Truth be told, Harrison’s speculation wasn’t far off the mark. Outside the pub, Johanna Templeton had molded her body to his as she accepted his support. Warm and pliant, her soft slender curves had drawn him in, even as the subtle fragrance of lavender filled his senses. Sweet and clean and feminine.
A temptation he damned well didn’t need.
It wasn’t as if he’d had a choice. He’d had to see her to safety. Keeping the woman out of harm’s way was vital to his mission. She was a key to his quest. What she knew could damned well lead him to the artifact. Risking his life and bringing her here had nothing to do with the enticing female beneath the prim wool traveling suit.
He helped himself to a measure of Scotch. The warm liquid trickled down his throat. God knew he needed it. Damnation, he couldn’t even convince himself that his motivations were driven by duty. He could lie to himself all night, but the truth was plain and hard. He could no sooner have left Johanna in danger than he could’ve tossed a Dinne Stone across Loch Ness.
Harrison eyed him like a scientist examining a specimen. “Ye know the sort of business Richard Benedict was involved in—the mon was a fool to believe there was honor among thieves.”
“Aye, but there’s where ye’re wrong. Benedict—or Abbott or whatever the hell his bluidy name was—didnae play the fool. He was a canny smuggler who knew how to cheat a cheater. He got himself into something that was more than even he could talk his way out of. But why would he involve the woman? An American spinster, of all people?”
Spinster. Or so Connor had been told. His contacts at the agency had described Johanna Templeton as unremarkable, dull as a brown chaffinch. Had they all been in need of spectacles? True, her starched white blouse and the thick woolen armor of her traveling suit might have suited a lass on her way to a convent, and the prim blue hat perched atop her tightly pinned ginger-brown hair served no useful purpose. The headpiece made her stand out like a tasty hen in a den of foxes. The scrap of indigo with its frivolous little feather was the only hint of femininity she’d dared to put on display.
But that didn’t change the truth. Johanna was a beauty. Unpainted. Unadorned. And more tempting than a siren’s song. Her clothes were proper as a vicar’s wife, but those threads could not hide her lush curves. His groin hitched at the thought of her shapely hips—hips built to cradle a man. And that lovely round bosom—perfect to fill his large hands, he’d wager. But it was her eyes that drew him in. Large and dark as sapphires, glimmering with intelligence and spirit.
The way she looked at him touched a part deep within he’d thought long dead. For so many years, he hadn’t given a damn whether anyone had faith in him. But something in her gaze kindled a flame he’d believed extinguished. She needed him, whether or not she wanted to admit it.
Still, she’d regarded him with challenge in those flashing eyes of hers. She wasn’t one to be easily cowed. Her expression blended determination and spirit, a quiet courage that defied even the slight quivering of her hands. She was dealing with criminals of the worst sort, and she knew it. Yet, she was driven to press on. The damned annoying whisper of what was left of his conscience insisted she was not in this for personal gain. Something else drove her.
But what?
Harrison stared down at his empty glass. “Does she have ties to Scotland?”
“Not that we know of. She was born and bred in Philadelphia.”
“Might she have had a relationship with Benedict beyond the family connection she speaks of? A romantic liaison?”
“With that swindler?” Connor didn’t understand why, but the thought was like a thistle in his shoe. Still, it seemed the most likely explanation for her involvement. “’Tis a possibility. God only knows if she’s even telling the truth about his relationship with her sister…if there ever was a sister.”
Harrison appeared to chew on the words. He helped himself to another pour of liquor. “You believe she may be lying?”
“There’s no reason to believe a word out of that pretty mouth. If she’s not involved in Benedict’s schemes, then why would she risk her neck? She cannae pretend to have trusted men like Ross and Munro. She’s got a better head on her than that.”
“That woman was prepared to enter a carriage with two of the vilest blackguards to ever pollute the Scottish landscape. Her judgment is questionable, I’d say.”
“But there’s something pulling her to Cranston. Some draw we dinnae know. There’s more than greed at work here.” Connor pictured Johanna’s face, mentally tracing the sweet mouth she held pulled tight as a bowstring. Her sea-blue eyes had gleamed with a hint of fear she couldn’t entirely hide. “She’s fighting desperation. She’s trying not to show it, but it’s there. Just beneath the surface.”
“She’s definitely on edge. I’ve seldom seen anyone resist the sedative as she has.” Harrison swirled the liquid in his cut crystal glass before raising the tumbler to his mouth. “There’s an urgency about her, as if her business with those ruffians truly was a matter of life and death.”