, like a sack of worm-eaten potatoes.
Connor caught Johanna by the hand. He’d bought them time. But it wouldn’t be long before someone noticed the unconscious man.
“Come along, lass.” Connor shoved the bludgeon in his pocket and retrieved a revolver from beneath his jacket. There was still a chance Munro had an accomplice waiting beyond the tavern door. If anyone else dared come after Johanna Templeton, he wouldn’t hesitate to strike.
…
Johanna stifled a cry of her own as Munro sank to the floor. A thin trickle of blood dribbled down his cheek. Nearly stumbling over the big man’s inert mass, she rushed from the tavern. She clung to MacMasters’s hand, knowing her legs had gone weak and her stomach had turned against her.
The cool air hit her face like a bracing blow. She welcomed the sensation, even as she wobbled a bit. MacMasters steadied her against him. The heat of his body was oddly reassuring, and she allowed herself to draw from it. If only the dull throb radiating through her arm did not envelop her.
He led her to a sleek black phaeton. “I took the liberty of acquiring a carriage.”
Discarding any sense of propriety, she leaned against him. She needed his strength and the comfort of his nearness.
“I’m not… I’m not feeling quite myself.” Her words were little more than a whisper. She pressed her palm to her mouth, praying she wouldn’t lose what little dignity she still possessed by casting up her accounts.
“Damnable shame ye had to see that, lass.” MacMasters’s rich, rumbling tones enveloped her, comforting and strong. “The sight of blood does that to many a soul.”
Beneath the gaslight, she caught the concern in his gaze. How peculiar that she should see compassion in the eyes of a man who might well be her adversary.
Her lids felt weighted. So very heavy.
“It’s not that,” she murmured. “It’s not…his blood that’s set me off kilter. It’s mine.”
Chapter Six
Johanna blinked at the light streaming into her face. She’d never known the rays from a gas lamp to appear so blindingly bright. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, as if that would clear her head and allow her to focus.
She lay against plush cushions, her legs stretched out, her head propped up on a soft pillow. Not on a bed. No, beds didn’t have backs. She was on a settee, one arm nestled against the tufted upholstery, the other dangling over the seat. Her fingers grazed a textured carpet. Even without glancing, the density of the pile told her it was expensive. This was no workman’s tavern.
Pity she had no idea where she was or how she’d come to be there.