“That’s enough.” Harrison’s heated glare contradicted his calm tones. “Miss Templeton is a lady. Or have you forgotten that?”
Johanna pushed herself to her feet. Wobbly knees or not, she would not allow the Scot to intimidate her. “If you think to frighten me, Mr. MacMasters, you’ll have to do better than that.”
“Ye’ve good cause for fear. There will be more men coming after ye. After that bluidy book.”
“I will not be cowed.”
“Cowed? That’s the least of yer worries. Unless ye tell us why ye’re here, I don’t know if we’ll be able to keep the bastards from ye.” He stared down at her. “Ye need to trust us. At this point, we’re all ye’ve got. Who gave ye the book?”
The urgency in his tone jarred her. What harm would there be in revealing this bit of the truth? “My brother-in-law—Richard Abbott.”
MacMasters kept his silence for a long moment. “Abbott? I’ve heard nothing of a man who goes by that name. Dinnae think to deceive me, lass.”
The dark intensity in his eyes stole her breath, but she pulled in a slow draught of air and steadied her nerves. “I am telling you the truth. The book was a gift to me, a token of appreciation, if you will. My sister’s husband—”
A scowl marked the Highlander’s chiseled features. “I’ve reason to believe this book came from a smuggler, a wily cheat. Did ye know the man by any other name?”
“Another name?” Johanna mulled the question. “Actually, he used a stage name for years.”
MacMasters’s scowl deepened. “A stage name?”
“As a young man, Richard Abbott fancied himself a thespian. He was performing in Philadelphia when he met my sister and charmed her into a rather impetuous marriage. After a while, he abandoned this pursuit and returned to England with Cynthia. Shortly thereafter, Laurel was born.”
“And what was the name the man used?” MacMasters pressed.
“My, it has been such a very long time… I was merely a girl when he was treading the boards, but I recall being rather impressed by the look of it on the playbill.” Johanna met the Scot’s direct gaze. “He used the name Benedict—Richard Benedict.”
Moving to the Scot’s side, his brother furrowed his brow. She saw recognition in the physician’s eyes. And a concern borne of knowledge. What did these men know that she didn’t?
“Richard Benedict.” Harrison MacMasters repeated the name. A trace of rugged burr seasoned his cultivated speech. He pinned Johanna with a look that pierced her courage. “Bluidy hell, what have ye got yerself into, lass?”
Chapter Seven
Connor had long regarded his younger brother as the most civilized of the MacMasters clan. A trained physician who boasted friendships with the royal family, Harrison could be counted upon to present a rational, measured approach to the most treacherous of situations. So it came as that much more of a shock—amusing, but surprising nonetheless—to see his calm, level-headed brother forget his careful English pronunciation and let his brogue leak out. Above that, Harrison’s complexion had turned ruddy, his eyes gleaming with a not-so-well-mannered fury.
“I need a word with ye. Now.” Harrison addressed Connor like a military commander preparing to reprimand an underling. Quiet. Terse. The undercurrent of anger barely controlled.
“Continue to rest, Miss Templeton.” Connor knew the words sounded like an order—a directive he doubted she’d heed.
“In the library.” Harrison ground out each word like glass between his teeth.
Connor covered the distance between the sitting room where the woman had been brought to rest and his brother’s massive library. Only Harrison would have a room nearly half the size of his house filled floor to ceiling with books.
Harrison shut the heavy oak door behind them with a distinctive thud. He marched to his desk and poured himself a dram of whisky without bothering to offer Connor so much as a drop. Connor fought a grin as his brother downed it in one gulp and slowly turned to face him. Harrison’s expression brought to mind the time so many years earlier when, still a gullible youth, he’d discovered the fine Scotch he’d downed at Connor’s urging was not an ancient Highland elixir of life, after all.
“Have all the blows ye’ve taken to yer thick skull rattled that thing ye call a brain? What the bluidy hell are ye thinking, bringing her here?” Harrison made no pretense of formal diction when his temper flared.
“What would you have had me do with an injured woman? Abandon her to those jackals?”
“If those bastards track her here, our operations will be compromised.” Harrison shot him a glance filled with jagged shards of broken bottles. “And don’t pretend ye’ve got a chivalrous bone in yer body. Ye know as well as I do what yer interest is in the woman. One part duty. Three parts lust.”
“Brother, ye wound me.”