Mrs. MacInnis moved to the window. Going pale as fresh washed linen, she made a little gasp. “Dear God, they know…they know I’ve come to warn you.”
Notes of dread in the widow’s voice propelled a shiver along Johanna’s spine. “Warn me? You must tell me what this is about.”
“You are in grave danger.” Her words were the merest of whispers. “It’s too late now…too late for me.”
With that, Mrs. MacInnis hurried from the room, leaving only her calling card and questions in her wake. The sound of the entry door thudding closed echoed to the study, followed by the clatter of carriage hooves as the widow’s driver set her coach in motion.
An unsettled feeling overtook Johanna, a chill that skittered from her scalp all the way to her toes. Good heavens, she was letting her imagination get the better of her. She’d no cause to spin this odd incident into something sinister. Mrs. MacInnis was most likely overwrought. Given the circumstances of her husband’s recent demise, that seemed hardly surprising.
Rubbing her hands over her arms to banish the coolness that had seemed to invade the room, Johanna walked slowly back to her writing desk and settled into her chair. She lifted her pen, but the words would not come. The clock on the bookshelf taunted her, its pendulum swinging in a relentless rhythm, marking seconds that turned into minutes.
Giving in to her mind’s wanderings, she opened a drawer and retrieved her latest correspondence from Mr. Abbott. She reread the letter, then swept her gaze over it again. When she’d received the note, nothing had appeared amiss. His words had been terse, in contrast to her brother-in-law’s generally effusive personality, and his usually precise script had gone a bit unruly, but she’d thought little of it. Now, a shiver traced an icy path over her nape. Had the missive borne a hidden warning?
She folded the letter and placed it inside the desk. With a turn of the lock, she latched the drawer, then stashed the key between two books on the shelf. She paused. She’d no cause to worry that Mrs. Mitchell would betray her trust. Why had she felt the need to secure the letter?
The expression on Mrs. MacInnis’s drawn features played in her thoughts. Johanna had seen desperation there. But another emotion had darkened the widow’s gray irises as she’d turned away from the window.
Fear.
…
Inverness, Scotland, Two Weeks Later
The devil strode into Kincaid’s Pub in a flash of swirling black wool and polished leather. Lightning crackled and thunder boomed as if to herald the dark lord’s arrival. His massive greatcoat, open down the front and clinging to powerful shoulders, exposed a long, lean-muscled body. Gaslight cast rays of silver over hair the color of a raven’s wing while the roaring fire in the tavern’s massive hearth gleamed gold and amber against his ebony boots.
Johanna’s heartbeat stuttered. Was this the man who’d summoned her to the Highlands? Seated in the shadows, she studied his every move.
His forest green eyes fixed on her. Intense. Penetrating. Seeming to strip her of her defenses.
Rubbish.
Good heavens, what had come over her? Had she truly gone daft? This stranger was not one of her literary concoctions come to life. In truth, he was handsome. Very much so. In another time, another place, she might have allowed her gaze to linger on the chiseled contours of his face while she speculated on the taste of his kiss. But there, the fantasy ended. He was neither Lucifer incarnate nor a daring desperado transplanted from the pages of one of her novels.
He was merely a man.
And from the looks of his off-kilter strides, a drunken one, at that.
He met her appraisal with unreadable eyes. Hungry, perhaps. Or more to the point, thirsty for yet another ale. She looked past him, searching the dimly lit pub for the blackguard who’d commanded her to come here. Obviously, the sotted devil was far too concerned with steadying his swaying legs to be the villain who’d come to negotiate a trade—Johanna’s most treasured physical possession for one far more precious.
This was not a fantasy, nor fodder for a story. This was a nightmare she’d never dreamt could become reality. She was a stranger in a foreign land, the man she’d fixed on was a drunk, and what happened in the next few minutes might well prove a matter of life and death.
Around her, men hoisted tankards of ale and downed tumblers of whisky. A man who might’ve been a pirate in a prior existence, eye patch and all, ogled her with his one good—if bleary—eye. He grinned, displaying a mouth full of darkened stumps as he lifted his glass to her as if in tribute.